It would have been a comical sight, I imagine, in less serious circumstances; a small continent’s worth of ill-matched vessels, moving awkwardly across the water. Leaning over the side, I watched one of Phèdre’s Boys shout at a hapless group of Cruithne, attempting to drive a raft with oars, their uncoordinated efforts sending it spinning in slow circles.
"Azzalle has a fleet," Quintilius Rousse muttered, seeing the same thing. "Mayhap 'twould be better if we crossed alone, and sent the fleet back for them."
"Azzalle’s fleet may be halfway up the Rhenus River, my lord Admiral," I reminded him. "As might your own. But if you think it best, give the order now, before anyone founders."
He looked dourly at the struggling raft. Under the D’Angeline sailor’s frantically gestured orders, the Cruithne got the knack of it and began moving forward. "Let 'em try. I’m not minded to cross the Straits more than once, unless I need to."
I couldn’t blame him for that, not after having seen the Master of the Straits; I’d no wish to risk seeing him again, either. And in truth, once we got underway, a strange thing happened. The winds held, light and steady, blowing off Alba’s shore toward distant Terre d’Ange; the winds held, but the sea grew calm, scarce ruffled by the breeze. Our fleet strung out in a ragged line, lurching forward, slowly and surely. The shore fell away behind us, white cliffs looming, receding yard by yard, until the yards became a mile, and one mile two. The Albans didn’t lack for courage nor hardihood; set to an unfamiliar task, they laid to with a will, hands calloused by sword-hilts wrapped around oars, backs bent to the task.
Here and there, across the water, D’Angeline voices arose in a rower’s chant, marking the time, adapting the words of their chosen marching tune to an oarsman’s beat.
"Man or woman, we don’t care; give us twins, we'// take the pair! But just because we let you beat us; doesn’t mean you can defeat us!"
Other voices took it up, Cruithne and Eiran alike, meaningless syllables mangled in foreign tongues. At the helm, tacking slowly to keep apace of the fleet, Quintilius Rousse shook his head and grinned. "Never been anything like it!" he shouted. "This crossing will go down in history, I promise! And Elder Brother bids fair to keep his word!" He jerked his chin at Hyacinthe. "What do you say now, Tsingano? Care to point our way to landfall, eh?"
Hyacinthe stood in the prow, gazing out at the smooth waters, wrapped in his saffron cloak, now salt-stained and travel-worn, and gave no answer.
With a frisson of alarm, I made my way to his side. "What is it? What do you see?"
He turned his face to me, black eyes blurred with the dromonde, wide and unseeing. "That’s just it. I don’t. I can’t see our landing."
"What does it mean?"
Hyacinthe looked back at the sea. "It means," he said softly, "that somewhere between here and the far shore, lies a crossroads, and I cannot see beyond it."
I would have asked him somewhat else, but a great clamor arose at that moment off our port bow, shouts of laughter, scuffling and blows. Such was the noise of it that all of us who were idle on deck went to look, even Hyacinthe, forgetting his fears.
It was one of the small rafts, with some fourteen of the Tarbh Cro-Segovae tribesmen, they were-and a single D’Angeline. Without enough oars to go around, three of the northern warriors had disported themselves by lying at the edge of the raft and peering into the clear, still waters, thrusting their arms into the sea and wriggling their fingers, attempting to catch fish bare-handed.
A good trick in riverbeds, I am told; it shouldn’t have worked at sea. Nor would it, save for one very large, very curious eel.
Which one of the Segovae had caught round the middle with both hands, and hauled onto the raft, thrashing like fury. It was that eel they were trying to subdue, with shouts and flailing blows of oar and fist, and Rousse’s sailor yelling out helpful directions in incomprehensible D’Angeline, the raft rocking wildly.
I think we all laughed, for a moment. Until one of the Segovae caught the eel a good pounding blow on the head and it shuddered and became still, wet and gleaming on the raft, a full five feet or longer.
And the wind went dead.
And I remembered what the fisherman had said.
The Tarbh Cro came late, they hadn’t heard Drustan’s warning. And the D’Angeline sailors wouldn’t have understood. He’d spoken in Cruithne; I hadn’t translated it. They had their orders from the Admiral, they knew what we were about.
Three spear-casts off the coast, aught else is the Sea-Lord’s hunting ground.
We were three spear-casts and farther; we were miles at sea. In the sudden absence of wind, it was if the world had drawn a deep breath and held it.
I did the same.
Before, the Master of the Straits came with gathering darkness and lashing rains, driving toward us across the waves. This time, it was different. This time, the very sea itself erupted. In the midst of our motley fleet, the waters boiled, boats and rafts tilting on end, passengers crying out and scrabbling for a hold.
And from the maelstrom, the vast face arose.
Those vessels closest slid one way, plunging down the enormous slope of the form’s streaming hair; those on the outer circle, as we were, tipped the other. For a moment, I swear, the ship nearly stood on her prow, awash in a sheet of water. Somewhere, Quintilius Rousse was roaring orders, inaudible over the rushing sea. I clung grimly to the railing, both hands locked in a death-grip, and vowed to Elua that I would light a candle for my old tumbling-master if I survived. A man’s figure slid across the steep slant of the wooden deck, his desperate shout cut short, disappearing in the foaming sea.
Up and up, taller and vaster than I remembered, the face of the Master of the Straits arose, transparent and shining, with the flicker of living fish and bits of weed glimpsed in the water that shaped his features.
Then he held and rose no further, and the seas fell level with a thunderous clap, our ship crashing back on its keel. The impact jarred my grip loose; I was flung half over the side, the railing catching my midriff. All around the surging waters, our impromptu fleet bobbed like corks on a flood, holding a half-drowned army, horses screaming in panic, some already swimming, churning and terrified.
"Phèdre!" A strong hand entwined in my tangled cloak, hauling me back on deck; Joscelin, soaked to the bone and wide-eyed with shock. I looked for Hyacinthe, and saw him safe, some yards away, where he’d been swept. And then I had no time left to look for survivors, for the Master of the Straits spoke.
Towering as high as the cliffs, it seemed, glistening and huge, his face rose above us, and the terrible maw opened to loose the thunder’s voice.
"WHO HUNTS MY SEASSS?"
I know what I know; what I saw, what I heard. I would swear it: The Master of the Straits spoke D’Angeline. I heard it, Hyacinthe, Joscelin, the Admiral; we all did. But the eel-catching Tarbh Cro on the raft below us cried out in terror, at the same moment that Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba, stepped forward on our now-steady deck, unfaltering despite his lurching gait.
"They are my men, Sea-Lord!" he cried in Cruithne, straining his neck to stare up at the Master of the Straits. "I failed to warn them! I am to blame!"
The face looked down, water streaming from on high. "YOU LEAD…ALBAN?"
Quintilius Rousse, swearing, abandoned the helm to come forward. " 'Tis my ship and I command it, you old bastard! If you’ve come to take a toll, take it from me!"