“You've developed a good appetite,” Kyle observed genially. “Hard work and sea air will do that for a man.”
“So it would seem,” Wintrow replied evenly.
His father gave a gruff laugh. “So. Still smarting, are we? Come, son, I know this must seem hard to you, and perhaps just now you are still angry at me. But you must be coming to see this is what you were meant to do. Honest hard work and the company of men and the beauty of a ship under full sail . . . but I suppose you haven't known the full measure of it yet. I just want you to know, I'm not doing this to you to be harsh or cruel. A time will come when you will thank me. I promise you that. When we are done with you, you will know this ship as a true captain should, for you will have worked every measure of her, and there won't be a task on her that you haven't performed yourself.” His father paused and smiled bitterly. “Unlike Althea, who just claims such knowledge. You will actually have done it, and not just when it pleased you, but as a sailor should, keeping busy every minute of your watch, and doing tasks as they need doing, not only when you are ordered to do so.”
His father paused, obviously expecting some response. Wintrow kept still. After a heavy pause, his father cleared his throat. “I know what I am asking you is hard. So I will tell you plainly what awaits you at the end of this steep road. In two years, I expect to make Gantry Amsforge captain of this vessel. In two years, I expect you to be ready to serve as mate. You'll be very young for it; don't deceive yourself as to that. And it's not going to be handed to you. You'll have to show both Amsforge and I that you are ready for it. And even if and when we accept you, you'll still have to prove yourself to the crew, every day and every hour. It won't be easy. Still, it's an opportunity that damn few men have offered to them. So.”
With a slow smile he reached into his jacket. He drew out a small box. He opened it himself and then turned to proffer the contents to Wintrow. It was a small gold earring, wrought in the likeness of the
Vivacia
's figurehead. He had seen such earrings on the other sailors. Most crew-members wore some device that signaled their allegiance to their ship. An earring, a scarf, a pin, a tattoo if one were really sure of continuing employment. All were ways of declaring one's highest loyalty was given to a ship. Such an act was not fitting for a priest of Sa. Surely his father must already know his answer. But the smile on his father's face was warm as he invited him with, “This is for you, son. You should wear it proudly.”
Truth. Simple truth, Wintrow counseled himself, spoken without anger or bitterness. So. Politely. Gently. “I don't want this opportunity. Thank you. You must know I would never deface my body by piercing an ear to wear that. I would rather be a priest of Sa. I believe it is my true calling. I know you believe you are offering me a—”
“Shut up!” There was deep hurt beneath the anger in his father's voice. “Just shut up.” As the boy clenched his jaws and forced himself to look only at the table, his father spoke on to himself. “I'd rather hear anything from you than your mealy-mouthed prattle about being a priest of Sa. Say you hate me, tell me you can't take the work, and I'll know I can change your mind. But when you hide behind this priest nonsense . . . Are you afraid? Afraid of having your ear pierced, afraid of an unknown life?” His father's question was almost desperate. The man grasped after ways he could persuade Wintrow to his side.
“I am not afraid. I simply don't want this. Why don't you offer it to the person who truly hungers for it? Why don't you make this offer to Althea?” Wintrow asked quietly. The very softness of his words cut through his father's diatribe.
