Ship of Destiny

"Stupid boy." The figurehead made a show of casually scratching the back of her neck. "How dramatic you are! How stirring! If there was anything to be stirred, that is. Wear your scars then, as a pathetic tribute to someone who never was. Let them be the last trace of her existence. Do I wish you to go? Yes, and the reason is that I prefer Ke

"You do, do you?" Etta's voice was cool and low.

Wintrow startled, but the figurehead appeared only amused.

"As do you, I am sure," the ship murmured. She let her eyes walk over Etta. An approving smile curved her mouth. She dismissed Wintrow from her attention to focus on Etta. "Come closer, my dear. Is that silk from Verania? My, he does spoil you. Or perhaps he spoils himself, in how he displays his treasure to all. In that color, you gleam like a rich gem in an exotic setting."

Etta's hand rose, almost self-consciously, to finger the deep blue silk of her shirt. A moment of uncertainty passed over her face. "I don't know where the fabric originated. But it came to me from Ke

"I am almost certain we are looking at Veranian silk here. The finest that there is, but doubtless he would offer you no less than that. When I was in my proper shape, I had no need for fabrics, of course. My own sweet skin flashed and shone more beautifully than anything human hands could make. Still, I know something of silk. Only in Verania could they make that shade of dragon blue." She cocked her head at Etta. "It quite becomes you. Your coloring favors bright hues. Ke

Etta touched the bangles at her wrist. A deeper blush touched her cheeks. She ventured a step or two closer to the railing. Her eyes met the dragon's and for a time they seemed entranced with one another. Wintrow felt excluded. To his surprise, a shiver of jealousy passed over him. He did not know if it was Vivacia he did not wish to share with Etta, or Etta he wished to keep from the dragon.

Etta gave a small shake of her head, as if to break a glamour. It set her sleek black hair swinging. She looked at Wintrow and a slight frown creased her forehead. "You should not be out in the sun and the wind. It peels the skin from flesh that is trying to heal still. You should stay in your cabin for at least another day."

Wintrow looked at her closely. Something was awry here. Such solicitude was not her usual ma

The dragon was blunter. "She would like to speak to me privately. Leave, Wintrow."

He ignored the dragon's command and spoke to Etta. "I would not trust much of what she says. We have not yet heard the truth about Vivacia. Legends are rife with the dangers of conversing with dragons. She will tell you what she knows you want to…"

She was suddenly there again, inside him. This time he felt her presence as a physical discomfort. His heart skipped a beat, then surged on unevenly. A sweat broke out on his forehead. He could not draw a full breath.

"Poor boy," the dragon sympathized. "See how he sways, Etta. He is not at all himself today. Leave, Wintrow," the dragon repeated. "Go rest yourself. Do."

"Be careful," he managed to gasp to Etta. "Don't let her…" A giddying weakness overtook him. Nausea rose in him; he dared not speak lest he vomit. He feared he would faint. The day was suddenly painfully bright. He flung his arm across his eyes and staggered across the foredeck to the ladder. Darkness. He needed darkness and quiet and stillness. The need for those things overwhelmed all else in him.

Only when he was in his own bunk did the symptoms recede. Fear replaced them. She could do this to him at any time. She could heal him, or she could kill him. How could he help Vivacia when the dragon had such power over him? He tried to seek comfort in prayer, but a terrible weariness overcame him and he sank into a deep sleep.

ETTA SHOOK HER HEAD AFTER HIM. "LOOK AT HIM. HE CAN SCARCE WALK straight. I told him he needed to rest. And last night he drank far too much." She swung her gaze to meet the figurehead's eyes. They swirled like molten gold, beautiful and compelling. "Who are you?" Her words were bolder than she felt. "You are not Vivacia. She never had a civil word for me. All she wanted was to drive me away that she might have Ke

A deeper smile curved the ship's lush red lips. "At last. I should have known that the first sensible person I spoke to would be one of my own erstwhile sex. No. I am not Vivacia. Nor do I wish to drive you away, nor take Ke

"Bolt?"

"One of my earliest names, in an ancient tongue, might be 'Conceived in a Thunderstorm at the Instant of a Lightning Bolt. But you are a short-lived folk, given to shortening every life experience in the hope of comprehending it. Your tongue would trip over so many words. So you may call me Bolt."

"Have you no true name?" Etta ventured.

Bolt flung back her head and laughed heartily. "As if I would tell it. Come, woman, to entrance Ke

Jola was on the wheel. Without a word of question, he put the ship over. Etta frowned briefly to herself. What would Ke

"You've the eyes of a hunter," Bolt observed approvingly. She turned her great head to scan the horizon from side to side. "We could hunt well together, we two."

An odd thrill ran down Etta's spine. "Should not such words be given to Ke

"To a male?" Bolt asked, a small stain of disdain on her laugh. "We know how males are. A drake hunts to fill his own belly. When a queen takes flight and seeks a kill, it is to preserve the race itself. We are the ones who know, from our entrails out, that that is the purpose of every movement we make. To continue our species."

Etta's hand went to her flat belly. Even clothed, she could feel the tiny bump of the skull charm on her navel ring. It, like the figurehead, was carved of wizardwood. Its purpose was to keep her from conceiving. She had worn it for years, ever since she had become a whore when she was little more than a girl. By now, it should seem a part of her. Yet of late it had begun to chafe and irritate, physically as well as mentally. Since she had found the small figurine of a babe on the Treasure Beach and inadvertently carried it off with her, she had begun to hear her own body's questing for a child.