Gallicenae (42 page)

“What?” he exclaimed, staggered. “Won’t you go with your father?”

She tossed her head. “He won’t compete, just preside. Anyhow, in that ship of his, with the high bulwarks, with crew babbling and bumbling, I never feel truly near the sea. He’s given me my own boat; but he still forbids me to singlehand it.” Candlelight glowed on her countenance, in her eyes. Harp and flute lilted around her voice. “He knows you for a skillful sailor. If I ask him in the right words, he’ll agree.”

That night Carsa lay sleepless.

3

The boat was a twenty-foot currach on the Scotic model, nimble and seaworthy, light enough for two men to row or one to scull. A small deck forward covered a stowage space and gave on a miniature figurehead, a gilt swan, wings outspread as if straining to be free. Otherwise the leather-clad hull was open, save for a pair of thwarts. The mast had been stepped but was still bare.

The day was lucent, the swells gentle beneath a northwest breeze. Vessels danced. Shouts and trumpet call mingled with the cries of the kittiwakes. Carsa accepted a tow from the royal yacht, which was rowed at the beginning, until safely out to sea. What he bore was immeasurably
precious. Nevertheless, once he had cast loose and hoisted the azure-and-argent striped sail, he had hard navigation. Often he must grip a sheet in either hand while his knees wedged against the tiller to control the steering oar. He gloried in it, for Dahut praised him.

After he turned the promontory, his task became much easier. Poled out, the sail bellied to the wind. The rudder felt like a live, responsive animal as he wielded it to maintain the proper heading. With shallow draft, a currach could scarcely point up, but on a reach such as this it surged along, lee rail low, parallel to a coast which gradually grew less rugged. Water hissed by, swirled in wake, murmured enormously all around. It was blue, blue-green, violet, snowy-foamed. Leather throbbed, frame and lashing creaked, rigging thrummed. A vast curve of land rimmed most of the world, distance-hazed. Boats and small ships filled its embrace. Afar in the west bobbed the dark hulls and drab sails of fishermen at their labor. Seafowl skimmed past. The air blew keen.

Dahut sat on the thwart immediately forward of Carsa. A rough gown and hooded cloak wrapped her. She looked out at him, radiant. “I’m still surprised your father permits this, my lady,” he ventured. “It’s not without danger.”

“Usually I must have two men with me,” she answered, “but today we’ve a whale-pod around us, and I persuaded him to let me… travel light, in hopes of winning.” She grinned. “Fear not. We’ll get another tow on the return trip.”

“If we should capsize—”

Her glance ignored the floats kept against that chance. “I swim like a seal,” she said haughtily. “I am of the sea.” Concern flitted across her face. “You do swim? I never thought to ask.”

He nodded. “These are chilly waters for learning how.”

“I was born to them.”

He sensed that this was no matter to pursue and fell silent, content to have her in his sight.

She said hardly anything more herself. Instead, she fell to staring outward, sometimes into the distances, sometimes into the deeps. Her vivacity had left her. He could not tell what was rising in its place.

Time streamed past on the wind. The racers laid Ysan land abaft and entered Roman Bay.

Though Carsa used every trick of seamanship that was his, it became clear this craft would not arrive first at the goal. He nerved himself to say it. “I’m sorry, my lady. We should be among the earlier ones.” Dahut shrugged. Her gaze stayed remote.

Now he made out the remnant of Garomagus. An islet guarded the mouth of a stream emptying into the bight. Behind it were roofless walls and gaping doorways. The view east, dead ahead, was more comforting, buildings strewn toylike. He could not be sure, though, which were inhabited, and certainly the signs of civilization were few;
woods had overrun much of the land. It came to him that most of the clearing and plowing must be reclamation after King Gratillonius had given peace to these parts.

He pointed. “Look!” he cried. “The beach we want. The smoke of the coolcfires.”

Dahut threw back her cowl—light flared over braided hair—and cocked her head. Was she listening to the waves?

“The wind’s fallen,” Carsa went on after a while, in search of talk. “That northern headland blocks it. However, well have enough to make our goal.” Several craft were already clustered there. The larger had dropped anchor and employed tenders to bring their people ashore, the smaller were aground.

Dahut shook herself. She regarded him where he stood in the stern, as if across miles or through sea depths. “Don’t.” Her voice was faint, but he heard her clearly.

Startled, he let his hand slip on the tiller. The boat yawed, the sail slatted. “What?”

Dahut turned from his to peer starboard. Her finger lifted. “Go yonder,” she said.

