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

he answered.

    “Oh, really? You’re as green as Wynn’s lentil stew, and your breath . . . is terrible.”

    He stared at her. “How flattering.”

    “Rest!” She shoved him back down on the bunk. “I’ll stay with you.”

    Leesil’s stomach clenched as his back hit the bed, but he still frowned, feeling petulant.

    “We’re sharing quarters with Wynn and Chap . . . and this could be our last moment alone for a while.”

    Magiere rolled her dark brown eyes with a huff, as if to respond, but then she spun about and tensed, staring toward the door.

    “What—?” Leesil began.

    Magiere lunged up, snatching her falchion as she flung open the cabin door.

    Somewhere above, Leesil heard Wynn shouting.

    In the scant lantern light, Wynn sat cross-legged upon the deck facing Osha and tried to focus on Dreug’an, an elven draught game borrowed from the hkomas’s steward. Osha was determined to teach her to play, but Wynn’s thoughts kept wandering.

    The ship’s strange thrum vibrated under her buttocks, making it impossible to pay attention. And Chap’s disgruntled huffs every time she made a move did not help either.

    “Do you want to play for me?” she asked.

    Chap licked his nose at her, but no reply entered her thoughts.

    Sgäile still leaned on the port side, staring out into the darkness. Off the starboard, the tree-lined coast slipped by at a rapid pace.

    Wynn sighed and stood up. “I need to stretch my legs.”

    Even on her feet, she was little taller than Osha on his knees. He started to rise, and she waved him back down.

    “No, stay. I will not go far.”

    Osha frowned, caught between having to watch over her and yet not wanting to impose.

    “I will return shortly,” she assured him and strolled off toward the aft.

    The hkomas had stayed in the aftcastle for much of the voyage so far, and the crew kept busy all over the ship. Wynn had avoided snooping about, knowing her presence was unwelcome. As night came, the hkomas retired and much of the crew went off duty, leaving the deck fairly deserted. Wynn wanted to peek about.

    The absence of planks in the deck still astonished her. A crewman sat on a barrel, just as solidly one piece, though it showed far more sign of wear than the deck. He was weaving smooth pieces of cord into a stout rope. As Wynn passed, he spun atop the barrel to face away, and she knew better than to try chatting with him.

    She crept idly toward the stern, and the rhythmic thrum beneath her feet seemed to grow. Reaching the aftcastle ladder, she saw its steps worn by years of use—unlike the deck—and she climbed halfway to peer over the top.

    Three large lanterns lit up the aftcastle. A male elf loosely gripped the large wheel of the helm. He was stout and solid—or at least wide compared to others of his kind. Many of the crew cropped their hair short, but his sandy locks hung to his shoulders with the bangs cut just above the eyes.

    The pilot’s large eyes narrowed upon Wynn, and then he returned to silently gazing ahead. Since he had not openly rebuked her, Wynn crept up onto the aftcastle, purposefully ignoring him in turn.

    The rhythmic thrum lessened, and she wondered where it came from and if the height of the aftcastle dulled it. She kept to the rail-wall, as far from the pilot as possible. Before she reached the ship’s stern, she began to make out its wake under the dangling aft lanterns. Even a fast vessel under a heavy wind would not swirl the water so.

    Foam-laced ripples trailed away behind the ship into the dark, and Wynn glanced suspiciously upward. The sails were still billowing but not full, so the wind was not that strong. And yet the vessel’s speed was enough to leave a visible wake. Wynn leaned over the aftcastle’s rear, peering downward, and sucked in a loud breath. She grabbed the rail-wall and froze.

    Water boiled out from beneath the elven ship. Under the sea’s roiling surface, she saw twin rudders set wide apart, unlike on