Cerúlia soon discovered that she needn’t have worried about how Whaki would adjust to shipboard life. He trotted around to all the sailors, making friends with those who showed receptivity and learning who preferred not to bother with a dog. She instructed him to use an out-of-the-way corner as his relieving area and paid a lad to keep the area swabbed clean. The seamaster grumbled only at how much Whaki ate, so Cerúlia offered her an extra allowance for his food.
Whaki mostly stayed at his master’s side, but she noticed that of his own accord he often stationed himself at the prow of the ship, the wind blowing back his ears as he gazed across the waves, looking for all the world like a second figurehead. For long hours she joined him in this perch, pondering her past and her future, and scanning the seas for dolphins or whales.
As for Ciellō, he accepted Whaki with enough grace, although she suspected a dog may have offended his sense of order. Ciellō turned out to be a methodical man. Invariably, he started his day by stripping to his skin and swiftly running through a series of brutal exercises; then he scrubbed himself roughly with a pumice stone and a mug of water. Each day he sharpened his dagger until its edge gleamed, whether it had been used enough to dull it or not.
He transferred his habit of thoroughness to the care of his charge. Invariably, before he would let Cerúlia enter her mouse-sized cabin—holding merely a built-in bed, a desk, a chair, hooks, and her chest—he checked the room for intruders or danger. At meals in the seamaster’s dining mess, he stood against the wall behind her alert; when an unexpected wave hit Misty Traveler, Ciellō was the one whose hand flashed forward, catching the sliding decanter before it crashed.
Noticing that she still favored her left arm and shoulder, he further expanded his duties by assuming the role of assistant healer, insisting she fill her hours with Betlyna’s arm-strengthening exercises. When Cerúlia protested that these tired her out, rather than relent he added fast-paced strolls of the length of the ship to build up her endurance. And if the seas were rough or the weather inclement and Cerúlia asked to forgo the walking, Ciellō would refuse, pricking her sense of responsibility: “Damselle brought a dog with her. A dog to be healthy needs exertion.” To the bemusement of the sailors, Cerúlia, with Whaki trotting joyfully beside her, would repeatedly traverse from stem to stern and back again unless the seas were actually unsafe, while Ciellō beat out on a pan a tempo that increased each day.
Her bodyguard even supervised what she ate. As shipboard fare could not compare with Dame Tockymora’s cookery, whenever Misty Traveler stopped to reprovision, he would escort her to the best tavern in town to dine, while he took the opportunity of shore leave to shop for treats such as nuts, dates, figs, cheese, and sausages to bring aboard for her to eat between ports. Cerúlia began to worry whether she would have any coin left upon arrival, but she listened to his counsel that she should use this hiatus to rebuild her strength.
Most days she could turn her mind away from her grief and losses.
It helped to forget herself in a book. Cerúlia countermanded her manservant’s advice that a merchant’s daughter would express little interest in the ship’s small library. She read all the books she could lay her hands on, and the seamaster, noticing her avidity, offered her the volumes she kept in her cabin. When the ship stopped in Midmere, Cerúlia spent a long afternoon in a book merchant’s shop.
None of the crew or fellow passengers harassed the young woman, and none acted suspicious about her true identity. (She explained her “Free States” accent as stemming from being sent there for schooling by her ambitious parents.)
One morning, after six weeks at sea, Ciellō set down the water pitcher he had brought to her cabin and motioned to the sheathed dagger she had just affixed to her belt.
“Damselle, you carry that knife golden. You know how to use it?”
“Of course I do,” she answered with some pique, recalling her training with Rooks in Anders Wood.
“Show me,” he commanded. “Pretend I be a robber. And your invaluable Ciellō is not nearby to protect you.”
Cerúlia frowned. “Playing with daggers can’t be a wise idea. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Humor me, damselle,” he urged, leaning lackadaisically against the wall.
So she pulled the dagger with her stronger hand and rushed in on him from a low crouch, as she’d been taught—though evidently not quickly enough, because in a second one of his hands pinioned her right wrist, and the other twisted her bad arm behind her back.
“That’s not fair!” she protested. “You know that my left arm is injured.”
“A person who wants to rob or hurt you will not care about being fair,” he replied, with equanimity that made her angry.
Cerúlia massaged her shoulder and conquered her pride.
“Will you teach me, Ciellō?” she asked.
“So? Now you want me to play bodyguard, manservant, advisor, healer, and instructor?”
