Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [140]
“It would have been nice if you’d done something to calm down that storm,” he muttered.
“I did. As much as any man can, who conjures wind in such a hurry.”
“I meant during the day.” Hell, what was the point of this? But he couldn’t stop the words from coming, not after all those hours. “It was dark enough—”
“I did,” the Hunter snapped. “Forgive me for not coming up on deck to make a show of it. Or did you think that the storm died down just in time out of liking for us?” He glanced toward the shore as if judging their distance from it, then back at the water directly ahead of them. “Weather-Working is a risky art, Vryce, I told you that before. Under the circumstances, I did the best I could.” He glanced back at Damien; the look of concern on his face was almost human. “Get some sleep,” he urged. And then, dryly: “I’ll wake you before the fun starts.”
He started to respond, then didn’t. His mouth framed a question, then lost it. With a groan he forced himself to his feet—no easy task, that, not once he had allowed himself the luxury of sitting down—and started back toward the cabin. There should be a comfortable place in there somewhere, if the horses didn’t trample him while he looked for it. Definitely worth the search.
That decided, he sank down to the deck beside the bench, lowered his head to the rain-washed wood, and drifted off into a sound and untroubled sleep.
Waves against wood. Wind slapping canvas. For a moment he couldn’t place where he was, and then it all came back to him. Along with the pain.
“God,” he whispered. His neck, the only part of him that hadn’t hurt earlier, was cramped from his awkward sleeping posture. He tried to massage out the knot that had formed in it while pushing himself up to a sitting position. “Where are we?”
Tarrant was still at the wheel. “Check the furnace,” he said, without turning around. Damien muttered something incoherent and moved to obey.
There was still fuel, but not much. He stayed around for a minute to watch it burn, reveling in the feel of its heat upon his face, and then climbed back up to the captain’s perch.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah,” he affirmed. “If you don’t count that the horses nearly killed me.
The Hunter glanced at him. “My Working didn’t hold?”
“They’re scared and they’re hungry; you’ve got a lot to Work against.” Heavily he sat down on the bench once more, gazing out at the water ahead. It seemed to him that there was something dark along the horizon, that might or might not be land. “You bringing us in?”
“Unless you’d care to spend another day on the water.”
“Please.” He shivered melodramatically. “Don’t even joke about it.”
It seemed to him that Tarrant smiled ever so slightly. Damien studied his slender hands resting on the wheel, so elegant, so confident—so different from his own anxious grip—and asked, “So when the hell did you learn to sail?”
“When I accompanied Gannon and his troops to Westmark.” The Hunter shifted the wheel slightly to the right, toward the land ahead. “Unlike you, I take every opportunity to expand my store of knowledge.”
“You also had a crew to back you up.”
“You did fine, Reverend—” Damien heard his quick intake of breath as he caught himself. “You did fine,” he said softly. “We’re still afloat, aren’t we? That’s what matters.”
Damien stood again and studied the view; the thing that might be land was growing steadily larger ahead of them. “So where are we?”
“Halfway between Hade and Asmody, if I judge it correctly.”
Farther east than they’d planned on. “How can you tell?”
“I have Vision, remember? To my eyes this whole region is alive with power, and the Forest—” he nodded toward the darkness ahead and to the left of them, “—is as bright as a beacon to my eyes.”
Something occurred to him then, that never had before. “You’re never really in darkness, are you?”
It