

### The Wicked Heroine

### Book One in the Immortality Archive

### By Jasmine Giacomo

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright © 2010

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters portrayed herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places, events or living persons.

Cover art by Streetlight Graphics

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Oathen

### Dedication

To the next generation: may you never lose your sense of adventure. You, too, can save the world.

### Acknowledgements

My editor, Gerry Huntman, and M. L. Strickland were invaluable in creating the story that you see today. Without their unique assistance at two very different time periods in this story's history, this book would not exist. A huge thank you also goes out to my beta readers.

My continual thanks go to my family, for letting me live my passion.

##  Maps

##  Prologue

Four hundred years ago

The woman on the galloping black horse threw a glance over her shoulder. Past the low, proliferous shrubbery of the rising plains, through the gentle steam of hidden hot springs, she saw the red dust cloud rising around the last bend in the road. Dark hair that had escaped her braid whipped across her eyes as she turned to look forward again. She spurred her mount, hoping for more speed.

Her companion, riding slightly behind her, shouted, "Jacasta! I can delay them!"

"You know how long it would take them to kill you, Arisson. I couldn't bear sensing that!"

"We're beyond that now, Jacasta! Our queen has been assassinated; the very land itself is torn. There is far more at stake than just us. You know that!"

"Yes." She caught her breath, gasping, "I know, but I don't want to lose you now. We've come so far. So thrice-damned far!"

"We might not make it." The blond man looked back as the riders bearing down on them rounded the curve into sight. His mount pulled even with hers.

"We have to!" Fear tightened the cords in her neck. "We're almost there."

"So are they. I will stop them, so you can succeed." Arisson lifted the reins and turned his shoulders, looking back again, ready to wheel his mount around on the narrow country road. His free hand flared with silvery light.

"By your Oath, you will not!" shouted the woman, command ringing in her voice. She glared at him, daring him to argue.

Arisson gritted his teeth silently and kept riding, clenching the light into nothingness. The faint thunder of the distant hooves behind them could be heard now; there were so many.

"You know the power of the Oath," Arisson finally murmured. "Yet you still want me at your side, Jacasta?"

"Yes," she responded, eyes grim. She might not be able to pass the Warding alone, let alone navigate the Crypt, or thread the Dragon's Labyrinth.

"You would hold our love more dear than the lives of all our people, at a time like this?" Only the accusatory concern in his voice made his words discernable over the thudding of hooves and the horses' snorting breaths.

"Allgods damn, yes!" she cried, tears springing to her eyes. "I need you, Arisson. I can't do this alone!"

His hand slipped onto hers, gripping it tightly for a few moments. She had not noticed him urging his mount so close to hers. Their horses galloped along in perfect rhythm as he said, "You can. And you know it. What's in your saddlebag could destroy us all. What's in your heart could save us. I believe in you. You can do this alone."

Eyes wide with sudden fear, she turned to him. "Are you breaking our Oath?"

~~~

In the end, their Oath was indeed broken, but not by Arisson.

Jacasta succeeded in binding the Dire Tome apart from the world. Yet, she alone survived the battle of magic and steel within the Heart of the Dragon. The bodies of Arisson and the Dzur i'Oth riders lay scattered across the stonework floor and the black marble dais.

Jacasta knelt alone in the blackness, raging her grief helplessly; it echoed off the distant, unseen walls, and her prayers could not escape to rise to the heavens. Kneeling beside her husband's body, she drew her knife and hacked her long dark braid off as high as she could reach, and laid it across his chest.

"My Oath has broken; I am not worthy," she muttered through bitter tears.

She interred Arisson's body in an unused tomb among the dead monarchs of the land. She longed to remain, to mourn, yet she knew there were hundreds who still sought her, to regain what she had taken and hidden away.

They could not retrieve the book without her now. She dared not remain anywhere near this place, lest they take the key she possessed.

She re-emerged from the Green Dragon, walking toward the shadow-cloaked hills. Not to return to them, but to walk past them, and on beyond. Her broken, bitter voice trailed once more on the wind. "As Arisson has perished, so let Jacasta perish with him. My people can only be safe if I leave these shores. They are the only ones I could save, and they will never know of it.

"Now, I am only the Shanallar."

##  Chapter One

Geret Branbrey Valan sat in the office of his uncle's seneschal, cooling his heels until the seneschal decided to deal with him. He parked his tall frame in the green velvet armchair, carelessly propped his muddy boots on the matching footstool, and gave a world-weary sigh. This is always the dullest part, he thought. Waiting for the inevitably boring punishment. I go through all this trouble, and they can't ever come up with something interesting in return. I'm not sure why I bother anymore.

But Geret had no intention of stopping; he always enjoyed the anticipation too much. His longish light brown hair was in his eyes again; he shook it out and let his gaze drift across the ancient, cobweb-cornered portraits hung on the maroon-and-white papered walls of the seneschal's office. All boring people. Boring and dead. This whole place is so boring. Why isn't anyone here into fun?

The corners of Geret's mouth rose as he recalled the fun he'd just had. He'd had perfect execution and impeccable timing, gauging his performance for not only his victim, but several passing ladies of nobility. Their shrieks and following laughter had warmed his trickster's heart immensely.

Geret's brown eyes fell next on the seneschal's desk. Rectangular, dark and scuffed, it proudly proclaimed the man as unimaginative as a dim-witted goat. Geret smirked and gave a short laugh. The desk was remarkably similar to another desk he recalled visiting quite often. Geret wondered if all seneschals were required to be boring and unimaginative, and had to use the same kind of desks. His last visit to that other desk was, in fact, irrevocably linked to his transfer of lodgings to where he lived today. Geret inhaled deeply, and with a smile, he thought back to his most glorious achievement to date.

~~~

It was high summer, and his father's castle, along the Eastern March of Vint, had just received a shipment of rare ice from the Shatterglass River, high in the Ribbon Mountains. The ridges where the ice accumulated were so worn down, they looked like hills, and only their massive height let the ice remain frozen all year round.

That precious, temporary commodity was going to be wasted on a visit from the Magister and his son, Prince Addan. Little slivers of frozen heaven, wasted in good wine. Probably in everyday well water also, just to show off. And the weather was beastly hot. Geret knew something must be done about such a travesty.

He stole the seneschal's key ring–again–and late at night he snuck into the ice chamber, deep under the castle. Once the door was open, he could feel the cold air rushing past his feet. His tiny lantern barely illuminated the mounds of sawdust that had been shoveled over the ice to slow its melting before it could be used. There were enough giant blocks of it that Geret imagined he could build a large fort out of them. He walked over to one of the nearest blocks and scraped away the sawdust in handfuls until he could feel the cold bite of the ice itself. He laid his palm on it, letting the frozen water numb his skin.

This ice had come all the way from the mountains. Far higher than his home here in the foothills, far away from all the people in the whole world. Up there where only snow and rock and sky existed. And maybe other, more mysterious things! Geret's breathing quickened at the thought.

And then, before his hand became completely useless, Geret pulled out his chisel and hammer–also 'borrowed'–and hacked the ice blocks into as many chunks as he could carry. He wrapped them each individually, with some of the sawdust packing, in linen cloths. Then he tied all the packaged chunks together in a huge swath of material that he lifted to his shoulder with care. Hefting the weight into a comfortable place, Geret staggered a bit under the load, but safely made his escape.

The next day, the Magister, his son, and several members of the Dictat were scheduled to arrive. Geret had a plan to greet them properly, Valan-style.

He made his preparations carefully, not finishing for another two hours, and not until he had also woken several of his father's young wards and bribed them to assist him. Finally, he crawled tiredly into his bed, eagerly awaiting the morrow.

When the sun rose, mere hours after Geret had gone to sleep, its rays were already hot. Geret kept a close eye on the road up to the castle, knowing that the Magister's entourage would not be showing up in any sudden manner; once he knew they were here, his final preparations could take place.

In the extreme heat of the day, a faint line of dust on the road proclaimed the Magister's imminent arrival. Geret ducked into the stables. He heard the stable boys bustling around as they made sure they had clear access to the stalls for the visiting horses. He grabbed a few of his bundles and sidled out to the watering troughs just outside the stable entrance to the main castle courtyard, where he wiped off the sawdust with the linen wraps and set his prizes gingerly afloat. Then he hurried to the kitchens, where he barked a few orders at the already-busy serving girls, getting them to do his bidding instead of the cook's.

In the minutes it took them to comply, he dashed across the courtyard, up to the second story of the outer bailey stairs, then onto the wall itself, where he would have an excellent view of the arriving guests as they rode in underneath him. The guards stationed there eyed him suspiciously, and with good reason, but even they could not have stopped his plan now.

The Magister and his entourage arrived in full pomp and style, wearing white cotton clothes to help combat the heat. As they stepped out below to be greeted in the great courtyard by Geret's father, the serving girls brought out platters of wine for the honored guests and buckets of water for their liveried servants. Geret watched eagerly, anticipating the first drinks by the servants the most.

He was not disappointed. Their expressions of delight at discovering that their own water was chilled with precious ice could be heard even up here on the wall. Geret bounced excitedly on his toes and grabbed the wooden rail on the inner edge of the wall. The beginnings of a frown were likely starting on his father's forehead, but he couldn't tell from where he was.

The stable boys were escorting the tired horses a distance away and rubbing them down. Some of the horse boys that had come with the entourage went along to assist them. The next stop was the troughs, before the animals were led into the cool shade of the stables to get some sweet hay, and Geret watched with a grin as the visiting horse boys exclaimed in awe at the chill of even the horse-trough water. Such an amazing man Geret's father was, to share his rare bounty of ice with not only his guests, and not only every last one of their servants, but the very horses that had brought them as well!

Geret's father's expression was now clear even at this distance. His entire body posture spoke volumes.

Geret couldn't hold it in any longer; he fell to his knees, letting his laughter bubble out through his lips. He rested his forehead against the wooden handrail he still clutched, helpless with mirth. It was too much; he'd truly outdone himself this time, but it was not over yet. Bracing himself for the final act of his performance, knowing full well it would push his father too far, he stood and threw his arms wide and called out in a loud voice that echoed around the courtyard. "Welcome, great Magister, honored members of the Dictat! Welcome, all you other hot, thirsty people, to my father's generous castle! In order that you be fully refreshed from your journey, I have arranged for the sky to open and a cooling rain to fall upon you, even here in the blazing heat of summer!" Geret tipped his head up toward the sky and bellowed at the top of his lungs, "Sky! Give us rain!"

For a second, nothing happened but some distant thuds. The entire population in the courtyard was staring up, either at Geret, or, more credulously, at the blue summer sky.

And then Geret caught the flash of the sun on drops of water. They fell all over the courtyard, on the people and the horses. And it was indeed a cooling rain. The people below jumped in surprise, and a few yelped. Others covered their heads with their arms and cringed, unsure what exactly was going on.

Geret was nearly beside himself with glee. It had worked! He lifted his fists into the air in triumph, and did not mind at all when one of his rooftop helpers catapulted the last bucketful of icy meltwater onto his head. It was a fitting finale to his amazing performance, and it made him whoop with pure joy.

Then the guards had grabbed his arms and dragged him to the seneschal's office. His laughter, even then, muffled out the curses of his father in the courtyard below.

Geret had sat in the seneschal's office for three hours, with a guard at the door, before the man had come in to see him. He hadn't been allowed to see the guests, nor eat or drink at the feast with them, but he didn't really mind. This had been much more memorable.

When the seneschal finally came in, he pushed Geret's boots off his desk corner with a tired air and collapsed into his chair. Geret narrowed his eyes in fiendish pleasure. He knew he was likely responsible for the state of the seneschal's balding and graying head. Served him right for being so strict all the time.

