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She had listened with indulgent scepticism as Wintrow had shyly begun to voice his speculations.

His initial distrust of Kennit had evolved slowly into a belief that Kennit was chosen by Sa to fulfil some great destiny.

She had suspected Kennit of playing on the boy’s gullibility, encouraging Wintrow in his beliefs simply so he could enlist him in his own endeavours.

Fond as she was of Kennit, she believed him capable of such deceptions.

It did not make her think less of her man that he was willing to do whatever he must to achieve his ends.

But that had been before she had seen Kennit lift his hands and voice to quell a storm and command a sea serpent.

Since that moment, she felt as if the man she loved had been snatched away and another set in his place.

She was not alone in this. The crew that would have followed Captain Kennit to any bloody death now fell silent at his approach and near cowered at a direct command from him.

Kennit scarcely noticed. That was the uncanny thing.

He seemed to accept what he had done, and expect the same of those around him.

He spoke to her as if nothing had changed.

Shockingly, he touched her as he always had.

She was not worthy to be touched by such a being, yet she dared not deny herself to him, either.

Who was she to question the will of one such as he?

What was he?

Words she would once have scoffed came to her mind.

God-touched. Beloved of Sa. Destined. Prophesied.

Chosen by fate. She wanted to laugh and dismiss such fancies, but could not.

From the very beginning, Kennit had been unlike any other man she had ever known.

None of the rules had ever seemed to apply to him.

He had succeeded where any other man would have failed, achieved the impossible effortlessly.

The tasks he had set himself baffled her.

The size of his ambitions astounded her.

Had not he captured a Bingtown liveship?

What other man had recovered from a sea serpent’s attack?

Who but Kennit could have made the rag-tag villages of the Pirate Isles start to think of themselves as outposts of a far-flung realm, Kennit’s rightful kingdom?

What kind of a man harboured such dreams, let alone brought them to fruit?

Such questions made her miss Wintrow even more sharply.

If he had been awake, he could have helped her understand.

Though he was young, he had spent almost his entire life in schooling at a monastery.

When she had first met him, she had disdained him for his educated ways and gentle manners.

Now she wished she could turn to him with her uncertainties.

Words like destiny and fate and omen fell from his lips as easily as curses came from hers. From him, such words were believable.

She found herself toying with the small pouch she wore around her neck.

She opened it with a sigh, and once more took out the tiny manikin.

She had found it in her boot, along with a quantity of sand and barnacle shells after they had escaped from Others’ Island.

When she had asked Kennit what such an omen from the Treasure Beach might mean, he had told her that she already knew.

That answer had frightened her more than any dire prophecy he could have uttered.

‘But truly, I don’t,’ she said softly to Wintrow.

The doll just filled her palm. It felt like ivory, yet it was coloured the precise pink of a baby’s flesh.

The curled and sleeping infant had tiny perfect eyelashes on its cheeks, ears like minute seashells, and a coiling serpentine tail that wrapped around it.

It warmed quickly in her hand, and the smooth contours of the tiny body begged to be touched.

Her fingertip traced the curve of its spine.

‘It looks like a baby to me. But what can that mean to me?’ She lowered her voice and spoke more confidentially, as if the youth could hear her.

‘Kennit spoke of a baby, once. He asked me if I would have a baby if he wanted that of me. I told him, of course I would. Is that what this means? Is Kennit going to ask me to have his child?’

Her hand strayed to her flat belly. Through her shirt, her finger touched a tiny lump.

A wizardwood charm, shaped like a tiny skull, was ringed through her navel to protect her from disease and pregnancy.

‘Wintrow, I’m afraid. I fear I cannot live up to such dreams. What if I fail him? What am I to do?’

‘I will not ask of you anything I believe is beyond you.’

Etta leapt to her feet with a startled cry. She spun to find Kennit standing in the open door. She covered her mouth with her hand. ‘I didn’t hear you,’ she apologized guiltily.

