Etta gave an exclamation of annoyance. “I'll call a crewman to take him away,” she said. The sight of the unconscious boy on the deck distressed the pirate until she offered him the dripping cup.

Her long-fingered hand was cool on the back of his neck as she held up his head. His thirst was suddenly all-consuming. It was ship's water, neither cold nor fresh, tasting of the barrel it had been stored in. It was nectar. He drank it down. “More,” he croaked when she took the cup away.

“Right away,” she promised him.

His eyes followed her as she returned to the water ewer. He noted in passing the limp boy on the floor. A moment ago, there had been something about him, something urgent he wished Etta to do. It had been important, but now he could not recall it. Instead, he was starting to float, rising off the bed. The experience was both unnerving and pleasant. The cup of water came back. He drank it all. “I can fly,” he observed to the woman. “Now that the pain is gone, I can fly. The pain was anchoring me down.”

She smiled at him fondly. “You're light-headed. And perhaps a bit drunk still.”

He nodded. He could not keep the foolish smile from his lips. A rush of gratitude suffused him. He had lived with the pain for so long and now it was gone. It was wonderful. His gratitude swelled to engulf his whole world.

The boy had done it.

He looked at Wintrow still sprawled on the floor. “He's such a good boy,” he said affectionately. “We care so much about him, the ship and I.” He was getting very sleepy but he managed to bring his eyes back to the woman's face. Her hand was touching his cheek. He reached up slowly and managed to capture it. “You'll take care of him for me, won't you?” His eyes moved across her face, from her mouth to her eyes. It was hard to make his eyes see her whole face at once. It was too much work to refocus them. “I can count on you for that, can't I?”

“Is that what you want?” she asked him reluctantly.

“More than anything,” he declared passionately. “Be kind to him.”

“If that is what you want, I will,” she said, almost unwillingly.

“Good. Good.” He squeezed her fingers gently. “I knew you would if I asked you. Now I can sleep.” He closed his eyes.

WHEN WINTROW OPENED HIS EYES, THERE WAS A CUSHION UNDER HIS HEAD and a blanket thrown over him. He was on the deck of the captain's stateroom. He tried to find his place in time. He had a fragmented dream of a stained-glass window. A frightened boy had been hiding behind it. The window had broken. Somehow, Wintrow had reassembled the window. The boy had been grateful. No. No, in the dream, he had been the boy . . . no, he had pieced the man back together, while Berandol and Vivacia advised him from behind a curtain of water. There had been a serpent and a dragon, too. A seven-pointed star that hurt horribly. Then he had wakened, and Etta had been annoyed with him and then . . .

It was no good. He could not make it come together. The long day was broken into pieces that he could not reconcile. Some parts, he knew, were from his dreams. Others seemed relentlessly real. Had he actually cut off a man's leg earlier this afternoon? That seemed the most unlikely recollection of all. He closed his eyes and groped toward Vivacia. He was aware of her, as he always was whenever he reached toward her. A wordless communion was constant between them. He could feel that much of her, but she seemed distracted. Not disinterested in him so much as intrigued with something else. Perhaps she was as disoriented as he was. Well. It was not going to do any good to lie here.

He rolled his head and looked up at Kennit's bunk. The pirate's chest rose and fell reassuringly under his bedding. His color was terrible, but he was alive. At least that much of Wintrow's dream had been true.

He drew a deep breath, and got his arms under him. He pushed up carefully from the deck, fighting his way through a wall of vertigo. Never had a working trance so weakened him. He still was not quite sure what he had done, or if he had truly done anything at all. In his work trances at the monastery, he had learned how to engage completely with his art. Immersed in it, the various tasks of creation became a whole act. It seemed he had somehow applied that to healing Kennit, but he did not understand how. He could not remember composing himself for a work trance.

Once on his feet, he moved carefully toward the bed. Was this how it felt to be drunk, he wondered? Unsteady and dizzy, seeing colors as too bright, edges of objects sharply defined? It could not be. This was not pleasant. No one would willingly seek out these sensations. He halted at the edge of the bed. He dreaded checking the bandages on Kennit's leg, but he knew he should. He might still be bleeding. If he was, Wintrow had no idea what he would do. Despair, he decided. He reached gingerly for the edge of the blanket.