Kennit held the Satrap as a bargaining chip. It was as good a time as any to challenge the fleet of Jamaillia. “Jola!” he commanded. “Get the men back to their posts and have them stand ready.”

Vivacia watched the oncoming ships with him but her mind was elsewhere. “How is the Rain Wilder?”

“Alive,” he replied briefly.

“The dragon brought him. Here, to me.”

“Wintrow seems to think the dragon dropped him off for his sister,” Kennit replied acidly.

“That would make sense,” the ship said thoughtfully. “They belong together.”

“As much sense as anything that has happened today. What are the odds of such a thing happening, Vivacia? Out of all the ships around us, the dragon drops Malta’s beloved by the correct one to find her.”

“There was nothing random about it. The dragon came seeking Malta and found her. But-” The figurehead slowly scanned the approaching ships and said in a soft voice, “Something hovers here, Kennit. Something even more powerful than the luck you worship.” She smiled but there was sadness in her expression. “Destiny knows no odds,” she added mysteriously.

He had no answer to that. The very idea of it annoyed him. Destiny was all very well when it meant he would succeed. But today fate seemed to be weighting the balance against him. He recognized Etta’s footfalls on the foredeck behind him. He turned to her. “Bring the Satrap up here And Malta.”

She didn’t reply. “Well?” he asked her at last. Her expression was odd. What was wrong with her today? He’d brought her back to the ship. What more could she want from him? Why must she want it right now?

“I’ve something to tell you. It’s important.”

“More important than our survival?” He glanced back at the oncoming ships. Would they halt and parley first, or just attack? Best not to take a chance. “Send Jola and Wintrow to me as well,” he commanded her.

“I shall,” she promised. She took a breath and added, “I’m pregnant. I carry your child.” Then she turned and walked away from him.

Her words froze time around him. He suddenly felt he stood, not on a deck, but encapsulated in a moment. So many paths spread out from this instant, and in so many directions. A baby. A child. The seed of a family. He could be a father, as his own father had been. No. Better. He could protect his own son. His father had tried to protect him, but his father had failed. He could be a king and his son a prince. Or he could be rid of Etta, take her somewhere, leave her there and go on, with no one to depend on him, no one he could fail. His thoughts did not spin; they rattled in his brain like stones. Maybe she was lying. Maybe she was wrong. Did he want a child? What if it was a girl?

“Would you still name her Paragon?” the charm on his wrist whispered viciously. It gave a low laugh. “Destiny no longer hovers. Some of it has flown off with the dragon. It decrees that the Lords of the Three Realms will fly again. The rest of today’s destiny has fallen upon your head. It weighs a bit more than a crown, does it not?”

“Leave me alone,” Kennit whispered. He spoke not to the charm, but to the past that had reached forth and reclaimed him. Other memories, memories most deeply denied flooded back to him. Standing within the circle of his father’s arms, reaching up to rest his own small hands on the inner spokes of Paragon’s wheel while his father held the ship steady. He recalled riding tall on his father’s shoulders, his mother laughing up at him, a bright scarf fluttering in her dark, dark hair as they strode through Divvytown. These recollections, bright and joyful, were more intolerable than any remembered pain. They were a mockery, a lie, for all fondness and safety had been erased one dark and bloody night.

Now Etta would start it all over again. Was she mad? Didn’t she know what must come? Eventually, of course, he’d have to hurt the child. Not because he wanted to, but because it was inevitable. This moment marked one end of the pendulum’s swing. Ride it they must, until it peaked at the other end, the place where he was Igrot and Igrot was he. Then the child must step up to play the role that had once been Kennit’s.

“You poor pathetic bastard,” the charm whispered in horror. But pity would not stay destiny. Nothing could save him, or the child. Events had to follow their pattern. Nothing could disrupt the cycling of time. Things would happen again just as they always had. Just as they always would.

“SIR?” IT WAS JOLA, STANDING AT HIS ELBOW. HOW LONG HAD HE BEEN THERE? Kennit’s musings blew away like dandelion fluff blown by a child’s lips. What had he been thinking? When had it begun to rain? Damn the woman! Why had she chosen to distract him just now? His first mate swallowed and spoke. “The Jamaillian ship is hailing us.”