‘Ah, but I heard you. Is our boy awake now? Wintrow?’ Kennit limped into the room, to gaze hopefully on Wintrow’s still form.

‘No. He drinks water, but other than that, there is no sign of recovery.’ Etta remained standing.

‘But still you ask him these questions?’ Kennit observed speculatively. He turned his head to pierce her with his glance.

‘I have no one else to share such doubts,’ she began, and then halted. ‘I meant,’ she began hesitantly, but Kennit silenced her with an impatient motion of his hand.

‘I know what you meant,’ he revealed. He sank into her chair.

When he let go of his crutch, she caught it before it could clatter to the floor.

He leaned forwards to look at Wintrow more closely, a frown furrowing his brow.

His fingers touched the boy’s swollen face with a woman’s gentleness.

‘I, too, miss his counsel.’ He stroked the stubble of hair on Wintrow’s head, then pulled his hand back in distaste at its coarseness.

‘I am thinking of putting him up on the foredeck, by the figurehead. She may be able to speed his healing.’

‘But –’ Etta began, then held her tongue and lowered her eyes.

‘You object? Why?’

‘I did not mean to…’

‘Etta!’ Kennit barked her name, making her jump. ‘Spare me this whining and cringing. If I ask you a question, it is because I wish you to speak, not whimper at me. Why do you object to moving him there?’

She swallowed her fear. ‘The scabs on his burns are loose and wet. If we move him, they may be rubbed off, and delay his healing. The wind and the sun may dry and crack raw skin all the more.’

Kennit looked only at the boy. He appeared to be pondering her words. ‘I see. But we shall move him carefully, and we will not leave him there long. The ship needs assurance that he lives still, and I think he may need her strength to heal.’

‘I am sure you know better than I –’ she faltered, but he cut off her objection with, ‘I am certain that I do. Go fetch some crewmen to move him. I shall wait here.’

Wintrow swam deep, in darkness and warmth.

Somewhere, far above, there was a world of light and shadow, of voices and pain and touch.

He avoided it. In another plane, there was a being that groped after him, calling him by his name and baiting him with memories as well.

She was harder to elude, but his determination was strong.

If she found him, there would be great pain and disillusionment for both of them.

As long as he remained a tiny formless being swimming through the dark, he could avoid it all.

Something was being done to his body. There was clatter, talk, and fuss.

He centred himself against anticipated pain.

Pain had the power to grasp him and hold him.

Pain might be able to drag him up to that world where he had a body and a mind and a set of memories that went with them. Down here, it was much safer.

It only seems that way. And while it seems that way for a long time, eventually you will long for light and movement, for taste and sound and touch. If you wait too long, those things may be lost to you forever.

This voice boomed rich all around him like the thundering of surf against rocks. Like the ocean itself, the voice turned and tumbled him, considering him from all angles. He tried in vain to hide from it. It knew him. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

The voice was amused. Who am I? You know who I am, Wintrow Vestrit. I am whom you most fear, and whom she most fears. I am the one you avoid acknowledging. I am the one you deny and conceal from yourself and each other. Yet, I am a part of you both.

The voice paused and waited for him, but he would not speak the words. He knew that the old naming magic worked both ways. To know a creature’s true name was to have the power to bind it. But the naming of such a creature could also make it real.

I am the dragon . The voice spoke with finality. You know me now. And nothing will ever be the same.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he babbled silently. ‘I didn’t know. None of us knew. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.’

Not as sorry as I am . The voice was implacable in its grief. Nor yet as sorry as you shall be.

‘But it wasn’t my fault! I had nothing to do with it!’

Nor was it my fault, yet I am the one punished most grievously of all. Fault has no place in the greater scheme of things, little one. Fault and guilt are as useless as apology once the deed is done. Once the action has been taken, all must endure what follows.

‘But why are you down here so deep?’

Where else should I be? Where else is left to me? By the time I recalled who I was, your memories were stacked many layers deep upon me. Yet here I am, and here I shall remain, no matter how long you deny me. The voice paused. No matter how long I may deny myself, it added wearily.