Assassin’s Fate

Her name is Althea Vestrit. If the past had been a bit different she would be my captain now. Regardless of that, she is still of my liveship family. As is her son. And Trell served on my decks for many years, and I value him as well.

‘What do you want of me?’ I spoke the words aloud and in my mind.

The ship didn’t answer. ‘She’s here!’ Brashen Trell was wearily surprised. ‘Althea, this is the child I told you about. The one they came to rescue. She touched Boy-O in Clerres, and where she touched him, his burns healed.’

‘Hello Bee,’ she said. Softly and sadly she added, ‘I am sorry that you lost your father.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. Was it correct to thank someone for feeling bad about a death? I knew why the ship had summoned me now. Boy-O smelled bad. When I knelt beside him, I felt how the ship cradled him. It was not that there was a hollow in her deck where she held him. But where he touched her wizardwood, she reminded him how to be alive, and gave him gentle memories of his time on her deck. Memories that were not just his, but his mother’s and his grandfather’s and his great-grandmother’s. All had sailed on this ship. Vivacia held all the memories of those who had died on her deck.

‘That’s why the dragons ate Kennitsson,’ I said to myself.

Yes.

‘Paragon’s dragons ate Kennitsson?’ Althea asked in disbelief.

‘They meant well by it. They wanted to keep him with them. They shared the body.’

‘Oh.’ She touched Boy-O. ‘Did you need something?’ She wanted me to leave.

‘The ship asked me to come here. She wants me to help.’

‘What can—’ Althea began.

‘Ssh,’ Brashen warned her, for I had already put my hands on Boy-O’s good arm. I wanted to fix him. He was a wrong place on this perfect ship. I should make him right. ‘He’s thirsty,’ I told his parents.

‘He hasn’t moved or spoken today.’

‘He’s thirsty,’ I insisted. He needed water if I was going to make anything happen.

His mother seemed afraid to touch him as she lifted his head. She trickled water into his dry mouth. He choked a little, swallowed. That was my first way to help him. ‘More water,’ I told her. She held the cup to his lips while I reminded him how to drink. He drank that cup, and three more. Now I could move within him more easily. ‘That salty soup that you make sometimes. It’s yellow. That would be good.’

Even without opening my eyes, I knew they stared at me. The woman got up and hurried away. She was frightened and she was eager to do anything that might help her son. She would make the soup.

I rocked gently as my hands talked to his body. I found a little tune, one I’d never known before, and began to hum it as I worked. Two voices began to sing words to the song. The ship and the father sang softly together, and it was a little song about knots and sails, a teaching song like my father’s rhyme about the points one looked for in a good horse. I wondered, as I pushed dead skin and flesh away and fastened good skin, if every family and every trade had those little songs. I found a place where something that didn’t belong in his body was trying to grow. I killed it and pushed it away. It slid away like slime, stinky and nasty.

His body was working on itself in so many places. I knew them all. He had breathed in hot smoke, and it had hurt his throat and the breathing parts inside him. His arm was burned, and his chest and the side of his face. What was the worst hurt? I asked his body, and it was his arm. I went to work there.

His mother came back with the soup in a pot. ‘Oh, sweet Sa!’ she exclaimed. She was less fearful as she cradled his head and held the cup to his lips. It smelled wonderful and I remembered how good it would taste, salty and a bit sour. He drank it down, and where I had worked on his throat, he could swallow now.

‘What goes on here?’

‘Amber! She’s helping Boy-O.’

‘She has to stop! She’s only a child. How can you ask this of her?’

‘We didn’t ask her! We were keeping a death-watch with him. Then she came and put her hands on him. He’s going to live. Boy-O is going to live!’

‘But will she?’ He was angry. Beloved was angry — no, frightened. He spoke to me now. ‘Bee. Stop. You can’t do this.’

I drew a deep breath. ‘Yes I can,’ I told him as I breathed out.

‘No. You are giving him too much of your own strength. Lift your hands from him.’

I smiled as I remembered words I had given my father. ‘No one can say no to me now. Not even you.’

‘Bee. Now!’

I smiled. ‘No.’

‘Lift your hands, Bee, or I will pull you back from him!’