Her hands were thick with his blood as she untucked the veil from the throat of his shirt. She used both hands to lift it up and away from his face. It peeled away, leaving a latticework of blood inked on his slack face. Tenderly she wiped it away with the hem of her cloak. She bent down and kissed his still mouth, lips to lips, no dream, no veil between them. Dimly she was aware that the shouting world of sail and battle went on around them. She did not care. Her life had stopped here. She traced the scaled line of his brow, the pebbled skin like a finely wrought chain under her fingertip. “Reyn,” she said quietly. “Oh, my Reyn.”

His eyes opened to slits. Copper glints shone. Transfixed, she stared, as he blinked twice, then opened his eyes. He squinted up at her. He gave a gasp of pain, his right hand going to the wet sleeve on his left arm. “I’m hurt,” he said dazedly.

She bent closer over him. Her heart thundered in her ears. She scarcely heard her own words. “Reyn. Lie still. You’re bleeding badly. Let me see to you.” With a competence she did not feel, she began to undo his shirt. She would not dare to hope, she hoped for nothing, no, she did not even dare to pray, not that he would live, not that he would love her. Such hopes were too big. Her shaking hands could not unfasten the buttons.

She tore the shirt and spread it wide, expecting ruin within. “You’re whole!” she exclaimed. “Praise Sa for life!” She ran a wondering hand down his smooth bronze chest. The scaling on it rippled under her hand and glinted in the pale winter sunlight.

“Malta?” He squinted, as if finally able to see who knelt over him. In his bloody right hand he caught both of hers and held her touch away from him as his eyes fixed on her brow. His eyes widened and he dropped her hands. Shame and pain scorched Malta, but she did not look away from him. As if he could not resist the impulse, he lifted a hand. But he did not touch her cheek as she had hoped. Instead, his fingers went straight to her bulging scar and traced it through her hair. Tears burned her eyes.

“Crowned,” he murmured. “But how can this be? Crested like the ancient Elderling queen in the old tapestries. The scaling is just beginning to show scarlet. Oh, my beauty, my lady, my queen, Tintaglia was right. You are the only one fit to mother such children as we shall make.”

His words made no sense, but she did not care. There was acceptance in his face, and awe. His eyes wandered endlessly over her face, in wonder and delight. “Your brows, too, even your lips. You are beginning to scale. Help me up,” he demanded. “I must see all of you. I must hold you to know this is real. I have come so far and dreamed of you so often.”

“You are hurt,” she protested. “There is so much blood, Reyn….”

“Not much of it mine, I think.” He lifted a hand to the side of his head. “I was stunned. And I took a sword thrust up my left arm. However, other than that-” He moved slowly, groaning. “I merely hurt all over.”

He drew his feet up, got to his knees and slowly managed to stand. She rose with him, steadying him. He lifted a hand to rub his eyes. “My veil,” he exclaimed suddenly. Then he looked down at her. She had not thought such ‘joy could shine on a man’s face. “You will marry me, then?” he asked in delighted disbelief.

“If you’ll have me, as I am.” She stood straight, chose truth. She could not let him plunge into this blindly, not knowing what others might later whisper about his bride. “Reyn, there is much that you first need to know about me.”

At that instant, Vivacia shouted something about yielding. An instant later, a wrenching impact threw them both to the deck again. Reyn cried out with pain, but rolled to throw himself protectively over her. The ship shuddered beneath them as he gathered her into his embrace. He lay beside her, holding her tight with his good arm, bracing them both against the blows of the world. As sailors clamored and the fresh clatter of battle rose, he shouted by her ear, “The only thing I need to know is that I have you now.”

WINTROW KNEW HOW TO COMMAND. AMIDST ALL ELSE, AS ALTHEA SCRAMbled to his orders with the others, she saw the sense of them. She saw something else, something even more important than whether she approved of how he ran his deck. The crew was confident in him. Jola, the mate, did not question his competence or his authority to take over for Kennit. Neither did Etta. Vivacia put herself in his hands, without reservations. Althea was aware, jealously, of the exchange between Vivacia and Wintrow. Effortless as water, it flowed past her. Naturally, without effort, they traded encouragement and information. They did not exclude her; it simply went past her the way adult conversation went over a child’s head.