Foxmask by Juliet Marillier

as you keep your eyes open. Wake me when you want a rest, Thorvald. I’ll make a decision at first light.”
    Thorvald was to remember that night, later, as a strange lull in the storm of his journey. He recalled his confusion, the guilt and anger and fear warring within him. He remembered how serene Creidhe had seemed with the lamplight playing on her wan features; how, despite the need to creep to the side of the boat every so often and retch helplessly into the swell, she still regarded him with a calm gravity that annoyed him more than anything, since it told him she was far his superior in self-control. As for conversation, there was little of it. He did not trust himself to speak; she appeared to think further explanations unnecessary.
    For a while she slept, cheek pillowed on an arm, fair hair fanned out like strands of pale silk, and he watched her, wondering how he could possibly manage to keep her safe and still achieve his quest. His quest: it remained foremost in his mind, though another man might have turned for home without hesitation. Perhaps that was his father’s legacy, condemning him always to put his own interests first. Sam’s reaction to the crisis had been swift and kind. Thorvald was painfully aware that his own response had been somewhat lacking in compassion. Sam now slept the sleep of a man whose conscience was free from burdens, while Thorvald sat alone with the night and the ocean, pondering the way fate seemed determined to turn his stepsastray and make him a misfit. Fate, he thought grimly, never passed up a chance to remind him he was his father’s son. Creidhe shivered, sighing in her sleep. It occurred to Thorvald that there had been a certain bravery in what she had done, wrong-headed though it was. There weren’t many girls he knew who could have stayed silent under the deck like that through such a rough passage, nor planned well enough to be there in the first place. None, in fact. If they’d
had
to have a girl with them, Creidhe would have been the only possible choice. Absently he tucked the blanket over her and resumed his solitary watch. He prayed for an easterly wind.
    There was, indeed, no decision made but that of the gods themselves. In the darkness before dawn the gentle rocking of the
Sea Dove
became a harsher movement, the sea-anchor near useless against the insistent pull of the current. The wind came up, whipping a fine spray into every corner of the boat, drenching their clothes, their blankets, their stores. The
Sea Dove’s
timbers groaned and creaked; her sheets whined in protest. Sam gave directions, Thorvald obeyed them. Creidhe crouched down, doing her best to keep out of the way. They made a choice—speed over safety—for if Tadhg’s directions were right, this wind would bear them straight to their destination. They hoisted the sail. The gale drove them westward, or perhaps north of westward; the lowering clouds made it too dark to tell. Sam held the steering oar in a death grip, and the others clung like barnacles to whatever they could find. The expanse of sailcloth above them bellied out to within a hairs-breadth of tearing asunder; the mast bowed, its strength tested almost to the limit. It came to Thorvald that they had no control at all of the vessel’s course; the wind would bear them where it fancied. The best they could hope for was to turn the
Sea Dove
into the monstrous waves and keep her afloat until the storm abated. What chance had they of finding a small group of isles, about which they knew nothing save that they were somewhere northwest of the Light Isles? Beyond those islands, which might themselves be no more than a crazed man’s fevered imaginings, all knew there was nothing but empty water. It was as well the wind sought to snatch the very breath from their mouths, for what was in their minds was better not put into words. Best think only of the task in hand, staying on the boat, gathering