Geret lounged, awaiting the inevitably boring punishment. But the seneschal had not come to punish him, it turned out. The first words out of his mouth made Geret sit up straight in a panic, protesting that he didn't deserve such a harsh handling, that it wasn't fair at all.

~~~

In the end, Geret mused, it hadn't been so bad, coming to live at the Magister's palace in Highnave. What purpose the Magister had for him was becoming more clear as the weeks went by, but Geret didn't understand why it was happening now. In truth, Geret was shocked that his performance that day hadn't put the Magister off him entirely. He considered, with a thrill of glee, that his next expedition into the realms of the illegal should include spying on the Magister to find out. That would be putting his talents to a more practical use, as his tutors constantly urged him.

He knew what they were doing. They were trying to overfill his daily schedule, while encouraging him toward positive hobbies, so that he'd have no time for his own amusement. It was true, eventually he'd have to stop. He was at the cusp of manhood; he'd have to grow up and be responsible someday. Then Geret smiled, as he realized he'd been responsible for one practical joke or another for years.

"Find your latest prank amusing, do you, Geret?" the seneschal asked, startling Geret in his plush chair. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't heard the man come in.

Geret looked over at the seneschal. This one was tall and lean. His name was Ilvan Imorlar, and he still had a full head of short brown hair. Well, thought Geret with a wicked grin, there's time enough to change that.

"Yes, my lord, I do," Geret answered, effortlessly polite.

"Naturally. You wouldn't have done it otherwise." Imorlar sat down in his chair and aimed a level gaze at Geret. "You've been in here three times now. That amounts to one prank every few weeks. Too much more of you, and I think you might collapse the entire nation from the inside out."

Geret merely grinned.

Imorlar leaned forward onto his elbows and looked directly into Geret's eyes. "You're too smart for us, Geret. That's your problem. In spite of all the classes and extracurricular activities we're burdening you with, you still have time to churn out these ideas. And you lack a direction to churn them out to, so you play these pranks. Well, I have an idea."

Here it comes, thought Geret. The unimaginative part.

"I want you to work for me."

Wait, what? Geret's eyebrows rose. "Didn't see that coming," he admitted, grinning. Maybe I've judged this seneschal a bit hastily, after all.

Imorlar smiled. "Good. Now, before I induct you into my ranks," he said with a disarming grin, "you'll need to pass a test. And no, it won't involve playing a prank."

Despite himself, Geret was interested. He loved challenges, strategy and games, and he was physically quick and agile. Whatever the test, he was sure he was up to it. "What do I need to do?" he asked, realizing with amusement that he sounded as eager as a little boy with Low Solstice presents to open.

"That's part one of the test, now, isn't it?" Imorlar grinned.

"But..." Geret trailed off, thinking. Either a bit of effort would make it pretty clear what Imorlar wanted, or it would all be a trick to occupy Geret for a few days. But he thought Imorlar was smarter than that: to anger Geret was to wake up with pig intestines pulled up to one's thighs like stockings and glued in place, as the seneschal knew quite well from Geret's most recent prank on Lord Munder. The women Geret had gotten to walk by, just as the lord had burst from his guest rooms, had been both repulsed and highly amused, and they had been selected purely for their immense gossiping ability, so Geret knew that revenge would indeed be his by nightfall.

So, this was all probably legitimate. Geret squinted a bit, watching Imorlar watch him. "Done," he said, and was relieved to see a genuine smile, not a crafty one, spread across Imorlar's face.

"Excellent. Consider your test begun. You have three days to discover what your test is and complete it, and then...well, then we will see what we can do. I have faith in you, Geret."

"So do I, my lord," Geret returned, one cheek dimpling with a wicked grin.

##  Chapter Two

The cave lay snug and quiet, while a dim glow from the coals in the round fire pit coated the ceiling and walls with a sleepy warmth. The snow-laden wind could be heard thundering faintly outside. Fresh air circulated slowly through air holes about the cave, melting snow outside. The meltwater plopped from the tip of a stone corkscrew trough that was molded to the ceiling, falling down into a carved cistern in the back corner floor.

The smell of drying meat wafted throughout the room, as the suspended drying rack rotated slowly several feet above the fire pit, its motion generated by wooden fan-blades that turned gently in the coals' thermal updrafts. Near the cave's entrance, three curtains of patchworked skins were suspended at intervals between rods, top and bottom, with wool stuffing around the edges, creating dead air spaces that protected the cave's warmth from the chill of winter. Beyond them, the great wooden door–thick, solid and circular–fit snugly into the cave's mouth, its construction the work of an entire warm season. The sleeping woman on the bench near the fire rested easily beneath her light blanket.

A thud came at the door. The woman's eyes moved beneath her lids, and for several seconds that single motion was the only indication she did not sleep. Then she rolled to her feet, a small blade appearing in her hand. Clad in her ankle-length linen garment, with a dark braid swinging down her back, she padded quickly toward the curtains and warily parted each pair in the center. She slipped through and closed each behind her before opening the next.

As she pushed aside the last curtain and approached the door, a freezing draft wafted over her bare feet. She stopped suddenly, seeing that a figure had opened her outer door and fallen motionless on the floor within. The wind swirled around them both, filling the cave's entryway with its icy grip.

She moved quickly to the door and looked out into the last few feet of the cave's mouth. There was one set of tracks, quickly being obliterated in the swirling wind. Since her porch had nothing else to tell her, the woman closed the door firmly, tucked the blade away, and bent over the still figure on her floor. The person was bundled heavily in furs and wool, and was face down.

Some idiot hunter? the hermit wondered. Worthwhile game was scarce above the tree line. She reached for the figure's far shoulder and turned it over, pulling off a furred hood, wool cap and mask, to reveal the face of a young girl, pale blonde eyelashes nearly invisible against her cheeks. Surprised–when had she last been surprised?–the woman pulled the girl through the curtains to warm her up.

After depositing the youngster by the fire pit and making sure the entryway curtains were doing their job, she pulled the girl's frozen clothing off, then wrapped her in a thick wool blanket. She saw that the fingers on her visitor's right hand had been frostbitten.

The girl had worn a small pack under her outer coat; the woman shamelessly picked through it. Food and water, some rough drawings of random lines–or were they maps? Two small books, written in Versal, the common language of the many peoples inhabiting the continent of Cyrmant, at whose southern end her cave was located.

That amused her. Hardly anyone for dozens of miles in any direction could read or write, in Versal or anything else.

The brunette made sure the girl was resting comfortably, then lay down on her sleeping bench, positioned so that she could watch her for signs of stirring.

Those signs came several hours later, when the girl sighed and tried to rise, but found herself hampered by the thick blanket. The woman slipped over and assisted her in sitting, propping her back against a bundle of leathers against the cave wall.

"How do you feel?" the woman asked in Versal, finding her voice quite rusty and unfamiliar.

The girl looked around, taking in the trappings of the cave: the slowly rotating contraption over the fire pit; oddly constructed spheres made of reused metal; boxes and shelves–clearly handmade–yet holding well-cared-for supplies; and fabrics that might have once been sacking, dyed with natural colors and hanging against the walls like a poor woman's tapestries. Other decorated hangings of reddish skins were interspersed with landscape carvings etched right into the walls.

The fantastic sight was unfamiliar, and the girl's eyes turned toward the cave's occupant: a woman perhaps twenty years older than herself, in good health, with dark brown hair that laced down her back in a thick braided rope. Her garment of old linen was clean and neatly patched. Dark green eyes, an odd color the girl had never seen before, gazed placidly back at her.

"Where am I?" the blonde visitor finally asked.

"You are in my home. You stumbled against my door last night. Do you remember?"

The young girl paused to recollect. "Yes. I was..." The girl's voice, at first slow and contemplative, sped up as she recalled her situation the night before. "...Searching for a woman. My quest. I'm looking for an old woman, or maybe two women: a teacher and her student." Her eyes flicked again around the room. "Do you know if anyone like that lives nearby? Where are we on the mountain? I think I got lost in the dark last night."

The brunette eyed her visitor with concern. "There's no need for excitement. You need to eat and drink, then rest some more. Those fingers you're clutching are frostbit," she said, indicating the girl's right hand.

The young blonde looked down at her fingers in dismay. All four fingers were deathly white, reddening with blood flow only where they met her hand. "Wisdom, no!" she said, her voice a wail of despair. "This is monumentally bad! Will they fall off? Can you save them?"

The hermit moved closer and took the girl's hand, examining the injured fingers. "I am no physick, child."

The girl's face paled as the gravity of her possible loss weighed on her. Swallowing nervously, she met the woman's dark green eyes. "Please?"

Something in the girl's face touched the hermit. "First," she said, having made up her mind, "tuck them inside your shirt." As the girl did so, pressing the frozen digits against her warm skin, the woman continued, "Next, you need to eat. I have snow-weasel soup I can heat up; you must drink only its warm broth. We will see about solid food later."

Her visitor nodded acquiescence. She followed the brunette's movements with her eyes as she fetched a pot from a hole in the wall. The girl realized she did not know the woman's name, so she asked for it.

"Call me Meena."

"My name is Sanych elTiera. I'm a journeyman Archivist at the Temple of Knowledge, in Vint."

Meena continued her task of heating the soup, which had frozen in its pot, and did not reply.

"I have come on a quest to locate the woman, or women, I spoke of earlier."

Silence.

"It's imperative that I locate her, or them. You're sure you don't know anyone like them around here?"

Meena poked at the thawing soup as it dangled over the coals by a counterweight system.

Sanych pursed her lips. The hermit was not being very helpful. Another tack might bring about the information she sought. "I see you're using Belvar's Principle to dry your meat. Where did you learn that?"

Meena glanced up at the bladed contraption that was currently turning her meat strips above the coals. She turned speculative green eyes to Sanych.

"Used to travel. Learned it from a ranger."

"Belvar was a ranger," Sanych mentioned. "One of his descendants might have taught you."

The woman didn't look up from stirring.

Sanych pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose. "And your water collection method. If I'm not mistaken, that's patterned closely after the Yangul tribes of the Hollow Desert, about four thousand miles east of here. The sluices are carved around existing stalactites. Their upper holes let warmed cave air melt the snow, then drain it down into pools. Or in your case, your cistern. Very artistic. How did you learn that?"

"Like I said, used to travel." A pause. "How do you know all that? You're what, twelve?"

"I happen to be fifteen," the girl said, her voice prim. "It's the minimum age journeymen can leave on their Archivist quest. I had to wait eighteen weeks till my birthday. Eighteen whole weeks!"

Meena stopped poking at the nearly-thawed soup and looked directly at Sanych. "We've got some time 'til you can get back out there; why don't you tell me your quest while I fill you up and get you warm?"

Sanych didn't know what to make of this Meena. She was indeed a woman living on the mountain, but she was young and alone. She didn't wear the Shanallar's torc, and seemed rather thick. The facts didn't fit. She figured it wouldn't hurt to spin out her tale for a while.

"The Temple of Knowledge, where I live, is just outside Highnave, the capital city of Vint. We don't worship any of the gods of the neighboring nations; we preserve knowledge, in the form of books, scrolls, parchments, anything we can get our hands on. Our purpose is to preserve the written word, and to advise the Magister of Vint, our ruler. My mentor at the Temple says we're like the Magister's extended memory. I was taught from a very young age how to cross-reference information with other, possibly unrelated works. It sounds simple, but it's a lot of hard work. My mentor says I have a gift, and he's right. If I read a page once, I can remember anything on it."

Meena raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"For example," Sanych continued, "I've been studying an old legend for my quest: the legend of the Shanallar. It dates back about four hundred years. The one book we have on the Shanallar's exploits doesn't even say if this person was male or female.

"I believe the Shanallar, mentioned in the Chronicle of the Fall of Aghas, is also the Great Sage of Hauma'poma, whose tale we have in three separate books. The one by Anoulus the Wise refers to the Great Sage as 'she'. The most obvious clue that they're the same person is that they both make reference to a bronze torc she wears, engraved with fantastic animals."

The hermit nodded, allowing Sanych to continue.

"Now," Sanych said, in her best debating voice, "most learned men of the age have concluded that 'Shanallar' is a title in some unknown tongue, similar to counselor, priest, magician, or the like. But I found a clue in Away and Home, a book on the travels of a young lordling who was gone for twelve years. He returned home to find that no one believed his tales. In his book he makes reference to the 'distant land of Shanal, shrouded in mist and flame' with numerous exotic beasts and peoples.

"Do you see?" Tucking a blond strand of hair behind an ear, Sanych leaned forward to accept the heated broth from Meena's hands, catching her breath and sipping a slow mouthful of the savory liquid from its baked clay bowl. "The Shanallar is simply a woman from Shanal."

Sanych thought Meena took her astonishing conclusion rather well. The hermit raised an eyebrow in mild curiosity. Or perhaps boredom. The young journeyman set her bowl aside to use both hands for gesticulation.

"Most of the Masters in the Temple doubt my theory, but I'll prove them wrong. I have all the facts; I've checked them. It's what I do. They only doubt me because I'm young and I thought of it before they did. When I find the Shanallar, they'll see I'm right.

"I still haven't been able to determine whether she's a very aged woman, or a series of women who teach their successors and pass on the title," Sanych said. "That's why I'm not sure if I'm looking for an old crone, or a student and a teacher. But she, or they, must live in or near this valley."

Meena pursed her lips and decided to ask a question. "What makes you think the Shanallar woman or women didn't just die out a few generations back? You think bad luck only affects normal folk?"

"The Holy Witch." The girl's eyes burned bright with belief.

Meena cocked her head to the side. "Come again?"

"Thirty-two years ago, far north in the country of Nen Thakka, there was a woman known as the Holy Witch. She came from nowhere and left to nowhere. And she wore a bronze torc. She had the power to heal wounds, like the Shanallar and the Great Sage. Her wisdom and foresight came just in time to prevent the country being embroiled in a civil war, and she saved the Queen from assassination by her own niece.

"The Holy Witch was named the Queen's Champion and defeated the scheming princess in single combat. But she refrained from delivering the death blow, and then healed her. It was a masterful stroke of genius. The princess could not protest the defeat because the Holy Witch was not of royal blood and had no stake in the outcome, and her supporters could not avenge her as she had not been killed. There were riots anyway, but with the Holy Witch to advise her, the Nen Thakkan queen quickly arranged for peaceful settlement and married her niece off to a foreign king. They've traded civil war for international trade.

"She has to be the Shanallar. And she was alive thirty-two years ago! Isn't that exciting?" the girl asked, leaning forward with sparkling eyes.

Meena wrinkled her brow. "If you say so."

Sanych sighed, then continued. "The final step in the Shanallar's journey is from the Canticle of Jorru. It says a mysterious woman in a blue hood gave Jorru shelter in her tent as he traveled through the Icecap Mountains, and when he woke in the morning, his usual joint pains were gone. She said she was retiring to the 'snow of summer'. The valley just upwind of this mountainside is practically clogged with cotton trees, and the innkeeper at the last village told me it snows here all year round; cold in the winter and fluffy in the summer. He told me a few hermit folk live up here on the mountain. So here I am, looking for the Shanallar. I know she's here." She nodded with emphasis.

"You do seem to have a knack for remembering details," the hermit commented.

Sanych looked at Meena, a small 'o' of surprise shaping her mouth. She had just summed up her research for the last three seasons, and this cave woman could only comment on Sanych's memorization skills?

Meena spoke again. "You've told me you're looking for this woman but not why you want her. Is your quest simply to prove she's still alive?"

"No. The reason for my quest is twofold. And I'm sure you'd love another half an hour of critical details and rare facts. I can see you're overwhelmed with the work I've done so far," Sanych said, eyes narrowed.

Meena smiled slightly and tilted her head in a way that might have indicated she appreciated Sanych's spirit. Or it might have indicated she was imagining tossing Sanych out on her ear in the snow.

"It's vital that I find this woman, or women," the journeyman said. "If you can direct me to her, you'll have the gratitude of the Temple of Knowledge: no small thing." Meena gazed at Sanych as if waiting for more information. Sanych squeezed handfuls of her blanket in order to stop herself from yelling at the dense creature before her. She took a deep breath and said, "You've lived here awhile, I can tell. Surely you know of an experienced woman who can heal other people of their injuries. That's got to stand out, if nothing else does."

Meena leaned forward, lips parting in a gentle smile. "And how are your fingers?"

Sanych spoke quickly to get the question out of her way. "They're fine; they don't even..." Her eyes traveled to her fingers, pink and healthy. Then, after several moments, to Meena's face. "Oh."

Meena smirked.

"Oh, Wisdom!" Sanych breathed, wiggling her fingers and grinning widely. Her eyes darted around the room again as if seeing Meena's contraptions for the first time. Even the soreness in my muscles is gone. I could hike the mountain again right now!

"Most satisfying," said Meena, leaning back and looking smug.

"What?" asked Sanych, startled out of her excitement.

"The clunk when everything fell into place in your head."

Sanych frowned, looking rueful. She had been wrong somewhere along the way; her facts hadn't allowed for this woman to be the Shanallar. Where had she gone off track?

"Sanych. You're a very bright young woman. But believe me–and you know who I am now–when I say: you need to get out more."

Sanych blinked. I've been out for nearly ten weeks now; isn't that enough?

"Now that you've found me," Meena said, "tell me the second purpose of your quest." She got up and invited Sanych to the cot, where the journeyman sat and finished off her broth.

After draining the clay bowl, Sanych set it carefully aside and savored its taste in her mouth a moment before speaking. "I need you to come back to Vint with me, to advise our Magister."

"A noble cause," Meena remarked, her voice bland. "What does he require advisement for?"

Sanych smirked ruefully. "Well, he didn't quite send me, nor even authorize my trip. It was my own idea. He's currently planning on allowing a group of experts to embark on an expedition to retrieve a unique historical object."

"That sounds entertaining. Is he interested in such things often?"

"Not as a hobby, no. I happen to know it was the Dictat's idea. They're his ruling council."

"Ah," Meena said, knowingly. "Are they trying to get his expedition killed?"

"No, nothing like that!" The girl looked shocked for a moment. "They run the merchant and craft guilds within our borders, and offer lucrative fair and market licenses to local lords as eagerly as the next nation. Perhaps more so."

"I understand. They're sending this expedition far away, then?"

"Yes. That's why I needed to find you. You've been there."

Meena sighed. "I've been many places. Seen many things. Many. Narrow it down for me."

Sanych took a deep breath. She knew that many did not believe that the artifact the Magister wanted even existed. But if the Shanallar is real, so must the artifact be. The Magister has far more proof of its existence than I did of Meena's.

"The Dictat has suggested to the Magister that he send an expedition across the sea to mythic Shanal, to retrieve the legendary Dire Tome, in order to use its magnificent powers to further our nation."

Meena's throat closed. No sound came out. The expressions that Sanych saw flit across her face were frightening. Finally, Meena began to shake her head. Slowly, then more violently, until she seemed to shake loose the blockage in her throat.

"No! No, no one must ever seek that book. It was hidden away for the safety of my people. For the safety of the world! He must not find that book!" Meena's deep green eyes seemed to burst into verdant flame.

Sanych stood and took a step back from her vehemence, eyes wide. For a moment they stared at each other.

"Why?" was all that came to Sanych's lips. The look on her face made her appear very young and lost.

Meena exhaled and looked around her cave as if resigning herself to an unpleasant task, then stood up and dug out a knapsack and an oilskin duffel, and began jamming things into them. "They don't call it 'Dire' for nothing," she muttered.

"Sorry?" Sanych asked from across the room.

"Take me to the Magister. Now. Before he gets everyone in that expedition killed."

##  Chapter Three

Suppertime found Geret staring off into space, his bread roll forgotten and cooling in his hand. The conversation ambled up and down the table, and he managed the occasional witty remark or simple answer to a question, but because he was new enough not to be on close friendly terms with anyone yet, and he'd been around enough that he wasn't the latest topic himself, most people left him alone.

What's Imorlar after? What does he hope the test will prove?

And then, it became obvious: Imorlar needed to test Geret's competence. Geret slapped a hand to his forehead, forgetting that he was holding bread in it, and showered his eyebrows with crumbs. Letting slide an anonymous comment about country bumpkins using bread for flyswatters, Geret brushed the crumbs away and rose, excusing himself.

After retrieving tools from their secret spot in his room–the hollowed-out top of one of his bedposts–and changing his clothes to a less noticeable hue, he made his way back downstairs, over to the executory wing. Making sure the hallway was empty, he sidled over to the seneschal's office.

Just like old times. He grinned to himself as he picked the lock.

Once inside, Geret stood still and thought, letting his eyes play over the room. Now, where would he hide it? The desk seemed too obvious. Behind one of the paintings? He stood on top of chairs or tables, examining the converse sides of the artworks as well as the wall itself. Nothing. Straightening everything to their original locations, Geret turned his eyes elsewhere and began a more general search.

After half an hour, it was starting to look like a lost cause. But this was a test; it wasn't supposed to be easy. Geret decided to check the desk anyway.

In the bottom right drawer, he almost missed seeing a locked false bottom hidden under vellum folders of policies on grain trading. Sneaky bastard. He picked the lock open with a grin.

He looked at what was under the now-unlocked lid, and pulled out a small pouch of a less-than-legal pipeweed, unless Geret's nose deceived him, and an official letter of complaint.

There was nothing else.

Geret listened for a few minutes to make sure no one could possibly be outside the door, and then he sparked the lamp and moved it down to the floor. The contents of the letter raised his eyebrows. Someone had accused Salvor, the son of Dictat member Count Halvor Thelios, of the theft of a prized sword that had disappeared from its owner's house.

Well, the pipeweed might be either a trap, with Imorlar trying to get me to steal it, or else it's a distraction. That meant the letter was the item he was supposed to find.

And, unless Geret was wrong, Imorlar wanted him to answer this complaint, and in some way that didn't draw attention.

A challenge, indeed.

Geret replaced the items, relocked the false bottom, and restored the items that went in the drawer. He blew out the lamp, returned it to its spot, and exited the office, making sure the door was locked behind him. He decided to contemplate how he might accomplish this task once he safely reached his chambers and the adrenaline from his excursion had worn off. Right now, he felt on top of the world.

~~~

The next morning found Geret across the city, breaking into Salvor's personal chambers in the ancestral Thelios home, while dressed as a liveried servant of the household. He figured he would have plenty of time to search for the sword, and so he began looking in the most obvious places first. He was checking the back wall of a wardrobe when the chamber door opened; he leaped inside and pulled the wardrobe shut, leaving only the tiniest of cracks to see through.

It was Salvor, followed by two of his personal servants. Folly, folly, folly! Geret swore silently. The annoying young nobleman was supposed to be away all morning, according to the stable hands Geret had talked to earlier. The description of the stolen sword's hilt and pommel matched those of the blade on Salvor's belt. What arrogance. And why didn't I think he might be wearing it, if he's bold enough to steal it? I have to adapt faster.

Salvor's sleek black hair shone in its long braid as he bent over and retrieved a sword box from the bottom of his bed frame. But when he opened it, it wasn't to put the blade away; the box was already full. And what was inside wasn't a weapon at all. Geret tucked the incident away for later, resolving to find a better way to retrieve the sword from Salvor.

Once the coast was clear, Geret escaped the Thelios household and returned to the palace. He had used up one day; only two remained.

Lying in bed that night, he hatched his newest plan.

~~~

Geret dressed in his showiest clothes the next day and belted his most expensive sword onto his waist. Then he began shadowing Salvor around the city until he saw an opportunity.

Salvor was near the picturesque fountains at the top of the trade road, which led up from the valley floor to the Market Quarter. It was a busy place, and there were people and carts everywhere. It was no problem at all for Geret to track Salvor's approaching feathered hat through the crowd; Geret was a hand taller than the average man. He angled through the crowd toward the large, floppy black feather, holding a roasted ruskan leg in one hand and munching it happily until he collided with Salvor, causing the fowl's drumstick to smear grease and gravy all over Geret's finery.

"Ignoramus!" Geret screeched, catching the older man on the cheek with a quick slap of his food. "This tunic cost me three hundred gipp, you oxen-taught shambler!"

Salvor assumed a haughty stance until he recognized whom he had run into, and he adjusted his posture to a more accommodating one.

"A thousand apologies, my lord," Salvor said, pasting a smile onto his face. "Let me buy you a new one. A better one!" he added with a judicious nod.

Geret stopped still in the middle of the street and let his cooling gaze freeze Salvor where he stood. "This is my favorite tunic, you stumbling ingrate. There is no better to be found in all of Vint. I will have my payment out of your hide."

"M...my lord?" stuttered Salvor, unsure he had heard right.

"A duel, you moron. You must have a winter-frozen pond of fetid duck manure for brains. Here and now, since you have a sword handy." Geret indicated the sword at Salvor's side.

Salvor apparently decided that he didn't want to pander anymore, and gave the taller man a condescending look. "Are you sure you don't want to finish your meal first? You do seem attached to it. And, my lord, I must warn you, I'm rather good with a sword. Perhaps you've heard of me. I am Salvor Thelios."

"I might have heard the name. Such rumors are usually greatly exaggerated, though," Geret said, waving his ruskan leg in acknowledgment of Salvor's comment.

Salvor coughed in surprise, then swallowed and got a hold of himself.

Geret let the young noble bargain him down from first blood with sharp blades there in the street, to disarming with wooden blades, up at the palace's outdoor practice grounds an hour hence. At that, Geret suggested that the winner should take the other man's sword as a prize, and though Salvor hesitated, Geret saw his eyes gleam with avarice as they gazed on the giant ruby in Geret's sword pommel.

The men met again at the appointed time, dressed in proper training padding, wooden dueling blades raised in salute on the palace combat circle. They had also gathered quite a crowd, who, far from being respectfully quiet, were cheering and shouting as if they were at a common streetball game.

Salvor went on the offensive immediately after they had saluted each other, forcing Geret to retreat and parry Salvor's wooden blade away several times in quick succession. Salvor's attacks came in quick jabs, and then a lightning slice, followed by more jabs. Geret focused on his footwork; one stumble and Salvor would be all over him.

The two young men danced around the combat circle to the cheers and shrieks of the crowd. Salvor was entirely in command of the fight, or so it appeared. He jabbed, slashed and spun, driving Geret constantly backwards. Geret made sure to look worriedly behind him occasionally, hoping to make Salvor overconfident.

It seemed to be working, but Salvor wasn't tiring at all. The man had stamina–Geret had to give him that. It had been several minutes and both of them were breathing heavily, yet Salvor showed no sign of letting up. Geret began to hope he never had to fight Salvor with steel.

Then he really did trip; he'd been thinking too much and fighting too little. He stumbled back onto his behind, and had to roll quickly to his left to avoid Salvor's jab and swipe. A quick scramble brought him back to his feet, but his slip-up had altered the tone of the fight. Salvor began targeting Geret's sword hand almost exclusively, trying to bat his weapon from his grip and win the fight.

The crowd had mostly given up cheering loudly by now; the end was inevitable in their eyes. It was just a matter of time. A few of the kiss-ups were still cheering Geret on half-heartedly, but most of the sounds from the audience were gasps and murmurs that accompanied the more visually daring moves Salvor made.

Time to change the play.

Geret stepped in at the same moment that Salvor did, catching the wooden tip of his opponent's blade against his hilt and grinding the staves together until the hilts met. Their bodies pressed in. Their right feet were nearly toe to toe as they leaned on each other's hilts. Geret snaked his left hand in and took hold of Salvor's sword hand, and began to shove Salvor away from him, using the weight of his whole body.

Salvor countered the motion with a shoulder shove toward Geret, who used Salvor's momentum to pluck the sword from his grasp. He danced away in a twirl, to ensure Salvor could not just stretch out his hand and re-grip the handle.

The audience clearly did not see what happened; Geret was too fast. All they saw was that suddenly, the losing fighter was grinning widely and taking a bow from the center of the combat circle, a sword in each hand! Stunned applause and cheers began, whirling around the circle into amazed shouts and even a few taunts for the loser.

Salvor painted a cheerful-loser smile on and strode over to Geret, still breathing hard.

"You cheated," he said, moving his lips only a little.

Geret smiled and nodded graciously, still panting himself, as if receiving a kind compliment on a fight well done. "You want to tell that to them?" he asked, tipping his head toward the crowd. "I'll take my prize now."

Even a noble of Salvor's breeding could not disguise the moment of hatred that passed across his features. The man spun on his heel and walked to the edge of the circle, where his sword belt lay. He drew the sword from its scabbard and stalked back to Geret, who belatedly realized that now he was left holding a wooden weapon, while Salvor held a truly magnificent steel blade.

But Salvor merely presented the blade to him in the proper, polite manner: sword resting on both palms, handle to Geret's right hand, blade toward his own chest. Salvor was nothing if not observant of the niceties, but Geret realized he'd made an enemy. He took the sword and held it high, letting the crowd cheer for a moment, and then, without any further ado, he headed to his rooms to calm back down.

What a rush that had been.

The next day, early in the morning, Geret delivered the sword to the owner's home himself, posing as Geret's own servant. There was no way he could hide that he'd won the sword off of Salvor, so he merely made quiet mention of it to the man as he handed over the boxed sword, once they were within the man's personal study. The man was both grateful and surprised, and assured the "servant" that his master could expect a kind gift in return for such generosity.

Apparently it was going to be impossible for Geret to avoid making alliances in this town.

~~~

"And the sword?" asked Imorlar, finishing up the test interview the next day.

"I returned it to your brother-in-law earlier this afternoon. He was quite glad to finally get his hands on it." Geret's dark eyebrows twitched up for a moment. "He didn't tell you yet?" Then Geret couldn't hold in his laughter anymore, and he let the sound roll around the room at the look on Imorlar's face. Apparently the seneschal hadn't thought Geret would learn of his connection with the sword's owner.

Imorlar closed his mouth, and then opened it, saying, "Very well done, Geret. You didn't disappoint. Your talents and focus are to be commended."

"Thank you, my lord," said Geret, calming back down to a mostly serious tone. "When can I get to the hard stuff, the real stuff?"

"I have something for you right away, Geret. But I must see to a detail first. Meet me here tomorrow morning, and I should be ready to fill you in."

"Yes, my lord," Geret said, rising to his feet and turning to go.

"Oh, and Geret."

"Yes?" The young man turned back around.

"I have only two rules for you now. One: no more pranks. Not even to accomplish a task, like you did with Salvor yesterday. And two: don't ever get caught, or you're on your own."

"Of course, my lord. I've always been on my own."

Imorlar pressed his lips together and nodded. "So you have, son. Your father's long diplomatic missions away can't have been easy on you, with your mother gone."

Darkness clouded Geret's eyes for a moment. "No, my lord, they weren't."

"But you're family here. The Magister looks after his own. That's why he brought you here. Lord Geret."

Geret's brow wrinkled at Imorlar's deliberate use of his title; he'd never had use for it until he moved here. He also doubted that the Magister felt much personal affection for him, but he nodded anyway and responded, "Yes, my lord."

"Tomorrow morning, then," Imorlar said, dismissing Geret with a wave of his hand and ending the emotionally awkward moment. He picked up a piece of parchment on his desk and began to read it.

Geret turned to go, took two steps toward the large, dark wooden door, and then turned back. He couldn't leave yet, not without telling the whole truth.

"And my lord, just so you know..."

Imorlar raised his head again. "Yes, Geret?"

"Your pipeweed's about half ash. Salvor's shaving it down before he sells it. Just so you know," he repeated, grinning, before he turned and slipped out the door.

##  Chapter Four

The wind had not abated much in the time Sanych had been inside Meena's cave. Stepping outside and closing her front door firmly, Meena fiddled with something in the dark. Sanych eyed the snow, swirling a few feet away, from the safety of Meena's porch nook.

"What are you doing?" she asked. First the hurry to pack, now a delay. She fought an urge to yawn. Meena's healing might have cured her soreness and frostbite, but it didn't seem to fully conquer ten weeks of exhaustion.

"Locking the door. I've got important stuff in here." Meena slung her bow across her back and picked up her knapsack and duffel. "You have horses down in the tree line?" she asked, her voice brisk.

"Er," said Sanych.

