Sect Year 5 · second month · night of day 4 · the forty-fourth life: Ferren Mouth, his thirty-first year
The pull was more than two hands could carry. Ned knew it the way he knew weather coming over the water, from the gulls going quiet and the boats tugging at their pennants out of step with one another. He had held the storm-line through the first long stretch of the night and most of the second.
His arms still answered him. The boon had not failed. But the weight in his palms had grown with every boat that came through the mouth, and it didn’t lighten when a boat was clear. It only shifted, and the weight went down the rope to the ones still out in the roads.
He could feel the third boat’s stern line come apart strand by strand. He could feel the dinghy’s hitch going soft as wet bread. He could feel Halvard’s voice out on the black water, not calling now so much as breathing. Under it the sea dragging at the man’s body as though it meant to make him one more weight on the rope.
“Dacey, bring her in!” Greve’s voice came from the stair. “Bring the line to the ring.”
