Lyrna went to her side, speaking in soft tones. “I gave your brother the most solemn promise that I would keep you safe. Now, remove yourself to the shore or I’ll have Lord Iltis do it for you . . .”
“They killed Alucius!” Alornis whirled towards her, the hammer flying across the deck as she tossed it aside, face livid, her shout heralding a frigid stillness on the deck. “You promise justice.” Alornis’s voice had taken on a strangled tone though she forced the words out, her gaze tearful but unwavering. “I have travelled the length of this Realm recording murder and destruction with every mile, and laboured without sleep for months to provide you these deadly instruments. All without request for reward or expectation of favour, because you promised justice, and I want mine.”
He will never forgive this, Lyrna knew. Even if she lives.
“Fleet Lord Ell-Nestra,” she said, turning away. “Please get us under way.”
? ? ?
The first few days were hard, the seas high enough to rob the fleet of any appearance of cohesion, many of the ships lost to sight in the near-constant rain. At the Shield’s orders, every vessel had experienced navigators on board, most of them Meldeneans who could be trusted to keep an eastward bearing regardless of the weather. Even so there were times when Lyrna looked out on the shifting grey wall that surrounded them and had to suppress the feeling they were sailing alone.
Belowdecks Lord Nortah’s regiment suffered continually with sea-sickness and the confines of shipboard life. They had to be ferried to the top deck in relays for fresh air and exercise, most stumbling through their drills, moving with perfunctory lethargy, though Lyrna’s presence seemed to provide some stimulus to extra effort. The slight woman with the daggers she remembered from Alltor greeted her with a grave bow upon ascending into the daylight the third morning out from Varinshold, proceeding to throw herself into a series of sword drills with zealous energy before collapsing in a sudden convulsion. Her bleached white face looked up at Lyrna stricken with mortification as she strode forward to help her up.
“I beg forgiveness, Highness,” she stammered. “Though my wretched weakness deserves no pardon . . .”
She fell silent when Lyrna pressed a hand to her forehead, finding it far too chilled and clammy. “Guardswoman Furelah,” she said, “you are unwell.”
Furelah blinked in surprise at being addressed by name then drew herself up to her not-considerable full height. “No more than anyone else, Highness.” She staggered as the ship’s hull crested another steep wave, Lyrna feeling how she trembled as she reached out to steady her by the arm.
“What did you do?” she asked. “Before the war.”
“My father owned a mill, Highness. I worked it with him.”
“Then you are familiar with gears and machinery?”
“Had to be, Highness. After that worthless fu— . . . My daughter’s father was not a dutiful man, forcing us to seek refuge with my father. After a while his hands got too gnarled for fixing things.”
“Come with me.”
She led her to the stern where Alornis was rigging a tarpaulin over one of the ship’s four ballistae. The constant rain and spume were a source of great consternation as she sought to keep her precious engines free of rust and the salt that played havoc with her various mechanical novelties. “Lady Alornis,” Lyrna called to her, gesturing at Furelah. “I am appointing this guardswoman as your assistant. Please instruct her in the operation of your engine.”
Alornis greeted Furelah with a bemused smile. “Thank you, Highness, but I need no assistance.”
“Battle will be upon us soon, my lady,” Lyrna replied. “And it plays no favourites. Should you fall it is important your knowledge not perish with you.”
Alornis winced a little at the harshness of her tone then offered her hand to Furelah who, despite her evident nausea, stood regarding the ballista with deep fascination. “You built this, my lady?”
“I had help.” Alornis took her hand and led her towards the contraption. “Come, best if we start with the gearing.”
? ? ?
The evening of the tenth day brought the first storm, a howling northerly gale slamming a series of ever-taller waves against the Queen Lyrna’s port side, eventually forcing the Shield to order a turn to the south. Lyrna had expected some expression of reproach as she watched him take the tiller, his hands moving with expert efficiency to steady the great vessel, but instead he seemed oddly content, casting occasional glances at the sky and frowning in apparent satisfaction.
“It seems my calculations may have been optimistic,” Lyrna offered, having to shout above the wind as she moved to his side.
“You mean this?” A spectre of his once-continual grin played over his lips as he jerked his head at the roiling sky overhead. “This is a gentle breeze compared to the Boraelin’s usual winter fury. It’ll have blown itself out come the morning.”