Child of a Dead God by Barb Hendee, J. C. Hendee

again. Darkness only made him feel worse.

    The cabin was small but well designed. Its walls were smooth, with no sign of individual planks, and pairs of ledges for bunks were shaped on both of the room’s sides. High-set porthole openings in the outer wall were sealed with brass-framed glass hatches.

    The cabin’s short oval door cracked inward, and Magiere ducked her head in. “How are you feeling?”

    “I’d rather ride fifty leagues on a half-mad horse,” he groaned.

    She came in, carrying a bowl of water and a rag for his head.

    Magiere’s caretaking was the one and only part of this sea voyage preferable to the last. Leesil had to admit that he enjoyed her attention. She sat beside him and dipped the rag without removing her gloves. Her hand was shaking just slightly.

    He reached out to touch it. “Are you all right?”

    During their time within the elven forest, Magiere had suffered from trembling and anxiety whenever she entered one of the tree dwellings. They hadn’t known why, until she’d lost all control in Nein’a’s prison clearing. And in that fight with their anmaglâhk escort, her bare hands had touched and marked a birch tree.

    Since boarding, Magiere had shown signs of the same manifestations she’d suffered in the elven forest, although they were far from its shore.

    “It’s not as bad,” she answered. “Probably just this nagging instinct to keep going . . . to reach wherever we’re headed.”

    Magiere had finally removed her hauberk and wore only her loose white shirt and breeches, with her hair bound back to keep it from her eyes in the wind.

    “Something odd happened a little while ago,” she said. “Sgäile politely related that the captain thinks it best that we stay on this end of the ship while below deck.”

    “A suggestion or a threat?” Leesil asked.

    “One’s as good as the other with these people.”

    He laid his head back as Magiere applied the damp rag to his forehead and looked up at the smooth seamless ceiling. Such a warning only made him want to go nosing about, but his stomach rolled on another list of the ship.

    “Where is everyone else?” he asked, seeking any distraction.

    “On deck. Sgäile is just staring out to sea. Osha borrowed some kind of game from a sailor and is teaching Wynn to play. Chap’s watching them without much interest, but I’m betting he understands the strategy better than Osha.”

    Leesil tried to smile. “This is the first time we’ve been alone since boarding.”

    Magiere didn’t seem to hear him. She gazed at the cabin wall—or perhaps through it to somewhere far away.

    “We’ll round the corner of the continent soon,” he said.

    She blinked. “What? Oh, I was thinking about . . . home. The new tables . . . the hearth, even that old burned sword hanging above it. We barely had time to settle in after the rebuild.”

    Leesil rolled toward her on his side. “Yes, home. A nice thought.”

    “If we ever reach it, if we are able to stay, if we don’t learn any more of ourselves that we don’t want to know.”

    The warm image of home faded from Leesil’s mind. Why did she keep bringing up the reason his mother had created and trained him—to use him as a tool against some unknown adversary the elves believed would return?

    “We make our own fate,” he snapped. “No one changes that.”

    Magiere dropped her eyes suddenly, and Leesil regretted his angry tone. He should be grateful she shared her worries with him so openly. But he stood by his words.

    They did make their own fate. No matter what name a pack of ghosts placed upon him, the only person he would “champion” was Magiere.

    She still gripped his fingers in one gloved hand, and he reached out with his other hand to trace the line of her jaw. Her face was so perfect to him. He sat up to kiss her, and his stomach lurched.

    “Stop that,” she said, and flattened her other hand on his chest. “You’re sick.”

    “Not that sick,”