“To Garomagus?” He was appalled. “No, that’s ruins. I can’t take you there.”

She rose, felinely balanced. While she lacked her full growth, the cloak flapped about her shoulders as if she would take wing, and command flared forth cold as northern lights, in the language of Ys: “Obey! Lir speaks!”

He looked around. No help was in sight. The racers were veering away from him, ardent for landing. Laggards toiled too far aft. Nobody heeded this low little vessel. The King doubtless would have, but his yacht was at the destination.

“Christ help me,” he pleaded, “I must not bring you into d-danger, Princess.”

She scorned the Name. “I have heard Lir in the wind,” she told him. “There is no danger. There is someone I must meet. Steer, or be forever my enemy.”

He surrendered, inwardly cursing his weakness. “If you will have it thus,” he said in her speech. “We cannot stay long. They’ll wonder what’s happened to you and come searching.”

Her slight smile laved his spirit. “We’ll join them in good time. And I’ll remember your service, Carsa.” Then he shuddered a bit, for she added, “The Gods will remember.”

Lest he grow afraid, he devoted himself to sailing. The change of course astounded him, so easily it went; he could not account for it. And how peculiar also, he thought, that nobody whatsoever noticed the currach go astray.

To slip in past the isle looked too risky. Besides, he couldn’t expect to find a useable wharf. He grounded on the beach just east. Its shoreline
turned north, an outthrust of land hiding it from the Ysans beyond. Having struck the sail he sprang forward, down onto the sand, and dragged the boat higher. Thereupon he gave Dahut his arm for her disembarkation. She had no real need of that.

Her visage was white, her eyes enormous, she shivered and spoke unevenly: “Wait here. I’ll soon be back.”

“No,” he protested, falling unawares into Latin, “I can’t let you go alone. I won’t. What is it you’re after?”

“I know not,” she whispered. “I have been called.” Her utterance rose to a yell. She stabbed two fingers at him. “Abide! Let me go by myself! I lay on you the gess that you not follow, by the power of Belisama, Taranis, and almighty Lir!”

Whirling about, she ran off, over the dunes, through the harsh grass that bordered them, past the snags of a defensive wall, in among the houses. She was gone. A cormorant flew black overhead.

Mechanically, Carsa reached for the anchor rode and made the currach secure. What else could he do?

What else? It struck him in a hammerblow. She had forgotten that he was no pagan, to cower before the demons she called Gods or heed a word she had merely, childishly laid on him. He was a Roman. Anybody might skulk hereabouts. He
would
follow, and be ready to defend her. He wished he had brought his sling. However, a knife was at his belt, and he got the boathook.

Of course, chances were that this place was quite deserted, apart from ghosts and devils. Best would be that she never know of his disobedience. He’d stay cautious…. A haze had begun to dim the day. Wind had swung west and blew louder, colder. He summoned up courage to move forward.

Her trail was clear. Dust and sand had drifted into the streets to take footprints; plants grew to be bruised; her tread had splintered potsherds and displaced brickbats, as his did. He was vaguely glad that tracking kept his mind off what surrounded him. Weather had long since bleached the stains of fire and blood, but likewise colors, every human trace. Lichen was patiently gnawing walls which enclosed vacancy.

He found her at the mouth of the stream. It was an abrupt sight, as he came around a building, A few yards away, she knelt on a patch of silver-gray grass, limned athwart the islet beyond. He crammed himself back against the gritty wall and peered with a single eye. Sounds reached him above the shrilling of the wind, mutter of brook and bay, half-heard rolling of Ocean.

She knelt before a seal that had crawled out of the water. Its coat shimmered golden-dark. Her arms were around its neck, her face pressed to its head, hidden from him. He heard her weep. He heard the seal
hum, a deep plangency he had not known such a creature could make. A flipper reached to stroke Dahut’s locks.

Christ have mercy, to this had the dream-voice called her, she who began the day so blithe. Carsa’s knuckles whitened on the boathook shaft. Almost, he dashed to attack the soulless thing and save Dahut.

But she began to sing too. Her tone came thin and small; he was not sure how he made it out through wind and tide and the mewing of the kittiwakes. Somehow he knew that she was turning into Ysan words, for her own understanding, as well as she could in the middle of grief, the song that the seal sang.

“Harken, my darling. Hear me through.

Little I have to tell.

Now at the last I come to you,

To bid you for aye farewell.

“Here what I say ere I depart,

That which I think you ween.

You were the child beneath my heart

When I was your father’s Queen.