"Tell me you don't expect me to walk to Vint."

"I had a horse," Sanych said, her tone defensive. "I sold it to buy passage across the Bay of Whales. The first ship I asked for a berth took my money, then didn't let me board. When I did make my way across the bay, I didn't have enough money left to afford both a horse and passage back across for both of us."

Meena growled low in her throat. "All right. I'll see what I can do."

The pair traveled down the nearly obliterated path to the nearby timberline. Sanych could easily see how she might have slid down the slope instead of tumbling against Meena's door, and it made her shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

Once they were among the trees, only a few hundred paces from Meena's door, Sanych called a question over the wind that whistled through the needlepines. "Are you really the only Shanallar?"

Meena did not turn around or seem to acknowledge the question in any way.

"Because you're not what my theories told me you'd be. If you're really four hundred years old, why do you look so young?"

Meena stopped suddenly and turned around. Even standing a step down the hill, she loomed over Sanych by a handsbreadth, and the tip of her bow stave rose higher still. Her eyes held a cool expression.

"Impertinent child. Don't you know it's rude to question a woman about her age?"

Sanych spluttered. No one was rude to her; she was the journeyman savant of the Temple of Knowledge. "But I want to know where my theory failed. I don't understand why you look so young, and I want to."

"Good luck with those scholarly pursuits," Meena said with a smirk. "Me, I'm busy." She started walking again.

"Where's your torc, then?" Sanych asked, pressing after her. "It seems odd that you'd set it aside after so many centuries."

Meena halted, back stiff, and Sanych slowed, approaching her with caution. The older woman's eyes held a distant look, and her fingers rose to her throat for a moment. "I gave it away," she said, her voice quiet.

"To whom?" Maybe I can track it down.

"The Shanallar gives as the Shanallar wills," Meena snapped, chin raised. "Do you presume to question her will, little one?" She stalked off down the hill once more, not waiting for an answer.

Sanych realized, belatedly, that she was speaking to someone who had a more important place in history than she did; that had never happened to her before. For a moment she remained behind, confused. Then she realized Meena was walking swiftly into the shadows, and she hurried after her, not wanting to get lost twice in one night.

She caught up, saying, "Meena, I'm sorry. I'm just not used to talking to people outside the Temple. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Apology accepted," clipped Meena, not slowing down.

"Why are we in such a hurry? It's the middle of the night. And I've been up all day already–climbing up here, I might add."

"You might have been followed. I want to be far and away by the time the sun rises. If your Magister wants the book for one thing, perhaps someone else has stumbled upon your research, and they want it for themselves."

Sanych stopped dead in the path.

Meena halted as well, turning. In the dark, Sanych couldn't see her expression, but she heard the Shanallar's smile in her voice.

"You didn't think of that, did you? Books hold no candle to experience. Now get moving. I want to be off the mountain and on a horse by dawn." Meena turned and strode away again.

Sanych groaned and hurried after her. "So, will you please help me to understand why your appearance is as it is?" she finished diplomatically.

Meena didn't glance back as she said, "Ask me about that later." Her tone indicated that she was done answering silly questions for the night, and Sanych should consider waiting until she had grandchildren before bringing it up again.

~~~

In the wee hours, Sanych trudged into the small village called Foothill, doggedly keeping up with Meena's longer paces.

Meena led Sanych to the edge of a large, dark building. "Wait here," the Shanallar ordered, holding up a palm. The girl slumped against the cold wood, panting and exhausted. Her eyes slid shut.

A quiet clopping sound startled her, and she realized she'd drifted off. Meena approached, leading a black mare by the reins.

"Get on."

As Sanych struggled with the length of the stirrups, she muttered, "How'd you find someone to sell you a horse at this hour?"

Meena started leading the compliant mare down the street, even before Sanych had settled herself in the stirrups. "I didn't," she replied.

Sanych had to think for several seconds before she realized what Meena wasn't saying. "You stole this horse from someone? Meena!"

The Shanallar glared up at the short rider she led. "You prefer I leave you by the side of the road?"

Sanych admitted that her body immensely appreciated the chance to ride instead of walk. Is morality so easily swayed by exhaustion? she wondered. With a sigh of surrender and a guilty look over her shoulder, she murmured, "At least you only stole one horse."

"He didn't have two."

By dawn, the two travelers and their stolen mare had made it through two villages and were not too far from the outer farms of the third. Sanych was ready to drop to the ground and sleep for a year; her eyelids felt like they were attached to five-stone sacks of gravel.

Meena led the mare off the cold, packed dirt road. Sanych slid off and leaned against the animal for warmth and support. When she managed to open her eyes, she saw Meena standing in a copse of sempergreen trees. "Why are we stopping?"

"Time to sleep. You curl up; I'll see to the horse and hide our tracks from the road."

"Where should I sleep?" asked Sanych, looking at the brown, needle-strewn ground beneath the trees.

"I don't care," Meena replied, shrugging off her knapsack and duffel.

Sanych put a hand to her head. Thinking hurt. "Where would you sleep if you were me?"

Meena paused to look at her. She pointed at Sanych's feet and said, "Right there, if I were you."

Sanych could feel bits of gravel among the needles beneath her boot soles; she knew she had asked an acolyte's question. "Where would you sleep if you were you?" she amended.

Meena quickly pointed to a sheltered, cozy spot at the base of three of the sempergreens, then headed back into the snow to cover their tracks. Sanych patted the mare in gratitude, then stumbled to the area Meena had pointed out and struggled out of her pack. She barely stayed awake long enough to sweep wide swaths of fallen needles over herself, and then she was lost to the world.

Much later, Meena shook her awake.

"'S'happening?" Sanych mumbled, groggy and unwilling to wake up.

"Eat." Meena handed her a wooden bowl of stew.

Sanych sat up and sipped the broth around the chunks. It was hot. "You built a fire? What about being followed?" she asked.

"You're just bitter because you didn't think of that earlier. We haven't been followed. Besides, if you can't see the fire from where you're sitting, no one on the road will either."

Sanych blinked. Looking around, she saw no sign of a fire.

"Yes, it's still burning." Meena smirked. "Go back to sleep, Bookworm. It's nearly dusk. We travel in the morning."

Sanych finished off her stew, then went to the tree designated for the necessary. Finally climbing back into her needle pile, she took longer to fall asleep, her thoughts on Meena. For someone who could heal people, and who saved entire countries and royal lineages and brokered impossible peace treaties, Meena sure was a granite-arse.

~~~

Meena walked tirelessly, keeping up with the horse. Sanych started each day trying to keep up, and ended each day footsore, astride the mare.

Three days out from Meena's cave, Sanych began to realize how many sides there could be to a person after four hundred years. The travelers found themselves a day outside of Miln-of-the-Snows, the capital city of the small monarchy of TethNarra. Once in the city, they would book passage aboard ship to cross the wide Bay of Whales. For now, they needed to make camp again. Meena picked a nice hollow in the back side of a small rise, from which she could see for miles in any direction.

"You could see Miln, if not for the forest there," Meena said, pointing north as they gathered wood for a small fire.

Sanych wished with all her heart that it was already tomorrow and they were on the ship out of these cold lands.

Meena built a fire more efficiently than Sanych ever had, and they ate rabbit-and-tater soup and chewed some of the dried meat Meena had brought. The mare munched de-snowed grass nearby, enjoying the fire's warmth.

After the meal, Meena sat on her rock, found a switch and started flicking small bits off the end with her knife. They landed on the low fire, flaring with a momentary bright yellow, then dying to a smudge of dark red coal. She did this for about half an hour, Sanych guessed, without saying a word. And Sanych watched, fuming.

Why do I not just tell her how I feel about how she's treating me? I am a journeyman on my Archivist quest, and I am employed by the Temple of Knowledge. If my Master saw how cowed I am... After all, she is just another person, if only a mysterious, long-lived changer-of-history. That's not so much, is it? Why am I sitting here like a lump on a log? I am a lump on a log, Sanych concluded, looking at where she was perched. While she pondered, the mare gave a low whinny.

"Meena, listen. I know you're really old and really wise, but that doesn't mean the rest of the world isn't useful to you. If I hadn't come to your cave, you wouldn't even know that the Magister might be going to find the Dire Tome. And you're treating me like I'm some mewling child, like I'm a piece of baggage hampering your journey. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even know where you're going–"

Meena's eyes flicked up from her stick. "Shut up."

"Wh—how dare—" Sanych began, spluttering.

"Shut up!" Meena hissed urgently, leaping across the fire at her. Sanych dropped her wooden bowl in surprise. Meena's hands struck her shoulders and carried her back into the snow-bent grasses behind her log. Sanych braced for an impact that was much softer than she expected, and when she opened her eyes again, Meena was crouched over her torso, a hand holding her shoulder down. Meena drew a longer, more deadly-looking blade than her utility knife, from a sheath along her thigh.

Sanych froze, eyes wide with shock. Belatedly, she realized the Shanallar's eyes were not on her at all, but were fixed at a point off to her left.

"Stay here until you can't hear me, then make your way around the side of the hill to the sempergreens," instructed Meena, her eyes not moving from their target. "Be silent at all times or you will die."

And then Meena vanished into the night. Sanych took the opportunity to panic. She realized she couldn't hear Meena; in fact she'd never heard Meena leave. Afraid to look–afraid not to look–Sanych gingerly rolled over next to the log, acutely aware that her boots scraped the bark as she did so. She was terrified she would suddenly feel some kind of edged weapon plunging into her torso.

Peeking over the log, Sanych surveyed the area. The sky held low, scudding clouds. The fire gave off minimal red light. Meena had told her to crawl away from the fire pit; she could stay in the grass and not cross the trampled-down campsite. Down the hill, opposite the campsite, were several old shrubs, which were blocking their fire from the wind. That was where Meena had presumably gone, but the worst part for Sanych was that she couldn't tell what was out there, or where.

But she had no choice. She started to crawl back into the grass, toward the sempergreens. Then a stifled cry came from downhill: a man's voice. Another voice asked a muffled question. Then another cry. The mare snorted, uneasy, and Sanych paused, listening.

A crash crackled through the night as something fell hard against a bush, loudly snapping its slender trunk. The sudden noise startled her, and the mare whinnied, trying to edge away despite her hobbles. Sanych realized that now was her chance to move quickly, while the bush and the mare were making noise. She crawled through the freezing grass, making an irregular path. Her body heat melted snow along her entire length, and she became cold and wet. More than half the time she was looking back in fear, instead of where she was going.

The sempergreens weren't far; she was over halfway there when another large cracking sound reached her ears, along with a cry from Meena. "No," she whispered, before she could stop herself. If her protector died, she would be next. Sanych instantly felt shame for her selfish thought. This was the Shanallar, legendary healer and wise woman. If she died now, it would be Sanych's fault for bringing her away from her safe cave. She risked a peek over her shoulder. Maybe it wasn't as bad as she feared.

No, it was worse. Sanych saw Meena sprawled on the ground next to the dying fire. Her bow had been knocked from her hand. A line of blood darkened her cheek in the coals' light. Two men advanced on her. One held the broken trunk of a shrub like a churn handle, planning on ramming it straight through Meena's body.

"No!" Sanych screamed, not aware that she had gotten to her feet. She began to run back along her new-made path, advancing two steps.

Meena's head flicked up; she saw the shrub-lance's wicked tip approach her body.

Sanych made it another step.

Meena twisted on the ground, her feet blurring like hummingbird wings. Her hands flashed upward. The makeshift wooden weapon went flying from the man's hands. Meena curled and arched, flicking her feet, landing in a crouch. She caught the shrub-lance and whipped one end, then the other, into the closest man's face, quicker than he could block. The double blow spun him around and he landed on his face, unmoving.

While the second man gaped, Meena snatched up her bow and nocked an arrow drawn blindly from her quiver. She drew back on the string and aimed at his heart.

"Stop!" came a voice, as Sanych's head jerked to a stop. Her feet flew out from under her, yet she didn't fall. A hairy arm had grasped her around the neck. Where did this one come from? Meena's close opponent grinned, and the Shanallar lowered her weapon.

Blood pounded in Sanych's ears, too loudly to grasp the words that were being said between her captor and Meena. All she could do was tug ineffectually at the strong, thick arm that held her head. And then there was a knife, flashing in front of her eyes, catching the warm red glow of the fire, making it look evil.

Foolish, thought Sanych. I'm just too foolish to make it out here. I never should have left the Temple! I'm failing my quest! If this man doesn't kill me, Master Godric will!

Meena's arrow pointed to the ground; her eyes slid to the man approaching her, then back to the one who held Sanych hostage.

The man's arm tightened around Sanych's throat, and he ordered, "Take her out; she's too much trouble." The other bandit raised a short sword and advanced toward Meena.

Sanych's eyes bugged, and she clawed and kicked frantically. I'm going to lose her! The world is going to lose the–"Shanallar!" she squeaked. Her captor's knife tapped her cheek, but still she struggled. He merely chuckled at her efforts.

Meena remained still until the man beside her drew his arm back to stab her in the kidney. With a shift of her feet and a blur of arm and arrow, she spun and skewered the bandit with an arrow through the gut.

Sanych's eyes widened.

Meena spun again, facing Sanych and the bandit who held her. One hand brought her bow to bear, while the other fetched another arrow from her hip quiver. They met in a marriage of deadly efficiency as she drew back the bowstring and let the arrow fly directly toward both people.

The journeyman gasped.

The bandit began to turn his hostage into the line of fire. The arrow struck, sliding through Sanych's collar. The shaft of the arrow came to rest against her throbbing jugular as its head blasted through the man's heart. The fletching, pale with flecks of brown, quivered before her terrified eyes, and she heard the man gasp in agony and surprise. His weight dragged at her, and the dagger in his hand sliced across her throat, leaving a burning line. Warm wetness sheeted onto her chest.

