“Wintrow. You must not. There are serpents in the harbor, they may . . .”

“You've never lied to me,” he rebuked her quietly. “Don't do it now to keep me by you.”

Shocked, she opened her mouth, but no words came. He reached the cold, cold water and plunged one bare foot and leg into it. “Sa preserve me,” he gasped, and then resolutely lowered himself into the water. She heard him catch his breath hoarsely in its chill embrace. Then he let go of the chain and paddled awkwardly away. His tied bundle bobbed in his wake. He swam like a dog.

Wintrow, she screamed. Wintrow, Wintrow, Wintrow. Soundless screams, waterless tears. But she kept still, and not just because she feared her cries would rouse the serpents. A terrible loyalty to him and to herself silenced her. He could not mean it. He could not do it. He was a Vestrit, she was his family ship. He could not leave her, not for long. He'd get ashore and go up into the dark town. He'd stay there, an hour, a day, a week, men did such things, they went ashore, but they always came back. Of his own will, he'd come back to her and acknowledge that she was his destiny. She hugged herself tightly and clenched her teeth shut. She would not cry out. She could wait, until he saw for himself and came back on his own. She'd trust that she truly knew his heart.

“It's nearly dawn.”

Kennit's voice was so soft, Etta was scarcely sure she had heard it. “Yes,” she confirmed very quietly. She lay alongside his back, her body not quite touching his. If he was talking in his sleep, she did not wish to wake him. It was seldom that he fell asleep while she was still in the bed, seldom that she was allowed to share his bedding and pillows and the warmth of his lean body for more than an hour or two.

He spoke again, less than a whisper. “Do you know this piece? 'When I am parted from you, The dawn light touches my face with your hands.' ”

“I don't know,” Etta breathed hesitantly. “It sounds like a bit of a poem, perhaps. ... I never had much time for the learning of poetry.”

“You have no need to learn what you already are,” he said quietly. He did not try to disguise the fondness in his voice. Etta's heart near stood still. She dared not breathe. “The poem is called From Kytris, To His Mistress. It is older than Jamaillia, from the days of the Old Empire.” Again there was a pause. “Ever since I met you, it has made me think of you. Especially the part that says, 'Words are not cupped deeply enough to hold my fondness. I bite my tongue and scowl my love, lest passion make me slave.' ” A pause. “Another man's words, from another man's lips. I wish they were my own.”

Etta let the silence follow his words, savored them as she committed them to memory. In the absence of his breathless whisper, she heard the deep rhythm of his breathing in harmony with the splash and gurgle of the waves against the ship's bow. It was a music that moved through her with the beating of her blood. She drew a breath and summoned all her courage.

“Sweet as your words are, I do not need them. I have never needed them.”

“Then in silence, let us bide. Lie still beside me, until morning turns us out.”

“I shall,” she breathed. As gentle as a drifting feather alighting, she lay her hand on his hip. He did not stir, nor turn to her. She did not mind. She did not need him to. Having lived for so long with so little, the words he had spoken to her now would be enough to last her a life. When she closed her eyes, a single tear slid forth from beneath her lashes.

In the dimness of the captain's cabin, a tiny smile curved his wooden features.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - JAMAILLIA SLAVERS

THERE WAS A SONG HE HAD LEARNED AS A CHILD, ABOUT THE WHITE STREETS OF JAMAILLIA SHINING IN THE SUN. Wintrow found himself humming it as he hurried down a debris-strewn alley. To either side of him, tall wooden buildings blocked the sun and channeled the sea wind. Despite his efforts, the salt water had reached his priest's robe. The damp bure slapped and chafed against him as he walked. The winter day was unusually mild, even for Jamaillia. He was not, he told himself, very cold at all. As soon as his skin and robe dried completely, he'd be fine. His feet had become so callused from his days on shipboard that even the broken crockery and splintered bits of wood that littered the alley did not bother him much. These were things he should remember, he counseled himself. Forget the growling of his empty belly, and be grateful that he was not overly cold.

And that he was free.

He had not realized how his confinement on the ship had oppressed him until he waded ashore. Even before he had dashed the water from his skin and donned his robe, his heart had soared. Free. He was many days from his monastery, and he had no idea how he would make his way there, but he was determined he would. His life was his own again. To know he had accepted the challenge made his heart sing. He might fail, he might be recaptured or fall to some other evil along the way, but he had accepted Sa's strength and acted. No matter what happened to him after this, he had that to hold to. He was not a coward.