His body hummed with weariness. Her words almost made sense to him. But he had no thoughts to offer her, only courtesy. “I think you need sleep. I know I do. I don’t have a bed to offer you, but I can find you a clean blanket or two.”

He could not see her eyes, but still felt her looking into his. Almost desperately, she asked, “Is there nothing here for you? When you look at me, there is no spark? No sense of connection, no echo of opportunity missed? No wistfulness for a path untrod?”

He almost laughed at her twisting words. What response did she hope to wring from him? “Just now, my only regret is for a bed unslept in,” he suggested wearily.

Once, at the monastery, he had taken shelter in a wooden hut during a thunderstorm. As he watched the storm, gripping the wet door frame, lightning had struck a tree nearby. As the blast split the oak, a sensation of power had darted through him and left him sprawled on the earth in the falling rain. A similar feeling shocked him now. The woman twitched as if he had poked her. For an instant the distant flames of the bonfires leaped in her eyes.

“A bed unslept in, and a woman unbedded. The bed is yours by right, but the woman, though she may come to you in time, never completely belongs to you. Yet the child is yours, for this child belongs not to he who makes him but to he who takes him.”

Meanings danced all around him, like the spattering rain that began to fall. Small hail was mixed with it, bouncing off the deck and Wintrow’s shoulders. “You speak of Etta’s child, don’t you?”

“Do I?” She cocked her head. “You would know better than I. The words come to me, but the sense of them belongs to another. But mark how you call him. Etta’s child, when all others speak of him as Kennit’s.”

Her words nettled him. “Why should I not name him hers? It takes two to make a child. His value is not solely in that Kennit fathered him. When they name him so, they discount Etta. I tell you this, stranger. In many ways, she is more fit to be the mother of a king than Kennit was to father one.”

“You should remain near him, for you will be one of the few that know that.”

“Who are you? What are you?” he demanded.

The drenching rain descended suddenly in a roar that drowned out speech, and the hailstones grew larger. “Inside!” Wintrow shouted, and led the way at a run. He held the door open and waited for her to follow him. But the cloaked figure who hastened in from the downpour was not Amber but Etta. He looked past her, but saw no one there.

Etta pushed her hood back. Her dark hair was plastered to her skull and her eyes were huge. She caught her breath. Her voice came from the depths of her soul. “Wintrow. I have something to tell you.” She drew another breath. Her face suddenly crumpled. Tears ran with the rain down her face. “I don’t want to raise this child alone.”

He did not take her in his arms. He knew better than that. But the words came easily. “I promise you, you won’t have to.”

HE ATTACKED HER IN THE DARKNESS, HIS WEIGHT PINNING HER DOWN. FEAR paralyzed her. Althea gasped for air, trying to find a scream. She could not even squeak. She thrashed, trying to escape him, but only hit her head on the wall. There was no air. She could not fight him. With a spectacular effort, she freed an arm and struck him.

“Althea!”

His outraged yell woke her. She jerked to consciousness. The gray of early dawn leaked in the broken window. Brashen sat up on the bed, holding his face. She managed to get a breath in, then panted another. She hugged herself tightly, trying to still her own trembling. “What? Why’d you wake me?” she demanded. She groped after her dream, but could find only the ragged edges of terror.

“Why’d I wake you!” Brashen was incredulous. “You nearly broke my jaw!”

She swallowed dryly. “I’m sorry. I think I had a nightmare.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed sarcastically. He looked at her, and she hated how his eyes softened with sympathy. She didn’t want his pity. “Are you all right now?” he asked gently. “Whatever it was, it must have been bad.”

“It was just a dream, Brashen.” She pushed his concern aside.

He looked away, cloaking his emotion. “Well. I suppose it’s morning, or nearly so. I may as well get dressed.” His voice was flat.

She forced a smile. “It’s another day. It has to be better than yesterday.” She sat up, stretching. Every muscle ached, her head pounded, and she felt half-sick. “I’m still tired. But I’m looking forward to getting under way.” That, at least, was true.