She looked at him through the wind and rain. “Then which is he, Simna? What is the truth?”
“The truth?” He considered a moment, then broke out in the irrepressible grin that, when words failed, defined him. “The truth is a riddle wrapped in an enigma—or sometimes in a nice piece of hot flat bread fresh from the oven. That’s my friend Etjole.”
Stanager Rose was a woman of exceptional beauty and competence—but not a great deal of humor. “In other words, you don’t know whether he’s actually an eminent alchemist, or just a vector for the sorcery of others.”
Simna nodded, rain dripping from his hair and chin. “Just so. But this I do know: I’ve seen renowned swordsmen battle a dozen skilled opponents at a time, I’ve seen them fight off beasts armed with fang and claw, I’ve watched others deflect the attacks of mosquitoes the size of your arm and thorn trees with minds of their own—but this is the first time I’ve seen anyone use a blade to fence with wind!”
Indeed, Ehomba was not merely parrying the gusts that swirled around him, but doing so in a manner that saw one after another line up aft of the ship. Deflected by the weaving, arcing sword and its attendant indigo aurora, gale after gale was forcefully merged to blow steadily from astern. Gradually the Grömsketter stopped sailing in ragged circles and resumed a westerly heading. The storm continued to rage, but now the bulk of it, aligned by blows from Ehomba’s blade, raged from directly behind the ship, driving it across the wild Semordria in the direction it had originally been traveling.