Pain clattered his skull in fierce torrents and he held his head to ease the inexorable pressure.
Panted.
A circular carving of two dragons once more – entwined like lovers and…
He traced trembling fingers over letters chiselled into the wood.
The name of his boat.
My Lady.
A woman’s laughter resounded in his head…
Visions.
“Just call it that. I’m no one special…”
“Tris?” A clasp of his shoulders. “That carving matches your pendant, does it not?” His brother’s face blurred. “Tris? Can you hear me?”
He heard his own booming voice.
“But you are so very special… My Lady Gwen.”
Chill needles of a rabid storm struck him.
Dank darkness, wind wailing, rain relentless.
No breath, lungs caked with salt, leg smashed.
He tumbled to his knees; unimaginable pain flooded.
Pinned to the rail as the mast fell, crushing him, his throat.
A wave pitched, threw him asunder.
Tumbling.
Bitter, roiling waters.
No air.
As he watched their beloved boat torn apart.
Gwen’s boat.
Never to see her again. Never to kiss her agai–
“Tris, breathe!” A wallop to his back.
He fell forward, hauled in breath…
But that merciless black sea claimed him once more, churning, growling, slaying…
* * *
Gwen muttered a ratherrude word as the carriage wheel clambered over what was likely a small branch but felt like a felled trunk, despite this being the duke’s finest sprung equipage. The track through Cythraul Woods was oft a bumpy ride due to scattered debris or rain-carved ruts and she shuffled upon the cushioned seat.
Both her book and lap-blanket had tumbled to the floor, so she bent to retrieve them with a shiver. It was so cold, it felt as though her eyelashes were frosting and she hoped Coachman Jones and Jonnet the groom had worn an extra layer of woollies.
