What was he?

Words she would once have scoffed came to her mind. God-touched. Beloved of Sa. Destined. Prophesied. Chosen by fate. She wanted to laugh and dismiss such fancies, but could not. From the very beginning, Kennit had been unlike any other man she had ever known. None of the rules had ever seemed to apply to him. He had succeeded where any other man would have failed, achieved the impossible effortlessly. The tasks he had set himself baffled her. The size of his ambitions astounded her. Had not he captured a Bingtown liveship? What other man had recovered from a sea serpent’s attack? Who but Kennit could have made the rag-tag villages of the Pirate Isles start to think of themselves as outposts of a farflung realm, Kennit’s rightful kingdom?

What kind of a man harbored such dreams, let alone brought them to fruit?

Such questions made her miss Wintrow even more sharply. If he had been awake, he could have helped her understand. Though he was young, he had spent almost his entire life in schooling at a monastery. When she had first met him, she had disdained him for his educated ways and gentle manners. Now she wished she could turn to him with her uncertainties. Words like destiny and fate and omen fell from his lips as easily as curses came from hers. From him, such words were believable.

She found herself toying with the small pouch she wore around her neck. She opened it with a sigh, and once more took out the tiny manikin. She had found it in her boot, along with a quantity of sand and barnacle shells after they had escaped from Others’ Island. When she had asked Kennit what such an omen from the Treasure Beach might mean, he had told her that she already knew. That answer had frightened her more than any dire prophecy he could have uttered.

“But truly, I don’t,” she said softly to Wintrow. The doll just filled her palm. It felt like ivory, yet it was colored the precise pink of a baby’s flesh. The curled and sleeping infant had tiny perfect eyelashes on its cheeks, ears like minute seashells and a coiling serpentine tail that wrapped around it. It warmed quickly in her hand, and the smooth contours of the tiny body begged to be touched. Her fingertip traced the curve of its spine. “It looks like a baby to me. But what can that mean to me?” She lowered her voice and spoke more confidentially, as if the youth could hear her. “Kennit spoke of a baby, once. He asked me if I would have a baby if he wanted that of me. I told him, of course I would. Is that what this means? Is Kennit going to ask me to have his child?”

Her hand strayed to her flat belly. Through her shirt, her finger touched a tiny lump. A wizardwood charm, shaped like a tiny skull, was ringed through her navel to protect her from disease and pregnancy. “Wintrow, I’m afraid. I fear I cannot live up to such dreams. What if I fail him? What am I to do?”

“I will not ask of you anything I believe is beyond you.”

Etta leapt to her feet with a startled cry. She spun to find Kennit standing in the open door. She covered her hand with her mouth. “I didn’t hear you,” she apologized guiltily.

“Ah, but I heard you. Is our boy awake now? Wintrow?” Kennit limped into the room, to gaze hopefully on Wintrow’s still form.

“No. He drinks water, but other than that, there is no sign of recovery.” Etta remained standing.

“But still you ask him these questions?” Kennit observed speculatively. He turned his head to pierce her with his glance.

“I have no one else to share such doubts,” she began, and then halted. “I meant,” she began hesitantly, but Kennit silenced her with an impatient motion of his hand.

“I know what you meant,” he revealed. He sank into her chair. When he let go of his crutch, she caught it before it could clatter to the floor. He leaned forward to look at Wintrow more closely, a frown furrowing his brow. His fingers touched the boy’s swollen face with a woman’s gentleness. “I, too, miss his counsel.” He stroked the stubble of hair on Wintrow’s head, then pulled his hand back in distaste at its coarseness. “I am thinking of putting him up on the foredeck, by the figurehead. She may be able to speed his healing.”

“But-” Etta began, then held her tongue and lowered her eyes.

“You object? Why?”

“I did not mean to…”

“Etta!” Kennit barked her name, making her jump. “Spare me this whining and cringing. If I ask you a question, it is because I wish you to speak, not whimper at me. Why do you object to moving him there?”

She swallowed her fear. “The scabs on his burns are loose and wet. If we move him, they may be rubbed off, and delay his healing. The wind and the sun may dry and crack raw skin all the more.”