Kushiel's Dart

remembered what the fisherman had said.
    The Tarbh Cro came late, they hadn't heard Drustan's warning. And the D'Angeline sailors wouldn't have understood. He'd spoken in Cruithne; I hadn't translated it. They had their orders from the Admiral, they knew what we were about.
    Three spear-casts off the coast, aught else is the Sea-Lord's hunting ground.
    We were three spear-casts and farther; we were miles at sea. In the sudden absence of wind, it was if the world had drawn a deep breath and held it.
    I did the same.
    Before, the Master of the Straits came with gathering darkness and lashing rains, driving toward us across the waves. This time, it was different. This time, the very sea itself erupted. In the midst of our motley fleet, the waters boiled, boats and rafts tilting on end, passengers crying out and scrabbling for a hold.
    And from the maelstrom, the vast face arose.
    Those vessels closest slid one way, plunging down the enormous slope of the form's streaming hair; those on the outer circle, as we were, tipped the other. For a moment, I swear, the ship nearly stood on her prow, awash in a sheet of water. Somewhere, Quintilius Rousse was roaring orders, inaudible over the rushing sea. I clung grimly to the railing, both hands locked in a death-grip, and vowed to Elua that I would light a candle for my old tumbling-master if I survived. A man's figure slid across the steep slant of the wooden deck, his desperate shout cut short, disappearing in the foaming sea.
    Up and up, taller and vaster than I remembered, the face of the Master of the Straits arose, transparent and shining, with the flicker of living fish and bits of weed glimpsed in the water that shaped his features.
    Then he held and rose no further, and the seas fell level with a thunderous clap, our ship crashing back on its keel. The impact jarred my grip loose; I was flung half over the side, the railing catching my midriff. All around the surging waters, our impromptu fleet bobbed like corks on a flood, holding a half-drowned army, horses screaming in panic, some already swimming, churning and terrified.
    "Phedre!" A strong hand entwined in my tangled cloak, hauling me back on deck; Joscelin, soaked to the bone and wide-eyed with shock. I looked for Hyacinthe, and saw him safe, some yards away, where he'd been swept. And then I had no time left to look for survivors, for the Master of the Straits spoke.
    Towering as high as the cliffs, it seemed, glistening and huge, his face rose above us, and the terrible maw opened to loose the thunder's voice.
    "WHO HUNTS MY SEASSS?"
    I know what I know; what I saw, what I heard. I would swear it: The Master of the Straits spoke D'Angeline. I heard it, Hyacinthe, Joscelin, the Admiral; we all did. But the eel-catching Tarbh Cro on the raft below us cried out in terror, at the same moment that Drustan mab Necthana, the Cruarch of Alba, stepped forward on our now-steady deck, unfaltering despite his lurching gait.
    "They are my men, Sea-Lord!" he cried in Cruithne, straining his neck to stare up at the Master of the Straits. "I failed to warn them! I am to blame!"
    The face looked down, water streaming from on high. "YOU LEAD . .. ALBAN?"
    Quintilius Rousse, swearing, abandoned the helm to come forward. " 'Tis my ship and I command it, you old bastard! If you've come to take a toll, take it from me!"
    More than anything, I did not want to leave the safety of the railing, Joscelin's hands holding me anchored, secure, out of the notice of that awful water-wrought face looming above us. More than anything.
    With a sinking feeling of despair, I murmured to Joscelin, "Let be." His grip tightened on my arms, and I turned to look at him. He bowed his head and let go, and I stepped away from the rail, raising my voice to the towering seas. "My lord, I am the emissary of Ysandre de la Courcel, Queen of Terre d'Ange!"
    The face of the Master of the Straits turned my way. Water, cascading, shaping a fluid mockery of flesh and bone. Lightning flashed in the eyes; the dark mouth opened. "I WILL TAKE YOU ALLLLL!"
    For what happened then, I lack words. The face flowed, dissolving, shaping the vast glassy hump of a wave; flowed, and flowed under our ship, lifting it. We rose on the crest of it like a toy boat, and the wave surged forward. It surged, and did not break. Like a charging bull, it rushed down the Straits, unending, unbreaking, and our ship born atop it, bearing us southward. There are those who doubt, but I swear it