CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN THE DARK CONFINES of the captain’s berth, Gabrielle tossed and muttered, trapped in an evil dream.

She couldn’t breathe. A gray fog seeped over her face, oozing into her mouth. Thick wooly tendrils slid down her throat. She gagged and thrashed against them, but each smothered sucking breath pulled the dark miasma farther into her windpipe. The gray fog filled her. It was killing her.

Even in her sleep Gabrielle knew this was a True Dream. She had learned much about dreaming in her years with the Elves, learned to tell the fragmented nonsense of her mind’s fancies and fears from the powerful eye of true dreaming. She had learned to let the dream play out with a delicate awareness that did not jar her into wakefulness. But this time she could not do it. She fought against the dream, fought, as it seemed, for her life.

With a gasp and a retching cough she wrenched herself from sleep’s grasp. Shaky with the clammy horror that still clung to her, she groped for Féolan and found only the clinkered wood of the ship’s hull. Now she felt the crest and fall of the ship over the waves and remembered the narrow berth that was her bed on this journey. Only Yolenka shared the tiny cabin with her, and she slept on undisturbed.

Gabrielle considered waking her but settled for lighting the lamp. Like nearly everything else in the cabin, it was fixed in place, settled firmly into a wall bracket. It made a small wavering pool of yellow light—enough, she hoped, to chase some of the chill from her heart.

There would be no going back to sleep, not for a while. Gabrielle climbed into her berth and set her back against the curved wall. She needed to think about her dream. The gods of light and darkness knew how little she relished the prospect, but since it haunted her anyway, she might as well seek some understanding of it.

The meaning was not necessarily literal, this much she knew. The foreboding she felt, though—and she realized, now, that a growing uneasiness had been stalking her all that day—that could be trusted. The danger was real. But the danger might not be hers; dreamers often felt the dream’s message within themselves, and as a healer she was more prone than most to take on another’s pain or sorrow. The dream might be about her, or someone she knew, or a more general warning of...what?

Gabrielle shivered and pulled her blanket close about her. Again in her mind’s eye the gray fog blanketed her body.

A light knock.

“Gabrielle?”

Féolan. Silent in her bare feet, Gabrielle opened the cabin door before Féolan was sure he had been heard.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Are you all right, love? I woke up thinking of you.”

More than thinking, Gabrielle guessed. If he had reached his mind out to her—and he surely had—he would have felt her panic.

“I had a terrible dream, Féolan, a True Dream.”

Yolenka stirred in her sleep, and Gabrielle pitched her voice down.

“It was so frightening, and the only sense I can make of it is that it’s something bad.”

Féolan wrapped his arms around her and held her close and still. Gabrielle let his warm, steadying strength seep into her. It was as real and certain as the rocking of the ship under her feet. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Least I can do. Do you want to talk it through or leave it till morning? They say dark dreams fare better in daylight.”

Gabrielle nodded into his chest. “Could you sit with me a while, do you think? There isn’t really any room for you, but...”

They did find a hazy sort of sleep, eventually, slumped side by side against the wall with Féolan’s legs trailing onto the floor. And that was how Yolenka found them, in the narrow shafts of light that brought morning to the captain’s cabin.

“Good day, little lovebirds! Time to wake up your eyes!”

The voice was amused, brash and worlds away from any dark dream. Gabrielle opened her eyes to a wide knowing grin.

“Is good you are healer. You are two pained necks and twisted-up backs today, yes?”

SOMETHING WAS WRONG With Luc.

Turga’s rejection of their offer had been devastating, yet Madeleine did not sink back into the dull despair that had sucked at her when she first realized their fate. They had made a good try, something with a real chance of success. If one was possible, why not another? And if the children had been able to think up a worthwhile plan, who was to say their father could not do so as well? It was a slim enough hope, but Madeleine was determined to keep hold of it.

Luc, though, became tense and silent. They had come to rely on the older boy, Madeleine realized; his sturdy friendship helped them cope with everything from seasickness to runaway fear. But that night he did not speak a word or even look at them. He paced and scratched until bedtime, and then twitched and muttered through the long black hours. Madeleine awoke in the morning—what passed for morning in the shadowy hold—to find Luc sitting propped against the bulkhead with his arms wrapped round his knees, his face set, eyes starey and wild.

“Luc, what is it?” She wondered if he would answer, or even hear her.

“I won’t be any man’s slave!” The words burst out of him, hot and emphatic. He shook his head, underlining his refusal. “I can work hard; it ain’t that. I been on my pa’s boat since I could pull up a crab trap. But to be owned like a dog, beaten or fed at another man’s say-so...no. No, I’d rather be dead.”

“But, Luc—” Madeleine closed her mouth. He didn’t need her to point out that they weren’t being offered a choice.

“I’m going to escape, Maddy.” He leaned forward, serious and intent. “Soon as we land, first chance I get, I’m taking off.”

“I am too!” Matthieu was sitting up, hair tousled from his blankets, face shining with enthusiasm.

“Good,” Luc agreed. “We should all three go together. It will take them more by surprise, and there’s a better chance of at least one getting away.”

Madeleine looked at Matthieu’s eager features, and her heart sank. Luc’s talk made Matthieu feel courageous and strong, and that was better than helplessness, she knew that. But she knew too that their brave escape plans would soon butt up against reality. And reality was this: If, by some remote miracle, they managed to get away from Turga’s army of pirates without being killed or recaptured, they would be lost in a foreign land, with no idea where to go and no way to speak to a soul. They might as well plan to sprout wings and fly.

THE LAST TRACES of daylight lent a sheen to the waters of Baskir harbor as the ship eased slowly toward the wharf. Turga took no pleasure in the golden evening. He far preferred to make harbor before midday, with time to unload his cargo and get it safely stored and under guard before his crew got their pay and shore leave. He was not about to unload a ship in the dark; it was far too difficult to track the goods, too tempting for the men to pilfer as they worked. And he knew the limits of leadership better than to try to keep the men on board through the night after two months at sea.

No, the cargo would have to stay on board, with a few hand-picked and well-paid men to guard it. The others would tumble off the ship and into the town, hungry for drink and food and women, and be in poor shape for work on the morrow.

There would be no drunken revels for Turga nor women either, until they reached his stronghold. A man did not stay warlord long by dropping his trousers in a rival’s territory. Grindor grew rich off Baskir’s trade and would not discourage visiting merchants by indulging in outright robbery—but what happened in the streets at night was another matter.

He let his thoughts play over the plunder he had piled in the ship’s belly. A disappointing haul, he would have said, but for the children. Those last two had been a lucky find, and the news of their royalty even luckier. Were they bluffing? No matter, Turga decided. Bathe and dress that girl properly, and with her glorious hair and startling round eyes she would look every inch the foreign princess.