With a last, dizzy look toward Meena, who was running toward her, Sanych collapsed to the snowy grass, landing next to her attacker.

~~~

Sound returned first. So that much is true, she thought idly. Always nice to experience these phenomena for oneself. The sound she heard was a rhythmic scraping, metal against wood. Sanych searched for her eyes and found them where they'd last been, so she opened them.

She lay next to the campfire, bundled warmly. Meena sat on her rock, flicking pieces off the end of a switch. They each landed in the fire with a small yellow flare. The mare munched contentedly in the background.

Sanych was confused; hadn't they already done this part? She pulled her arms from the blanket wrap and touched her throat, feeling for the gash she was sure would be there. She couldn't find it.

"Was it a dream?" she asked.

"Would you feel better if I said yes? That would be an unpleasant type of dream to have; would you want them often?"

Sanych sat up, folding down the blanket on top of her so it settled at her waist. "No. But at least I could wake up from them." She took a breath, then hesitated. Meena flicked a few more wood fragments into the fire. The world seemed too calm.

"What happened?"

"Before or after you nearly died?"

"Both."

Meena looked at her, an eyebrow raised.

"I really thought you were going to die, and that it was my fault. Then I thought I was going to die, and that was my fault too. Then I was pretty sure I was dead, but I woke up without a mark on me, and you're sitting there like nothing happened. You... you killed all of them?"

"Sanych. I've lost track of the number of skirmishes I've been in. There have been that many. You can't think I've wafted through time advising people and affecting the course of history without offending, insulting, or just plain enraging some people, can you? It's been a while since I had to kill anyone, but I did what needed to be done." The Shanallar nudged a collection of swords and daggers with her boot.

Sanych looked at the small arsenal, awed, and said, "You saved my life. Thank you. You even healed me, after I disobeyed you."

"I still need you," Meena said, flicking another shaving into the fire.

"You need me to get you to the Magister, you mean."

Meena humphed a bit, shifting on her log. "Yep."

Sanych's hopes faltered, wilting like a flower held over the fire. "Wisdom, what am I doing out here?"

To Meena's exasperation, Sanych put her face into her hands and began to sob. Meena rolled her eyes, knowing the girl couldn't see it, then checked herself. After a few moments, she slipped down to the ground beside the girl and put a sturdy hand on her shoulder. "Listen, Sanych. Maybe the skirmish we had is your fault, but we survived it. I know I've been a rude hag. An old habit. I'm not good with being open to others. Why do you think I moved to the mountain?"

Sanych lifted her face from her hands and wiped her eyes with a corner of the blanket. "For the view?" she asked softly.

A sudden emotion flooded through Meena, and her eyes teared up, but she coughed and blinked them away. "I've missed being known. You are the only person in the world who has the faintest clue who I am. It's been centuries since I was known as the Shanallar. And yet, tonight, when you thought you were going to die, you called to me for help. To the Shanallar. That touched an old place in my soul." She tipped her head and gave a half-smile. "Kind of forgot I had that spot, 'til now."

Sanych was spellbound. So many words from Meena all at once, and with such meaning. She was humbled, honored, exhilarated. "Sounds like you need a friend, Meena," she offered.

"Is that the term nowadays? I guess I might have healed you for a couple reasons, then." Meena gave her a genuine smile.

"Can I ask you one favor?"

"If you ask in a friendly way."

"Next time you want me to shut up like that, can you say 'please'? It's considered polite."

"You are an insufferable child."

"What happened to friendly?"

Meena chuckled, a low, rich sound. Sanych found that she liked it.

"Do journeymen and Archivists ever write anything themselves?"

Sanych blinked at the shift in topic. "Sometimes, but it's usually their memoirs. Why?"

"I know several stories that should be told. Get some sleep. It's the middle of the night." Meena went over to her sleeping spot.

Sanych lay wide-eyed in the dark; Meena had offered her a chance to write parts of history that were likely lost. All thoughts of her brush with death were forgotten as she lost herself in visions of rediscovered tales.

##  Chapter Five

Geret had been ill for four days. He lay exhausted in his bed, the rumpled blue duvet pushed down to his waist. He couldn't stand it covering his bare chest; it made him feel as if he might burst into flames. At least the bone-deep aches had finally passed, and the horrible hot-and-cold chills had relaxed their grip on his poor body. He'd finally gotten a good night's sleep last night, and he felt more rested than he had since he got sick.

He turned his dark eyes to the shuttered windows. A thin crack of early daylight shone through, and he could tell it was another cloudy, dreary midwinter day outside. Just as well he was ill, then. He was a sunshine lover. Too many clouds for too long and it got a bit depressing. The round valley he was living in wasn't helping; its particular shape and placement among the mountains and plains around it meant that it was often filled with low clouds that oozed in and then stayed, unable to find their way back out.

Geret sighed and closed his eyes, pushing sweat-darkened, matted hair off his forehead. There was one more benefit to being confined to his rooms; he'd not had to answer a sudden summons from Imorlar in days. The man was working him like a slave, having him investigate all sorts of disjointed rumors and track grain shipments by poring over hours' worth of boring caravan manifests. What was any of it good for? He certainly didn't know, but there had definitely been no more exciting duels to retrieve stolen swords.

Maybe Imorlar is punishing me.

That such a thought only occurred to him now was a mark of Imorlar's subtlety. How wrong Geret had been about him! As to the seneschal's specific motives for employing Geret, the young man could fathom a few distinct possibilities, the worst of which was that Imorlar was actually trying to undermine the Magister in some way. Geret had been watching for that, but he hadn't seen any evidence of it so far. If he did, he knew he'd have to go straight to his uncle and confess what he'd been up to; no matter how fun all these clandestine excursions had been, Geret knew he valued the stability of his uncle's rule more.

A knock on his door interrupted his fevered reverie. His bodyservant, Nimbel, opened the door and brought in a tray of breakfast.

"Good morning, my lord," he offered cautiously. "How are you faring this morning?"

"I'm a bit better, Nim. I finally slept." Geret sat up slowly in his bed and ran long fingers through his hair. "It's still blazingly hot in here, though," he added, pointing to his bare chest.

Nimbel smiled and brought over the covered tray. "I'm glad my lord is recovering his sense of humor; they say that's the first to return." He set the tray down on the duvet, its propped legs holding it above Geret's lap.

"Well, I guess I might live, then. Let's see, what's today's death-door special?" Geret asked, lifting off the linen cover and revealing a porcelain bowl of thin gruel packed with dried fruit bits, a small pot of tea, and a warm wheat roll, fresh from the oven. He flicked his eyebrows up tiredly. "Again."

"Enjoy, my lord. Just ring for me when you're through." Nimbel bowed his way back out and closed the door behind him.

Grumbling to himself about the smug look on Nimbel's face, which meant the man had had a breakfast that actually included some meat, Geret picked up his wide spoon and began eating. Finally finding himself with a full appetite, he ate everything on his tray and drank all the fresh tea as well.

As he poured the last of it into his small cup, though, something clinked inside. It sounded like metal against the stoneware pot. Frowning with interest, Geret removed the pot's lid and looked inside. A tiny metal cylinder rested on the bottom, among the bits of tea leaves that had gotten through the straining process.

It must be from Imorlar, Geret realized, pouting in thought. Either that, or another young lady at court is slipping me a love note.

Geret removed the tiny cylinder and unscrewed its threaded top. He shook out a miniscule rolled square of paper, tea-stained on one end.

Your uncle will call on you today. Your cousin has worsened. Do whatever the Magister asks of you.

A deep, strong jab of dread drove downward into Geret's intestines, and he found himself taking shallow, quick breaths through his nose.

Addan's worsened.

Setting the tray roughly aside, Geret slid off the high feather mattress and onto the woven blue Kirthan rug that covered the stone tiles next to his bed. He pulled sharply on the summoning cord. Nimbel answered the bell's ring, entering and bowing.

"I believe I need a bath," Geret said.

"Right away, my lord," Nimbel answered. He summoned the watermaids, and they prepared the bath in Geret's round porcelain tub in the next room. The bodyservant saw Geret's fever-flush and slow pace as he walked to the bathing room, and offered to assist Geret into the tub, but the prince waved him away and clambered in under his own power. He found the water lukewarm, and thanked Nimbel for his foresight.

While he scrubbed days of sickness off his back with a sea sponge on a long handle, Geret thought over his cousin Addan's situation. The Magister's son was rarely seen in public anymore; it was widely rumored that he was chronically ill. But Geret had suspected something else was really going on, since the day the Magister and his son had visited Geret's father's castle last summer. Something worse than simply being ill.

Geret was a bit nervous about formally meeting his uncle; he'd lived here at his uncle's palace for two seasons now, and he'd only met with the man on an individual basis a handful of times.

What his uncle had been preoccupied with all these weeks, Geret wasn't sure. He'd been so busy working for Imorlar that he had never found an opportunity to go spy out his uncle's motives for bringing him here and then ignoring him. Maybe now he'd find out, about his cousin, about his uncle, and if he was very lucky, maybe even about Imorlar's true motives.

Nimbel combed and pomaded Geret's hair while he sat and fiddled with his formal maroon cravat. He'd never gotten the hang of them, but somehow his fingers managed to get a proper knot this time.

"Good morning," came a deep, energetic voice from the entryway to Geret's suite. "Anyone at home today?" Geret and Nimbel looked up to see the Magister smiling at them.

"Yes, Uncle Beret. Please, come in." Geret's rarely used manners surfaced as he looked over at the tall ruler of Vint. His uncle's hair was only a shade or two lighter than his own, and his high forehead and piercing dark brown eyes gave him a distinct air of intelligence.

"I was hoping you'd come out, actually, if you have no other plans," Beret said, gesturing at Geret's selection of fine clothing. "There's something I need you to consider."

"I'm free," Geret said. He stood and walked over to his uncle. Beret Branbrey, His Wisdom The Lord High Magister of Vint, was not a man to keep waiting.

"The Dictat is in special council, Geret," his uncle said, as they entered the main hallway. "I believe you'll find the topic of interest as well."

But Geret felt a stab of alarm. The Dictat was the Magister's advisory council; what would they want with him? He suddenly wondered if the "worsening" his cousin was afflicted with was fatal. His uncle had no other children, and the closest blood relative in the country at the moment was...himself.

Oh Wisdom, not that. I'm so not ready to be any kind of heir to anything!

Gulping down his worry, Geret managed a relatively calm tone of voice when he asked, "What's going on, Uncle?"

Beret Branbrey pursed his lips as they walked, considering how to answer the question. Finally, he responded, "Geret, I'd first like to apologize to you for not spending much time with you aside from meals since I brought you over from your father's lands. I fully intended to take time with you myself, but I've been very caught up in this project of mine, and I'm afraid I've put many things on hold, including you, and for that I'm sorry."

"It's no problem, Uncle. I've been kept very busy and fulfilled. I hardly have a moment to sleep." Geret barely refrained from adding unless I'm so ill I can't get out of bed. He didn't want his uncle distracted by sympathy; he might send Geret back to his chambers to rest some more, and Geret was determined now to find out what was going on.

"Well that's good; an industrious mind can accomplish many good things. And I believe I might have something for your industrious mind to take a crack at."

The tone of his uncle's voice made Geret yearn to hear the next sentence. It was the same way that Imorlar teased him with a new assignment. When his uncle didn't say anything immediately after that, Geret prompted, "And what is it?"

But his uncle merely smiled maddeningly, a near echo of Geret's wicked grin, and said, "Just a bit of patience, lad, and all will be revealed."

Geret nearly writhed into ribbons of excited frustration on the spot, but managed to hold himself together with a bit of dignity until they reached a large rectangular room at the end of one of the hallways he'd rarely used. A pair of guards saluted the Magister, and one of them opened the door for the new arrivals to enter.

Inside, the members of the Dictat stood around an enormous circular table that had a strange, lumpy surface. Charts and maps and books littered other surfaces around the edges of the room. A few of the men were pointing to, and discussing, some feature of the enormous tabletop, and others were walking back and forth to other areas to look at or retrieve some chart or book. Whatever they were all doing, they were very intent on it, and none of them even noticed the Magister's entrance until he stepped up to the edge of the table, with Geret by his left side.

That was when Geret noticed that the table was actually an enormous map of some kind. He squinted, not immediately recognizing anything on it.

"Beret," a red-headed man said in surprise. "Forgive me, sire, I didn't even hear you come in."

The Magister smiled easily. "It's all right, Braal. I'm glad to see you all so involved this morning. Geret is here, so let me sum briefly for him first, and then I'll let you answer more of his questions."

"Of course, sire." Runcan went back to his reading of a book, glancing occasionally at the enormous map.

Geret followed his uncle over to a far corner of the room, where they sat on padded, brown-upholstered chairs that had a good view of the damp winter hills and cloudy sky out the window. The smell of old, musty books and dry parchments filled the air, and there were several of each on the nearby tables.

"Geret," began his uncle, looking down and folding his fingers together on his lap distractedly, "you may have guessed that all is not well with your cousin Addan." Here he paused, waiting for a response.

Geret opened his mouth, moistening his palate, and then shut it again, merely nodding. He saw the pain in his uncle's eyes and began to fear the worst.

"Addan is not well, it's true. And of late, his condition has worsened. I had planned for him to accompany several of the Dictat on a long journey; I had hoped that it would stimulate Addan to recover, but it's become clear to me in the last few days that Addan will not be able to make the journey at all. I ask that you consider taking his place."

"Me?" Geret was surprised and relieved all at once. His cousin wasn't dying, and he wasn't being asked to inherit anything. Suddenly everything seemed brighter and livelier. Geret used the time it took to take and release a deep breath to appreciate his relief. "Where was he going to go?"

"Halfway around the world. It'll be many seasons before you can return. Are you interested?"

Many seasons, halfway around the world! Geret's imagination kicked into overdrive. All the glacier monsters, sea serpents and wind demons his heart could ever long for, here in the adventure of a lifetime, handed to him on a golden platter. His throat closed tight as he tried to contain his rapidly-expanding elation.

And then his cynicism kicked in, deflating him, and he asked, "What's the catch?"

"That eager to get away, Geret? I'd thought that being away from your homeland for so long was the catch," his uncle said, laughing.

Geret grinned. "Sorry, Uncle. My father's traveled abroad my whole life, and I never got to go. I'd love to get out and travel, but if it was a journey just for Addan's health, why does it still need to happen at all?"

"You're quick, Geret. I appreciate that." Beret cleared his throat. "The catch, then, as you call it, is that there's more to this journey than just the scenery. I'll need you to be in charge of a retrieval expedition."

"Retrieval of what?" Geret had a hard time imagining that his uncle, or anyone from Vint for that matter, had accidentally dropped something halfway around the world, and now needed someone to go back and get it for them.

"A mystical artifact," Beret said, with a mysterious tone. "Two years ago, I came into possession of the last remaining copy of a journal written by a priest who lived far to the west. In it, he mentioned a strange and wonderful book, capable of bestowing great power upon the reader. It can bring blessings to an entire land: riches, prosperity, health–anything your heart desires. Now, I've got most of that already, but my people can always use more, and I'm interested enough in trying to find this mystical book that I'm creating an expedition to retrieve it. I'd guess the Temple of Knowledge would do anything to get their hands on such a book as well, since collecting books is part of their calling. They've got one of their journeymen on her Archivist quest regarding this book right now; when she returns in a few weeks, I'll be most interested in what she has to tell us, and I believe we'll have no trouble sending her along with you as an advisor. In fact, she'll likely insist on accompanying you, provided she completes her quest."

Geret envisioned a plump, nearsighted woman haranguing him with a finger, demanding that she get to go on the expedition, and that her seven chests of notes must come as well. He grimaced; the image reminded him of the librarian at his father's castle.

His uncle continued, "Four of the Dictat will be going as well; they'll serve you as a council for expedition affairs. They'll document the expenditures and coordinate the purchasing of supplies, and they'll also oversee the collection of exotic specimens you might encounter along the journey."

Geret let out an amused cough. "So what do you need me for, exactly? It sounds like they've got it all pretty well covered."

"You'll be representing Vint to all you meet, Geret. I'll require you to be on your best behavior."

Geret wasn't sure he possessed that variety. "Yes, Uncle."

"The Dictat members will advise you about protocol as you travel; we've only got sketchy information, so far, on the lands and peoples at the further reaches of our maps, but we'll take what we can, and we'll do our best. I'm sure that we'll have a rather sharp learning curve in some areas, so we'll need to be flexible."

"Uncle," Geret broke in, "it sounds like you're coming with us."

Beret laughed. "It does, doesn't it? I've been planning this expedition for many seasons; it's become my obsession. But you must be the one to go, not I, and not Addan." The Magister paused and licked his lips. "Make me proud, son. Bring back the book."

Geret nodded immediately, a small frown of concentration creasing his brow. "I will, Uncle. I give you my solemn oath. If the book can be brought back, it'll be in my hands."

Beret seemed to slump a little with relief, and a small smile creased his face. "Excellent. Very good. Now, let's go pester the Dictat with the myriad questions I'm sure you have about the journey."

Over the next several hours, Geret forgot all about being sick; a new kind of fever was overtaking him.

##  Chapter Six

Two hundred and eleven years ago

The heavy end of autumn lay thick upon the northern plains. The oval valley that was caught in the loop of the icy red-rock ridge cradled snow-smothered grasses; the rest of the horizon was dotted with tundra lakes–blue tears of the sky god, the Ianiu called them–or crowded with clusters of slender pines and ptarmigan scrub. One lake lay puddled around the hairpin curve of the ridge, filling a natural depression in the land. No mere permafrost-puddle, it was fed by the slow drip of water from the cliff, as the afternoon sun melted the ice and snow. When the sun shone at all.

The wolf knew this small lake well; it was the watering-hole for his pack.

Today he had woven his way through the grass mounds that ringed the lake; the snow that topped them was higher than his ears. He was thirsty, and curious if any caribou had broken through the ice for him.

Before he could reach the ice itself, a rare sound reached his ears, and he paused, crouching.

Horse feet.

His nose twitched as the distant scent of horseflesh reached it, but he knew he could not take down a lone horse by himself, let alone several. As his golden eyes tracked their progress past the lake, the wind swept a new scent to his nose, and he lifted his snout. A sudden movement above and ahead of him, on a rocky outcrop of the ridge itself, startled him, and he silently bared his fangs. He had not heard nor seen the human at all. Her presence made him wary.

He watched her kneel, holding something, shooting a stick toward the riders. Across the lake, a man cried out and fell from his horse.

The wolf's breath quickened. Perhaps he would get meat after all.

The other horses stopped, and their riders dismounted, hiding behind the animals. Sticks shot back and forth. One clattered off the cliff and stuck in the snow near him, red feathers quivering. Three more of the men with the horses fell to the snow.

The wolf caught another scent and realized yet another human was approaching him, and he considered coming back for water later. This newest arrival stopped a few dozen paces away, however. He raised a curved stick toward the woman above. His straight stick caught her in the side, and she crumpled right at the edge of her small rocky platform. She scrabbled against the red stone with her pitiful excuses for claws, then slipped over the rocky ledge above the frozen lake.

The sound of her skull striking the pale blue ice was incredibly loud.

The wolf could smell fresh water as well as blood, and since the man nearby was leaving, he waited, thirsty. When the coast was finally clear, and the remaining men and horses had departed, he padded over to the cracked and broken ice, sniffing cautiously.

The woman was nowhere to be seen. Her blood smeared the ice in the center of a web of thick floating chunks, yet he couldn't smell her anymore.

His meal was gone.

Ever pragmatic, the wolf realized he could still get a drink. Padding cautiously onto the broken ice, he made his way out to the point of impact. Though the scent of blood was distracting, he was very thirsty. He thrust his nose into a narrow gap and lapped.

The woman's hand suddenly brushed his muzzle, and he leaped back in surprise, shaking his head and growling for a moment. Her white fingers clawed at the heavy ice hunks, the smallest of which weighed nearly as much as the wolf did.

He waited.

The hand slipped back under the water, unable to find purchase.

After another pause to make sure the cold hand wasn't going to grab his nose again, the wolf drank his fill. He could feel the open water trying to freeze around his tongue.

If it was this cold already, perhaps it was time to take the pack south. Pack memory did not recall the season being quite this wicked this early on.

After slaking his thirst, the wolf trotted on around the lake to see if any of the dead men had been left for him.

He was not disappointed.

~~~

"Herm, you be careful!" Gingi warned, tugging his fur-enshrouded arm. "We don't know this ice."

"Peace, wife," Herm returned, gazing at her placidly through the fur rimming his hood, though her tug had changed the angle of his cut. "It'll hold."

He continued cutting until an ice block the size of an elk had been freed from the lake's surface, and together they and Herm's three brothers and their wives moved it, using pine rollers, over to where they were constructing their ice home.

Herm began sawing again, next to the hole he had just cut. A few moments later, his ice saw hit something. He frowned, tugging the blade free, and examined its rough teeth. He squinted at what he saw, then turned his thoughtful gaze down to the ice under his feet.

"Herm?" Gingi asked, stumping over through the snow to see why he had stopped. He showed her the blade. After a quick family meeting, Herm returned to cutting, but not in the shape of an ice block.

He cut free small pieces, and his brothers moved them out of the way. Eventually they could all see a part of what lay in the ice.

It was an arm, outstretched, wearing an archer's brace of brown leather, its edge trimmed with green. The fingers were curled, clinging. They too were brown, desiccated by the ice.

The family lifted more ice off the mysterious figure, until finally they had found the extent of its person.

"It's a woman," Herm's second brother murmured, tugging his bearded chin in surprise.

"Maybe she's a queen!" Gingi said, widening her eyes with new interest. "Maybe she has golden rings we can take. We could be rich!"

The other wives rolled their eyes in annoyance at Herm's wife. Why couldn't he have picked his mate based on her skill with cooking, rather than her ample hips?

Carefully the brothers cut around the frozen woman, freeing her from the lake's icy grip. They all carried her, wrapped in woolen blankets, to the face of the cliff, where they had a lean-to shelter constructed of rough pine boughs. The women set about building up the fire to melt the ice, and the men took a break for a meal.

The fire warmed the cliff face and radiated heat back at them, and they ate and warmed up, discussing the ice woman's mysterious origins, deciding to burn her body as befitted their culture, after the ice house was complete. When their meal was consumed, they went back to work.

Hours passed. Occasionally one of them took a break and added wood to the fire. The ice was steadily melting off the frozen woman.

Just before supper, as the late winter sun set into the frozen sea, Gingi gave a shriek from the lean-to. Everyone ran to see what had happened.

She pointed excitedly to the woman. "Look! I told you she was a queen!"

A bronze torc lay around the ice woman's neck, decorated with exotic animals, the likes of which none of them had ever seen. Herm's eyes widened.

"Let's take it off," Gingi suggested, kneeling by the body.

"No, wife. Not before we hold a ceremony. Surely she was a great woman. She deserves a proper end."

Gingi pouted. "But I can have it, can't I?"

"The body is my find. I will decide what to do with anything we keep," Herm said, keeping his voice even with difficulty.

His blonde wife scowled. "Very well, husband. But let's put her outside for the night. I don't want her rotting in here while we all sleep."

"Fair and done."

The night passed, cold and windy. In the wee hours before dawn, Gingi slipped out of her sleeping furs and pulled on her heavy boots and her thick fur coat. She stepped through the squeaking snow to where Herm had set the body and pulled the blanket off its face, griping inside her head at how he'd offered a blanket to the dead, when it might have kept the living warmer through the night.

The woman still lay with her eyes closed, but...something seemed different about her. A superstitious chill shot up Gingi's spine. Taking a firming breath, she reached for the woman's torc. "The dead do not need such ornaments," she murmured to herself, as she started to twist it free.

The ice woman's hands grasped her own in a frighteningly cold grip. Her eyes snapped open and stared up at Gingi.

"It is a good thing I am not dead, then," the ice woman said, in a voice hoarse and dry. Her accent was unfamiliar to the Ianiu woman, who was too terrified to cry out at first. "Do you usually rob others of their possessions, or am I a special interest of yours?" she added, squeezing Gingi's hands painfully.

Gingi hyperventilated for several moments, before uttering a petrified scream that brought the rest of her family tumbling from the elk-hide door of the lean-to.

"Gingi! What are you–Hori's breath..." Herm's curse trailed off, seeing the ice woman's grip on his wife's hands. She pushed Gingi away and stood up, wrapping herself in the blanket, and looked at the eight people before her.

"You dug me out?"

"Yes," Herm said.

"Then you have my thanks."

"Are you a mortal, or a winter goddess?" one of the wives asked. "May we know your name?"

The woman snorted, ignoring the first question. "Last I walked the earth, I was called Inska." She cast a glance at the dark sky, where streaming clouds wended their way below ice-bright stars. "What time of year is it now?"

"It is spring, or nearly so."

Inska eyed their clothing and spears. "Of what year?" she asked, after a pause.

The brothers exchanged a glance. Herm said, "It is the fourteenth year of Helmrik Ikalhur's rule."

The ice woman's mouth opened in dismay. "Who is Helmrik Ikalhur?"

"He is the grandson of the Great Chieftain, Gelgan Virnlir, may his bones rest easy."

"That little rugrat's in charge?" Inska snorted again. "Surprised he survived puberty."

"He is nearly sixty," Gingi protested. "You should show him respect."

"Stars and darkness," Inska said, putting a hand to her forehead. "I've missed more than fifty years!"

"It's been very cold, for a very long time," Herm said. "No one has come this far north in decades."

"Did Gerand Enjural die, at least?" she asked, hands on her hips.

"Who?" Herm said.

"Wait," one of his brothers said. "Wasn't that some rebel warlord who threatened Gelgan's borders for a season or so? Father mentioned the name, in stories."

"Maybe so. The name doesn't ring a bell with me," Herm replied.

"Well, that's good," Inska said, smiling. "How far to the next settlement nowadays?"

"It's about two horizons south along the ridge."

She looked down and stamped her feet. "Any chance I could trade you folks for a good pair of boots? These are a bit tight."

"Gingi has an extra pair," Herm offered.

"But those are my boots," she protested.

Inska patted herself about the waist. "I don't have my money pouch anymore," she commented. "I guess it must be further down in the ice."

The blonde's eyes lit up. "I'll get those boots for you."

A few days later, Inska crossed the border southward, still wearing Gingi's boots.

##  Chapter Seven

The sun was bright and sharp as Meena and Sanych boarded their vessel for passage north across the Bay of Whales. This was in fact the same ship Sanych had used for transport to Miln; the captain recognized her. He approached shortly after they had cast off.

"The little girl looking for an old woman, yes?" he rumbled. The portly captain wore his clothes as a peacock might display his feathers. His pantaloons were of the deepest red, while his coat was a silk wash that wandered from sky blue to sea green, depending on the light. Gold buckles and winking cut glass flickered in the sunlight at every angle.

"Captain Verri, of the gracious lands of Hynd," greeted Sanych.

"Ah hah, you recall my homeland. What a wondrous child!" The captain grinned broadly, revealing a lower tooth space that was filled by a bright red gem. "And you did not find your old woman, I see, but instead a ripe plum in full fruit!" He grinned appreciatively in Meena's direction.

Sanych held her breath. Meena had been away from civilization for some time; things could turn ugly, considering her skill in fighting.

Meena tipped her head to the side. "Bite a plum too greedily and you will choke on the stone, is it not true?"

The captain's eyes widened, revealing their golden-green irises completely. "By the hearth, it is true! My mother's favorite warning, as I recall, and one I took pleasure in ignoring on many occasions. You have been to Hynd, then?"

"It has been many turns of the season, Captain Verri."

"Yet you still recall our idiom. What a jewel! You must eat at my table this entire journey! I insist! You, boy," the captain said, grabbing a passing ship's lad by the shirt. "Tell that galley rat Gorin I shall have guests, two wonderful lovely plums, at my table every meal."

"Aye cap'n," the lad said, scampering off to do as he was bid.

"And so, my fair plum," said the captain, who appeared about twenty years older than Meena did. "What is your name?"

Meena seemed to hesitate a moment. "My name is lost to me, Captain Verri. Perhaps you will supply me with one that will suit."

The captain sobered suddenly, his eyes flicking from Meena to Sanych, but Sanych had no idea whether she was speaking in Hyndi idiom again.

"It is true, my fair plum?" he asked. To Sanych, his voice sounded sympathetic.

"By the hearth, and the stone, and the spark for my fire, it is true."

The captain straightened his shoulders, buckles and buttons winking. "Then indeed I can provide a name that will suit. I give you the name of Nurstei, and so you shall be known for myself and my entire crew."

Meena smiled. "The Northern Star. Thank you, Captain Verri. I will treasure your gift in my left pocket." She put a hand over her heart and gave him a slight bow.

The captain glowed. "Then come, come and see my magnificent vessel; she is the Ondanta."

After a tour of the ship, Sanych and Meena were informed that their berths had been moved, and when they located their belongings, they found they had been put up against the forward bulkhead, right next to the captain's quarters. It was much larger and finer than what they had paid for. Meena relaxed full-length on her cot; something she could not have done in their former quarters.

Sanych noted her grin. "What was all that about, with the left pocket and the spark for my fire business?"

Meena exhaled happily. "I love the Hyndi. They have such a lovely tradition of giving out names. I've gone there several times just for that purpose."

"Why?" asked Sanych.

"It's a nice place to start over. You don't think I was born as Meena, do you?"

"I never thought about it," confessed Sanych. "What was your first name?"

Meena sighed. To Sanych, it seemed sad. "Ask me about that later."

She pursed her lips. It seemed there was a growing list of things Meena wasn't ready to tell her about. "All right.. Will you tell me instead of one of the stories you think should be told?"