“Torn from my side one winter night

Out in a wrathful sea,

You are the child whose fate takes flight

Beyond what is given me.

“Kiss me, my sea-child, ere we part

As it was long foreseen.

He that shall rip away my heart

Came down from the North yestre’en.”

Carsa stole off. At the boat, he prayed to Christ. Presently, Dahut returned. Beneath the cowl, her face was blank, a visor. As empty was the voice wherein she told him to launch her craft and bring them to the feast.

4

Osprey
had fared under oars to the nets placed out the day before. Those having been tended, the smack sailed back, trawling. Her course brought her past Goat Foreland and across the mouth of Roman Bay. Heaven had drawn a veil across earlier brightness, the sun had gone wan and the air mordant. Then wind, stiffening, swung around until it blew almost straight out of the west.

Maeloch swore. Water chopped gray-green. Whitecaps began to star it. Land lay shadowy at the eastern horizon but rose and grew closer as it bent west; even across five or so leagues he made out the cliffs of Point Vanis, which he must round. Spraddle-legged against
the rolling of his deck, he growled, “Well nay be free of another haul at the sweeps, seems.” A fisher captain took his turn on the benches.

A crewman laughed. “Well, nor will yon fine yachtsmen.”

“Ah, they’ve hirelings to sweat for ’em,” said another.

“Belay that,” Maeloch ordered. “Be ye rabble for Nagon Demari to rant at? The Queens, the King, the Suffetes, they’re as much Ys as ye and me…. We’ll try how far we can beat upwind ere we run out of sea room.”

The men moved toward the sheets to haul the sail around. He lifted a hand. “Nay, hold a moment.” He went to the port rail and squinted. A swimmer had come in sight, outbound from the bay.

“Seal,” declared a sailor. “Ill fetch my sling and give him a taste.” The animals were sacred, but they had to be discouraged from raiding fishnets.

“Not that ’un,” Maeloch answered. “I know her. D’ye see the golden sheen in her pelt? She’s the pet of Princess Dahut.” Recalling certain things he had witnessed, he drew the Hammer sign of protection with his forefinger, furtively, lest others notice and go uneasy. He himself did not feel threatened, but this was an uncanny beast.

The seal came alongside. She lifted her upper body out of the waves. Her gaze met Maeloch’s and lingered for heartbeats. How soft those eyes were.

She swarn onward, falling aft of the boat, heading into the boundlessness of Ocean.

“Fin ho!”
bawled a man.

Maeloch ran to the starboard side and leaned out. Breath whistled in between his teeth. He knew that high black triangle, seldom though its bearers came this far south. “Orca,” he muttered.

The killer whale veered. Maeloch realized where it was aimed. Did the seal? She swam on as if blind. Not that she could escape that rush—“To oars!” Maeloch shouted. “Bring us around! Ye, Donan, get my harpoon!”

Water foamed with speed. The black shape broke surface. Flukes drove it forward faster than Maeloch knew his craft could ever move. He glimpsed its belly, white as snow, white as death.

It struck. He seemed to feel the shock in his own guts. The mighty jaws sheered and closed. Hunger and prey plunged under.

“Belay,” Maeloch said dully. “We’ll nay see either of them again.”

Blood colored the waves, so broad a stain that he could hope the seal had died instantly.

“Stand by to come about,” Maeloch said. “We’re going home.”

It tore from him a croak: “How shall I tell the little princess?”

5

“Follow her,” Bodilis urged.

Gratillonius hesitated. “She’d fain be alone. I’ve seen her thus erenow.”

Forsquilis shook her head. “Something terrible happened this day. I know not what, but I heard ghosts wailing in the wind.”

“Never mind that,” said Fennalis. “I can tell when a girl needs her daddy.
Go,
you lout!”

Gratillonius reached decision, nodded, and hastened down the gangplank. Dahut had already passed between two warehouses and disappeared.

The Roman youth Carsa stood forlorn on the dock, staring in that direction. His throat worked. He had debarked at her heels, obviously offering—begging—to accompany her. She dismissed him with a chopping gesture and some or other word that crushed him. Earlier, she had quite neglected him, first at the beach when they joined the rest, afterward aboard the royal yacht when her currach was towed. But then, she had shunned everybody, giving the shortest answers if directly spoken to, sitting at the trestle table with food untasted before her or wandering off by herself down the strand. The change from her cheeriness of the morning was like a fall into an abyss. It had spoiled the revel for Gratillonius; he must force himself to be jovial.