"Not till Tjorr relieves me," he said. "Would you trust that captain
man?"
"I can oversee him, and call for help if--"
Eodan's mouth lifted wryly. "Thank you, Phryne. But it is not needful.
Later, perhaps. Now I think we shall watch the moon for a bit."
"Oh." The Greek girl was a whiteness in the night; she seemed very
small within the great ring of the sea. Her head bent. "Oh, I
understand. Good night, Eodan."
"Good night." He watched her go to her tent.
Hwicca stood by the larboard rail. Her hair, loosened, rippled a little
in the wind. He thought he could still see a tinge of its golden hue.
Otherwise the moon turned her to silver and mist; she was not wholly
real. But shadows drew the deep curves of her, where the torn dress
fluttered and streamed. Eodan's temples beat, slow and heavy.
He walked to her, and they stood looking east. The moon dazzled their
eyes and flung a shaken bridge across darkly gleaming waters. There
were not many stars to be seen against its brightness, up in the
violet-blue night. The sea rolled and whispered, the wind thrummed low,
the ship's forefoot hissed and its timbers talked aloud.
"I had not awaited this," said Eodan at last, because she was not going
to speak and he could find no better words. "To gain our own vessel!"
"It seems more of a risk this way," she answered, staring straight
before her. The hands he remembered--how fair was a woman's hand, laid
beside the rough hairy paw of a man!--were clenched on the rail. "It is
my fault. Had I not failed you this noontime--"
"How did the Roman get to the door?" he asked. "You could have called
me, or at least put your sword in him, when he neared it ... could you
not?"
"I tried," she said. "But when he began to move that way, slowly, as if
by mere chance, talking to me all the while--he was so merry, and he
was saying me a verse--I did not want to--" She took her head, her lips
pulled back from her teeth and she said harshly: "Once I attacked him,
were not all our lives forfeit? Was it not to be done only if death
stood certain before us? I waited too long, that is all--I misjudged
and waited too long!"
"You could have warned him not to move further."
"He talked all the time--his verse--I had no chance to--"
"You had no _wish_ to interrupt him!" flared Eodan. "Is that not the
way of it? He was singing you some pretty little lay about your eyes
or your lips, and smiling at you. You would not break the mood with
anything so rude as a warning. Is that not how he used you?"
Her head bent. She slung to the rail and arched her back with the
effort not to scream.
Eodan paced up and down for a time. Somewhere out in the water a
dolphin broached, playing with the moonlight. There was strangely
little wind to feel when you sailed before it, as though the hollow,
murmurous canvas above him had gathered it all in. When he turned his
face aft, he caught only the lightest of warm, wandering airs. It was a
fair night, he thought, a night when the Powers were gentle.
It was a night to lie out with your beloved, as you carried her home.
Eodan said finally, with more weariness than he had thought a man's
bones could bear:
"Oh, yes. I too have learned somewhat of these Southlanders. They are
more skilled and gracious folk than we. They can speak of wisdom,
opening the very heavens as they talk; and their wit is like sunshine
skipping over a swift brook; and their verses sing a heart from its
body; and their hands shape wood and stone so it seems alive; and
love is also a craft to be learned, with a thousand small delights we
heavy-footed Northfolk had not dreamed us. Yes, all this I have seen
for myself, and it was foolish of me to suppose you were blind." He
came back behind her and laid his hands on her waist. "Is it Flavius
then that you care for?"
"I do not know," she whispered.
"But you were never more than a few months' pleasure to him!" cried
Eodan. His voice split across.
"He swore it was otherwise." Her fingers twisted together, her head
wove back and forth as if seeking flight. "I do not know, Eodan--there
is a trolldom laid on me, perhaps--though he said he would raise me
from all darkness of witches and gods, into a sunlight air where only
men dwelt--I do not know!" She tore herself free, whirled about and
faced him. "Can you not understand, Eodan? You are dear to me, but I
care for him, too! And that is why I am dishonored. It is not that I, a
prisoner, lay with him. But I was _his_!"
Eodan let his arms fall. "And you still are?" he asked.
"I told you I do not know." She stared blindly out to sea. "Now you
have heard. Do what you think best."
"You can have the cabin for yourself," he said. He wanted to make it a
gentle tone, but his words clashed flatly.
She fled from him, and he heard the door bang shut upon her.
After a long while he looked skyward, found the North Star and measured
its position against the moonlit wake. As nearly as he could tell, they
were still on course.