The winged man spoke and even now his voice had music in it. “This will be painful, stranger. Bear it if you can—it will help you.” He raised the bucket. Glowing water spilled out, covering Carse’s body with a bright sheath.
Carse knew why Ywain had smiled. Whatever chemical gave the sea its phosphorescence might be healing but the curse was worse than the wounds. The corrosive agony seemed to eat the flesh from his bones.
The night wore on and after a while Carse felt the pain grow less. His weals no longer bled and the water began to refresh him. To his own surprise he saw the second dawn break over the White Sea.
Soon after sunrise a cry came down from the masthead. The Black Banks lay ahead.
Through the oar port Carse saw a welter of broken water that stretched for miles. Reefs and shoals, with here and there black jagged fangs of rock showing through the foam. “They’re not going to try to run that mess?” he exclaimed.
“It’s the shortest route to Sark,” Boghaz said. “As for running the Banks—why do you suppose every Sark galley carries captive Swimmers?”
“I’ve wondered.”
“You’ll soon see.”
Ywain came on deck and Scyld joined her. They did not look down at the two haggard scarecrows sweating at the oar.
Boghaz instantly wailed piteously. “Mercy, Highness!”