They had cried long together, bolting the door of their cabin and refusing any refreshment but their own company. Once they’d regained control and could bear not to clutch each other, Erienne had scoured the pages of the prophecy Denser had brought for some clue that their reading of it was wrong. But there was nothing, and Tinjata knew his signs only too well.
In the early evening of the sixth day, Denser lay with an arm around Erienne’s shoulders, stroking her right arm with the tips of his fingers. The love they had made was tearful and tender, sensuous and quiet, each delighting in the other’s body, knowing the other’s pleasure by the sound of a sigh or a groan. No words were necessary then and they weren’t now as they basked in the afterglow, the sun still streaming through the window from low on the horizon.
Soon, it would be time for dinner with The Raven, and to watch the sunset, glorious and red, firing its energies across the darkening sky under the remaining cloud. But for now they lay silent, staring at the ceiling above them, their bodies warm and the silence beautiful. Denser breathed in deep, Erienne’s scent filling his nostrils. Maybe. Maybe her sacrifice wouldn’t be necessary.
He knew he should worry about the Dordovans, who could reach the Ornouth Archipelago in front of them, but somehow he was certain they would fail. All that consumed him was the burgeoning hope that Lyanna’s Night was over. If the weather held, if calm returned to Balaia and the Southern Ocean, it could really only mean one thing. That Lyanna had learned the control that was vital to her and Balaian survival. And if that was so, Erienne wouldn’t have to die.
A shadow passed in front of the sun. Denser craned his head to the window to watch it pass. The shadow deepened and he frowned.
‘Sundown’s early tonight,’ he said, propping himself on one elbow and looking down at Erienne.
‘No it isn’t,’ she whispered, and there were tears standing in her eyes. ‘It’s started again.’
‘No, love,’ he said, but he already knew it was true.
The temperature was falling, the ship was shifting against its forward motion. There was a swell rising and a storm coming.
‘We knew it couldn’t last,’ she said. ‘Didn’t we?’
He nodded. There were no words, not now.
Above them, he heard orders rattling across the decks and the sound of hurrying feet. He heard the slap of limp canvas and felt the ship turning. There was a knock on the door, urgent and insistent.
‘Sorry, you two, but you’ve got to see this. I’ll meet you on deck.’ Ilkar’s voice was apologetic but determined and Denser listened to his footsteps receding and the sounds of sudden tension from above before turning back to his wife.
‘Well?’
‘We should go,’ said Erienne. ‘No sense in wallowing in our self-pity at the moment.’ She sat up and kissed him fervently and managed a half-smile as she drew away. ‘There’s plenty of time for that later. The Unknown’ll be waking soon. I shouldn’t miss that. There could be more work to do.’ She pushed him away, swung her legs out of the narrow bed and rummaged on the floor for her clothes.
‘I love you, Erienne,’ said Denser.
Erienne swallowed a sob. ‘Remember that you do.’
They dressed quickly and, after a long embrace, walked up to the deck. Pushing open the forward hatch, the gusting wind felt strong in their faces. The ship was beginning to pitch sharply.
‘Here we go again,’ muttered Denser.
He led Erienne by the hand out into the fast fading light and looked around for Ilkar. He was there, standing by the port rail, which was lined with people. Hirad, Ren’erei, Darrick, one of the Protectors and half the crew of the Calaian Sun. They hurried over, Ilkar seeing them and stepping back so they could see clearly.
A light was arrowing out from sea to sky over at the Ornouth Archipelago, the first islands of which would soon be visible. It was a vast column, green-edged yellow, shot through with orange, brown and a dismal black. It disappeared up into the sky and where it touched them, the clouds spun around it, thickening and expanding.
They already covered the horizon and blotted out the sun and with every heartbeat they fled across the ocean towards Balaia. Inside them, lightning flared and smudges in a dozen places told of rain falling in torrents. Beneath them came the wind, and below the wind was driven the sea, white-capped and murderous. The swell was growing, already at ten feet. The ship still made headway but Jevin had already furled all but topsail and foresail, and soon he would be forced to take in more.
‘Oh dear Gods,’ said Denser. ‘Look at what our daughter is doing to us all.’
Erienne’s arm was around his waist and it tightened. He looked at her, saw her eyes reflecting the pain he felt and he squeezed her trembling shoulders and turned her away.
‘I think we should eat now, before it gets too rough,’ he said to Ilkar as they passed him. The elf nodded.
‘I’ll sort it, don’t you worry about it.’
The forward hatch slid back as they approached it and a very familiar shaven-headed figure came halfway out, spotting them and beckoning them over. He was clutching a sheet around his waist.
‘Any idea where my clothes are?’ he said.
‘Unknown, it’s good to see you,’ said Erienne.
‘And you, Erienne. And it’ll be even better when I catch up on what the hell has been going on and have some food. I am bloody famished.’
The gale roared into the Choul in the early hours of the morning. It was some time before dawn and the night was black, the cloud unyielding and the rain unceasing. Sha-Kaan brought the Brood to wakefulness, their dulling eyes regarding him in irritation.
‘We are doing nothing here but dying,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘Hirad Coldheart is right. We must help them.’
‘It is not our way to help but to be helped,’ said Nos-Kaan. ‘We are the Kaan.’
‘And this is not Beshara, and here we do not rule,’ said Sha. ‘So we will help my Dragonene. He, at least, has stayed true and deserves our help. Without him, we would already have perished. Unfurl your wings, young Kaan, and we will fly. But beware. The hunters are everywhere.’
‘Yes, Great Kaan,’ said Nos and Hyn.
‘I will lead.’
Sha-Kaan moved along the Choul to find himself some space and stretched his wings. It was becoming a painful exercise, alleviated only by the thrill of the hunt for prey. But even that was beginning to pall. Sha-Kaan was already an old dragon when he was first marooned in Balaia. The unhelpful conditions merely brought his death closer. But there was still hope. The Al-Drechar could help. They had both the knowledge and the power. While they lived, so would he.
He opened his great mouth, sucking in the air and opening the muscles above his flame ducts, feeling the chill rush around the emptiness of the sacs. He wondered how much more confident the hunters would be if they knew the dragons were dry. Not so terrifying then, he supposed. Then again, he considered as he examined his claws and felt the tips of his huge fangs with his tongue, then again . . .
Sha-Kaan snaked his neck around to see his Brood pair working their tired wing muscles and stretching the drying, cracking membrane. But they were ready and would not fail him.
‘Come, Kaan. We will fly high and fast. Let the Skies keep us.’
‘Skies keep us,’ the Kaan intoned.
Sha-Kaan walked along to the entrance, his keen eyes piercing the gloom, seeing nothing but flat dark rock, trees bent double under the gale and the teeming rain.
‘Balaia,’ he growled. ‘Sooner left, better my scales.’
With a roar, he spread his wings and leapt into the air, beating upwards. Nos and Hyn-Kaan following. Sha-Kaan rose to the peak which housed their Choul and circled, waiting for his Brood to join him.