His father's eyes glinted like blue stone. He pointed his finger at Wintrow as if it were a weapon. “It's simple. She's a woman. And you, damn you, are going to be a man. For years it stuck in my craw to see Ephron Vestrit dragging his daughter after him, treating her like a son. And when you came back and stood before me in those brown skirts with your soft voice and softer body, with your mild manners and rabbitty ways, I had to ask myself, am I any better? For here before me stands my son, acting more like a woman than Althea ever has. It came to me like that. That it was time for this family—”
“You speak like a Chalcedean,” Wintrow observed. “There, I am told, to be a woman is but little better than to be a slave. I think it is born of their long acceptance of slavery there. If you can believe that another human can be your possession, it is but a step to saying your wife and your daughter are also possessions, and relegate them to lives convenient to one's own. But in Jamaillia and in Bingtown, we used to take pride in what our women could do. I have studied the histories. Consider the Satrap Malowda, who reigned consortless for a score of years, and was responsible for the setting down of the Rights of Self and Property, the foundation of all our laws. For that matter, consider our religion. Sa, who we men worship as father of all, is still Sa when women call on her as mother of all. Only in Union is there Continuity. The very first precept of Sa says it all. It is only in the last few generations that we have begun to separate the halves of our whole, and divide the—”
“I didn't bring you hear to listen to your priestly clap-trap,” Kyle Haven declared abruptly. He pushed himself away from the table so violently that it would have overturned if it had not been so securely fastened down. He paced a turn around the room. “You may not recall her, but your grandmother, my mother, was from Chalced. And yes, my mother behaved as was proper for a woman to behave, and my father kept to a man's ways. And I took no harm from such an upbringing. Look at your grandmother and mother! Do they seem happy and content to you? Burdened with decisions and duties that take them out into the harshness of the world, subjected to dealing with all sorts of low characters, forced to worry constantly about accounts and credits and debts? That isn't the life I swore I'd provide for your mother, Wintrow, or your sister. I won't see your mother grow old and burdened as your Grandmother Vestrit has. Not while I'm a man. And not while I can make you a man to follow after me and uphold the duties of a man in this family.” Kyle Haven returned and slapped his hand firmly against the table and gave a sharp nod of his head, as if his words had determined the future of his entire family.
Words deserted Wintrow. He stared at his father and floundered through his thoughts, trying to find some common ground where he could begin reasoning with him. He could not. Despite the blood bond between them, this man was a stranger, and his beliefs were so utterly different from all Wintrow had embraced that he felt no hope of reaching him. Finally he said quietly, “Sa teaches us that no one may determine the life path of another. Even if you cage his flesh and forbid him to utter his thoughts, even to cutting out his tongue, you cannot still a man's soul.”
For a moment, his father just looked at him.
He, too, sees a stranger,
Wintrow thought to himself. When he spoke, his voice was thick. “You're a coward. A craven coward.” Then his father strode past him. It took all of Wintrow's nerve to keep from cowering as his sire passed him. But Kyle only threw open the door of his cabin and bellowed for Torg. The man appeared so promptly that Wintrow knew he must have been loitering nearby, perhaps eavesdropping. Kyle Haven either did not notice this or did not care.
“Take the ship's boy back to his quarters,” his father ordered Torg abruptly. “Keep a good watch on him and see he learns all his duties before we sail. And keep him out of my sight.” This last he uttered with great feeling, as if wronged by the world.
Torg gave a jerk of his head and Wintrow rose silently to follow him. With a sinking heart, he recognized the smirk on Torg's face. His father had given him over completely into this wretch's hands, and the man knew it.
For now the man seemed content to shepherd him forward to his miserable dungeon. Wintrow just managed to duck his head before the man pushed him across the threshold. He stumbled, but caught himself before he fell. He was too deep in despair to even pay attention to whatever mocking comment it was that Torg threw after him before slamming the door shut. He heard the man work the crude latch and knew he was shut in for the next six hours at least.
Torg hadn't even left him a candle. Wintrow groped through the darkness until his hands encountered the webbing of the hammock. Awkwardly he hauled his stiff body up into it and tried to arrange himself comfortably. Then he lay still. About him the ship moved gently on the waters of the harbor. The only sounds that reached him were muffled. He yawned hugely, the effects of his large meal and long day's work overwhelming both his anger and his despair. Out of long habit, he prepared both body and mind for rest. As much as the hammock would permit, he did the stretches of the large and small muscles of his body, striving to bring all back into alignment before rest.
The mental exercises were more difficult. Back when he had first come to the monastery, they had given him a very simple ritual called Forgiving the Day. Even the youngest child could do this; all it required was looking back over the day and dismissing the day's pains as a thing that were past while choosing to remember as gains lessons learned or moments of insight. As initiates grew in the ways of Sa, it was expected they would grow more sophisticated in this exercise, learning to balance the day, taking responsibility for their own actions and learning from them without indulging in either guilt or regrets. Wintrow did not think he was up to that tonight.
