Fern had lain Swab down on the flattest place she could find and was trying once again to satisfy her thirst. Querc was tearing about the place full of nervous energy. It was obvious that something had upset her, so Prim got her to stop moving by firmly embracing her and hanging on for a spell.
“I came up to get something for Pick, and he was just there, looking at the sample case.”
“The Beedle?”
“Yes. All I could think of was my family, and all the Beedle fights they used to talk about. I tried for the longest time to scream for help, but I was just frozen—he hadn’t seen me yet. Then he noticed me, and took a step in my direction, and I pulled this out.” She patted the hilt of a long knife sheathed at her hip. “That made him pause for a minute. If he’d come after me I don’t know what I’d have done. But then Mard came running in. He stopped at the edge of the dark and drew his sword. That spooked the Beedle. He drew out his sword and ran at Mard. Mard backed out into the light and they fought each other.”
52
Pick, as the sole member of the Quest who did not seem injured, shocked, or distracted, had taken it upon himself to come up with a plan. They all collected near where Swab lay so that they could talk about it. Everything about the manner in which Pick spoke of this plan seemed to indicate that he thought highly of it, “given the circumstances.” But no one could understand what he was proposing.
“Given the circumstances,” Lyne repeated. “Given the circumstances. We are trapped in a waterless, foodless hellhole at the arse end of the world, being hunted by Beedles, and there is no one to help us. So, what you’re saying is that, given those circumstances, this is a better plan than just dying of thirst or being murdered.”
“If you have some other suggestion,” said Corvus, “now’s the time to pipe up.”
After some moments went by without anyone’s piping up, Corvus said, “Right! Settled.”
“The most excellent plan I can think of,” said Lyne, “is not to get talked into Quests by mysterious giant talking ravens.” He shared this with Fern, Mard, and Prim after Corvus had flown away to reconnoiter and Pick and Querc had taken turns going down the rope into the huge mysterious crack. Swab had been quiet of late. Fern was sitting by her side, holding her hand, perhaps trying to ascertain whether she was alive or dead. Prim looked at them, trying not to be obvious, and saw that Fern had begun to unwind the bandage. It was no longer doing service. Swab had stopped bleeding, for the place where the arrow had gone in was now dissolving into chaos and no longer supplied with blood. Fern had, however, been following the conversation, and now spoke.
“As I understand matters,” she said, “I have lost more than any of you. My keelsloop is gone. Of my three crew, Rett is dead. Two are wounded, and one of those absconded with my longboat. If you don’t mind, I’ll be the judge of whether going on this Quest was worth it. And I’m all in still.”
“How can you be?” Prim asked, in a tone of gentle curiosity. Of course she knew from her reading of old Quest stories that there was fighting and blood. But to observe the consequences of a single arrow fired into a single body had forever changed the way she would think about such adventures. Fern had seen worse in the last day, and various clues about her, her ship, and her crew had suggested that this was far from her first scrap.
“This happens all the time anyway,” Fern said, her voice quiet but severe. She flicked her eyes down at her suffering partner. “Perhaps not to those of you who live in castles on Calla. But I have seen it all before. I have not before—not in a thousand falls of sailing the sea—seen a giant talking raven who can transform himself into a man and hold forth with authority on the Before Times. To be called into such doings is a gift that has never been given to me before and will not come again. I have seen wonders already that no one to my knowledge—and I have lived long and journeyed far—has ever seen or spoken of. Young as you are and living