Chapter 240

The black rock, the white lighthouse, the Beam sweeping out again, steady and whole, ten thousand silver threads across the sea behind it. On the flat rock below the tower, a Long Table made of Upp Igen planks and Marka barrels, and both crews round it.

at the head of the table with the cauldron Mätt steaming, ladling stew into bowls and passing them down the line.

empty in front of him. He hasn't touched any. He never does. Kompis noticing, frowning, pushing his own bowl across.

staring at the huge man, something nagging at him. A kitchen. Steam. Being eight.

frozen. Then laughing, choked, wiping his eyes.

under the table, head on Roffe's boot, being slipped fish by an enormous hand.

Hallbard standing at the tower door, one enormous hand on the frame, his white eyes turned out to sea. He doesn't come to the table.

and in them, as the Beam sweeps past far out at sea, one flash of silver: a little fishing boat a hundred leagues off, lit, seen for one instant. Then nothing again.

coming up to the tower door with a bowl of stew, pushing it into Hallbard's hands.

reaching inside his oilskin and pulling out a thick logbook, salt-stained, four hundred years of ships in it. Pushing it into Drekk's hands in exchange for the bowl.

holding the log like something holy.

beside Drekk, looking up at the lighthouse, quietly.

At the very end of the Long Table, alone, wrapped in a borrowed blanket, a bowl of untouched stew in front of her: Natta. Thin, dark-eyed, lightless, emptied. Nobody quite knows what to do with her. Emma sitting beside her. Tihi on her other side, chattering.

her head turning slowly toward the tower, sniffing the air.

at the tower door, his white eyes turning toward the sound of her voice.

a long, long silence. Then, gruffly:

staring toward him with her lightless eyes.

beside Natta, very quietly.

further along the table, setting down his spoon, turning to Rougeina, who is sitting with her soot-black blades across her knees, not cleaning them yet.

wary.

calm, honest.

(Rougeina doesn't answer. But she doesn't leave the table either.)

The table emptying. Krydog asleep sitting up at the end of it, raw-eyed, the first sleep he's had in twenty rises, snoring. Vigolas draping a blanket over him.

asleep, mumbling.

Hallbard at the lens, white-eyed, wiping it out of habit. And at the top of the stair, wrapped in her blanket, sitting with her back to the wall, her face turned toward the lamp she can't see: Natta. The night-keeper.

talking across the water, to the dark, to someone.

The Beam sweeping out over the sea, and on the horizon, lit silver for one instant as it passes, a line of sails: a dozen ships, rigged for chasing, every one flying a crude flag with a chair painted on it.

at the glass, his white eyes catching that silver flash of a dozen sails, his face going grim.