Fool's Fate

“No it won't,” Thick replied darkly. “Sada said that everyone will say that, but it isn't true. She got sick every time she went on a boat and it never went away. So she wouldn't come with me.”

I was beginning to dislike Sada and I'd never even met the woman.

“Well. Sada is wrong,” Chade declared briskly.

“No she isn't,” Thick replied stubbornly. “See. I'm still sick.” And he leaned out over the railing again, retching dryly.

“He'll get over it,” Chade said, but he did not sound as confident as he had.

“Do you have any herbs that might help him?” I asked. “Ginger, perhaps?”

Chade halted. “An excellent idea, Badgerlock. And I do believe I have some. I'll have the cook make him a strong ginger tea and send it up to you.”

When the tea arrived, it smelled as much of valerian and sleepbalm as it did of ginger. I approved of Chade's thought. Sleep might be the best cure for Thick's determined seasickness. When I offered it to him, I firmly told him that it was a well-known sailor's antidote to seasickness, and that it was certain to work for him. He still regarded it doubtfully; I suppose my words did not carry as much weight as Sada's opinion. He sipped it, decided he liked the ginger, and downed the whole cup. Unfortunately, a moment later he spewed it up just as swiftly as it had gone down. Some of it went up his nose, the ginger scalding the sensitive skin, and that made him adamantly refuse to try any more, even in tiny sips.

I had been on board for two days. Already it seemed like six months.

The sun eventually broke through the clouds, but the wind and flying spray snatched away whatever warmth it promised. Huddled in a damp wool blanket, Thick fell into a fitful sleep. He twitched and moaned through nightmares swept with his song of seasickness. I sat beside him on the wet deck, sorting my worries into useless piles. It was there that Web found me.

I looked up at him and he nodded gravely down at me. Then he stood by the rail and lifted his eyes. I followed his gaze to a seabird sweeping lazy arcs across the sky behind us. I had never met the creature, but I knew she must be Risk. The Wit-bond between man and bird seemed a thing woven of blue sky and wild water, at once calm and free. I basked in the edges of their shared pleasure in the day, trying to ignore how it whetted the edge of my loneliness. Here was the Wit Magic at its most natural, a mutual bond of pleasure and respect between man and beast. His heart flew with her. I could sense their communion and imagine how she shared her joyous flight with him.

It was only when my muscles relaxed that I realized how tense I had been. Thick sank into a deeper sleep and some of the frown eased from his face. The wind in his Skill-song took on a less ominous note. The calm that emanated from Web had touched us both, but my awareness of that came slowly. His warm serenity pooled around me, diluting my anxiety and weariness. If this was the Wit, he was using it in a way I'd never experienced before. This was as simple and natural as the warmth of breath. I found myself smiling up at him and he returned the smile, his teeth flashing white through his beard.

“It's a fine day for prayer. But then, most days are.”

“That's what you were doing? Praying?” At his nod, I asked, “For what do you petition the gods?”

He raised his brows. “Petition?”

“Isn't that what prayer is? Begging the gods to give you what you want?”

He laughed, his voice deep as a booming wind, but kinder. “I suppose that is how some men pray. Not I. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I think that children pray so, to find a lost doll or that Father will bring home a good haul of fish, or that no one will discover a forgotten chore. Children think they know what is best for themselves, and do not fear to ask the divine for it. But I have been a man for many years, and I should be shamed if I did not know better by now.”

I eased my back into a more comfortable position against the railing. I suppose if you are used to the swaying of a ship, it might be restful. My muscles constantly fought against it, and I was beginning to ache in every limb. “So. How does a man pray, then?”

He looked on me with amusement, then levered himself down to sit beside me. “Don't you know? How do you pray, then?”

“I don't.” And then I rethought, and laughed aloud. “Unless I'm terrified. Then I suppose I pray as a child does. ‘Get me out of this, and I'll never be so stupid again. Just let me live.' ”

He laughed with me. “Well, it looks as if, so far, your prayers have been granted. And have you kept your promise to the divine?”