The Riddle - Alison Croggon [59]
There was no leisurely meal on deck that night; Cadvan and Maerad ate in the cabin at the little table, their knees touching, as Owan managed the boat. The lamp that hung from the ceiling swung to and fro as they ate, throwing strange shadows across their faces. Cadvan went out to relieve Owan at the helm, and Owan came in with a blast of spray, his hair dripping. Maerad ladled out his meal. He tasted it and paused, looked up at her expressionlessly, and then steadily finished the meal without comment.
“Was it that bad?” Maerad asked mournfully, when he handed her the bowl.
“It was hot,” he said kindly. “And that was right welcome. And, no, it was not that bad — I’ve tasted far worse. But next time, I’d leave out the allheal, because it’s really for poultices and it has a bitter taste.”
Maerad’s mouth twitched. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m about as good at cooking as I am at sailing.”
“Ah, young Bard, you can’t be good at everything,” he said. “And it is folly to think you should be. But practice is a good aid.” He yawned. “And it’s made me tired; it’s heavy work out there.”
“Is it going to be like this all night?”
“My nose tells me it’s going to get worse; I think we’re in for a storm.”
Maerad almost said, You mean, this isn’t a storm? but stopped herself in time.
“It’s not the season for it,” said Owan. “But these are strange times. Do not fear, Maerad; the Owl has seen me through a lot of bad weather. She’s a beautiful vessel, and what’s more, she’s knit together with the strongest charms Bards can make. We should be entering Gent by dawn of the day after tomorrow, even with this heavy weather.”
Maerad felt slightly reassured. The White Owl was creaking and groaning in the swell, and the noise had begun to make her nervous.
“You should sleep, too,” said Owan, gently reminding her that the cabin was his bedroom. “I’ll clean up, you go below.”
Maerad opened the cabin door. It slammed back on its hinges, and a blast of spray-laden wind sent the lamp swinging in circles before she was able to wrestle the door shut. She stood, breathing hard, on the deck; the wind was howling and the sail was rattling against the wind. Cadvan stood a mere three paces away, in a pool of magelight, but he was clearly busy and she didn’t hail him as she stumbled unsteadily to the gangway. It was shut, and she had another battle to open the trapdoor, climb down the ladder, and close it above her. When she pulled the trapdoor to, the roaring of the wind and waves suddenly dimmed, and she became aware of water sliding coldly down the back of her neck, but the creaking of the ship below decks was much louder than in the cabin.
She remembered Owan’s words about the White Owl, and stroked the wooden panels almost superstitiously, feeling how the boat vibrated like a living thing. Then she took another dose of her seasickness medicine and strung up her hammock. It was icy cold and her hands fumbled. It’s no good, she thought. I’m just afraid. If the boat sinks, what will we do? Who will know? It’s not like I can swim back to Thorold. And what if an ondril comes? We’re out here, all on our own, and no one can help us.
She pushed her gloomy thoughts away and pulled out two blankets and wrapped herself in them. It was too cold to undress, so she tipped herself into the hammock, hunching as small as she could and rubbing her hands together to generate some warmth. The hammock swayed to and fro, and her stomach tightened. Maybe the allheal will help my sickness too, she thought, as at last she began to feel a bit warm. She smiled as she remembered Owan’s stoic politeness at the taste of her soup. Despite the heaving of her