Free Foxmask by Juliet Marillier Page A

better light the lantern; it’ll be dark soon. There’s a flint down yonder in the small bag, and a bundle of dry tinder. Take care. A fire’s just what we don’t need.” His tone was level, held carefully so, Thorvald thought, not to further distress the filthy, cheese-pale, sniveling Creidhe. Distress, huh! He could scarcely believe she had done something so stupid. Why, by all the gods, why? It defied all common sense. She had put his whole venture at risk, as if she truly wanted him to fail. And what about her own safety? This was no place for a girl. What if she got hurt? What if she got sick? Creidhe was supposed to be his friend. Friends didn’t do things like this.
    His hands were still shaking as he made fire and lit the small enclosed oil lamp that had been stored just so, like all the rest of Sam’s gear. Now Sam was talking softly to Creidhe, getting her to drink water, wiping her face, making her stretch her cramped limbs. There were tears in her eyes, Thorvald could see the glint of them in the lamplight. Odin save him, what reason could agirl have for dreaming up such a foolish trick? Especially a girl like Creidhe, with her fondness for trivial pastimes such as fine embroidery and fancy cooking. How could Sam be so placid about it? He should have come alone, thought Thorvald savagely. You couldn’t trust anyone, not even the people you thought understood you.
    Creidhe was calmer now, sipping water from the bottle, responding to Sam’s patience, stretching her arms and legs with a groan and sucking in lungfuls of fresh air. Gods, she looked terrible, her tunic all stained with vomit, her hair in a tangle and her face ghost-white in the lantern light. Her eyes had great shadowed circles around them.
    â€œWhat—” Thorvald began, but Sam silenced him with a gesture.
    â€œFood first, questions after,” the fisherman said, rummaging in the bag. “I should think they can hear my belly growling all the way back in Stensakir. Drink it slowly, Creidhe, just a bit at a time. You’d better try a mouthful of this bread too. Emptied your stomach pretty well from the looks of it. Come on, just a nibble or two. Feeling any better?”
    Creidhe gave a weak nod; she held the bread in her hand but seemed unable to do more than sit shivering, clutching the water bottle and sniffing from time to time. In silence Sam cut bread, sliced meat, shelled eggs, handed Thorvald a portion of each. Hungry as he was, Thorvald found it hard to eat. Finally he could hold back no longer.
    â€œTell us, Creidhe. Give us your explanation. Don’t you understand how dangerous this is? Don’t you realize where we’re going?” He could hear the harshness in his own voice, though he was trying to keep it calm. Sam was looking at him with an expression that could not be described as friendly. “What reason could you possibly have for doing something like this? It’ll only make everything more difficult.”
    â€œYou’re going to need me,” Creidhe said, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin in a way that was all too familiar. “I know it. You’ll need me before the end.” Her voice belied her attempt at confidence; it was very small, and wobbled.
    At that moment Thorvald knew that what had gripped him in the instant he heard and recognized her voice, down under the decking, was less fury and frustration than fear: fear for her, and for what it might cost her to be his friend. It was bad enough to have coerced Sam into coming, into risking himself and his fine boat. But to have Creidhe in peril, Creidhe whose world was all handicrafts and family and blithe sunny days, that was truly terrifying. It was as if his father’s hand, the hand that had turned all in the Light Isles to darkness in one terrible season, had somehow crept out totouch his son’s voyage; to turn it, too, to shadow. For a little, Thorvald could think of nothing