“Aye. And I will pay you twenty coins less,” she smiled, “because the stronger I become, the easier it will be to ‘guard the body.’ You said that yourself, the first day we met in Shipmates tavern.”
“No, never would I such foolishness say,” he responded, laughing.
And thereafter, every morning—sometimes in her cabin, sometimes in a narrow passageway, sometimes in a more spacious hold, leaping around the sacks and bushels of cargo—he would show her exactly how to place her feet, hold her wrist, and carry through with the whole strength of her body. He taunted and teased her, goading her to improve her reflexes.
Their practices got her blood high and made sweat pour into her eyes. She often found herself grinning at Ciellō’s skill or crowing with triumph when she made a good thrust. Although they discovered that her left hand would always be weaker and less coordinated than her right, under Ciellō’s tutelage, drawing and striking out with her dagger became as fluid as a catamount’s swipe.
In the Bread and Balm she had crawled back from being a broken invalid. On Misty Traveler, bit by bit she recovered the muscle, balance, and vitality she had known before she set out from Wyndton two years ago. And this recovery was as much emotional as physical, because to be delivered from hunger and pain—not to mention solitude and fear—allowed her to lay aside the tense watchfulness she had adopted. She recognized that she was safe for the duration of this voyage, protected by Lautan, a fierce bodyguard, and a loving dog.
As, after a long winter, a half-grown tree stretches in the spring warmth and puts out new shoots, so the young woman knew herself to be flourishing in the sea air and sunshine. She started to share her father’s love of seafaring.
With her regained health, she began to take more pains over her dress and hair. She played with Whaki on deck, frolicking about, aware that the two of them formed a fetching picture.
The moons waxed and waned, and the waves rolled on unceasingly. In the main, Misty Traveler encountered fair seas and brisk winds.
Her manservant intrigued her. His idiosyncratic speech patterns came and went: eventually Cerúlia concluded that they were an affectation he put on to stress his Zellish heritage. His respectful, protective demeanor always carried a whiff of independence, if not conceit. For reasons known only to himself, at times he would be chatty and tell her stories about his past or travels; other times he would fend off her polite inquiry. She found him mysterious, and—if she was honest with herself—desirable. Or desirable because he cloaked himself in mystery.
The ship stopped in Pilagos to pick up more provisions and new passengers. When she went on shore, Ciellō insisted that she carry her parasol open and allow him to speak for her in all the shops and eateries. She bought a new book, more hair tonic, and a bottle of lilac perfume. In an herbary she wanted a packet of tisane leaves that smelled of cloves like Stahlia’s had, but her shadow hissed at her that he would buy it for her later, after she had returned to the ship, when he went out to restock their provisions.
His caution brought back to mind the number of spies that frequented the Green Isles. Even after they set sail again, with no untoward encounters, Cerúlia’s anxiety returned. She was halfway to her destination, and unfathomable challenges awaited her.
Nightmares beset her again—not the dreams of a red-eyed pursuer that had tormented her when she was burned, but dreams of desperately trying to get back to the Wyndton cottage and getting lost in Anders Wood. She was in the midst of tossing and mumbling during one such bad night when she dimly became aware that Whaki whimpered at her. Ciellō’s opening the cabin door jerked her back into the waking world.
“Damselle?” he inquired.
“Just a bad dream,” she muttered groggily. I’m fine, Whaki; go back to your corner.
Although she wanted to make light of the experience, the distress of the nightmare still clung to her, and her pulse beat quickly.
Ciellō sheathed his dagger, lit a candle, and poured some water on a towel. He sat on the edge of her bunk and wiped her face, neck, forearms, and hands with the compress. The touch felt cooling and comforting.
Her bodyguard, who slept in a hammock strung across her doorway, was barefoot; he wore his trousers, but his shirt was untucked and unlaced down his chest. When he made the slightest movement she became conscious of his musculature. “Better now?” he asked.
On impulse, Cerúlia leaned forward to bury her face in the warm hollow of his bare neck. Then aghast, she sprang back and put her hands over her mouth.
“I’m sorry, sorry! I shouldn’t have. I didn’t hire you to, to—I mean, this isn’t part of your job, and I don’t want you to think—”
Ciellō laughed his low and wicked laugh. In one motion he pulled off his shirt while simultaneously his belt and dagger sheath hit the floorboards with a soft thud. “You really believe, damselle, that if I had so wished, I could not have dodged away?” His voice had taken on a husky timbre.
“Of course, but—” Cerúlia felt her cheeks burning.