Meena's eyes cast over her list of memories, though it looked as if she were studying the ceiling. "Yes. Let me tell you about Gardarann and the Well of Grass..."

~~~

Sanych made a wager with the bigoted Daskan first mate–a man named Hmol–that the Ondanta would arrive ahead of schedule their first night at sea, while they joined the captain at his table for dinner. The man had started goading her soon after she and Meena boarded, saying that women being able to read was barbaric, and Sanych had had enough.

When the man demanded that she narrow her prediction to within an ebb tide either way, and she still didn't back down, Meena added all the gipp she had to Sanych's bet. The crew buzzed with the topic for days, poking fun at the little girl who thought she could read the future, or at the first mate who might get his arse handed to him by a little girl.

Iben, a Kirthan deckhand, was Sanych's strongest public supporter, aside from Meena. The crew warned the Temple journeyman in teasing tones that Iben was looking for a bride; she'd better sleep with a dagger. Sanych began to avoid the tanned young man, fleeing the deck entirely when she had to. Meena kept him from entering their cabin with sweet persuasions on his lips, though she laughed as much as the sailors at the expressions that flitted over Sanych's face.

By day nine, Meena was beginning to cast worried looks toward their money pouch. The way the crew sniggered every time someone mentioned anything relating to their progress toward Braltre, she knew they were far behind the schedule Sanych had predicted they would follow.

But the journeyman remained optimistic. In fact, after the noon meal, she had become positively excited. Pointing behind the ship, she indicated the low, swiftly moving bank of clouds.

"There's our speed, Meena. Just as I predicted."

"I don't remember you predicting a storm on day nine, Sanych," said Meena, squinting one eye at her.

"Not out loud, no. That might have made them throw me overboard."

"Well," said Meena, approval in her tone, "I guess you have learned a thing or two out here."

"Er," said Sanych. She declined to mention how she had been tossed back down the gangway of the first ship she had approached for passage south across the Bay of Whales, followed by shouts of "witch" and "weatherhag," and a few moldy apples. She'd learned that the best way to approach a superstitious crew of Byarrans did not involve running up to the second mate and urging that they immediately put to sea–with her aboard–because the weather patterns were going to be optimal for the next six days, followed by two small storms of no consequence, allowing them to reach Miln before a severe rainstorm crossed their route. She had been more circumspect with Captain Verri.

But Meena, seeing the approaching storm, was content with Sanych's prediction again, and began to smirk back at the sailors as they too eyed the approaching storm.

The storm caught them just after nightfall. Tucked safe and dry in their cabin, Sanych and Meena listened to the thumping of sailors' feet on the deck above as they hurried about, following the captain's shouted orders.

"He has to order the ship to run before the wind," commented Meena, gazing up at the ceiling as if she could see through the heavy wooden timbers.

"Yes. With the direction of the wind and the storm's path, any other option would be too dangerous for him to consider. He's got cargo to deliver, after all."

Meena lowered her eyes to Sanych's young face. "I figured, when we made this bet, why not? It didn't really matter to me if we won or lost. You knew what you thought, and I figured you were probably right. But this is really uncanny, Sanych. Predicting weather? That's dark magic to some cultures. You have a book somewhere in your Temple on predicting weather in the Bay of Whales?"

"We have books from several cultures, written by their sages, their philosophers, even astronomers who complained the weather got in the way of their planet gazing. I've read them all—" Sanych paused. Tilting her head forward slightly, she interrupted herself. "I'm not sure you understand what it means when I say I have read a book, Meena."

Meena smirked. "I do know how to read, Sanych. In several languages, some very old."

"That's not what I meant. My special talent is that I read something once, and I can remember it. Word for word. All of it, every page. Forever."

Meena's brow furrowed. She did not speak for several moments, staring at Sanych. Then she said, "What is the first thing you ever read?"

Sanych recited, "One bunny, two bunny, three bunny, four bunny. Can I buy a carrot, sir? I'll give you all my money."

Meena could not restrain her snort of amusement.

"I was two years old; what did you expect? I remember reading it by the light of a great lantern of some kind, far outside our window."

Meena's face sobered. "That's...impressive. Maybe you'll be the world's next great hero; take my place. I can retire, find a nice little cave on a mountainside."

Sanych wasn't sure if Meena was kidding or not. An odd strain seemed to have come between them; Sanych was reminded of her mentor's words when she first was assigned to study at the Temple: "There is a difference between giving someone the whole truth and giving them enough truth for the moment." Sanych had figured Meena, being unique, would automatically accept Sanych's amazing talent. Perhaps the great Shanallar was only human after all.

But the next morning, Meena was her old, cynical self again; Sanych wasn't convinced she had felt that hint of strain after all. Maybe it was nothing. She set it aside and focused on not throwing up as the ship heaved about in the rolling seas and fled before the shrieking winds.

Time lost meaning. Meals became large bowls with tight-fitting lids, insulated in a wool wrap, delivered to their quarters. The food was not quite the quality they had become used to at the captain's table, but it was still very edible. When Sanych had an appetite. When she did not, Meena happily polished off her food as well as her own, then usually belched contentedly. More often than not, this caused Sanych to reach for her spew bucket. And occasionally, over the sound of splattering liquefied food, Sanych thought she heard a low, rich chuckle.

Life was not fair.

~~~

After twelve and one-half days, the Ondanta docked at high tide among the many other vessels on the wharves of Braltre. The storm that had delivered them here so quickly was beating itself to death against the landmass, and would tire out over the next day. Sanych explained this to the misogynist Hmol as she took his money.

"I'm not an idiot," he grunted to her, as he reluctantly gave up his gipp.

"No. You're a barbarian," she retorted in an even undertone.

"It takes one to know one, lass," the first mate sniped.

Sanych smirked at him and gave him a saluting gesture with her index finger, knowing from Meena that it was a sign of respect in Hynd, and an insult to any Daskan. She heard Captain Verri guffawing loudly, and she turned to find Meena waiting for her at the gangway.

"Smartcheeks," murmured Meena as they walked away. Once down on the dock itself, both of them turned and put hands over their hearts, then extended them toward Captain Verri, who was also performing the Hyndi gesture of farewell.

"Fair winds, my lovely plums," he called down to them, grinning, as the last of the storm's strength buffeted the green feathers on the tiara around his turban. "Good fortune to you, Nurstei, whatever your future path."

"What an odd man," commented Sanych.

Meena snorted. "You think that's odd, let me tell you about Seven Six and his Coattails..."

~~~

With all the extra funds they now possessed, arranging mounts was not a problem. Meena's fat purse, swelled with the money they'd won from the Ondanta, allowed her to purchase a pair of fine roan horses, built for the hilly terrain between Braltre and the warmer climes of Hardyk, Vint and Kirth.

As they headed up the first hill, Sanych looked at the pitted, rocky road beneath her horse's hooves. "I'm glad I'm not walking down there this time. These feet are used to stone halls, not stony hills."

Meena smiled at the wordplay. "Questing isn't all swords and spices. A lot of it is wet and cold, filled with bumps and scrapes."

Sanych remained silent, hoping Meena would elaborate with a story, but the Shanallar hunched into her cloak and said no more.

Sanych began looking ahead to their arrival at the Temple and their eventual meeting with the Magister. She recalled Meena's terrible expression when Sanych had mentioned that the item the Magister wanted was a book called the Dire Tome. What did she know about it? Apparently, at least in Meena's opinion, the book should be left well enough alone. She had never said why, never mentioned the book at all in the weeks they had been traveling. Sanych determined to try and learn more; she felt that, being more contemporary herself, she might be able to translate Meena's reasons into words the Magister might more easily comprehend in relation to the current situation.

But when she first brought the subject of the Dire Tome up, as they enjoyed a hot breakfast in a small inn, the Shanallar shushed her and changed the subject.

Sanych understood; strangers might have been listening. She waited until they were alone on the road, a cool mist rising from the bogs nearby, and quietly asked her again.

"Can you tell me about the Dire Tome now, Meena?"

"Yes, but I'm not going to. Please don't say its name."

"It's just a book," Sanych retorted, more sharply than she meant to.

Meena turned her head and stared at Sanych. Within her hood, her dark green eyes were dim pools of ferocity. "No, it is not just a book. It's evil, and no one in their right mind should go after it, unless they've got a death wish."

"I...I don't understand," Sanych said, blinking at the suppressed rage in Meena's tone.

"I'm all right with that," Meena retorted.

"What? What in Wisdom's name does that mean?" the journeyman complained.

"It means, O Ignorant One, that there are some things you're better off not knowing."

Sanych waited for further explanation, but none came. Irritation growing quickly, she couldn't resist saying, "Like why I shouldn't say 'Dire Tome'? I'd think that knowing why I couldn't say 'Dire Tome' would be impor–"

A crack split the relative quiet of the road; Sanych's cheek went half numb and half afire, and she nearly slid off her saddle.

"Insolent child!" raged Meena quietly, shaking from the effort of keeping her voice down. "You sought me out to give advice on something you know little about. So here is my advice now: do not speak the name of the book. Ever."

Sane people would be cowed to silence by the horrible grimace on Meena's face. But Sanych was driven by a desire for information that had no equal. "Tell me why, and I'll consider it," she grated, her voice muffled as she held her cheek.

"Because," Meena said in a much quieter tone, "ears are always listening. And some of them belong to those who are more powerful than either of us, and have no good whatsoever on their mind." She turned and looked ahead at the approaching curve, her expression as stony as the road.

"Who? Who's listening? Who could be more powerful than you?"

Meena put a finger to her lips. "If they're listening," she whispered back, "they won't want me telling you."

Sanych nodded, unsure whether to take Meena seriously. She thought she saw a smirk of humor cross Meena's lips, but it might have been a shadow.

A light, cold drizzle began, pattering on the stony road and their cloaks, reminding them that it was still winter. It's probably sunny in Vint, Sanych thought sourly. She couldn't wait to get home. Then maybe she'd get some straight answers, at the same time as the Magister did. If he got any, either.

~~~

A week later Meena and Sanych rode into Hostown, set slightly up a rise toward a wildly green collection of hills. It possessed a grand view of the low river plains between Hostown and the distant sea. The weather Sanych saw as they rode though the bustling markets was looking rather dire. Her eyes flicked back and forth as if reading a page that wasn't there, and she turned to Meena.

"We can't stop; if we don't stay ahead of that storm, we won't make it to Vint in time!"

Meena sighed; she'd been looking forward to a heated bath and a night on a feather mattress, but it was not to be; destiny called.

They passed through Hostown without pausing for more than a few items of food, then rode straight out the North Gate. The high road would lead them northeast for several days, edging away from the Southern Sea. Then it angled north through the kingdom of Hardyk, to their final destination of Vint. How much the storm would delay them, Sanych could only guess.

"Equinox is in less than four weeks, Meena," said Sanych worriedly, as they entered a dank forest where the cold air clung to them and spread low beneath the still-bare branches of thousands of leatherbarks.

"How long would you expect it to take us to get to the Temple without the storm?"

"Approximately twenty days, judging by how long it took me to get down to Hostown."

"Approximately? What, no books on horseback riding?"

"Not between Highnave and Hostown, not explaining the terrain in between and how a horse might travel across it."

Meena looked over and sighed. "Sanych, can you imagine how much more useful you'd be if you got out more?"

Sanych frowned, unsure if that was a compliment.

Meena's sharp eyes spotted a stand of sempergreens off the trail. She wordlessly grabbed Sanych's reins and led her to them. Once in the sheltering space beneath the trees, Meena suggested they bundle up.

While she was changing her clothes, Sanych did not notice what Meena was doing. When she finished tugging on her second wool tunic, Meena held out her oilskin duffel, now partially unstitched.

"Wear this; it'll keep the ice from freezing in your clothes. You'll stay much warmer under it."

"What about your things?" Sanych asked, as she took the oilskin.

"I'll stow them somewhere."

"What about you? You only have the one duffel."

"True."

Meena began finding places for the belongings she had carried in the duffel, tucking them here and there amongst their other bags, on her person, or her saddle.

"Meena?" The Shanallar had not answered Sanych's question.

"We'll eat and rest here a little." She smiled over at Sanych. "Quit worrying. We should travel any time the weather lets us, Sanych, day or night."

"I agree."

"I want you to take the lead. I can deal with the cold, but it's all I can handle at one time. You'll see."

Sanych frowned slightly, but nodded. She was the one who knew where they were going anyway.

After resting and eating, they rode on. The storm began with an icy drizzle, strengthening into a freezing rain. With no leaves above their heads to block the frigid precipitation, they were pelted with fat drops that eventually froze anywhere they could. It felt like being gnawed on by rats with teeth of ice.

Meena gave her reins to Sanych, then pulled a woolen hat onto her head beneath her cloak hood. She assumed a relaxed pose, eyes closed. "Sanych?"

Sanych looked back. "Yes?"

"When we stop, and you build a fire, don't put me anywhere near it."

"What?" asked Sanych.

"Just do as I say. Please."

There was a 'please'. "All right," said Sanych doubtfully, hoping she could understand later. It was the best she had come to hope for, traveling with such a closemouthed, mysterious person. It was enough to drive someone who craved knowledge, as she did, stark raving mad.

Meena was quiet again, as Sanych started the horses into a brisk walk. At least they would not freeze; they were doing all the work. Meena was likely doing something with her healing ability to keep herself from freezing. That left Sanych to feel like an idiot, wearing a dismantled duffel on her head and shoulders.

Night fell, and still they rode. For several hours, the distant crashing of the sea on unseen rocks echoed through the slumberous forest. Eventually, dawn began to illuminate the eastern clouds. After waking from a doze with a jerk that threatened to topple her onto the ice-coated road, Sanych worried that if she did fall off, Meena wouldn't awaken, and they'd not find each other in time to get to Vint by the equinox. She began looking in earnest for a place to stop and rest.

Finally Sanych saw a large enough clump of sempergreens to house them and their mounts, and she turned her horse toward it. As she dismounted, she realized she felt relatively warm and dry. The oilskin had helped immensely. Sanych's eyes flicked to Meena, and she gave a shriek of fright.

In the dim dawn, ice gleamed on the Shanallar's hood and wool hat and froze across her cheeks. Her chin had a long icicle hanging from it. Sanych ripped off her glove and reached out her hand. Meena's skin was ice cold.

Galvanized into action, Sanych dragged Meena off her horse; her body was stiff with extreme cold, and very heavy. Sanych lost her balance and they toppled all the way to the needle-strewn ground. With a half-sob, Sanych wrenched herself out from under Meena and turned the woman face-up. Her eyes were iced shut. Sanych pulled her other glove off and melted the ice away with her hands. She listened for breath; watched Meena's chest to see if it rose and fell.

There! Or had it? Sanych abandoned her thoughts on personal space and put her ear to Meena's chest, listening for a heartbeat.

Nothing.

More nothing.

"Folly's bastards!" cursed Sanych, tears in her eyes from a gamut of emotions. "Beat!"

Beat...beat.

"Oh, Wisdom, yes!" Sanych gasped. Her next thought was of a fire, but Meena's words came back to her, and she abandoned the concept. One of the horses whickered softly, as if in quiet complaint to not being taken care of yet.

Sanych quickly covered Meena in needles, then saw to the horses in an insulting rush, or so they seemed to tell her with their large brown eyes.

Then she made a larger nest of needles for her and Meena, sweeping armfuls over them both. The insulation worked; in a few minutes, her shivering stopped, though her nose complained of the pitch-scented dust.

Exhausted and warm, Sanych fell asleep.

"Whmmnn?" came a groggy voice, sometime later.

Sanych opened her eyes to see Meena staring at her. The woman's green eyes looked around slowly in all directions, then back at Sanych.

"Sanych?" Meena's voice came slowly.

"Meena." The relief in Sanych's voice was evident to the groggy woman.

"Sanych, I'm only going to ask this once. And if I get the answer I want, I'll let you live."

Sanych tensed; she hadn't built a fire. Meena was still a little too groggy for Sanych to tell if she was kidding or not. "Yes?"

"Am I naked?"

Sanych burst into relieved laughter.

"I mean it, girl, because I've got a sempergreen needle poking me in–" Meena gave up trying to talk; it was only making Sanych laugh harder. Finally she struggled to push Sanych away and sit up in the nest of needles. She found that she was in fact still wearing her substantial winter smallclothes.

"How far did we come? How long has it been?" Meena asked, as she noticed the sky was dimming into dusk.

Sanych reined in her mirth and sighed in happy relief. She summed up the night's travel, and her frantic attempt to save Meena's life when she realized the woman was coated in ice. "Meena," she begged, "what did you do to yourself?"

Meena could see things had not gone as she had planned. "I figured you'd do what I'd do if I found a cold body."

"Which is?" Sanych frowned, mentally examining the options.

"Never mind. As long as we ride in the ice storm, this will happen to me. When I warm up again, it has to be on my own. I know, it sounds backwards. But the more warmth around me that isn't my own miniscule body heat, the longer it takes for me to warm up."

"Other warmth inhibits your own body's processes?"

"Sure, if you want to get all detailed." Meena waved a dismissive hand.

"How...how quickly does it take you if..."

"If no one helps me? Half an hour. Sometimes less."

"Could..." Sanych's face had gone pale, "could the fire, if I'd built one, could it have hurt you?"

"Yes. If I was dragged from an underground river into a hot desert at midday, rewarming would kill me, probably several times."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Sanych sighed through her nose. "You might have wanted to mention this thawing ability. Just for reference. Maybe for my sanity."

Meena considered briefly, then nodded. "A fair point. Far be it from me to make you panic and abandon my corpse before I can talk to your Magister. After all this time, it would seem such a waste."

Sanych took a moment to decide whether Meena was being serious, then snorted into laughter as she saw the smirk threatening to turn Meena's face into a full-blown smile.

"I did warn you, I haven't been with people for some while. It's hard to start tossing details of my life around. Even to you."

"But I'm the one who came and found you! If you can't trust me, who can you trust?"

"Exactly my point. I'm working on trusting you for that reason. But I can't just jump back into a civilized realm and pick up where I left off. I live in that cave for a reason."

"Time you have, Shanallar," Sanych murmured. "The rest of us aren't so lucky."

