Free Full Circle by Pamela Freeman Page B

wouldn’t
     know a true note from a pig’s fart. And he had taken action when danger threatened. Like Ash.
    “Have a drink,” he said. “There’s a long night ahead of us.”

MARTINE
    T HE SHANTYMAN was singing as they brought up the anchor.
Lady Death will ring her knell
    Heave away
    Haul away
    And call us all to the coldest hell
    Raise the anchor, maties!
    Martine stood at the stern and watched the huge anchor, wood bounded by iron, slide slowly up out of the dark green water,
     dripping weed.
    The Last Domain cargo having been finally off-loaded and paid for, and Trine well exercised by Zel while that was done, they
     were catching an evening tide out of the small harbour, back onto the open sea. Without Apple. The men who had attacked her
     had been taken by the Moot staff, and would be tried and punished. The two merchants who had come with her were riding back
     north.
    “Didn’t have no Travellers there to start with,” one had said. “May not be no ghosts there, either.”
    Martine was full of foreboding, but her Sight couldn’t tell her about what. No matter what happened, the next few weeks were
     unlikely to go well. People would die; the dead would walk; not even the gods knew what the outcome would be. Perhaps her
     jitters were no more than that; or perhaps, since Safred didn’t seem to share them, they were more personal. Perhaps this
     new-found joy with Arvid was doomed to end when they reached Turvite.
    Perversely, that thought cheered her. If all she had to worry about was a love affair gone wrong, she was in good shape.
    On the thought, Arvid appeared from below decks and joined her. “Safred’s sick again. Cael’s tending her.”
    “Never take a seer over water,” Martine said lightly.
    “
You
don’t get sick.”
    She ignored the implication. “Cael’s not well himself.”
    “No.” Arvid’s face darkened with worry and he pushed a hand through his light brown hair. “He’s worse.”
    “If Safred can’t heal him, and the ship’s healer can’t…”
    “Cast the stones again for him,” Arvid said.
    It was worth a try. She sat cross legged on the bare warm deck and pulled out of her belt the square of blue linen she used
     to cast on, and spread it on the deck. She spat in her hand and held it out to Arvid. He spat in his and clasped hands. The
     familiar ritual calmed her, reminded her of who she was. Not Arvid’s bed mate, but a stonecaster, Sighted and strong.
    “Ask your question,” she said.
    “Why can’t Cael be cured?” Arvid asked.
    Her right hand went into the pouch and the stones leapt to her fingers, the ones she needed seeming almost to stick, as they
     always did. She brought them out and cast them across the linen, her head bent to watch their fall, her ears ready.
    “Death,” she said, a catch in her voice, because she liked Cael. “Destiny. Sacrifice.” She reached out to turn the other two
     over. Although she recognised each of her stones no matter which way they lay, they spoke to her only when they were face
     up, and other stonecasters she knew had told her that it was the same for them. “Time, and Memory, both hidden.”
    “Dragon’s fart!” Arvid said angrily. It was so unexpected she just gaped at him, and he was puzzled for a moment. “It’s a
     northern saying,” he said. “I just meant — well, it’s clear, isn’t it, even to me?”
    Martine bent her head over the stones and listened. They spoke quietly but surely. Lady Death was coming for Cael, and coming
     soon, but there was a reason for it, not just blind malignant chance. She said so to Arvid.
    “And that’s comforting, is it?” he said, staring at the stones. “I’d hoped to give Safred better news.”
    Martine felt that pang that all stonecasters knew. They were only the heralds, the messengers, but somehow they felt responsible
     for the bad news they delivered — and certainly, customers tended to act as though they were. It irritated Martine when the