“Each of us does,” Amber replied. She looked across the water to where men fought on the decks of the locked ships. “And a death to die as well,” she added more softly.

“WHAT WOULD KENNIT DO NOW?” WINTROW MUTTERED TO HIMSELF AS HE scanned the closing circle of ships. He had taken up the men from the Jamaillian ship because he had not the heart to leave them to drown or be eaten. Weakness, Kennit would have said. Precious time wasted when he should have been getting his ship away. Jola was dutifully chaining them up, at his command. The thought made him queasy. But there was no time for second thoughts. He was alone in this now. Kennit was dead, and Etta sent off to mourn him. Althea had crossed to the Paragon. He had taken command of Vivacia, for he could not tolerate Jola captaining her. Now that he had her, he was afraid he would lose her and all hands. His mind flew back to the last time he had seized control of the ship. Then he had been replacing his father to bring her through a storm. Now he stepped up to fill Kennit’s place, in the midst of battle. Despite the time that had passed, he still felt just as uncertain. “What would Kennit do?” he asked himself again. His mind refused to work.

“Kennit is dead.” Vivacia spoke the harsh words softly. “You are alive. Wintrow Vestrit, it is up to you. Save us both.”

“How? I don’t know how.” He looked around again. He had to act and swiftly. The crew believed in him. They had answered his every command willingly, and now he stood paralyzed as death closed in on them. Kennit would have known what to do.

“Stop that.” She spoke in his heart as well as aloud. “You are not Kennit. You cannot command as he did. You must command as Wintrow Vestrit. You say you fear to fail. What have you told Etta, so often it rings in my bones? When you fear to fail, you fear something that has not happened yet. You predict your own failure, and by inaction, lock yourself into it. Was not that what you told her?”

“A hundred times,” he returned, almost smiling. “In the days when she would not even try to read. And other times.”

“And?”

He took a breath and centered himself. He scanned the battle again. His oldest training came suddenly to the fore. He drew another deep breath. When he let it out, he sent doubt with the spent air. He suddenly saw the battle as if it were one of Etta’s game boards. “In conflict, there is weakness. That is where we will break through.” He pointed toward the Marietta and the Motley, already locked in a struggle with the Jamaillian ships. Several others were moving to join the battle.

“There?” Vivacia asked, suddenly doubtful.

“There. And we do our best to free them with us.” He lifted his voice in sudden command. “Jola! Bring us about. Archers to the ready. We’re leaving!”

It was not what they expected, but once he had realized he could not forsake his friends, the decision was simple. Vivacia answered the helm readily and for a blessing, the wind was with them. Paragon followed without hesitation. He had a glimpse of Trell at the liveship’s helm. That simple act of confidence restored Wintrow’s faith in himself. “Do not hesitate!” he urged the ship. “We’ll make them give way before us.”

A Jamaillian ship veered in to flank her. It was a smaller vessel, fleet and nimble, her railing lined with archers. At the cries of his hostages, the bowmen faltered, but an instant later they let fly. Wintrow flung himself flat to avoid two shafts aimed at him. Another struck Vivacia’s shoulder, but rebounded harmlessly. She shrieked her outrage, a cry as shrill as a serpent’s. Wizardwood need fear no ordinary arrow. Pitchpots and flames would be another matter, but Wintrow judged correctly that they would fear to use them in such crowded circumstance. The lively wind would be very ready to carry scraps of flaming canvas from one vessel to another. Vivacia’s archers returned the volley, with far greater accuracy. The smaller boat veered off. Wintrow hoped the news of their hostages would spread.

Just as he thought they had escaped unscathed, a man fell from the rigging. The arrow had pierced his throat; Gankis had died soundlessly. The old man had been one of Kennit’s original crew. As his body struck the deck, Vivacia screamed. It was not a woman’s cry, but the rising shriek of an outraged dragon. The anger that surged up from her invaded Wintrow as well. An answering roar came from Paragon, echoed by a shrill trumpeting from the white serpent.

A large ship was moving steadily into their path. No doubt, her captain sought to force Vivacia back into the thick of the fleet. Wintrow gauged their chances. “Cut it as fine as you can, my lady,” he bade her. “Cry the steersman as you wish.” He gripped the forerail and hoped he was not leading them all to their deaths. Canvas full and billowing, it became a race of nerves between the two ships. At the last possible moment the other captain slacked his sails and broke away. Vivacia raced past virtually under his bow. Wintrow became aware that the white serpent had moved up to pace them when it roared and sprayed the ship in passing.