Chapter 340
The two ships unlashed now, sailing side by side under clear sky, the little dinghy from Fyren towing behind the Upp Igen. The Arbiter's black square letters still faint across the whole sky: THE CONVERGENCE. ONE MATCH.
Krydog, sitting on an upturned bucket with one bandaged fist raised in front of him, perfectly still. Jeppson on his knees in front of him, a block of new oak clamped to the stem, carving, wood-shavings everywhere.
gathered round in a half-circle on the deck, watching their captain sit still with the awe of people watching a comet.
bringing Krydog a cup of tea, holding it to his lips so he doesn't have to move his fist.
Vaka with her lamp, sitting with Öde in the ship's little garden, the two of them comparing the things they remember (Öde's names on her arms, Vaka's faces from the ferry). Isa a beat behind both of them, smiling. Mingus asleep across Kompis's legs as if he'll never leave them again.
on the masthead, a hand over her eyes against the sun, going very still.
On the horizon, a sail. Then two. Then a scatter of them: small boats, fishing boats, a barge with patched canvas, all heading the same way across the Shallows.
on the Upp Igen's mast, Fjärran at her eye, a crimson tear starting.
at the Marka's bow, breaking into a huge grin.
And there too, sails. And astern. And ahead. Everywhere: from every point of the compass, out of every haze, sails, turning one way. A great clumsy flock of them.
The Shallows from high above under a sky written with black square letters. And on the water, from every edge of the page, ships, hundreds, turning toward one point beyond the horizon where the world tree stands: Tidekant's fishing fleet behind a small new skiff called Young Pike · the lamp-bearers of Lumen in little boats each with a lamp at the bow, a copper-braided girl in the first one · a black barge from the Burn with cooking-fires on its deck · a raft of root-fox-red sails out of the Splinterlands · the birds of Flyttfågeln wheeling overhead in a vast slow spiral, the island itself drifting under them · troll longships from Brygdar with stone kings carved on their prows · Gate City fishing smacks · a flotilla of rafts from the uncharted islands, plateless people waving.
And in the middle of all of it, two battered ships, one with a man sitting perfectly still on its bow.
coming alongside the Marka. Njord in her stern, huge, his beard blowing, his rod across his knees with six knots on it, Sill in the bow signing so fast her hands blur.
leaning over the rail.
passing close: a copper-braided seven-year-old with seven emerald freckles and a clay lamp, standing up in it, waving with her whole arm.
cooking-fires on its deck, a gaunt man in a ragged showman's coat and an apron stirring a pot, and beside him on a stump bolted to the deck, a woman of charcoal with smoke for hair, her coal eyes on Vigolas's wrist.
at the wheel, overwhelmed, his beard wet.
at the rail, counting sails under his breath out of old habit, a merchant's habit, and giving up.
at the bow, Aska's ember in one hand, a scrap of paper in the other: a list in his untidy hand. SIXTEEN SHIPS. Names. Some crossed out where he couldn't remember them. Some he has.
beside him, reading over his shoulder.
Jeppson stepping back from the stem. Wood-shavings ankle-deep. And on the stem, new, pale oak, raw and beautiful: a fist. Raised. A bandage across its knuckles. Not the same as the old one: a little more battered. A scar on one knuckle the old one didn't have.
standing up off the bucket, shaking out his arm, turning round to look. Going quiet.
looking at the new fist. At his own. Laughing, short and wet.
cork welling gently from the wood at its base, as from every plank in the world now: the tree bleeding into the carving. And the fist holding.
The great flock of ships sailing on through the gold light, hundreds of lanterns coming on one after another across the water like a city lighting up. The Arbiter's letters fading in the dusk sky.
asleep in his chalk ring on the Marka's deck, banking, his dream above him in colour, the silver rune of GATHER faint on his cheek. And under his ear, through the bark, a new whisper from the wood: not a rune. A sound. A horn, very far off.
Out ahead of the flock, on the black water, a line of light appearing: not a beam, not a lantern. A road. A straight silver road laid on the sea itself, glowing, leading away from them toward the horizon. And then another beside it, coming from another direction. And another. Roads of light, from every direction, all converging.
staring at the road under the Marka's bow.
Where the roads of light all meet: a small island of white stone, a bell-tower with no bell, signposts pointing every way. Vägskälet. And on its shore, at the edge of the water where all the roads arrive, a tall woman in a dust-brown road-coat, a raven braid, a great curved horn of cork-ridged bark across her back, waiting with her arms folded. Wheezing slightly.
raising one eyebrow as the first ships come in along the roads, the gold cord of script down her throat dim, her breath short.
at the Marka's bow as she glides in along the road to the shore.
Torva on the white shore at the crossing of a hundred roads, pointing past the island at the one road out of it that isn't lit: overgrown, thorny, dark, its signpost worn to almost nothing.