Odd. How easy it had been to love Sa's way and master the meditations in the quietly structured days of the monastery. Within the massive stone walls, it had been easy to discern the underlying order in the world, easy to look at the lives of the farmers and shepherds and merchants and see how much of their misery was self-generated. Now that he was out in the midst of it, he could still see some of that pattern, but he felt too weary to examine it and see how he could change it. He was tangled in the threads of his own tapestry. “I don't know how to make it stop,” he said softly to the darkness. Doleful as an abandoned child, he wondered if any of his teachers missed him.
He recalled his final morning at the monastery, and the tree that had come to him out of the shards of stained glass. He had always taken a secret pride in his ability to summon beauty and hold it. But had it been his skill at all? Or had it been something created instead by the teachers who insulated him from the world and provided both a place and a time in which he might work? Perhaps, given the right atmosphere, anyone could do it. Perhaps the only thing about him that had been remarkable was that he had been given a chance. For an instant, he was overwhelmed by his own ordinariness. Nothing remarkable about Wintrow. An indifferent ship's boy, a clumsy sailor. Not even worth mentioning. He would disappear into time as if he had never been born. He could almost feel himself unraveling into darkness.
No. No! He would not let go. He would hang on to himself, and fight and something would happen. Something. Would the monastery send anyone to inquire after him when he did not return? “I think I'm hoping to be rescued,” he observed wearily to himself. There. That was a high ambition. To stay alive and remain himself until someone else could save him. He was not sure if . . . if . . . if . . . There had been the beginning of a thought there, but the upsurging blackness of sleep drowned it.
IN THE DARK OF THE HARBOR, VIVACIA SIGHED. SHE CROSSED HER
slender arms over her breasts and stared up at the bright lights of the night market. So engrossed was she in her own thoughts that she startled to the soft touch of a hand against her planking. She looked down. “Ronica!” she exclaimed in gentle surprise.
“Yes. Hush. I would speak quietly with you.”
“If you wish,” Vivacia replied softly, intrigued.
“I need to know . . . that is, Althea sent me a message. She feared all was not well with you.” The woman's voice faltered. “The message actually came some days ago. A servant, thinking it unimportant, had set it in Ephron's study. I only found it today.”
Her hand was still set to the hull. Vivacia could read some of what she felt, though not all. “It is hard for you to go into that room, isn't it? As hard as it is to come down here and see me.”
“Ephron,” Ronica whispered brokenly. “Is he . . . is he within you? Can he speak through you to me?”
Vivacia shook her head sorrowfully. She was used to seeing this woman through Ephron's eyes or Althea's. They had seen her as determined and authoritative. Tonight, in her dark cloak with her head bowed, she looked so small. Vivacia longed to comfort her, but would not lie. “No. I'm afraid it isn't like that. I'm aware of what he knew, but it is commingled with so much else. Still. When I look at you, I feel as my own the love he felt for you. Does that help?”
“No,” Ronica answered truthfully. “There is some comfort in it, but it can never be like Ephron's strong arms around me, or his advice guiding me. Oh, ship, what am I to do? What am I to do?”
“I don't know,” Vivacia answered. Ronica's distress was awakening an answering anxiety in her. She put it in words. “It frightens me that you ask me that question. Surely you know what to do. Ephron certainly always believed you did.” Reflectively, Vivacia added, “He thought of himself as a simple sailor, you know. A man who had the knack of running a ship well. You were the wisdom of the family, the one with the greater vision. He counted on that.”
“He did?”
“Of course he did. How else could he have sailed off and left you to manage everything?”
Ronica was silent. Then she heaved a great sigh.
Quietly Vivacia added, “I think he would tell you to follow your own counsels.”
Ronica shook her head wearily. “I fear you are right. Vivacia, do you know where Althea is?”
“Right now? No. Don't you?”
Ronica answered reluctantly. “I have not seen her since the morning after Ephron died.”
“I have, several times. The last time she came to see me, Torg came down onto the docks and tried to lay hands on her. She pushed him off the dock, and walked away while everyone else was laughing.”