All these things happened and continued to happen as the arakeesian rose. And still it rose and it grew until the head, which they coursed along, roughly opposite, was almost as long as Tide Child and almost as wide.
“Hag’s breath,” said Dinyl, “it will smash us to shards. We should steer away.”
Somewhere in the back of his mind Joron thought, That should be my fear, but he was not scared.
“No,” said Meas. “We watch.”
And still it rose, until Joron could look back along the beast’s body and make out details: the bony plates along its back, rounded and covered with sharp barnacles like the ones that grew on the hulls of ships; its skin, bone-white apart from the black lines that ran from eight glowing points on the head, swelling and thickening until they disappeared behind the ship in long stripes down the body of the creature.
And still it rose.
And it rose.
And it rose.
And the ocean split above it, water rolling off it like layers of dead skin to reveal something new and beautiful and amazing. The heat of the creature burning Joron’s face, and it felt as if his skin would be flayed off, revealing the white of his skull below.
But he did not draw back
And neither did any other.
As the head fully surfaced Joron realised that what he had seen as glowing spots on the keyshan’s head were eyes. Two were huge, shaped like teardrops, with two smaller ones behind them. Another two small eyes above the beak and two right on top of the head. All the keyshan’s small eyes were round, though to call them small was an injustice; they were as big and unblinking as plates.
A huge teardrop-shaped eye seemed to consider them as ship and arakeesian cut through the water together. Then a wave of colour flowed down the creature, white to dark purple to pink to white again. This was answered by a chorus of “Ohs” from the crew of Tide Child. Then the arakeesian opened its beak, the length of it filled with teeth as long as Joron’s arm, and called, though for what it called Joron did not know. Its mate? A warning? A greeting? The noise was almost unbearable, so deep it shook the bones of the ship. Twisting through the sound were mid and high tones. It was like every instrument and song Joron had ever heard in his life played without thought to tune or timing.
And yet, while everyone on board covered their ears, Joron did not. He heard something in that noise. Heard some sense in it that was beyond his understanding. He felt a terrible melancholy. Then the creature’s head rose clear of the water on a long, thin neck, sheets of water splashing down into the sea, Its head bent forward, on the back of its skull was a pair of huge, swept-back, many-branching horns. The arakeesian dipped its beak back into the sea, sending up waves of water, and made its call again. The sea vibrated, the ship as well, but when the call was filtered through the water there was a strange and beautiful music to the sound.
“It is loud,” said Mevans, “I’ll give it that.”
“It is beautiful,” said Joron.
“Ey, it is,” said Dinyl from his place by him on the rail, and as he turned their hands touched.
Another shiver of colour ran down the creature, and Joron felt as if the ship and the arakeesian flew along the water in a bubble. There was an unnatural quiet between each hooting, singing call from the wakewyrm, a stillness, and though Tide Child ripped through the water it did not seem to disturb it; the rigging did not rattle or clink, the wings did not flap and clatter, the water did not hiss and gurgle along the hull. They simply existed in the same time and place as the arakeesian.
“We hunted these,” said Joron more to himself than anything. “How could we do that? Why would we do that?”
“We needed them,” said Dinyl. Joron moved his hand so they no longer touched.
The arakeesian shook its head, a movement that took place in slow motion, spraying water over the decks of Tide Child, and the movement continued all the way down its huge body, a complex wave of rainbow colours darting across its skin. From the back of its neck and down the keyshan’s body huge flaps of bright red skin rose up on spines, audibly cracking into place.
“It has wings.” Dinyl laughed and tapped Joron on the hand. “Look at it! They catch the wind.” He leaned over the rail. “And it has folded its flippers against its body.”
The wind around them strengthened – not markedly, not as it did when it responded to the gullaime, but in a way that was not natural. The waves of a choppy, grey, cold sea now slapped against Tide Child’s hull, but around the keyshan it was calm.
“It controls the weather,” said Meas quietly. “It flies across the sea just like we do.”
The wakewyrm sounded again, breaking the spell.
Tide Child awoke, and all the noise and action normal on a boneship returned. “Back to work,” shouted Meas “You would think you had never seen a keyshan before.” There was laughter at that, the mood aboard bright now. “I’ll have no slatelayers on my ship.” She took her place by the spine. “To work with you.”
“I must go water and feed the gullaime,” said Joron.
“Do that,” said Meas. “Then return here. I will hold station by the arakeesian for eight turns of the glass, then we make for Arkannis Isle.”
Joron made his way down to the underdeck, dipping his head to avoid the overbones of the ship as he made his way to the gullaime’s quarters. Outside the door he stopped. Lain by the door he found an assortment of oddments and he stooped to gather them. This had become normal. Though the crew never spoke of the gullaime, never asked how it was or acknowledged their interest in it, they knew it was special, and this was how they showed their regard – with gifts of carved bones, painted stones, strange shells and small objects. Most were of value only to those who had owned them, but they gave them freely and in doing so they made a quiet prayer to the Sea Hag for the windtalker’s recovery.
Joron went inside. Before he fed the creature he added the presents to the growing collection in one corner of the cabin. Then, without quite knowing why, he opened the bowpeek, allowing air into the cabin, dropping the temperature but letting him see the giant head of the arakeesian. One glowing eye seemed to stare straight into the cabin, the heat coming off it beating against his face, making him look away.
Had the gullaime moved?
Joron was sure that when he came in it had been curled into a ball, but now its head was pointing at the open hatch. He stared at it, waiting, expecting it to move again, for the beak to open and for it to rasp out his name.
Jo-ron Twi-ner.
But it did not. Nevertheless, when he sat to feed and water the windtalker he changed his position so that the gullaime remained looking out of the hatch while he poured water into its beak and forced dried fish down its gullet. All the time he waited for some subtle hint the creature lived. None came. Once he had fed the gullaime, he put it back into the nest of rags it had constructed before becoming windsick, arranging it so its head still pointed at the hatch where the huge eye of the arakeesian stared in. Then he set to his next task, weaving from oddments of rope he had scavenged around the ship a sort of basket he could wear on his back to carry the gullaime when they landed on Arkannis Isle.
There was a certain pleasure to this task. It was similar to weaving the nets he and his father had made and used when he was young. He had detested the job then, but now the subtle dance of the needle, down and round and up and under, let him drift away. Up and around, Joron. The skeer chases the kivelly around the spine. Do it with love, and do it with care, for it is our livelihood. For a moment he was no longer the deckkeeper of a ship of war, no longer a man condemned to death, no longer under threat. He did not think of the spikes and hooks that covered Tide Child’s hull, he did not think of curnows cutting into flesh and splashing out waves of red blood. He did not think of the fear within him when he fought and the other, deeper fear that others would recognise him as a coward. He did not shake and imagine the moment when a blade found his flesh and he added his own blood to the endless current that flowed between the Hundred Isles and the Gaunt Islands. He simply was. He simply existed in the moment and the heavy needle dragged the rope around and about as it created, from oddments and cast offs, the basket he saw in his mind. Through this, he was just a boy again, and he could imagine he might go up on deck and find his father at the oar, guiding him through life.