Kerrick squirmed. “I like it here. I like your people. I like you,” he finally stated. “Believe it or not, I’m going to miss you when I finally leave.”
“Oh, you’ll come back and visit, won’t you?”
“I imagine I will. Someone will have to show the elves how to find Brackenrock.”
“You really think they’ll come to trade?”
“I’m certain of it. Elven merchants will bring goods such as you’ve never seen-silks, and spices, horses, dyes, and exotic fruits.” He paused, looked at her earnestly. “I’d love to see you get your first taste of an orange.”
“Tell me, when you return to Silvanesti will you take a wife?”
Kerrick was startled by the blunt question, asked with a forthrightness that no elf would have tolerated from one of his own kind. Yet he had grown more comfortable among humans, and so he took no offense, merely drew a deep breath while he pondered his reply.
“I don’t see why,” he said slowly. “In Silvanesti marriages are mostly matters of alliance, of status and position. Often parents arrange the weddings, and you know that my parents are dead.”
“Yes, but perhaps some patriarch will eye you as a prize for his daughter’s hand,” Moreen said, again with that twinkle in her eye.
“Hmph!” Kerrick snorted, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. No, he vowed silently, he wouldn’t be a pawn in some noble’s power scheme. He would never be a part of that world again.
“I don’t know why I should want to take a wife-I never lacked for lovers,” he said defensively, then regretted the words when he saw the frown momentarily darken Moreen’s expression.
“Did the wind change?” He raised his head and immediately saw that she had observed an important swing in the wind. Strongwind had noticed too. He came back to the cockpit, easing sideways past the cabin.
“Looks like it’s bearing right out of the south now. I guess we’re in for it,” the king of the Highlanders said, looking at both of them with narrowed eyes.
Indeed, the storm was blowing harder, wind lashing from port, needles of spray sweeping across them at intervals. Kerrick took a moment to steer along a trough between two rising crests. When one wave broke over the gunwale he, Strongwind and Moreen ducked their heads and held on as the chilly brine swept past, soaking their boots and leggings.
“You two go below,” offered the elf. “I’ll stay here and keep us afloat.”
“I’ll keep you company,” Moreen said cheerfully. Strongwind, looking glum, gamely declared that he, too, would stay out in the “fresh air”.
Another wave loomed high, and crashed down upon the boat. Kerrick gave the tiller to Moreen, tied a safety line around his waist, and moved forward to take in more sail. When he returned to the cockpit, Strong-wind was retching over the side while the chiefwoman clung to the steering bar, wrestling against the force of the sea.
Kerrick sat beside her, and together they held the sailboat on course. “Why don’t you go into the cabin and start the fire-warm up and get dry,” the elf urged the Highlander, and this time the king-his face with a decidedly greenish cast-agreed with visible relief.
For several hours the elf and the chiefwoman struggled to maintain their westward course against the power of the storm. At last, as yet another wave slammed into Cutter, soaking them and sloshing around their feet in the cockpit, Kerrick announced that they must yield.
“We’ll run with the wind for awhile, wait for it to blow out,” he explained, turning the tiller, moving them onto a northward course. “It’s too dangerous to keep following the shoreline.”
“So we’ll be carried into the ocean, off course?” Moreen asked, with a flicker of irritation. Not fear, he noticed, impressed.
“Yes. We’ll sail back when the storm passes. With luck, we’ll get in sight of the mainland tomorrow or the day after. At least we won’t sink.”
“Well, then that sounds like the way to go,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
“We’ll need to take in more sail,” he said. “Use a lifeline, then check the hatches.”
Soon Moreen was edging her way past the cabin, an anchoring rope tied around her waist. Kerrick held the tiller, guiding them along the waves. The ride was rough but more predictable now that they were racing along with the wind full astern.
The chiefwoman pulled in the sail until no more than a blanket-sized swath of canvas caught the sweeping gale. She secured the latches over the hold and the cabin and finally settled in beside Kerrick in the stern. Strong-wind opened the hatch to weakly offer his relief, and Kerrick saw that Mad Randall still snored lustily in the bunk, below.
“Try and get some rest,” the elf urged the Highlander king. “I’ll be okay out here for some time yet.”
The midnight sun was invisible behind the storm, but the sea was suffused with an eerie light. Massive crests rose like ghosts bedecked with foaming manes, rolling past, carrying Cutter and her four passengers into deep, uncharted waters. The mainland fell behind quickly as the boat made its headlong rush.
Kerrick took Moreen’s hand, and together they held the tiller. He saw the brightness of her eyes, the flush of her cheek, and he was awed. On they sailed, into the nothingness of the Courrain Ocean.
The Alchemist took the ladle, swilled eagerly from the potion barrel, then laid the large utensil down on the bench. Energy and vitality suffused him, a keen exhilaration… but not enough. Not yet. After a moment’s pause he picked the dipper up again, scooped deeply, and drank, uncaring of the trickle overflowing his lips, spilling down his chin.
When he again put the ladle down he moved so quickly that the gesture was completed before the small stream of liquid falling from his face spattered onto the workbench. He watched as the globules of potion touched the flat surface. In his perception they slowly bulged, then separated into miniature drops that started to drift outward in all directions from the point of impact.
Amused, he reached out and plucked these droplets, one by one, out of the air, gathering them all before the spatter was finished and licking them off his fingers.
He went to work, piling grains of cinder neatly in the mortar. He filtered a large pile of gold dust, screening the finest metallic flakes. The potion in the barrel, the new gift the Dowager Queen had provided for him, ran through his veins. He remained visible and corporeal, for this elixir had a new effect, a magic that would actually aid his work.
The Dowager Queen had made for him a potion of haste, so he completed the first two hours’ worth of preparation, mixing, measuring and sorting, in only ten minutes’ time.
“Daltic!” he shouted, calling for the slave assigned to attend to his needs. “I want you to bring me two pitchers of clean water. And tell Queen Hannareit I need another box of gold dust. This one is too coarse!”
It seemed to take forever for the man to show up, and when he opened the door the motion itself was interminable. When Daltic spoke, it was as though his words were dragged through thick mud-the Alchemist wanted to reach out and twist the man’s tongue to make him talk faster.
“I beg the Lord Alchemist’s forgiveness,” Daltic said, looking down at the floor. “But you speak too fast-I cannot make out the words.”
Of course! The potion was accelerating his sense of time, while the rest of these pathetic mortals went through their day as if in a thick, constricting haze.
Instead of answering the man, the Alchemist only threw back his head and laughed.
18
Quarry on the Sea
For a week the king and queen made themselves at home in and around Castle Dracoheim. There were shallow streams fished by massive ice bears along the nearby shore, and Grimwar made several outings to hunt the great creatures. On one occasion he killed a big male with a single cast of his spear. That night he hosted a great feast for his mother and all the ogres of her court, including his own crew. Warqat was swilled through the long night, and the celebration rang through the keep of the remote outpost.