Cwelanas, with her hair falling over one eye, took a step forward, her cutlass pointed at his chest. She took another step. Teldin forced himself to stand his ground. Part of him prayed that his gamble would work; the other part waited for the blow to land. The only sounds were the waves booming against the hull and the sails snapping in the wind. Teldin’s cloak swirled behind him in the gusts.

Before Teldin knew what her choice would be, Gomja roared through the small crowd of sailors. The big giff easily bowled aside the delicate elves. Distracted, Cwelanas started to turn toward the onrushing giff, but before she could complete her move, Gomja lashed out with his broadsword. Suddenly the elf maiden was on the defensive, driven back by the raging mass of muscle that bore down on her. Gomja moved with a speed surprising for his bulk, hewing at the elf’s parries. There was a ringing clang of metal and Cwelanas’s sword was knocked from her grasp. The blade slid toward the rail, where it was grabbed by an onlooker. Gomja restrained himself and stepped between the mate and Teldin, his sword pointed at Cwelanas. His huge chest heaved rapidly.

“No more fighting!” he bellowed in his bass tones. “On my life, you will not kill my commander!”

“Indeed,” echoed Luciar’s voice from the aft companionway. The old elf stood at the head of the stair that led to his cabin. He spoke softly, but his voice trembled with rage. “Cwelanas, attend me. You, with the sword, Boardbreaker, take your friend and keep him out of trouble. Put your sword away now. As for you crewmen, go to your posts and reflect on what should have been done. There will be no brawling aboard my ship!” The captain’s normally frail body seemed as hard as steel as he glowered at the assembled crowd. Gomja quickly snapped a salute and grabbed Teldin by the arm. Cwelanas, the fury exorcised from her by Luciar’s words, stood in shock at what she had done. Her shoulders sagged and her chest heaved from the exertion. At a sharp motion from the captain, she numbly began to move, but before Cwelanas reached the companionway, her pride had returned. Her chin was high once again as she looked back at Teldin, but her large eyes were narrowed and hard.

Gomja led Teidin by the elbow to the bow, moving easily through the gathered crewmen, who apprehensively parted before the pair. Elven eyes harbored looks Teldin couldn’t fathom-anger, distrust, fear, sympathy, perhaps even respect in a few faces. Slowly the seamen returned to their tasks.

Teldin, shaking from what he had done, collapsed by the base of the bowsprit. Gomja stood stiffly over him, waiting for a chance to speak. Finally Teldin looked up. “Yes?” he asked defensively.

“It is only some observations on your fight, sir,” Gomja explained uncomfortably, “to help you improve.” The farmer snorted at the suggestion, surprised that anyone would even think of such a thing at this time. Gomja, however, interpreted the sound as permission to continue. “You blocked quite well, sir, but you were not aggressive enough. There were several times when you could have lunged or made an effective riposte, and you let these opportunities go. And, sir, if I may say, you should never drop your weapon.

Teldin’s jaw dropped, and he looked at Gomja in disbelief. Was the giff just dense? he wondered. “Gomja, that was the idea! I didn’t want to kill her.”

“That may be true, sir, but she wanted to kill you,” the giff callously pointed out. He sat on the angled spar, unconsciously dropping into his instructor’s tone. “Sir, I’m sure you meant well, but in a fight, if you take up your spear, you must be ready to use it. Suppose I attacked you. What would you do? You couldn’t run away on this ship and you couldn’t parry me forever. If someone tries to kill you, you must fight. It’s the only choice-kill or be killed.”

“No, it’s not, Gomja! What if I had wounded or killed her? What would happen then? I don’t think Luciar would be too understanding about his daughter’s death. The crew would probably hang me-and you-or throw us both overboard.” The farmer left unsaid his feelings for the elf maid. Part of him had wanted to strike back, if only because of her pigheadedness, but ultimately he could not and did not. “Gomja, things just aren’t that simple!” Teldin shook his head in disgust. “You can’t go in and solve everything by fighting. Sometimes you have to try to get along and work things out.” Teldin slid about to stare down at the bow cutting through the waves.

Gomja’s huge mouth puckered as he thought about Teldin’s words. “If you say so, sir.” He sounded unconvinced. “Perhaps it is that way for humans.” Teldin sighed from the frustration of trying to get the giff to understand anything other than fighting.

Gomja noticed that the crew kept casting glances in their direction, so he pulled a whetstone from his pocket and drew it in long, careful strokes across his broadsword. The steely scrape formed a rhythmic counterpart to the Silver Spray’s surging through the waves. The hot sun and rhythmic noise slowly eased Teldin’s tense muscles, lulling him into a drowsy but irritable lassitude.

Teldin began to doze, the adrenaline of the fight almost gone, when Gomja stopped his sword-sharpening in mid- stroke. “Sir. Wake up, sir.” The giff gripped Teldin by the shoulder and gave him a solid shake. “Company, sir.”

The haze of sleep lifted, and Teldiri scrambled to his feet. Near the ladder to the forecastle stood Luciar, looking more solemn and grave than he normally did. The old captain was dressed in elegant finery, a pearl-white robe trimmed in gold and red. His thin hair was tied back, leaving his head a bald dome. Behind him stood Cwelanas, her eyes downcast, her hair falling gently to frame her face. Most amazing to Teldin was that she wore none of her mannish, martial garb. Instead, she stood on the swaying deck in a deep-blue gown of shimmering silk. It fit tightly, revealing a figure as feminine as Teldin had ever imagined. The long, flowing sleeves almost hid her hands, which were demurely folded at her waist. Behind the elf pair were the barely visible heads of the crew, gawking almost as much as the yeoman imagined he was. Sweaty, salt-stained, sunbaked, and unshaven, Teldin suddenly realized he must look atrocious in comparison.

“Teldin Moore of Kalaman, please accept my greetings,” Luciar solemnly began. “I have brought my daughter. She asks permission to come forward and speak with you.” The old elf waited for Teldin to reply.

Teldin caught Gomja’s wary expression from the corner of his eye, but in that instant Teldin could not suspect the old captain or even Cwelanas. It just was not in his heart. Refusing the giff’s mistrust, the farmer nodded slightly. “Very well, I will hear her words,” he accepted, trying to make himself sound polite.

Luciar stepped aside to let his daughter pass. As she glided across the deck, the blue silk rustled slightly, then dropped to whisper as she stopped before Teldin and held out her hands. The farmer, uncertain of why, realized he was meant to hold them and held out his own dirty and calloused hands. At first the elf maiden’s fingers darted back at his touch, then Cwelanas seized his fingers and squeezed tightly. Teldin made every effort not to wince.

“Teldin Moore of Kalaman,” Cwelanas said in unemotional, even tones, “I have done you a grave injury. The shame for what has happened falls upon me, and I apologize for all that has occurred. By the honor of House Olonaes, house of my father and his father before him, accept this gift from my hand.” Cwelanas released her grip from Teldin’s aching fingers. From her bodice she unfastened a small, silver pin in the shape of a flower and fastened it onto his shirt. The gift given, the elf maid stepped to stand beside Teldin. A forced smile graced her lips. Teldin stood shocked by the elfs whirlwind change of heart-even if her father had put her up to it. He managed a weak, baffled smile.