Kaelyn peered into the murky midnight water. The reflection of the night sky twisted and swirled in the wake of the ship. A sleek tabby, the ship’s mouser, wound around her legs and settled by her feet, but she paid it little heed. Like most cats, it wouldn’t stick around if she paid it too much attention. Instead, she watched the moon’s image slip from oval to circle to an unrecognizable blob. Compounding its liquid disguise, strands of tattered clouds streamed across the sky, concealing and revealing the moon’s light.
The clouds were what remained of the worst storm she had ever experienced. Although, she had no recollection of any other and everyone else on board seemed to think it was average, if a little mild for this time of year. Regardless, she’d been ill, her stomach straining to expel its contents and yet being unable to do so. It had probably saved her from the unwanted attention of the sailors though, and for that she was grateful. She hadn’t anticipated their reaction when they’d discovered her and had been relieved the old man, Mac, had come to her rescue.
She was uncertain how long she’d stood there, staring into the churning water when Mac appeared. Without a word, he leaned against the rail and gazed up at the sky. He was as much a mystery to her as she was to herself. Since rescuing her, twice now, he’d hardly said more than ten words to her and most of those were inarticulate grunts. Part of his silence was likely due to her illness, but she had no explanation for the other part.
Without reservation, she studied him and he made no indication he noticed or cared. He’d shaved his matted beard and hair, revealing a face and head covered in scars. Most were fine slivers of white across his weathered skin, but a few were thick and uneven as if huge chunks of flesh had been ripped from his body.
Her gaze drifted to his bare forearms, crossed in front of his barrel chest. They, too, were crisscrossed with scars and she suspected so was the rest of his body. This man had lived a difficult life.
He’d said there was an oracle in the northern mountains who might be able to help her. It would be a long journey, but he’d assured her no one in Meriduin could help, and she got the impression he knew, first hand, what he was talking about.
As if aware of her thoughts, he turned and regarded her with watery blue eyes.
“You look like the kind of man who can tell what a person is like,” she said.
He didn’t reply.
“Maybe you could save us a lot of walking and tell me who I am.”
He barked a dry, gritty laugh.
“You could save us a lot of walking and just be who you want to be.”
“Ah, yes,” she said with a faint smile, “but I believe Queen of the kingdom is already taken.”
His expression darkened and he turned back to the sky.
She didn’t know what she’d said wrong. She bit her lip, waiting, hoping, he’d continue the conversation. But they stood in silence, time ticking by with each beat of her heart.
It was going to be a long trip if they couldn’t learn to make conversation of any kind. Guess she’d have to be the bigger man–or rather person–and start. “Tell me about yourself?”
“I’m the shell of a fairy tale,” he said.
She waited for him to continue but he didn’t. She clenched her jaw against asking him what he meant, his response was so cryptic and so final.
“I’m told we’ll arrive in Demika tomorrow,” she said and walked back to the sack of grain she’d been told was her bed.
#
Mac watched her go. He hadn’t meant to let his foul mood end their conversation so fast, but she’d mentioned Adelicia and then asked who he was. Two things he didn’t want to talk about. He supposed he could have said he was a solider and a mercenary. If he really wanted to shock her, he could have said he was a drunk.
He sighed. That would have been mean and it wasn’t her he was angry with, merely the fate that had thrown them together.
In truth, he shouldn’t have agreed to help her. He was too old, too fat, and far too sober. But he’d said he would and his word was his bloody bond. Maybe he could find her an appropriate escort in Demika.
He snorted, knowing he wouldn’t even look. She was helpless and he helped the helpless–or at least he used to. Besides, he wouldn’t trust anyone in or out of Demika with the job.
So it was settled. He just didn’t like it. And every time he talked with her, looked at her, or even thought about her he felt inadequate. When the feeling had first emerged, he’d yanked out his razor, surprisingly not rusted from disuse. He’d hacked off his beard and hair, hoping he’d feel more like a soldier and less like himself. It hadn’t worked. Now he felt like a fat, old, drunkard trying to be a warrior by revealing his scars.
Although his shipmates seemed to see him in a new light. They avoided him more than ever but that wasn’t the problem. It was the wariness in their eyes, the fear in some. He didn’t feel as dangerous as he was sure he scars made him look. He felt tired, worn out with nothing to live for. No family. No friends. What did a legend do when he could no longer live up to his legend?
Mac grunted. “Should have been a wizard. At least they’re allowed to grow old.”
That’s what you think, said a voice in his head.
Mac jerked around, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.
There was no one in sight.
The stern was deserted. At this time of night the ship ran with a skeleton crew. They were, after all, in no hurry and all the men had worked themselves ragged during the storm. The helmsman stood sleepily at the wheel and the lookout leaned against the main mast up in the crow’s nest, probably nodding off as well. There were a few other sailors scattered about the deck, but no one close enough to have heard his mumbling. Their conversation drifted across the deck to him.
“–looking for Wintherford’s daughter.”
“I can’t believe Prince Hawthorn is in Norwell, let alone Kaelyn Wintherford.”
Mac rolled the name in his thoughts. Kaelyn Wintherford. Wouldn’t it be funny–
“Naw, Wintherford sent his daughter to a convent as soon as Prince Wyndham was promised a clansman bride.”
“He won’t go through with it.”
Mac stopped listening. He’d been away from politics too long to know if any of what they said was truth. Regardless, he doubted that pompous merchant baron Wintherford would allow his daughter to dress in anything but the best, which ruled out the possibility of an easy solution to his quest. The fool quest his honor compelled him to accept.
His gaze dropped, and there, at his feet, was the tabby. Kaelyn’s cat, since the captain denied having one onboard and the damned thing never left her side.
The cat sneezed and twitched a whisker in disapproval.
Great. Not only was he old and foolish, now he was going crazy, imagining that he knew a cat’s mind.
“All right, cat, let’s go to bed. If you really are Kaelyn’s cat, we start a long walk tomorrow.”
The cat let out a long, plaintive meow.
“I know. The thought doesn’t appeal to me either.”
