‘Can I help?’ a grating voice said above and behind. He winced but nodded, looking more scared of Brina than the blood and bone oozing from the injured man’s arm. ‘You could lend a hand, as you’ve time to stand around watching,’ Brina snapped at Pax. Try again.’Ĭywen released the cord as gently as she could, Gorsedd howling, eyes rolling. The leather cord slipped in Cywen’s hand, the bone poking through flesh again. She glanced up at Brina, willing her to say that it was done.īrina didn’t, just held on to Gorsedd’s elbow. Cywen tugged harder, waiting for the click that Brina had told her would signal that it had settled back into its proper place. The bone sank back into flesh, like a shattered ship sinking into the sea. No amount of poppy milk can dull that pain. She took a deep breath and nodded, then wound a leather cord around Gorsedd’s wrist. ‘Come on, then,’ Brina said, appearing suddenly and squatting down beside Gorsedd, one hand on his shoulder, the other about his elbow. Fortunately a good dozen of the oarsmen had worked on a ship’s crew before, and so Cywen was vaguely confident that they had the skill required to avoid sinking by incompetence. She’d hardly seen Dath as he hadn’t left his post on deck since they’d left the wide-mouthed river estuary and entered the sea. She’d sailed across the straits between Ardan and Domhain with no problem, but this sea was another beast entirely, as different as a wild horse from one broken to ride. The wind had freed them all from the oar-benches, at first everyone relieved and thankful, but after half a day on the open sea over a score of people had lined the ship’s rails, vomiting into the slate-grey and foam-speckled waves. A strong wind had almost immediately caught them and Dath had yelled for their sail to be unfurled. The second day they had rowed into open sea, skirting the coast. They’d been at sea for two days now, early the first day leaving the sluggish marsh river behind and entering a wide bay that they’d continued to row through, the sea tame and relatively docile.
Cywen swayed as the ship rode another swell, the one huge sail tight and snapping in the wind. He looked almost as pale as the man with the broken arm. ‘Another sip,’ she said to Gorsedd, and with a wince he complied. Where’s Brina? The old healer had told Cywen to prepare Gorsedd for resetting his broken bone, which mostly meant filling him up with seed of the poppy. Pax the oarsman–Atilius’ son–had heard him screaming and helped him onto the top deck. He was one of the villagers who had joined them during their flight through Narvon he’d been stacking barrels below decks, unused to the pitching of a ship at sea. Buddai lay against the rail, snoring through the whole thing. With his good hand he sipped at Cywen’s flask. His arm was purpling already, a shard of bone poking through flesh a handspan above his wrist. His name was Gorsedd and he was on the ship’s deck, back to a rail, pale-faced and gritting his teeth against the pain. ‘Drink this,’ Cywen said to the man sitting before her.
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