“You know it has to be her,” his charm whispered at his wrist. “Althea Vestrit. Who else could look so like him? Bolt will not like this. You serve your end, but not hers. You bring aboard the one person you should have been most sure to kill.”

Kennit clapped his other hand over the charm, and ignored the writhing of the small face under his hand. He watched in mounting curiosity as a rope was thrown. The blonde woman caught at it, but her hands were so numbed with cold that she could not hold it. A sailor had to go over the side into the cold water with them. He lapped the line about them both and worked a hasty knot. “Haul away,” he shouted, and up they all came, the women limp as seaweed. Kennit stood by until they were deposited on the deck. The resemblance was uncanny. His eyes walked over her features greedily. A woman with Wintrow’s face. A Vestrit woman.

He realized he was staring, recognized, too, the puzzled silence of the crewmen who had gathered around the sprawled woman. “Well, get them below! Must I command you to the obvious? And Jola, set a course for Divvytown. Signal the Marietta to follow us. A squall is coming up. I want to be on our way before it hits.”

“Sir. Shall we wait for Wintrow and Etta to rejoin us before we sail?”

He glanced at the dark-haired woman who was beginning to cough and stir. “No,” he replied distractedly. “Not just now. Leave them where they are for now.”

Liveship Traders 3 - Ship of Destiny

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Family Reunion

WINTROW BLINKED AWAY THE POURING RAIN AND STARED. “l DON’T UNDERstand,” he said again quietly. He thought he spoke to himself and was startled when Etta replied. He had not heard her soft tread through the downpour pelting the deck.

“Stop trying to guess at what happened. Kennit will explain it all when next we see him.”

“I just want to know what happened,” he said stubbornly. He stared disconsolately at the faint smear of flame that had been the Paragon. He had watched the battle, but still could not grasp what had occurred. Why had Paragon so foolishly challenged both the serpents and the Vivacia? How had the fire broken out and why had Kennit abandoned such a valuable prize? Had he taken any prisoners? The emptiness of not knowing threatened to devour him.

The storm that had threatened all day had finally broken. The heavy rain was a billowing gray drapery between them and the blazing Paragon. Cold and drenched, he stood on the deck and stared at the foundering ship his family had sent. It would take their hopes of ransom and rescue to the bottom. The rain was a relief. He had not been able to find tears of his own.

“Come inside,” Etta suggested, her hand warm on his arm. He turned to look at her. If there was any comfort left for him at this miserable point in his life, it was Etta. She had put on Sorcor’s oilskin; it hung huge on her slender form. She peered at him from the depths of the hood. A few drops of rain had found her face and jeweled her lashes. She blinked and the drops ran down her face, mock tears. He stared at her, dumb with desire and with the necessity of never acknowledging that desire. She tugged at his arm again, and he allowed her to lead him away.

Sorcor had surrendered his stateroom to her. The steaming pot of tea on the table and the two waiting cups touched him. She had prepared this and brought him to share it. She indicated a chair and he sat, his clothes dripping, while she hung the oilskin on its peg. Once this chamber had been Kennit’s and some of his furnishings remained. Elsewhere, Sorcor’s taste for the bright and showy overpowered Kennit’s more simple choices. The embroidered and tasseled cloth obscured the elegantly simple lines of the table beneath it. Etta shook some drops of rain from her hair and took the other chair. “You look as woeful as a stray dog,” she commented as she poured the tea. Pushing his cup toward him, she added rebukingly, “I do not understand why I must remind you to have faith in Kennit. Whatever happened, we should trust his judgment. Long ago, you told me he was Chosen of Sa. Do you no longer believe that?”

He sipped the tea and tasted the warmth of cinnamon. Despite his deep melancholy, it gave him pleasure. Etta seemed to know well that the small delights of the flesh were sometimes the most potent medicine against the deep pains of the spirit. “I don’t know what I believe anymore,” he admitted wearily. “I’ve seen the good he has done everywhere. He is a powerful force for freedom and the bettering of people’s lives. He could build himself a majestic house full of riches and servants, and folk would still lionize him, but he continues to sail, to do battle with the slavers and to free the imprisoned. Given all that, how can I doubt the greatness of his soul?”