“Then I assume that’s out of the question,” Tarrant said evenly. “What are our options?”
He looked out at the waves surrounding them, white-capped and angry. “We’re going in,” he said shortly. “No other way. We can make the cape inside an hour, and that should be good enough. Hellsport’s got a sheltered harbor that’ll keep us safe and sound, if we can get there in time.” He looked up sharply at Tarrant. “Unless you’ve got something that’ll turn this aside. If so, now’s the time to use it.”
Tarrant gazed out at the sea in silence, for so long that Damien wondered if he had heard. But at last he said quietly, “No. I can’t Work this. Do what you must.”
When Moskovan had left them, Damien asked, “Not enough power available?”
He put a hand on the pommel of his sword, rested it there. “There’s enough.”
“Don’t want to use it up?”
The Hunter turned to him; in the mist-filtered lamplight his eyes were as pale as ice. “I can’t Work this storm,” he said evenly, “because it’s already been Worked. And not by a power I care to spar with.”
“Our enemy, you mean?”
He turned away. “Don’t be naive, Vryce.”
It took him a minute to realize what the Hunter meant; when he did so, he was stunned. “You think the girl-” He couldn’t finish.
“I checked the weather before we left. Even allowing for typical meteorological surprises, it shouldn’t have become . . . this.” A sweeping gesture encompassed it alclass="underline" the white-capped waves, the rising wind, the slap of ocean foam against the hull. “There’s no question in my mind that the storm was altered so that it would come in closer to shore. And likewise no question that the tool used for that alteration was not earth-fae, or any earth-bound sorcery.” He glanced back meaningfully toward the galley. “Hesseth doesn’t Work the weather. That leaves only one possibility I can think of. Unless you have another suggestion.”
It seemed too incredible. He could hardly respond. “You once told me weather-Working was so complicated that most adepts can’t even do it.”
“No, Vryce. Moving a storm is easy, provided it already exists. Controlling it is hard. Anyone with enough raw power can yank a few clouds into position, or draw in a respectable wind. But very few can alter an entire weather system, so that the storm thus changed stays under control.” He gazed out at the foaming waves, now casting sheets of spray about the ship’s hull. Thin rainbows hung before the ship’s lanterns. “Merely raising a storm, without thought for consequences? That’s not so very difficult. Under the right circumstances, even a child could do it.”
“A scared child,” Damien muttered. “One who thinks we’re all going to die if we land in Freeshore.”
For a moment the Hunter said nothing. The look in his eyes was strangely distant, as though his thoughts were not fixed on this time and place at all, but on some internal vista. “It would seem,” he said at last, “that the matter is now out of our hands.”
“Not necessarily. When the storm passes—”
“Then there will be another. Or something worse. The girl is afraid of Freeshore, and Nature responds to her fear; do you want to tempt that power? This time it was only a storm. Let’s be grateful for that.”
“You were worried about Hellsport,” Damien reminded him. “Do you think we can deal with whatever’s waiting for us?”
The Hunter gazed out over the sea, where foamy waves were breaking into spray. The rising wind was audible in the rigging, a whistling that rose and fell with each gust.
“Let’s just hope we make it to Hellsport in time,” he said quietly. “That’s enough to worry about for one night, don’t you think?”
They made it.
Just barely.
The wind was shrieking through the rigging by the time they rounded Hellsport’s sea wall, and the foaming waves that beat against the hull filled the air with cold, salty spray. It was hard to stand on the swaying deck with the wind that strong, so Damien had gone below, where he waited with Hesseth and Jenseny. Tarrant alone remained above. Watching for the distant light of the earth-fae, Damien guessed. Searching for land as only he could see it.
The girl was sick and miserable, but she had managed not to throw up thus far. A major accomplishment, Damien thought. He and Hesseth had sailed through so much rough water in the Golden Glory that they were somewhat accustomed to it, but even so the last half-hour was difficult. Whatever power the child had drawn upon to summon up this storm, it had done its work blindly, with no attempt to control its course or its fury. If there hadn’t been a sheltered port nearby when it struck, it probably would have killed them all.
The most unnerving thing about the incident was that the girl apparently knew nothing of what she had done. Whatever tidal forces she had wielded in her moment of terror, allowing her to call the storm, it had been purely unconscious effort. Which was all the more dangerous, he reflected. Ignorance and power were a dangerously volatile mixture. They were going to have to deal with that, and soon.
He looked over at Hesseth and said quietly, “You’ll have to train her. No one else can do it.”
She bared sharp teeth as she answered him, “My people can only teach their blood-kin.”
He looked up at her. And waited.
At last she looked down at the girl who lay curled up on her side, her head on Hesseth’s lap. With care she smoothed the tangled black hair, gently enough not to wake the girl.
“I’ll try,” she promised.
Suddenly there was a thump on the hull, hard enough to shake the bench they were sitting on. For a moment Damien feared that they had hit a rock, and his whole body tensed as he prepared to grab the child and carry her abovedeck. Then there was another thump, somewhat softer than the first. And then a third. After a moment he recognized the sounds for what they were and leaned back, exhaling heavily.
“I take it we’re secure.”
“Jenseny.” Hesseth shook the girl gently so that she would awaken. “We made it. We’re safe. Wake up, kasa.”
The large eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and tired. “In Hellsport?” she whispered weakly. Her face was still a ghastly ashen hue.
“For what it’s worth,” Damien told her. He patted the girl on the head with what he hoped was fatherly reassurance. “Come on. Let’s get out of this bucket.”
The port they’d chosen might have been sheltered, but one wouldn’t know it from on board the ship; climbing up the galley stairs as they pitched and swayed was a trial in itself. The deck seemed somewhat more stable, but the difference was purely psychological. He could see from the way the long boat was rubbing against the pier that it was far from steady, despite its careful mooring. A cold rain had begun to fall, and Damien turned up his collar to keep it from seeping in at the neck.
“Well?” Moskovan joined them, wrapped in an oilcloth slicker. “What’s the verdict? You want to wait this out and then move on to Freeshore? Or take your chances here?”
Damien looked at Tarrant, and hesitated.
“I should Know the city first-” the priest began.
The Hunter waved him short. “I already did. There’s no danger to us here. Not yet, anyway.”
Damien was aware of how hard those words must have been for him. It wasn’t in the Neocount’s character to say I was wrong, but that was damned close.
He looked out at the city, now sheathed in a curtain of rain. Impossible to see in the darkness. The lamps of the harbor were ghostly and inconstant, flickering like stars in the downpour.
“All right. We’ll try it here.” He felt like a weight was lifted off his chest the minute he said it. No more sea travel, now. Not until they’d finished the job they’d come to do, or died trying. And in the latter case (Damien consoled himself) at least there’d be no more ships to worry about. That was something, anyway.