Land of the Silver Dragon by Alys Clare Page A

voice said. I raised my head a tiny fraction and looked into the face of a stubble-headed, bronze-bearded crewman whose bare upper arms were encircled by beautiful, intricate tattoos. He mimed taking a sip of water, swishing it around and then spitting it out, and I understood. I did as he suggested, aiming into the bucket. Someone had emptied it. To my surprise, the water felt good, and I risked swallowing a little.
    The tattooed man nodded his encouragement, and said something in a tongue that sounded a bit like singing. From behind me, the red-haired giant spoke; I hadn’t realized he was there.
    â€˜Thorben says it is good to drink,’ he translated, ‘for always it is easier to be sick when there is something to bring up.’
    It was not a particularly cheerful thought.
    It was almost dark now, I noticed. A pair of lanterns had been lit, well below the level of the gunwales. The moon was rising. Were we going to sail all night? Oh, dear Lord, was that
safe
? Supposing we ran into something?
    The red-haired giant had brought more covers: a thick, soft wool blanket and another skin. He lifted me up, as if I weighed no more than a child, and, taking hold of the sheepskin that I had been lying on – rumpled up now from my twisting and turning – shook it out and spread it out on the boards of the deck. When I lay back down on it, it was warm from my body. Then he tucked me up in the thick blanket, putting the skin on top. The stinking, stiff cover he rolled up and thrust under one brawny arm. He sniffed at it, miming disgusted recoil, and, despite everything, I grinned.
    He stood looking down at me. Then he said, ‘Go to sleep.’
    It was as if he had spoken a powerful charm. My eyelids were suddenly heavy, and I felt myself drifting. I was snug in my wrappings; the pillow under my head and the sheepskin on which I lay were soft and comfortable; the luxurious woolly blanket was wonderfully warm. My last thought, before I fell asleep, was that the ship’s motion that before had made me so sick now felt like a mother’s gentle rocking of her baby’s crib.

SEVEN
    I t was a combination of light and hunger that woke me.
    The rising sun was shining directly into my face and, when I raised myself on one elbow to look out at the sea flying past, it was as if tiny, golden fires had been lit on the top of every wave.
    I was so hungry that my stomach was growling like an angry wolf.
    A different crewman stood at the steering oar, and I did not like to disturb him. Other mariners were visible, all looking preoccupied with whatever they were doing, and I could hear sounds of activity from the fore part of the ship. Maybe that was where they ate? Hopefully, I stood up, intending to go and find out. They had taken care of me so far, I reasoned, and so it didn’t seem likely that they were planning to starve me to death.
    My legs felt like feathers. Staggering, I grasped hold of the top of the gunwale, standing quite still. Fully expecting the dreadful sickness to start again, I looked round for the bucket. It was there, just by where my head had lain all night, and, again, someone had rinsed it out. These men, whoever they were, kept a clean ship.
    I waited. Nothing happened, except that, after a while, I sensed that my legs were actually going to hold me up. I risked a step. Two steps. To my amazement, I realized that, as if utilizing some latent skill I hadn’t known I possessed, my body was reacting to the ship’s motion. I have, on rare occasions, ridden a horse, and this new sensation felt in some ways similar. The beautiful ship beneath me was galloping over the waves, responding to every nuance of the sea’s powerful restlessness. And I, standing on her narrow deck, was responding to
her
, my legs bending automatically to compensate for her movement, my body – my spirit, perhaps – in tune with that of the ship.
    It was in that instant that I fell in love with