Meena's expression was unreadable, and she did not reply.

~~~

The ice storm was strong; rain continued to fall for four more days before grudgingly refraining from freezing when it reached the ground. The pair traveled as often as the weather let them. Meena spent a lot of time propped in awkward positions against various trees while Sanych warmed herself by a small fire and cast guilty looks at the Shanallar's frozen body.

On the last day of the storm, Meena said, "Sanych, you don't seem to have predicted this ice storm. How can that be, when you were so accurate with the storm in the Bay of Whales?"

"Urrh, don't remind me," grumped Sanych, to whom this storm was a personal irritant.

"All right,, I won't."

Sanych answered anyway. "First, the weather up here comes from the north and west, so since we're coming up from the south I can't really get a good look at what's approaching, and second, when I was coming from the north on my way down to search for you, I did predict the possibility of a late winter ice storm, but it was pretty remote. And I did it a season ago. So I hope you'll forgive the sloppiness; it's not my best work."

Meena looked at the annoyed look on Sanych's face and knew the girl was only angry with herself. "Well, just this once, then."

When the storm finally broke that afternoon, and a relatively tropical drizzle began falling, Sanych stood up in her stirrups and made a rude gesture at the sky. "Hah! Folly take your wits; you can't be right forever!" she called, and added a few derogatory terms for good measure.

Meena quirked an eyebrow and rode up alongside Sanych's horse. "Is this a habit of yours, cursing the sky? In the Ianiu culture, that'd get you stoned to death."

Sanych looked down at Meena, then broke into delighted laughter as she sat down in her saddle. "We're going to make it. I estimate we only lost three days. We should be able to arrive safely and still meet with the Magister before the equinox."

Their journey northeast gradually angled as the high road turned north, and they began to pass through Hardysh villages at regular intervals.

Several days' travel were spent riding among the massive fruit orchards that dotted Hardyk. A few days' ride across the Vinten border, the women arrived in the capital city of Highnave.

It was three days before the Spring Equinox.

##  Chapter Eight

Geret's next few weeks forced him to be busier than he'd ever been in his life--busier than he'd been while planning to redistribute his father's ice blocks, busier even than when Imorlar had had him wandering about town on nocturnal excursions of the clandestine type. He consulted nearly daily–and sometimes all day–with his uncle and the Dictat over a wide variety of topics, all pertaining to the expedition: what to bring, what to wear, what to learn, and which languages and monies would be required where. The list went on and on, and only over time did Geret finally get a marginal picture in his head of how this journey would pass: slowly, filled with bureaucracy, and devoid of any actual adventure whatsoever.

It was a crushing thought. Geret took hope from one thought of his own, though: he was in charge of the expedition, not the Dictat. He wanted to do his uncle proud, but if the monotony got too intense, Geret simply assumed he would have the power to change the routine to prevent the entire expedition from dying of boredom.

Adding to the workload of trying to catch up mentally to the point of readiness the Dictat were at in regard to the expedition, Imorlar required certain new feats from Geret after hours. He had readily admitted to Geret that the note in the teapot had been from him. He'd gotten wind of Addan's being deemed officially unable to travel the day before, and knew the Magister would ask Geret to take his place.

When Geret had asked him why it was so important that he go on this expedition, Imorlar did not give him a full reply at the time. He had only said that certain facts needed to be investigated thoroughly, and loyalties and ties would likely be tested on the journey. Geret needed to be present to observe them.

To Geret, this had sounded like Imorlar wanted him to spy on the Dictat, but he hadn't said so at the time. Geret was quite adept at keeping his own counsel, especially when watching and waiting might reveal more potential benefit than if he spoke up. He was curious to see what Imorlar was after specifically, so he decided to bend the portion of his will that wasn't engaged in readying for this expedition toward trying to piece together the big picture that his tasks for Imorlar created.

Toward that end, he'd paid special attention to the four Counts that were accompanying him on the expedition: Braal Runcan, Halvor Thelios, Rhist Armala, and Stervan Sengril.

As the weeks had passed, Geret got to know the four Counts better, and he'd categorized them for quicker reference inside his head.

Count Runcan was ostensibly the leader of the Dictat, although there was no such official position. He was a slim, redheaded man with light eyes; fair, courteous to all, and a bit distant, he was constantly distracted by what he called "fascinating tidbits of information!" Geret also noticed that Runcan seemed slightly intimidated by Count Sengril.

Sengril himself was tall, dark of hair and eye, and possessed hooded eyes that made him appear constantly brooding. He was direct with his opinions–of which he had many–quick to pace about the room, full of energy and motivation, and very interested in creating trade for exotics from the far-off lands they encountered.

Even though Geret saw Salvor's father nearly daily, the grey-bearded Count had made no mention of the encounter between Geret and his son, which relieved Geret quite a bit. It seemed Salvor hadn't told his father about the duel at all, at least not in any complaining sort of way. Salvor might be a law-breaker, but he was a savvy one. Count Thelios was still slender for his age, with blue eyes; he was the quietest of the entire Dictat, and watched and listened intently when the others spoke. Geret was very frustrated that he couldn't get a good read on Thelios' intentions or loyalties, as he never seemed to express them. He would be one to watch on this expedition, for sure.

Armala, on the other hand, made it quite clear where he stood. The short, suave Count, blond and grey-eyed, argued over one small point or another nearly daily, with either the Magister or Runcan. Always very politely of course, but to Geret's eyes it came across as divisive. Geret wasn't sure if he was trying to undermine the expedition itself, or if he was making a power play within the Dictat, but either way, Geret intended to keep his eyes on him as well.

After dealing with the exhausting daily litany of expedition facts he had to learn, and the mind-numbing intricacies of interpersonal relations among the Dictat, Geret did find pleasure in sitting on his bed at night, perusing a small map or book borrowed from the Quest Room, as they'd dubbed it, and learning a few fun facts on his own about a new stop on their journey. He would lie down afterward, exhausted, close his eyes and imagine far-away sights, exotic, graceful women, gravity-defying architecture, and new palate-stimulating foods just waiting for him to discover. For about three minutes. Then he'd fall asleep.

He certainly liked his version of the journey better than the one the Dictat planned for him.

The last week before departure, it became nearly impossible for Geret to concentrate on anything aside from his own rising excitement. The orange-veiled women and spicily-sauced kebab meats of his nighttime imaginings called to him. The cool shade of leather umbrellas the size of his bed bade him rest from desert heat, and the exciting thrill of chancing upon a sea serpent in turquoise shallows made his heart beat faster; he could nearly smell the salt sea.

Outside the palace, down the hill, at the lower end of Highnave, where the wide trade road slipped out of the valley, the first leg of the expedition–the horse caravan–was making ready. Servants by the dozens bustled around like bees at a hive, packing, rearranging, arguing over which important passenger's belongings were more important than any other's, and jumping to complete any task the caravan masters asked of them.

Geret had been down there every morning this week, absorbing the excitement like a thirsty sponge plunged into heady wine; it invigorated every particle of his being, and made him a bit drunk with the possibilities that lay ahead of him.

It was all finally becoming real.

The caravan masters treated him deferentially and asked his opinion on several placements of items, scheduling and such. Geret answered them politely, generally agreeing with whatever they had already arranged, no doubt ingratiating himself unwittingly to them. But it was hard for Geret to focus on such mundane matters, when adventure and exploration and treasure hunting awaited.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that anyone as thoroughly excited as he was should never be put in charge of an operation of this magnitude. It was the same part of his mind that told him he shouldn't play pranks; Geret ignored this part of himself as a general rule. It had no sense of fun whatsoever.

When only four days remained until the equinox, Count Thelios dropped a nasty surprise on the Quest Room.

"I'm afraid I will be unable to accompany the expedition as I have planned," he stated calmly, as everyone gathered together that morning around the map table.

Even the Magister looked surprised. "Halvor, what do you mean? You've been planning this with me from the start; you've been one of the quest's strongest proponents. What has happened at this last possible moment to change your mind?"

Halvor Thelios stared at the Magister for fully ten seconds before replying. "I have some serious issues I dare not leave unattended for so long, Magister. I beg you give me leave to remain here."

Geret watched his uncle blink twice and remain silent himself for a time. Being careful not to let his emotions show on his face, Geret glanced around the table at all nine of the Dictat. The looks he saw clearly indicated to him that something was afoot. Didn't his uncle see it?

"Certainly, Halvor. But provision for one of your household has been made with the caravan; surely you would like to appoint a proxy."

Thelios mulled it over for a few seconds. "I certainly wouldn't want all this planning to go to waste. I'll appoint my son Salvor to take my place. He won't have the knowledge and preparation to be part of the domestic council we've prepared for Geret, but he is well-traveled, has a good eye for appraisal, and is also rather handy with a sword." Geret was sure that Count Thelios was purposely avoiding looking at him when he said that. "I'm sure he'll make a fine companion for Geret and a strong addition to the expedition."

Geret began to feel a dark cloud blowing over his bright and beautiful fantasy expedition. If Salvor came, they'd be in close quarters for weeks, crossing lands by caravan, and it would be even worse when they reached their chartered ship. Geret really began to regret his brash decision to humiliate the older nobleman in public during their duel for the stolen sword.

But that was not the only twist to Geret's day. Bedtime found Geret reading a small book on a land called Hynd; they had the most fascinating traditions there, and Geret stayed up later than usual to read a bit more about them. A knock on the door, echoing a bit in the small foyer attached to his rooms, startled him out of his mental picturing of women sweet and ripe as plums and truths being carried about in pockets over the heart.

Nimbel stumbled over to open it, having fallen asleep on his pallet in the side room already, and bowed sleepily but respectfully to the Magister himself.

"Uncle!" Geret blurted, standing up and hurriedly straightening his nightclothes.

The Magister thanked Nimbel and told him to get back to his sleep, then stepped over to greet his nephew.

"I'm sorry to visit with no notice like this, Geret," the Magister began.

"It's no trouble." Geret noticed lines of concern on his uncle's face. "What's on your mind, Uncle?"

The Magister merely pressed his lips together tightly and held out a small cylindrical parchment case, capped in bronze and sealed with wax, imprinted with the Magister's personal seal. Geret took it; it wasn't even as long as his hand.

"Do not open this until you are safely on your way, Geret. Until you've reached Kirth at the earliest. It is for your eyes only. Once you've read it, burn it. Do you understand me?"

Geret knew what it must contain: some sort of information regarding the Thelios family. "I understand perfectly."

The Magister smiled and rested a hand on Geret's shoulder. "Thank you, Geret, for this and for many other things. Not least of which is accepting my invitation to come and live here. You've been a strong asset to me, and I want you to know that. It'll be . . . a very long time before I see you again, once you leave."

"Yes, it will. But don't worry, Uncle. I'll get that treasure book for you, or die trying."

The Magister's eyes flared wider for a moment in warning. "Be careful what you wish for, Geret lad. This book is terribly important to me, it's true, but it's not worth your life." Geret heard a strange emphasis on 'your'. "Promise me also that you won't get so caught up in adventuring across the globe that you put yourself in unnecessary danger."

Geret nodded hesitantly. "Of course, Uncle. I'll be careful with myself, I promise. After all, I'm the only nephew you've got." He grinned rakishly, but the Magister only nodded thoughtfully and bade him good night, leaving Geret feeling a bit childish.

He looked down at the small parchment case in his hand. Suddenly he wasn't entirely sure that it had to do with the Thelios family anymore. But what else would his uncle want to warn him about, secretly like this? And why must he wait to open it until the caravan had reached Kirth?

~~~

Meena got her first look at the city Sanych called home in the late afternoon as they rode up from the south, through a wide break in the hills. The weather was positively balmy here. Away from the coastline, it was not muggy at all. The first insects of the year danced on warm sun rays. As they passed through the man-made canyon through the low hills, Meena commented approvingly on the heavily armed outposts atop the cliffs.

Coming through into the bowl-like valley on the far side of the hills, she saw the city of Highnave spreading across the valley floor and up the western hillside, and was disappointed not to see much other than the sun's glare.

"Highnave is also called the City of the Morning," said Sanych. "When the sun hits the city then, it's beautiful. You'll see it tomorrow as it's meant to be seen." She squinted over at Meena in the direct sunlight, and paused, staring. "Meena?"

"What?" The older woman looked at her strangely.

"Your hair..." Sanych began.

"Like you should talk," Meena retorted.

"No, it looks like some of it's gone red, with the sun behind it. There's nothing about hair changing color in any of your legends."

Meena inhaled slowly through her nose and looked up at the arching blue sky for several seconds before speaking. "If there was something about hair color at all in any of those legends, wouldn't you have mentioned it to me at the beginning with all the other nonsense?"

Sanych blushed in remembrance of her naïve proclamations. "I guess it took the backlighting of the sun to make it stand out; it's really dark like the brown, otherwise. Does that happen often, your hair changing color?"

"Often enough that I don't worry about it. It started this time when I decided to come here with you. Life-changing events trigger the color change. I never know what color will be next, though, so it makes it hard to coordinate with my wardrobe." Meena gazed peaceably ahead down the road.

Sanych wrinkled her brows in puzzlement for a moment, until she realized Meena was joking. "I guess it would. Does it grow in the new color until something else triggers a change, then?"

"Depends. Sometimes taking care of business is enough to revert the color back."

Sanych widened her light blue eyes in realization. "So your hair's natural color must be dark brown! Does your skin change too? Or your eyes?"

Meena cut her a dark look. She distracted her young companion by pointing to a large area approaching on the left side of the road. They could easily see the milling chaos that was the expedition caravan; they passed within a stone's throw from it. Sanych was relieved beyond measure to see that it had not left yet; there was still time. Not much time, but hopefully enough to prevent disaster.

They approached a large fork in the road. Sanych turned east, away from the city proper.

"And we're going where?" Meena asked.

"The Temple of Knowledge is still within the limits of Highnave; this whole valley is Highnave. But we're going to that unassuming cluster of buildings over there by the rocky hill."

Meena looked; as they gradually drew nearer, she could see the finely constructed stone buildings. They were unlike any other temple she'd encountered. None of the buildings was over two stories tall, though they did have well-formed porticos and stairs of whitest marble. Giant marble pots, overflowing with variegated flowers of all sorts, sat on the wide walks between buildings. The trees growing here and there had been purposely planted for optimal shade in summer heat, though many had only the tiniest of new leaves, if any.

It was a small campus, pushed right up against a hill of smooth bare rock. It amused her to contemplate a girl like Sanych coming out of this, as the journeyman had put it, unassuming cluster of buildings.

Sanych noticed her expression. "When the Temple was first begun, the city was much smaller over there on the other side of the valley. They didn't want this side. But the founders of the Temple saw it as an ideal location; close to the city, yet not surrounded by it, and best of all, it's a solid chunk of granite over here."

Meena looked around as if hunting for the solid granite. Her eyes flicked down to the well-tended grounds. "You store your records underground," she stated.

"Yes. The constant temperature and dryness is perfect for preserving our records."

Meena grinned. "Tends to make others underestimate you, then, doesn't it?" she said, gesturing to the small campus that was visible to any passing by.

"That too. The stables are over this way."

Meena followed Sanych's lead; soon they pulled up to a stop in a small courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the stables. A young lad and an older stable hand trotted smartly out to take their horses for them.

"Welcome to the Temple of Knowledge, travelers. May I—" began the lad holding Sanych's horse for her to dismount; then he recognized her face as she turned toward him. "Journeyman Sanych! You're back!" He seemed truly surprised to see her.

"Yes, Borrin, I was unkilled by the wicked, barbaric foreigners. I'm sure you owe someone some money for a failed bet." Sanych grinned at Borrin's protestations, then turned her attention to the older man, somewhere in his twenties. "Ildan, you may send word that this woman is my guest and will be staying in my quarters with me."

"Aye, Journeyman." The older man showed no irritation at taking orders from a girl ten years younger than himself.

"And please let the Masters know I have returned and will need to speak with them as soon as it is convenient for them."

"As you say."

Only then did Sanych dismount her horse. Meena dismounted also, and followed behind the journeyman as she crossed the grounds and entered what seemed to be the largest building on the campus. Few people were outside; the only ones visible were actively working outdoors. There was not a book nor a manuscript to be seen.

Sanych pushed open one of the two large front doors at the top of a wide set of marble steps; the door panels were of hammered brass and shone brilliantly in the fading sunlight. Meena was temporarily blinded, between the flashing light outside and the dim coolness inside.

They walked down a tall, wide corridor decorated here and there with tapestries and porcelain pieces. On the way they passed several young people, apparently acolytes by the way they all bowed respectfully to Sanych.

Sanych led Meena down a wide hallway with a plaque up on the lintel that read Journeymen's Wing. With a wistful look overhead, she said, "I hope I'll be moving to the Archivists' wing soon. They're always bragging about their rooms."

She opened a wooden door in the marble hallway and led Meena into a room neither cramped nor dark, leaving Meena to wonder how much of the Temple of Knowledge had been given over to the Archivists' rooms. Sanych's bed, nearly wide enough for two people and heaped with finely made quilts, dominated one half of the room. Several narrow bookshelves bracketed small doorways that led to other rooms. A wardrobe, trunk, small desk filled out the room.

"Sanych!" came an excited voice. A mature woman with graying light brown hair pulled back into a bun stepped through one of the doorways, a lit lamp in her hands. "They told me you'd returned–" Her dark eyes turned to Meena, and she stared, her face showing a remarkable range of emotions. "Er, forgive me. I've not gotten the cot for your guest yet. I thought you might like to bathe first?" She set the lamp down.

"Ah, baths. A sign of civilization," Meena commented, grinning in anticipation.

Sanych grinned and gave the woman a greeting hug. She turned and said, "Ahni, my friend Meena. Just where I thought she'd be. Meena, this is Ahni, my assistant."

"Lowly journeymen get assistants?" Meena asked. "This is quite the place."

"They also don't have to put up with snide remarks," Sanych retorted. "Any position at the Temple is considered favorable employment in Vint. Not just anyone is let in the door here."

"Ladies, if you're ready, I believe the baths await you at the end of the hall," Ahni interrupted, smiling.

Meena's snide remarks turned to bone-deep pleasure as she slipped into a copper tub up to her neck in stinging hot water. Sanych occupied the tub next to her in the communal bathing room. After luxuriating for nearly an hour and scrubbing herself pink with a sponge imported from Kirth, Meena was so relaxed that her voice slurred as she said, "Sanych, all is forgiven. I love you. I love your Temple. I love books, and...things. Can I stay here forever?"

"You mean in the tub? No. You'll get all wrinkly, and the steam would get into the fabrics and start four different kinds of mold." Sanych waved a wet hand at the stack of towels that awaited use by clean journeymen. "Shall I recite their life cycles for you?"

Meena was thus encouraged to hurry up and get out. They had a light supper in the journeymen's dining commons, where Sanych greeted her fellow journeymen and received their congratulations for returning safely. Many wished her well with the Masters, or teased her that she'd fail and be stuck with them another year. Sanych held no doubt, though, and tossed joking remarks back just as easily as she received them. Meena noted that many of the Temple journeymen were older than Sanych, some by quite a few years.

Back in Sanych's room for the night, Meena snuggled under the comfortable, clean sheets on her sturdy cot. Sanych had tried to offer her the use of the bed, but Meena had refused. "You never know when you'll get a nice soft bed," she'd said. "Sleep in them when you can."

Sanych thought it odd that Meena wasn't taking her own advice.

"I love hot water," sighed Meena happily, as Sanych blew out the last lamp and clambered atop her bed. "I don't even remember the last time I was in hot water."

Sanych snorted with laughter.

"So to speak."

"You and the bath, you and the freezing rain. What is it with you and water?" chortled Sanych.

"Water and I have a love-hate relationship. I love it hot. I hate it cold." Meena's voice cooled so quickly Sanych swore she felt the room freeze.

"I can't imagine that letting yourself freeze is fun," said Sanych, not sure if she should comment.

"The rain was not so bad. It's cold bodies of water that I hate. Maybe my next home will be a cave in a warm desert. There can't be many more people in a desert than there are on my mountain." A pause. "I'm going to sleep now. Rest well, Sanych."

"And you, Meena," Sanych responded automatically, but now she was troubled. It was starting to dawn on her that, once Meena spoke to the Magister and convinced him not to seek the Dire Tome, she would likely return to her cave, or maybe she would really move to a desert. In any case, Sanych wouldn't have the chance to learn her history, hear her stories, and write them down. Meena did seem to have some sort of odd relationship with cold water. Sanych thought that would make another good story; she hoped to hear it all one day.

##  Chapter Nine

Master Godric stood outside the Council Room, waiting with a pair of wide-eyed acolytes who had earned door duty. Sanych had returned to the Temple before her deadline, and Master Godric found himself in a situation without precedent. Over a year earlier, when the Magister had publicized his intent to quest for the Dire Tome, Sanych elTiera, at fourteen, had tried to gain special permission to seek this Shanallar of hers. She hadn't even been proclaimed an Archivist yet, a title unavailable to anyone younger than fifteen. The Council of Masters put her off until she reached the minimum age, but after that they could not withhold her chosen quest from her any longer. They'd endorsed it on the Temple's behalf, albeit with severe reservations.

Two of the other four Masters had confided, in Sanych's long absence, that they felt she was too young to handle such responsibility, even though Temple law allowed her to quest at this age. In the short time since her return, they had also voiced opinions that the woman in her company must surely be an impostor. The other two Masters were wisely withholding judgment, as he was.

Yet, Sanych was his best student. No one else could have taken on a project of this magnitude and expected to succeed. She had made him believe her quest was achievable, with her unbridled enthusiasm and carefully detailed research. As her mentor, he was required to have a little more faith in her than others. This was usually easy; Sanych was the most precise journeyman Godric had ever seen. Her potential was nearly immeasurable. And yet, therein lay the seeds of failure; perhaps she had grown overconfident, perhaps even delusional about her own grandeur in the larger scheme. It had been known to happen, especially with the most gifted within the Temple.

It was his duty, as mentor, to side with his former student, as far as reasonable doubt allowed. And in the end, if her quest was ruled a failure by the Council, which was entirely likely, Godric knew his star would fall with Sanych's. She would be allowed a second Archivist quest, but not for another full turn of the seasons. The damage to their reputations would already be done.

Just as he pondered this thought for the umpteenth time, Sanych and her guest rounded the corner at the far end of the hallway and walked purposefully in his direction. He stepped forward and greeted them warmly.

"It has been too long, Master Godric," said Sanych, smiling.

"Indeed, Journeyman Sanych. I am well pleased to see you back safely. Come, the Council awaits within." He gestured to the gilded doors beside him, and the acolytes leapt to open them. The Master ushered in the returned travelers, then followed behind them.

Sanych thought she heard him murmur, "Even stars must fall sometime..."

Sanych and Meena stepped to the two chairs in the center of the round chamber and sat. Godric gestured to the two acolytes, and they closed the doors, shutting themselves out of the momentous meeting. He ascended the two steps to the horseshoe-shaped council table that wrapped around the half of the room opposite the doors, and sat in the end chair next to the other four Masters.

The man in the center, Master Heldael, spoke first. "Journeyman Sanych elTiera, you are called before this Council to provide proof of completion of your Quest of Knowledge, undertaken upon the thirty-ninth day after the Feast of Ravens. If proof of completion is presented, this council shall bestow the title of Archivist upon you." His voice held a slight edge of self-importance. Second-youngest among the Masters, he was aware that his hair had not yet grayed, nor his body thinned to what so many in the Temple perceived as a properly knowledgeable weight. His bright blue eyes studiously ignored (and for a Master, that was studious indeed) the presence of the woman next to Sanych; her mere existence seemed yet to be proven. "You have returned to the Temple of Knowledge and have come before the Council of Masters. Do you claim completion of your quest?"

"I do," Sanych replied levelly. She noted the looks flicking between some of the Masters. She knew what it meant; they did not believe her quest complete, nor possible to be completed, and they were mildly surprised that she continued to believe so even in their august presence.

"According to your Quest Definition, you sought..." Master Heldael reached for a leaf of paper and read from it, "...'to locate and bring back to Vint the woman or women known as, among other titles, the Shanallar, the Great Sage, and the Holy Witch, for the express purpose of having her, or them, advise the Magister and the Dictat, on the viability of undertaking the proposed quest of locating and returning to Vint with the book of legend known as the D–"

"Don't say its name!" Sanych blurted, holding up a forestalling hand. The Masters all drew back in surprise.

Heldael blinked. "Why ever not?" he asked her, his tone gruff.

Sanych gulped and lowered her arm. A quick glance at Meena saw a warning in the Shanallar's eyes, and Sanych turned back to the panel of Masters. "The answer to your question is a delicate one, and only for the ears of the Magister and his quest," she improvised, trying to project confidence.

The men glanced among themselves. Godric gave a tiny shrug, and Heldael nodded and began again. "You sought the Shanallar in order to have her 'advise the Magister and the Dictat on the viability of undertaking the proposed quest of locating and returning to Vint with the book of legend', then? Is that correct as you recall it?"

Smartcheeks, thought Sanych rudely. I don't recall anything incorrectly! "It is, Master Heldael," she said, refraining from adding anything she considered more appropriate.

"Very well," Master Heldael said, in a voice that clearly implied, It's your funeral. "Then the Council is prepared to receive your proof of completion. You may present at this time." He leaned back into his padded chair, giving Master Alii a disappointed look that was tinged with anticipation.

Sanych stood. Looking each of the Masters in the eye before speaking, she easily gauged which could be reasoned with and which would have to be beaten over the head with the truth. Her ratio was three to two in her favor. She had grown up seeing these men lead the Temple and make important decisions; now she needed them to make this decision correctly. She needed to prove that she was right. Fortunately, she was good at that.

"Honored Masters of the Council of the Temple of Knowledge. I present my proof in the person of the Shanallar, who is known in our age as Meena." One of the Masters raised eyebrows at such a common name. "She has agreed to put up with your questions in order to prove herself to you. You—"

"Put up with?" interjected Master Alii. He was not sure who to glare at–the young girl who was being impertinent, or the sitting woman whose existence had yet to be technically proven–so he shared it around. "Our questions are necessary in order to determine–"

"How about we give Sanych as much rope as she wants, eh, Alii?" interrupted Godric loudly. "Let's see what she does with it."

