“I know what we said,” Stephano replied. “But saying and feeling are two different things. Face it,” he added in teasing tones, “you’d be mad if I wasn’t jealous.”
Miri laughed. “I guess I would.” She sighed and cast a rueful glance at Dag, who was pacing the deck as though he was walking guard duty on the top of a redoubt. “Though there’s no need for you to be jealous. He won’t give me the time of day.”
“He’s been wounded, Miri,” said Stephano quietly. “And unlike a bullet wound or a sword slash, this wound is deep in his soul. It won’t be easy to heal.”
“Something happened to him. Tell me what,” said Miri.
Stephano gazed out into the swirling mists. “Dag will tell you himself when he’s ready.” He turned to smile at her. “And when he does, you’ll know he loves you.”
“And if he doesn’t…”
Stephano shook his head. “Dag hates himself for something that happened long ago, Miri. Right now, that hatred is so big it’s squeezing out every other feeling. You have to be patient. Loving and patient.”
“If that’s what I have to do, then I guess I’ll do it,” said Miri.
She looked over at the helm. Gythe was making rapid gestures with one hand and jabbing her finger at the helm with the other. Rodrigo was staring at her in helpless bewilderment.
“I guess I had better go translate,” Miri said. She started to leave, then looked back at Stephano. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For being jealous.”
She gave him a pert smile, then went to the helm, where she was immediately confronted by Gythe and Rodrigo, both talking at once; Gythe with hands flying and Rodrigo saying plaintively, “I think I upset her…”
Miri explained to Rodrigo what Gythe meant with her gestures and tried at the same time, to explain to Gythe that Rodrigo didn’t mean what he’d said with his mouth. The three of them began to laboriously try to untangle the overlapping strands of magic.
They had a difficult time of it. Gythe was at first adamantly opposed to removing any of the magical constructs she’d laid down to protect the Cloud Hopper. Rodrigo tried to tell her that one of her magical constructs was so powerful she did not need twenty more on top of it.
“In fact, the others have weakened the entire construct. Think of your first construct as a mighty river, with the water all flowing in a one direction. When you added additional constructs, you essentially siphoned off the water, sending it flowing into ditches and creeks and streams, with the result that your river is down to a trickle. If you remove all these other constructs, the magic will flow strong again.”
Stephano listened and watched and tried to imagine what it must be like to see the glow of sigils and the lines of energy connecting them and to know you had the power to manipulate such a miraculous force. Perhaps the feeling was akin to flying through the air on the back of a dragon, with the wind in your face, knowing the freedom that comes when you leave the world and all its problems far behind.
There were those like Hastind who claimed they felt the same striding the deck of one of the large ships of the air, but Stephano knew better. On board ship, he was one of many junior officers, all vying for the attention of the godlike captain, who rarely, if ever, deigned to listen to a lowly lieutenant. Being a ship’s captain meant you had to deal with the politics of the Royal Navy, suck up to some dunderhead of an admiral who didn’t know his starboard from his port. When you were a Dragon Knight, you only had to talk to your dragon, and Stephano had often found dragons far more sensible and intelligent than people.
The Cloud Hopper was now starting to sink deeper into the Breath. The lift tanks were cold; the magical sparks that energized them were flickering, ready to die. The mists were so thick that now Stephano could barely make out the balloon, which was starting to deflate, as were their spirits. Stephano’s wound had begun to throb painfully, but he kept quiet, not wanting to take Miri away from her work.
Night wrapped around the boat. Dag gave up keeping watch. He apologized to Doctor Ellington, which apology, accompanied by smoked fish, was graciously accepted. Stephano tried to light a lantern, but the wick was too damp to catch. He and Dag and the Doctor sat in the deck chairs and watched Gythe and Rodrigo and Miri work. Stephano felt helpless. All he could do was listen to the dismal flapping of the sails and feel the cold water drip off the ratlines onto his head. Every so often, flashes of magic arcing from one sigil to another flared in the night and gave them hope. But then the light would fail, Rigo would sigh and shake his head. Gythe looked like she was going to cry. Miri drooped from exhaustion.
They had to keep working. The Cloud Hopper was sinking fast.
Chapter Fifteen
Most of us have no true understanding of just how little of Rosia we inhabit. We fly from city to city, over vast stretches of unexplored wilderness and rarely look down to marvel at the deep green forests, jagged shorelines, and tall snow-covered mountains. A few have sought to live in these places, untouched by man, so as to be closer to God.
– Unknown priest in a letter to his family describing his pilgrimage into the wilderness
AS THE DISABLED CLOUD HOPPER SANK SLOWLY into the Breath and her crew struggled desperately to rekindle her magic, the Retribution continued flying through the night, planning to reach the Abbey of Saint Agnes by dawn.
After finally obtaining a good night’s sleep, Sir Ander wakened in a somber state of mind, thinking sorrowfully of the murder of a hundred innocent souls and wondering about the evil that had committed such a heinous crime. He should have been relieved to find Father Jacob in a cheerful mood, for life with the priest when he was in a good humor was far more comfortable than when Father Jacob was on a rampage. But the priest’s good mood clashed with Sir Ander’s, who found himself resenting the Father’s smile and hearty “good morning.”
Ander dipped the shaving razor in the water basin and then held it poised, waiting for the rocking motion of the yacht to steady enough that he didn’t have to worry about cutting his own throat.
“Whose nose did you bloody last night?”
Father Jacob looked up, startled. Then, glancing at his split knuckles, he began to laugh-loud, booming laughter that apparently startled the wyverns, for the yacht took a sudden lurch. Sir Ander braced his leg against his foot locker.
“You will be pleased to know that I did not take out my frustrations on some poor innocent fisherman,” said Father Jacob, slicing cold roast beef and eating it off the edge of the knife. “Quite the contrary, I was almost swept up in a press gang.”
The yacht was relatively steady, and Sir Ander scraped at his jaw quickly.
Father Jacob looked quite pleased with himself. “Some naval vessel must have come up short-handed. A lieutenant was rounding up the local fishermen to ‘offer’ them a life in the navy, which meant that he was sending them back to his ship in legs irons and handcuffs.”
“Didn’t you tell him who you were?”
“And miss out on a grand brawl?” Father Jacob grinned and ate beef with enthusiasm. “Instead of bloodying a fisherman’s nose, I bloodied the lieutenant’s and then took to my heels.”
Sir Ander grunted and, when the swaying eased again, he swiftly completed his shaving. He mopped his face with a towel.
“Well, I’m glad the fight has improved your mood.”
Father Jacob was indignant. “What do you mean, improved my mood? I am always in the best of humors, despite the fact that my patience is constantly tried to the limit by dunderheads like the grand bishop, who insists on trying to keep political plates spinning in the air while his world is literally crashing down around his ears.”
“His Eminence doesn’t have much choice,” said Sir Ander. He put on his dress uniform, consisting of a long coat in the dark red of the Knight Protectors, white trousers, white stockings, and polished black knee-high boots.