Drakis turned. “What did you say?”
“This needs to be taken care of,” Ethis said with a little more emphasis. “She’s a Seinar, Drakis. She’ll do whatever she can to lead the Iblisi to us.”
“She’s Mala,” Drakis said, shaking his head.
“No, she’s not,” Jugar said. “She has betrayed us and, beyond doubt, she will betray us again.”
“No,” Drakis insisted, “She doesn’t want to be this.”
“It isn’t a question of what she wants,” Ethis said with conviction. “She has no control over this any more than you can control whether you breathe or not! She is broken-deep within-and she cannot be fixed.”
“NO!” Drakis shouted. “She was fine before we began this insane quest and she’ll be fine again! If I find a way to put her back under House Devotions, she’ll be. .”
“What? Your slave?” Ethis countered. “Is that what you’re hoping for?”
Drakis wheeled on Ethis, slamming his right fist into his face. He felt the bones of the chimerian’s face flex as was the inherent trait of his kind and his fist give into the soft flesh of the face, but the blow did force Ethis back a few paces and gave Drakis back his focus from the satisfying blow.
“We sail north!” Drakis made the statement as though he dared anyone to contradict him. “We find the Siren Coast and this. . River of Tears or whatever it is. . and see what there is to this damn legend. Until then Mala is mine and under my protection.”
“It’s my ship,” Urulani said. “If she stays, then she stays under guard.”
“You, too, I see,” Drakis replied. “Then take me north, O Great Captain! We have a legend to bury.”
Drakis stood at the tiller that night. He shifted the course of the Cydron five points to starboard and held it there for nearly three days. All Urulani’s arguments were brushed aside by him as he held that course. . because, he said, the song was calling to him, and this was the course where he heard it the loudest.
By the dawn of the second day the distant shoreline could just be made out on the northern horizon. It took until just before noon for the coast features, such as they were, to become defined: short, gnarled trees and scrub brush painting a dark line above a bright sand shore. Here and there a tumble of rocks could be seen, but for the most part it was the most unremarkable coast Urulani or any of her crew had ever seen.
Drakis leaned hard on the tiller, his red, sleepless eyes struggling to peer over the bow. Despite the lack of landmarks, however, he steered the ship with remarkable precision up one of a dozen channels that flowed over a wide sandy delta. The Cydron was made for shallow-draft river raiding and passed smoothly over the delta waters and into the main channel of what Jugar at once proclaimed to be the River of Tears. Only then did Drakis relinquish the tiller to Urulani. . and he collapsus on the deck just as Urulani called for the sweeps to be set and the oarsmen to start pulling.
Drakis did not awaken again for another day and a half.
“How is your head?” Urulani asked.
“Much worse,” Drakis replied as he stretched. “Where are we?”
“I can report that we are definitely somewhere,” she replied, “And we are making good time.”
“Wonderful news,” Drakis responded, looking around them. The river had cut a meandering course, which Urulani was trying to make her ship follow. “I see that the riverbanks are sand. What’s beyond?”
“More sand,” Urulani replied with a twinkle in her dark eyes.
“Then I think you are wrong,” Drakis said, drawing in a deep breath. “We’ve gone right past somewhere and have definitely reached nowhere.”