That quieted all objections. Sanych knew how the other Masters were taking Godric's comment; they envisioned her fashioning a noose for herself. She saw it more as building a rope bridge out into a fogbank, where the other side lay hidden, yet safe. She would force these Masters out onto that rope bridge and to the far side, where they could no longer deny the truth that lay beneath their very feet. She smirked at the imagery and began speaking again.

"As I was saying, you may ask her anything you like, anything at all. I am sure that you will find several questions of intricate detail that she can help you to unravel into a clear thread of understanding."

And she sat down. She had given them the key to a smooth interview, but she did not think most of them would see it. And she would enjoy, perhaps a little more than was necessary, seeing how their inflexible minds were prized open by the ungentle hands of the Shanallar and the truth she brought with her.

The Masters seemed hesitant to speak to Meena, so Meena stood up and addressed them.

"Great Masters, I greet you favorably. It is imperative that I speak with your Magister before the equinox; I want this interview over with as quickly as possible. The lives of all those who go on that quest hang in the balance. Do not make the assumptive mistake that I am being overdramatic to impress you. You mean very little to me, and I am only suffering your presence and your delay as a means to my end.

"Yes, I am sure your sensibilities are shocked at such an affront; don't think you're the first council who's considered themselves knowledgeable until I came along. So, ask what you will and I will answer. Any fact that will prove to you that I am the woman known as the Shanallar, I will willingly give to you."

There was a slight pause as the Masters took in her speech.

"If you are the Shanallar, why are you so youthful in appearance?" came the first question, from Master n'Gida; his voice was shot through with genuine curiosity.

"Magic."

The Masters waited for a more lengthy reply. When none came, Master Haldael leaned forward. "'Magic'? That's the only explanation you have?"

Meena looked at him skeptically. "Are you a magician?"

"Certainly not. The existence of such people has not conclusively been proven. Indubitably, there are many unexplained phenomena in the world, and while it is our belief that all things can be explained with logic and time, magic is not something we have proven to exist yet."

Meena cocked her head, looking at Master Haldael with a little pity. "Ah, yes, the Vinten philosophy. Then, I'm afraid, if I were to speak to you of the method of this life extension, it would be lost on you. If I were to go into the details of the process by which it occurred, you would be unable to follow the unfamiliar terminology. I am trying to be efficient in the use of our time here, and you are wasting it with your childish demands for answers which you could not possibly comprehend.

"Now," she addressed them all, "do you have some competent questions, or do I need to rip out my eyeballs and have them grow back in order to convince you of my identity?"

Though the Masters were taken aback at Meena's barbaric suggestion, Sanych struggled not to smile. The Shanallar's combination of rapid speech and sudden detours was strikingly similar to the techniques of the teachers here at the Temple.

And yet, Sanych realized that Meena was not just fooling around; she really didn't care whether this Council approved of her. She was here to see the Magister, to convince him not to send the quest off. Sanych hadn't learned any more details regarding the Dire Tome in the nine weeks she had been traveling with Meena, so she didn't know what exactly was so horrible about this book. But Meena was, for lack of a better word, terrified that the Magister's quest would actually locate the Dire Tome. Sanych would not be surprised if Meena simply walked out of this meeting and headed over to the Grand Palace if it started to go too badly between her and the Masters.

There had been a lull while Sanych mused; she wondered if the Masters' hushed whispers meant they were about to ask for the eyeball trick.

Master Godric spoke. "Meena, we have no need for such theatrics; we do not wish to waste anyone's time, either. If you are who you say, we wish it even less. Please, can you confirm for us then, in what year and country you were born."

Sanych did manage a small grin. Master Godric had gotten her hint.

Meena actually inclined her head a little in his direction as she replied, "I was born in the country of Shanal. It was the thirty-first cycle of the Dragon Epoch."

The Masters consulted papers on their tabletop; Sanych knew they were calendar conversions.

"Thank you, Meena. Can you tell us when you left Shanal, and where you went next?"

"I left Shanal thirty-six cycles later. You call them years. I headed east, to the island of Ha'Hril."

Master Hek scratched a few notes on his parchment with a quill.

"And what prompted you to leave the country of your birth? Why did you begin traveling to so many other countries?" asked Master Godric.

Meena hesitated before speaking. "My husband died, helping me to hide the evil book from the Cult of Dzur i'Oth, and I began searching for a way to destroy it forever."

Even Sanych was completely stunned. Her eyes could not decide whether to stare at Meena or to take in the poleaxed expressions of the five Masters behind their large curved desk. The Masters glanced at each other repeatedly as if to ask, Is she serious?

"Shanallar," began Master n'Gida hesitantly, "please, will you tell us why it was hidden? That information is what the Magister will need most."

The fact that Master n'Gida had just acknowledged his belief in Meena's identity was not lost on Sanych. Meena did not even seem to notice.

"The book contains powerful magic. It can turn anyone, even the most holy of men and women, into puppets of chaos. The spells in its pages twist even the purest of intentions. It can destroy lives. It can destroy entire nations. Because of this book, my country descended into civil war, and many thousands died, including our queen. We had to hide it where no one could ever use it again, because we could not find a way to destroy it. It was the only way to stop the madness."

"That's all good to know, Meena," said Master Heldael, adding just a touch of emphasis to her name, "but we still have more questions, if you please."

The Masters, seeing that Meena was not at all combative when she was treated politely, conceded the wisdom of asking all their questions in this manner, and the session continued calmly for another two hours before drawing to a close. No eyeballs were ripped out. Master Godric informed Sanych and Meena that they could await the Council's decision in the reading room down the hall. The Masters rose from their seats, and Sanych led Meena out.

"That went well, I think," commented Sanych lightly.

"Yes, I especially liked the part where you didn't say anything," said Meena, giving the girl a mock frown.

"That was just a tactic. I could have blathered on all day, but they weren't going to be convinced of the success of my quest unless you proved you were who I say you are."

"Yes; nicely done. Was I too ornery? Perhaps I could have been a little more, I don't know, flighty, airy," Meena said, affecting a courtier's pose and waving her hand vaguely in the air. "Maybe that would have done a better job."

"Not as good as ripping out an eyeball. Would it really grow back?" Sanych asked.

"It worked once, oh faithless doubter," Meena said, sliding a finger into the corner of her eye as if to pluck it from its socket. Sanych's own eyes widened, and Meena chuckled, lowering her hand. "You're right; how thoughtless of me. Here in the hallway, it would leave such a mess."

"Does your orneriness grow at a steady rate, or does it just double up every Low Solstice?" countered Sanych, daring to glare at the older woman, who raised her chin with a smug look.

"It operates on a complicated compounding equation."

Sanych sighed as they arrived at the public reading room, where a few acolytes and journeymen were making use of unrestricted access to certain books. She passed the time until the Masters completed their deliberation by sharing modern facts with Meena. The Shanallar proved a patient woman when it came to learning things she didn't know. Sanych understood that with a history like hers, Meena must be used to learning about new cultures and developments.

Sanych was showing her a favorite passage in a book about weather, illustrated with colored inks, when Ahni approached, grinning widely.

"The Masters have reached a conclusion," she said, indicating with a hand that they could return to the Council room. "Wisdom be with you, not that you need it."

Sanych thanked the older woman with a smile, then closed the little book with care before returning it to its place. She and Meena headed back along the stone hallways to the Council's chamber.

They entered the Council room once more; the five Masters were standing behind their curved desk. Sanych stood before it, and Meena copied her, waiting silently.

Master Godric spoke. "The Council of Masters for the Temple of Knowledge has found in your favor, and does formally bestow upon you the full rank, title and privileges of Archivist. Congratulations, Sanych. Your quarters have been arranged for you on the Archivists' Wing." He smiled down at her proudly, and she grinned. "However," he continued, "the council remains divided upon the point of whether your quest has been completed. This fact will be reported to the Magister, at the time of the Shanallar's appointment with him, tomorrow morning at the fourth hour. Have you any questions, Archivist Sanych?"

"No, Master. I thank the Council for their decision." Sanych gave the Masters a bow, then turned to leave.

"I have one," said Meena, not turning to follow.

"Of course," Master Godric said.

"May I have the proof your Magister will require of your decision?"

The Masters looked among themselves. Master Godric tipped his head toward Meena.

"Of course you may," Master Heldael spoke up, then added, "Shanallar." He offered a slender object to Meena, and it quickly vanished up her sleeve.

Sanych let slip a small bark of laughter, but quickly assumed a penitent pose. Master Heldael had been convinced, after all.

"I thank the Council of Masters for their wisdom," Meena said. She departed with Sanych after giving a pitying look to Master Alii, who would not meet her gaze as if she had again ceased to exist in his world.

From the Council's room, the pair made their way to Sanych's new chambers. Sanych was nearly giddy to see her new rooms, and Meena teased her about her priorities. A welcoming message was tacked to her new door, and the young girl took the small scroll down and read it with pleasure before opening the wide door and stepping inside.

Her eyes took in the furnishings: a thick mattress, raised well off the floor by dark wooden legs and draped with a thick blue quilt; a wide wardrobe whose brass trim gleamed in the light of several lamps; a writing desk, a round table and well-crafted chairs, and a glass-enclosed display shelf holding several ancient books. The walls were hung with tapestries of historic Vinten events. A small platter of dark brown treats sat on a small round table in the center of the room. "Master Godric didn't waste any time. I have to wonder if he didn't get this room prepared the second I got back."

"He sounds like a smart enough man," Meena agreed. "The more pressing question is, are those sweets made of chocolate?" She flexed her fingers greedily. "I'd better go make sure."

Sanych grinned. Just then, a knock on the open door made them turn. A young servant boy stood in the doorway, bearing a load of carefully prepared clothing. A formal headpiece sat atop the pile.

"Congratulations on your promotion, Sanych," the boy said, smiling. "Here's your formal Archivist attire for when you meet the Magister tomorrow."

Sanych thanked the lad and set the clothing down on the bed.

Meena sampled the treats and found that they did indeed contain chocolate. Her sweet tooth sated, she began to rummage through the clothing selections in Sanych's wardrobe, though it was clear that hardly anything in it would fit her; Meena had at least eight inches of height over Sanych.

Sanych didn't notice at first. She was too busy pacing. "Why are we being delayed a whole day? If we meet with the Magister tomorrow, he'll likely be sending the expedition out the door already. Folly burn my birthday! Why couldn't my mother have borne me in summer instead of nearly winter? I could have found you over a season earlier! And while I'm at it, Folly burn the Temple and their fifteen year questing rule! What are you doing with my formal headdress? I just got that!"

Sanych had just caught sight of Meena holding the white silk contraption up as if she were going to put it on.

"Just seeing if it's my size." Meena grinned and tossed the thing and its seven foot veil back onto Sanych's bed. Sanych squawked and leaped after it.

"Those seed pearls might come off, Meena. Don't just toss my things around. What are you doing, besides emptying my closet of all my clothes?"

Meena stopped with hosiery in one hand and a heavy white cape in the other, and turned to look at Sanych, cradling the headdress protectively in her arms atop the bed.

"Sanych, the Council of Masters just proclaimed me the Shanallar. Do you really think the Shanallar is content to wait for the summons of a mere Magister at such a critical time as this? You're right about his being ready by now. We need to see him immediately. Now, I'm looking for something dramatic in your closet, but I find I'm being sadly disappointed. You're really too short, you know."

"You're going now?"

"Well, as soon as I find clothing to make a proper impression, yes."

"I'm coming with you then."

"As I suspected. You should wear your headdress," Meena said, as if the accessory were hers to lend.

"I, um...don't know how it goes on my head. Which way is the front, I mean."

Meena smirked. "Well you've got fair odds for guessing right. And if you're wrong, likely you'll start a new fashion. Now please tell me you know someone here who has sufficiently impressive clothing."

Sanych did; soon Meena was outfitted properly, as she called it, in dark green wool trousers with a knee-length formal tunic over it, trimmed with gold piping and sporting long, dagged sleeves. On her head sat a conical hat with a green-and-gold leaf pattern, its flat top angled slightly toward the back of her head.

"And this is suitably formal for meeting the Magister?" she asked.

"Yes, Meena."

"Good. Although, in Bermah, they would have called me a cross-dresser and tried to burn me at the stake. Hm. Actually, they did try to burn me at the stake once."

"Er." Sanych was caught off guard with the image of Meena tied to a stake in a burning pile of wood. "I'll get dressed now, and then we can go over to the city."

Soon, Sanych had arrayed herself in her new formal white, with the headdress in place, as best as she could guess. She pulled its long silken train forward over her right shoulder and then tossed back across her left like a long scarf. It was not much protection against the cool air, but it kept the thing from dragging.

Sanych had asked Ahni to call for a coach to take them to the palace before she began dressing, and the woman returned just as she had finished to tell her that it would be ready for departure in a few minutes. Then she paused, examining Sanych's attire.

"Archivist, are you...quite sure you wish to...wear your headdress so?" Ahni asked delicately.

Sanych knew then that she probably had the thing on backward, but it was horribly uncomfortable in the other position, so she simply said, "Yes."

She received a few other odd looks through the halls to the front doors, but she studiously ignored them. Upon retrieving their footwear and walking outside to the stables where their coach awaited them, Sanych finally broke down and asked, "Meena, do you think this thing is on backward?"

"No."

Sanych sighed in relief.

"I think it's on upside down."

"What?" squeaked Sanych, her hands flying to the headdress, feeling for evidence of this statement. Meena's hoots of laughter could be heard all over the campus.

Sanych's indignation did not dissipate until they entered their coach.

"Seriously, Sanych. It's your headdress. There is tradition, and there is practicality. Since you don't know what the traditional way to wear the headdress is, you might as well go with practicality. Being seen with the Shanallar in a new style will do wonders for your social influence."

Sanych guffawed at this suggestion.

"Don't laugh. It's happened before."

"Yes, I'm sure you got all the courtly ladies of Upper Snobbery to wear daggers in their bosoms. Very tasteful."

"Snort if you will, child. But the merchant women of Gen Ka Bin now wear dagger-wands in their hair, and are robbed at their trading posts far less often."

"Really? You're not teasing me?"

"Shall I draw you a map to Gen Ka Bin? You can go see for yourself," Meena offered.

Sanych pursed her lips. "Maybe after we speak to the Magister. I've got some time then."

Meena grinned. "Then let's go save the world."

##  Chapter Ten

The trip to Highnave proper seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. Sanych was not sure what Meena intended to do when she reached the palace, and her stomach would not stop churning at the realization that she was about to burst in on the ruler of her nation without his permission.

They arrived in the palace's carriageway. Sanych requested that the driver wait for them, as they did not intend to be overlong.

"Rule number one," stated Meena, as they exited the carriage, "always act as if you belong where you are, and know what you are doing. Where will the Magister be right now?"

"With the Dictat, finalizing things for the quest."

"Then lead the way."

Sanych was about to attempt her first ever departure from The Rules, and she was going to do it in the Magister's palace. The world began to feel surreal. Her feet moved, her eyes saw, but her mind was coolly detached. She watched herself stride up to the open doors, her long formal white skirt shushing about her ankles. She passed into the cavernous palace foyer, between two royal guards, with nary a hesitation. She bowed courteously to them, careful not to topple her probably-upside-down headdress, and they saluted her back, right thumbs to chests, palms facing left.

Once inside the palace, Sanych was faced with enormous staircases to the three front wings of the building, as well as ground floor hallways in the same three directions. A handful of other visitors to the administrative offices nearby walked past her at cross angles, intent about their business.

"Following you," said Meena quietly, a step behind and to her right.

Sanych's eyes flicked as if reading, as she recalled the structural notations for the palace. Her mind's eye saw the entirety of the floor plans, and she mentally scanned them for the location of the room the Masters had mentioned as the "Quest Room". Soon, she must find it, or look like a fool stopping in the midst of the floor for no reason. There were several guards on duty in the main foyer of the palace's front administrative wings, and they were all looking at her with mild interest.

Then she had it. She smoothly angled toward the right staircase and ascended, Meena in her wake.

"That's my girl," murmured Meena.

Soon they came upon a wide, closed door at the end of the hall, guarded by an officious-looking female scribe who sat at a high wooden desk. Before her rested a large logbook and a single inkwell. She looked down as they approached.

"We are summoned before the Magister and his Dictat," pronounced Sanych, trying to get every bit of height out of her slight frame.

"And what is the subject of your visit with the Magister today, Archivist?" asked the scribe, eyes and pen aimed at the logbook.

"We are here to advise him in regards to the great quest," Sanych said.

The scribe merely nodded, jotting a few words in her log. Then she knocked on the door beside her with a long wooden wand that held a polished knob on the end. To the young page who answered, she said, "Take the Archivist and her guest to the Magister in the Quest Room. They are here to advise him."

Sanych and Meena trailed down the hallway after the page, to the other end. A pair of guards stood to either side of a set of double doors.

Meena strode ahead of the short page boy. "I am the Shanallar, come to advise your Magister. Open the door."

The guards bowed in assent and opened the doors immediately, rather more in response to Meena's authoritative tone than to any grasp of what a Shanallar was, and the two women stepped inside.

Sanych first noticed how many people were in the room with them; there were nine, three of which were servants standing attentively out of the way. The remainder were all men. They gathered around a long table against the far wall, looking at and discussing some sort of checklist, though one of the younger ones, dark-braided, was fiddling with the nib on a pen. The rest of the room contained eleven other tables, stacked haphazardly with maps and books that she recognized as belonging to the Temple. Sanych was appalled at the treatment they had received.

The man with the pen had noticed Sanych and Meena enter. He eyed them with a slight cock to his head, hazel eyes appraising them from across the room. Sanych let her eyes flick to Meena, then instantly regretted it; she was the Archivist, and so nominally in charge. She stepped forward, slightly ahead of Meena, and opened her mouth to speak.

Naturally the man took that exact opportunity to say mildly, "It looks like we have guests, Magister."

Everyone else turned to look. Sanych recognized the Magister and three of the Dictat, but the two young men were unfamiliar.

The Magister looked politely at his new guests. "Indeed, Salvor, thank you," he replied.

Runcan, head of the Dictat, cleared his throat and nodded respectfully to Sanych. "Archivist, be welcome. You were not expected until tomorrow. Did you misunderstand our appointment time?"

"No," said Sanych, trying to suppress the quaver in her voice.

The other Dictat members were frowning at her. This was Not The Way Things Were Done. Even the other young man, with light brown hair and dark eyes, was staring at her, or rather her headdress, as if concerned she might have stolen it.

Meena had paused so the men could gaze upon her, as one of the keys to being successful was being memorable. Sanych, more aware of Vinten custom, inadvertently ruined Meena's moment by stepping forward yet again and speaking to the Magister.

"This humble Archivist greets His Wisdom The Lord High Magister of Vint, and his esteemed Dictat, may their wisdom ever increase," Sanych began, while Meena hid her irritation at being upstaged. "Please forgive our hasty arrival. The Shanallar must needs speak to the expedition council immediately upon a matter of urgent importance."

Meena handed her a paper scroll that was sealed with the white wax of the Temple of Knowledge and imprinted with Master Godric's monkey seal.

Sanych walked forward, offering the scroll to the Magister. The dark-eyed young man–who bore some resemblance to the Magister, she noted–stepped forward briskly and accepted it from her. Startled by his sudden action, she looked up, and up some more, to his face. He smiled and slipped the scroll from her fingers.

"Geret Branbrey Valan, at your service, Archivist," he murmured, dipping his head in a slight bow.

The Magister's nephew. Sanych murmured, "Thank you, my Lord Geret," and stepped back as he handed the scroll to his uncle. To the room at large, she added, "That document is an official finding by the Council of Masters of the Temple of Knowledge, affirming their belief, after extensive questioning of this woman, that she is indeed the historical figure known, among other titles, as the Shanallar."

The Magister cracked the seal and unrolled the document, reading for several moments. "It says here the votes were cast at four in favor, one against," he said, as he handed the paper to the Count on his right.

"At least they've not all lost their minds," Salvor commented.

Meena could see that Sanych was not ready for such casual dismissiveness. Before the girl could ruin the opportunity Meena sensed before them both, the Shanallar took action. She stepped around Sanych and hopped up onto the round table map, to the quiet gasps of the servants standing in the background. Stepping easily around small orange flags, over vague continental outlines and across vast island-dotted seas, she made her way to the center of the table.

Straddling the continent of Eirant, each foot in a different body of water, Meena looked positively legendary in her formal green garb. She raised her chin, and with arms akimbo she proclaimed, "I am the Shanallar. Whether you believe this or not is not my concern. What is of concern to me is this quest you're planning. It is why I have traveled nonstop, dragging your precious Archivist through a veritable rainbow of hardships, to reach you before you leave."

Geret spoke up, his face splitting into a handsome, eager grin. "You wanted to make sure you got to come, didn't you? What would a fantastical quest be like without a mythical heroine? Well, you're very welcome to join us, Shanallar. I'm Geret, and I'm very honored to meet you." Geret stepped forward as if to offer her a hand in greeting, but Meena's voice halted him in his steps.

"Impatient boy. Let me finish," she said coolly, giving him only a short glance. Geret froze in his tracks, and Salvor smirked.

Meena continued, "The book you seek was named 'dire' by its discoverers. Even they did not know who created it. It is a book of enormous, untamable power. In a word, it is chaos. I have seen its power, its immense capacity for destruction, with my own eyes. I hid the book away from the world to protect my people; even if you try to find it, you will fail. I advise you to never speak this book's name again. Doing so may bring the worst sort of attention down on you. Stay home instead, grow wheat, find a nice wife and have fat babies. You'll live longer."