“Slide back, against the wall,” he said. “You are too much tense, damselle. Every adult knows that the remedy for such tension is to dance”—here he whispered—“lips against lips, skin against skin.”
As she had fantasized, Ciellō was a masterful lover. Abandoning herself to his lead, Cerúlia luxuriated in the sensations of this new “dance.” And her tutor—as much as she could tell from his controlled inhalations or read his face in the dark—enjoyed himself immensely.
A few hours before dawn, with Ciellō’s strong arm around her, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Come morning she felt his movement and opened her eyes. Sitting again on the edge of her bed, he had begun to dress with his typical grace. She reached out to trace the muscles down his back. He twitched, shying away from her touch.
“Ciellō! Have I done something wrong?”
“No, damselle.” He kept his back to her. “But the Zellish have a saying: ‘Darkness may obscure, but in the light of morning, one more clearly sees.’” She heard his belt being adjusted. He stood up, his back still turned to her.
“To share your bed was not honorable for me. I succumbed to the temptation, but I will be on my guard and will so not again.
“You might enjoy another partner. If you like my assistance to choose amongst the sailors…”
Cerúlia felt as if she had been slapped. She bolted upright. “Honorable? Honorable in what way? Honorable for whom?”
Was he talking about being her employee? But she had hardly coerced him. Could he be referring to her rank? How much did Ciellō know or guess about her? She knew that royalty was discreet about love affairs. But how had they been indiscreet? Besides, she was still—publicly at least—Damselle Phénix from Wyeland, and they were one hundred leagues from Weirandale; no scandal could attach to the throne.
Was he pledged to another woman? He never talked about such personal matters, and of course she could not pry.
“Ciellō! You must tell me—you must explain.”
He refused to look at her or justify his rejection; only his stilted language revealed a level of emotion. “Mine is the error. I faltered.
“Now, damselle, I will take out the dog and give you the little time to compose yourself. With your fastbreak in a few minutes I will return.”
When he left her in privacy, she washed and dressed with jerky motions, her shock turning to mortification and anger. She recalled her Green Isles friend, Zillie, and the way she enjoyed bedding men; Cerúlia couldn’t understand why—having just been introduced to this new realm of experience—she should not only be deprived but so summarily dumped. Her pride burned.
Maybe he was disgusted by her burn scars and couldn’t look at her in the light of day.
The rest of the day, exchanges between them remained awkward, and she could not meet his eyes. During dagger practice, Cerúlia struck at him wildly, on the cusp of actually wanting to hurt him.
Ciellō grabbed her wrist in his iron grasp. “Enough for today.”
Cerúlia stomped away and went to sit with Whaki on the prow of the ship. The dog nosed her neck.
What be the matter, Your Majesty?
Human emotions are difficult to explain, Whaki.
So one has gathered. Thou mated with the male, but this has made thee unhappy.
Well, first it made me very happy, but now I am unhappy because he rejected me.
Is he the only male who can mate?
No, and he’s not even the one I truly want. The one I want is far away or maybe even dead. Or maybe never wanted me.
Whaki scratched his ear with his hind leg.
Cerúlia chewed on a fingernail. Whaki, why don’t men tell you what is in their hearts? Why do they leave you so confused? Do they think that speaking openly would make them vulnerable?
One doesn’t know the term “vulnerable.”
It means, “to show their bellies.”
Whaki yawned so widely that his throat made a soft explosive noise. Many alpha dogs—male or female—would rather die than show their bellies.
Whaki twitched his nose. Dost thou smell the seawater, Your Majesty? The sunshine on the wood? The pig fat heating in the food place? The gull dung on the sails?
Not as well as you do.
Dost thou smell this one? His black nose nuzzled her neck again. One smells thee. The wood be warm, and air cools one’s fur. We be not locked in a cage. Soon we will eat again.
He flopped down, rolled over, and showed his belly. Cerúlia rubbed him, unable to suppress a grin at Whaki’s wiggly pleasure.
Thy hurt will heal if thou dost not gnaw at it. All be well.
Though the princella often recalled the night with flushes and longing, she refused to regret it or feel embarrassed.
In the days that followed, she worked hard to bring her relationship with Ciellō back to a more formal and controlled footing. She concluded that some distance between them really was for the best; now was not the time when she should be distracted.
Gradually, their interchanges returned, at least to any observer, to the pattern of bossy, trusted servant and sheltered mistress. And in the meantime, Misty Traveler, sails billowing, sliced through the waves of the Gray Ocean.