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The surface of the ship—its beaurehead, a woh into the air to grip the prow in her fists—was caked with barnacles, glutted with the mast was coated in the white miasma, branches choked with it like some foul snowfall There were not more than patches here and there where the stony shells had not fixed theh It was nearly solid, like ar looked at the mass of creatures in disures could be seen ly perfectly healthy and hale

And froure in leather breeches and a billohite tunic, with skin the color of myrrh Her tawny eyes were fraleareat store of costly spices—and it was knotted through with gold, strung through ornate braids like beads Just behind her stood a shadooman whose very skin seemed to be aflame, her fiery hand poised on the hilt of an enormous sword But the dark-headed woman beairlish hip and grinned at the newcomers

“Welcoh

And it was then that Sigrid finally did begin to weep, brought face-to-face with her Saint at last

“That is an odd reaction, if I estured for two of her women to lay a plank across the two ships so that the newcomers could come aboard

“The Maidenhead,” Sigrid whispered, in awe as her foot rested on the famed ship’s decks, encased as they were in stony white

“Well, isn’t that interesting? You rids” The Saint lookeddelicately over a drunken priest slurid stared

“You know about the Tower?” she gasped

“Tower? No, I don’t know of any tower, but that little cult was springing up even before I beca whale-turtle They’re tiresome, but what can I say to dissuade thes, someone is bound to try to repeat them for themselves It’s the way of the world”

Sigrid looked as though she had been slapped “I have searched my life over for you, for the Saint of the Griffins, of the Boiling Sea, of the Red Ship I have never tried to repeat your miracles I have performed my own I have only tried to be like you in spirit, to be brave, and noble, and to find my place in the world To find you”

The Saint leaned in close to Sigrid, her face as round and ruddy as the day she vanished, and laid one finger aside her nose, herinto a conspiratorial smile

“Gods are always a disappointment,” she clucked

Grog whipped her tail noisily through her brine, de attention like a kid who cannot reach her das

“I don’t rightly care who you are, you fancy sea dog Your ship looks like it fell bow-first into a barrel of old cheese Not what I’d call prime captain-ship, you know, Saint or not”

The Saint glanced dis tail “Misadventures at sea are as common as apples in autumn…”