"But we have the priest's journal," began Geret, "it's full of all sorts of mystical information. It says the Dire Tome was given to a dragon who is supposed to guard it forever, and the priest speculates at what sort of tasks and enchantments might be necessary to retrieve the book from beneath its watchful eye. We think we can find it, based on his clues."

Sanych looked at the expression that appeared on Meena's face as Geret said the book's name. She had to resist wincing from the heat in the woman's gaze.

"Do you now, princeling? You are determined as well as deaf? If you want to see what sort of evil befalls its victims, by all means, keep speaking its name aloud. And don't go getting all thrilled about dragons; the Green Dragon is just a small volcano in Shanal. Heads full of vanished myths and magical books...boy, you have no idea the depth of my hatred for that book and the monstrous evil that it unleashed on my world. I cannot let it see the light of day again."

"You cannot? What are you going to do, kill off the hundreds of people that are going on the expedition?" Geret scoffed, irritated. She was actually serious about not speaking the Dire Tome's name. Though the prospect of seeking a dangerous artifact was more intriguing than seeking a quiescent one, Geret realized his dreams were being threatened by a rude, wicked, arrogant legend, which in itself should not be allowed. No one ever wrote about wicked heroines.

Meena tapped her fingers against the handle of her long knife and regarded Geret. "It's not my first choice, but it might do in a pinch," she responded.

"All right, let's have a bit more civility in our discussion, if you please," the Magister interrupted, seeing that Geret was getting angry. "Er, Shanallar," he addressed Meena with a shade of hesitancy. "We have been planning this quest for nigh on two years now. Tens of thousands of gipp have been spent in preparation, and as Geret said, hundreds of individuals are fully prepared to leave two days from now. I'm afraid we made no provision for backing out at the last minute. Our expedition will leave in two days' time, with or without you. You are still welcome to accompany us, of course, as we could benefit greatly from your expertise, not only in regards to the Di–to the book itself," the Magister caught himself, "but in languages and cultures we may encounter along the way. We've prepared as well as we can with the generous help of the Temple of Knowledge, but, all pardon to the Archivist, books can only do so much for an expedition of this nature."

The other Dictat members nodded wisely at this, causing Sanych to flush angrily. These fools take my books and treat them like toys, then they say they aren't good enough!

Meena looked over at Sanych. "They'll do more than you think, in the right hands," she said, her voice devoid of anger.

Sanych blinked in surprise; could Meena actually be paying her a compliment? But she didn't have time to form a response before Meena spoke again.

The Shanallar looked back at the quest's planners and said, "You need me to go with you. By yourselves, you're doomed to failure. But I'll not even pretend to pay lip service to your quest's stated goal. The book needs to be destroyed, not rescued, and I'm the only person who has discovered how it must be done. It took me centuries of searching: something not even your Archivists have managed to achieve. You've believed the Temple on its word that I am the Shanallar, yet you won't believe my word that the book is evil?"

She snorted, and Sanych's eyes darted to the faces of the Dictat. Meena was pushing pretty far. Would they lash back?

"We have no evidence in these writings," a black-haired Dictat member said, waving a hand at the tables, "that the book has inherent evil, or good for that matter. What you say is simply not supported by our evidence."

Meena nodded to herself, her eyes drifting away to the windows. When her gaze returned to the men on the floor, she said, "You believe there's a rule that says all evil books must identify themselves to you?" She shook her head, a pitying smile on her lips. "The tome is evil," she continued. "It's the foulest heap of twisted horror the world has ever known. And unless and until you're willing to listen to me, you're on your own. I'm not going to stand here and repeat myself in the face of your apathy and incomprehension. I'm sure your people will write properly mournful dirges to lament the loss of your fine expedition, when it finally dawns on them that you're never coming home."

Meena sprang off the table and strode for the door, chin high, boots thumping across the wooden floor. The noise was enough for the guards outside to realize someone was exiting in a hurry, and they pulled open their respective doors in time for Meena to stride out the door.

Sanych shot a hurried glance at her Magister, giving him a slight bow that was a bit rude in its brevity and murmuring, "By your leave, sire," and then she trotted out the door in her formal white attire to catch up with Meena before the guards closed the door in her face.

##  Chapter Eleven

The group inside the Quest Room stood for a moment, processing the encounter they'd just had.

"Well, that was interesting," drawled Salvor. "If she's going to kill us all, I hope she starts with me." He flicked his eyebrows suggestively.

Geret let out a breath of disgust at the young lord. Then he recalled the Archivist. She had been young and nervous, but apparently, she'd traveled all by herself to find that Shanallar woman. That in itself was amazing to him; he'd never managed to get across any of Vint's borders. He could use her; in fact, he'd intended to use her all along, but in the strange and short meeting they'd just had, he'd completely forgotten to invite her to join the expedition.

"Uncle, give me a moment," Geret said, heading for the door to catch up with Sanych. "We need to make sure that Archivist knows she's to come with us."

"That little girl?" Salvor asked, his tone condescending. "Yes, I'm sure she'll be a great help."

Geret spun around and walked right into Salvor's personal space, glaring down at the older nobleman. He narrowed his eyes and said, "This is my expedition. Be grateful I respect your father and let you come." He turned away just as quickly and left the room, keeping the guards on their toes with their well-timed door-opening.

He caught sight of the ladies and strode down the hall after them. They seemed to be arguing. Geret frowned, but he didn't slow down. The women reached the far door and opened it, and Geret called out to get their attention. They stopped to look up the hall at him, and the Shanallar murmured something to her companion and exited, leaving only the Archivist waiting for him. He reached her in seconds.

"I apologize for the Shanallar, Lord Geret," the small Archivist murmured, not meeting his eyes. "I will be more than happy to pass on any messages you have for her."

A tremor in her voice caught Geret's attention, and he realized she was near tears. Confusion stopped his voice, and he cast about for a proper reaction.

Sanych swallowed a lump in her throat, took a deep breath, and only then raised her head to meet his eyes.

He was much closer to her than last time, and the action caused her headdress to fall off, exposing her pale blonde hair. "Oh!" she gasped, reaching for the hat, but it fell directly behind her, pulling its attached scarf tight across her throat with its weight.

Geret lunged around to the Archivist's left and caught the headdress in his long arms before it hit the ground. He stood back up and handed her the odd cylindrical hat, and she wrapped her arms around it, embarrassed.

"Actually," he said, a bit embarrassed himself that his height had caused this problem in the first place, "I wanted to talk to you, Archivist."

She blinked. "Oh. All right."

"Must I call you 'Archivist'? Is that a rule? Or can I call you something else?" he asked first, feeling awkward using such a prominent title on a girl who was clearly younger than he was.

That got a smile out of her, making her light blue eyes crinkle at the corners. "My name is Sanych. Sanych elTiera."

"Sanych, then. And please drop the 'lord' bit. It makes me think you're talking to someone else with my name. Just Geret is fine."

"Fair enough, Geret. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"In all the discussion back there, I forgot to invite you on the expedition with us. We'll need your expertise, and we've been planning for someone from the Temple to accompany us. I think it should be you."

"Wha–me?" Sanych blurted. "Why?"

Geret glanced down at the pale cream floor tiles. "Well, partially because I'm jealous."

Sanych raised an eyebrow. "What could the nephew of the Magister possibly envy about a young Archivist who rarely sees the light of day?"

Geret barked a laugh. "It's that bad, is it? Well actually, it's when you did see the light of day that's got me all envious. You've already been on a quest, and you came back successfully. Would you believe, with all the diplomatic travel my father does, that I've never even left the country?"

"And they put you in charge?" Sanych asked disbelievingly, before she could stop herself.

"Exactly," Geret said, grinning. "I figure I've read enough books by now to muddle by. But you tell me: is muddling by enough?"

Sanych opened her mouth, recalling the difference in her journeys to and from Meena's cave. She said, "It's enough to get you there, but it's not enough to make for a very memorable tale."

"Ah, I thought not," Geret grinned. "And that is precisely why I need you. You've got the unique combination of skills I'm looking for: previous quest experience, and lots of background knowledge from your time in the Temple. You have to come on the quest with us."

Sanych looked up at Geret; he was literally bouncing on his toes. "But what about Meena?"

"Who?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. The Shanallar is just her title. Her name, at least right now, is Meena. Unless you're Hyndi, in which case it's Nurstei."

"What?" Geret was confused.

Sanych sighed. Too much information again. "Just call her Meena," she clarified. "I originally quested to find her specifically to have her advise the Magister about retrieving the book, and until I knew she didn't want it found, I assumed she'd go with you. How am I any sort of substitute for her?"

"You're not; I intended for both of you to join us. Your places have been assigned in the caravan since my uncle found out you were looking for the Shanallar."

"They have?"

"Of course. The more the merrier, right?" Geret grinned down at her. "Don't you want to go? I assumed you'd be leaping at the opportunity. Of course, I assumed that about Meena too," he added ruefully.

"Well..." Sanych thought about it. Her original quest had only been to retrieve the Shanallar. She'd never considered going on the larger quest; that was for the Shanallar to do–or, as it turned out, to advise against doing.

But–and here a traitorous thought wormed its way into Sanych's heart–what if she did go, against Meena's advice? Not to find the book, because Meena had warned that it was evil and not to be found, let alone used. But–Sanych smiled–she might logically accompany the expedition as its recorder. Meena herself had suggested that there were stories yet to be written. This quest had all the makings of a true epic.

Not to mention the fact that if the quest participants were truly in danger, it felt wrong to let them ride off unaware. Maybe she could help them understand what little she knew of Meena's reasons. Maybe...maybe her presence would draw the Shanallar back.

Shaking off the shreds of arrogance, doubt and betrayal that clouded her mind, Sanych answered, "I would love to join you on the quest, Geret."

"You would? Superb. Wisdom's smiling on the quest today." Geret's grin was exuberant. "You'll need to order your traveling trunks over to the departure arena tomorrow evening at the latest; we're leaving early on the equinox."

"No problem," Sanych smiled back, feeling like she'd grasped her own destiny with both hands, and found it thick and woven, like a new Kirthan rug. It was a heady sensation.

"And, please, if you can convince the Shanallar to change her mind, she'll be invaluable to us on our trip, especially once we get out beyond Kirth. We could really use her." A hint of desperation mixed with longing entered his dark eyes. Sanych realized he'd been quite thrilled to meet Meena, and equally as disappointed to learn she was not even remotely interested in letting the quest find the Dire Tome.

"So you say, but I warn you; she's best taken in small doses."

"You survived nine weeks with her," Geret pointed out.

"I've built up an immunity, I think. It was either that or go mad."

Geret let out a quiet laugh. "Well if she really won't change her mind, I hope you'll be willing to tell me the tale of your journeys with her, once we're away. She must have told you the most fascinating things!"

Sanych noted with amusement that Geret was bouncing on his toes again. "I can do that."

Geret smiled and relaxed; he'd accomplished all he'd come out here for, and more. "Well I won't keep you. I'll see you on the equinox, then, if not before. You'll be riding up front with us–the Dictat and such, I mean."

Sanych's eyebrows raised in pleasure and she smiled, hugging her headdress again. "Thank you, Geret. I'll see you later." She gave him a small bow, keeping her eyes on his for a moment, then she turned and left the corridor, stepping out into the main West Wing.

Geret headed back to the Quest Room. As he walked, he remembered again how good it had felt to put the older Salvor in his place. He hoped things between them didn't escalate, though. Geret wasn't one for enjoying discipline, and he suspected Salvor wouldn't be either, if Geret was the one handing it out.

~~~

Sanych reached her rooms, having had the carriage to herself on the ride back across the valley from Highnave. Meena had not been waiting for her. Sanych assumed she had decided to cool off by exploring the city. Hopefully it would make her feel more at home here and encourage her to stay.

Sanych wasn't sure how Meena would react when she learned the Archivist was going on the quest despite the Shanallar's warning. She hoped the woman would understand.

As she entered the inviting coolness of her new Archivist's chambers and set her headdress down on the small table, Sanych determined that no matter how uncomfortable it made her, she would at least leave Meena a note.

Rather like the note that was waiting for her on the corner of her bed, folded in dozens of creases, reflecting the light off its creamy surface like a finely crafted pastry. It had to be from Meena. How did she get it here so quickly? Sanych gazed in amazement for a moment at the note; she had never seen such intricate paper-folding before.

She delicately lifted it from the blue quilt and examined it, pulling gently here and there to watch the paper creases flex and stretch. She looked underneath it and turned it inside out. When she'd finished examining the small, temporary wonder, she finally smoothed it out enough to read it, albeit with regret that she was ruining its beauty.

Meena's hand was elegant and flowing, with odd little lines and dots over some letters; their significance was a mystery to Sanych. Though the writing appeared exotic in its construction, it was written in excellent Versal.

Sanych,

Your people do not understand, so they cannot believe. The lesson they need to learn can only be taught by their own experience. Their own failure. You should mourn them when they leave. You will not see them again. Without me, they will never be able to find the book they seek, and if they make it as far as Shanal, and their quest becomes known, Dzur i'Oth will seek and achieve their destruction. Perhaps even before then, if they do not heed my warning. The wisdom of Vint cannot stand against the evil in Shanal.

Why didn't I say this to them, I hear you whining. If they cannot truly accept that I am the Shanallar, then nothing I can say will change their minds. I have better uses for my breath.

I have things I must attend to. When I've finished, I'll contact you. Wait at the Temple.

Meena

Sanych's hands crumpled the delicately creased letter into a meaningless wad. "Folly's bastards!" she swore, throwing the ball across the room; it vanished beneath a low table. She sunk to the floor, hands knotting in her upswept hairdo.

All that rushing, all that worry, and she just walks away? How can she do that to us? The Shanallar now seemed terribly callous to Sanych, and she felt a schism form between them, replacing heroine worship with doubt. Could Sanych have prevented Meena from abandoning them, or was this catastrophe inevitable? Maybe she'd left because of Sanych. A lone tear trickled over her cheek, leaving a trail of hot ire that cooled into guilt.

"Archivist?" Ahni asked in alarm, having hurried in from the next room.

"Yes?" murmured Sanych.

"Are you all right? Has something happened?" Ahni asked. She hurried to Sanych's side and helped her move to a nearby chair.

"The Shanallar has left," Sanych said dully. "And you'd better start packing my things."

"You're going after her again?" the chamberlain asked, reaching for a warm pot of tea.

"No," Sanych said, her voice flat with the weight of betrayal, both hers and Meena's. "I'm going on the Magister's quest."

##  Chapter Twelve

Three hundred and twenty-one years ago

The rough green crystal spires atop the Khan's summer palace gleamed in the moonlight. Something sinister, alive, seemed to writhe within their hexagonal matrices, defying the first glance and prompting another from nearly all who gazed upon them.

Sahsca Yan was not one of those who took a second glance. She did not need to; she had seen these wicked spires daily since she had arrived in the high, grassy Valley of the Weikou five months ago.

She had nearly died on one of them.

Her calls for war against the Khan's southern neighbor had not been received well by the Khan and his coyote-furred courtiers. They had ordered her impaled upon one of the crystal spires as a warning that they would not tolerate witchery, as they had so colloquially termed it.

How superstitiously surprised they were to witness what happened after they dropped her onto one of the crystals' wicked green points. Sahsca, while impaled, cracked the crystal with a screaming wrench, fell to the taut ox-hide roof of the palace, bounced to the ground, and withdrew the bloody end of the crystal from her own body, revealing to the astonished and fearful observers absolutely no wound.

From that day, the Khan had been in the palm of her hand.

Now he was going to war for her, and he thought it was his own idea. Sahsca bared her teeth in what might be considered a smile on the face of a less bitter woman, and flung aside the red-dyed woolen curtains of the Khan's inner court. She paused, waiting for her presence to stop all other conversation.

Indeed, the nobles within hushed, each pivoting toward her on a bronze stool padded with a horsehair cushion. All of them were bathed in the light of flaming braziers that smoked aromatically at the edges of the curtained space.

To their eyes, Sahsca knew she appeared otherworldly. It was a look she had carefully cultivated. Her hair–white, frizzy, and full of static electricity–stood out from beneath her short conical hat. Its dark green felted material was nothing special, but the two coiled puff adders wrapped around it gave the nobles pause. Sahsca's face was drawn and gaunt; she had not slept well in years, it seemed. Her long, trailing robes of soft leather, nearly exactly the shade of her own flesh, seemed a mystical extension of her body, and because of the weights she hid in the long sleeves and hem, it never flapped in the breeze. She enjoyed its unnerving effect on those who observed her striding purposefully through a strong breeze, unruffled in every way.

And now that she had the nobles' and the Khan's full attention, she spoke harshly into the incense-filled silence.

"Great Khan, the time is now. The Unblemished are massing for their Autumn Harvest rituals. Once they all gather on the banks of the Kardin, they will be trapped, and you must be there to strike."

"What?" the Khan blurted, surprised. "Seer Sahsca, you predicted just last week that we had two weeks to prepare! We are not ready yet."

"Do not forget that the Unblemished have a Seer as well, Great Khan. He has foreseen that your troops will arrive far after the harvest rituals are complete. The Seer will not do any readings while he is on the road to the Kardin. If you leave now, you will surprise them. If you wait, they will be prepared for you."

"Clever witch. You set that up for the Seer to learn, didn't you?" the Khan laughed roughly. Only about half of his fur-clad nobles had the wit to follow his logic. "You created this opportunity for us to move invisibly to the eye of their Seer." He nodded his approval. "You are worthy."

Sahsca merely inclined her head.

The Khan stared at his bizarre Seer for a minute, pondering. Then he slapped his hands onto the bone-carved armrests of his throne and barked, "Then we shall go! Make ready the armies and break camp. We will leave with the dawn." His nobles stood and bowed from the waist, right fists over fur-shielded hearts, and murmured their compliance.

The entire city was gone the next morning. Every single tent was rolled up, packed onto oxen or yaks, and trundled off behind the long snaking formations of the Khan's finest soldiers. Only the semi-permanent foundation poles remained, framing ghosts of homes and shops. Even the great summer palace itself, with its mesmerizing green crystals, was gone.

The Weikou were going to war. But their Seer was not among their number.

Sahsca Yan stepped out of the pine tree line and watched their immense dust trail in the distance, her clothing now a forgettable, blending combination of browns and greens, her white hair hidden beneath a loose turban of brown wool. Her green eyes were as cold and unforgiving as the crystalline spikes of the Khan she had just sent to die.

The Unblemished had no other Seer–in fact, no one did. That position had lost its magic centuries ago. Those who held it now were either charlatans or spymasters. What the Unblemished did have was the largest army the Silken Steppe had seen in a generation. The Great Khan and his armies were expected, had been expected for months. And this time, they would be defeated. Sahsca Yan had given the Unblemished her word.

It was only fair, since she had unwittingly been the instrument of their near-destruction a generation ago.

A frequent drawback of immortality was the buildup of various mistakes; this one, she had finally put right.

##  Chapter Thirteen

She's here. Nearly three years' wait, but she's finally here.

The dark-clad figure ghosted along behind the woman as she slipped quietly down the halls of the Temple. She doesn't see me. Good. This will be easier than my master feared.

The woman liberated a horse from the stables and rode across the night-shrouded valley floor toward the city proper. He trailed her, his own mount's hooves already muffled with thick felt.

She threaded her way through the sparse night traffic and dismounted at one of the public stables at the top of the trade road, then slipped away in the direction of the palace. The man shadowing her dared not approach the building, lest he alert the patrolling guards, so he hunkered in the darkened gardens to wait for her reappearance. Attracting attention was not his purpose.

Less than an hour later, she reemerged, heading back in his direction. He eased a long dagger from its sheath, hiding its gleam among the shadows of the shrubbery.

She neared his location, taking a last glance over her shoulder at the sprawling palace building. I'm almost disappointed to deal with such an unaware creature, he thought, lunging out of the bushes, blade singing toward the woman's throat.

His steel bit into her flesh, and his glove and sleeve felt the hot splash of her blood as she staggered away, breath bubbling in gasps.

Laughing? She's laughing! The man frowned in puzzlement as his target stood straight and faced him in the dimness beneath the trees. The wound in her neck healed over, and she swiped a sleeve across her skin, sopping the blood away.

"Congratulations," she said. "You worked up the courage to attack after all. I wasn't sure you would. Good thing these clothes aren't mine." She plucked at her bloody tunic. "You want to die quickly, or slowly? I'm leaning toward quickly, myself. I'm in a hurry."

"Had to be sure I had the right woman," he said, gesturing with his bloody blade, his voice raspy from disuse. "My master wants me to give you a message, thief."

The woman stilled, green eyes narrowing. "You've been waiting for me from the beginning."

He nodded. "My master says you must come to the Dragon Temple and submit yourself to his authority. You must hand over the key you stole. If you do not, he will kill all those that you bring with you. Just like the last time you attacked us, and the time before that. My master's power is great: greater than any Hand's before him since the age of the Great Tome itself. None will survive his wrath if you come to destroy his inheritance."

"You done?" she asked, her expression bored.

"No. What my master has not yet learned is how you intend to destroy the Great Tome of Ages this time. But I have."

The thief's eyes locked onto his. "And how did you manage that?"

"It's my gift." He smiled. "You take her, she'll die with all the others. You have no chance."

Her eyes blazed. "She's my secret. I've done more than I should have to protect her from all of you. I see no reason to stop now."

The woman's hands blurred toward him in the darkness. The man raised his dagger to defend himself, but he felt her strip it from his grasp. She whirled away from him, lost in the shadows. He pivoted to track her, drawing another blade as he did so. A split-second later, his first dagger entered his heart from behind, and he gasped with the shock of it.

As he sank to his knees in the gardens, he heard her voice one last time: "If you didn't know you were coming to Vint to die, you have my pity."

~~~

On the morning of the equinox, the entire city turned out, dressed in pale spring blues and greens, to bid a cheering farewell to the departing caravan.

The sky was lit with the first rays of dawn as Sanych made her way to the first dozen horses in the lineup. She eased past crowds of well-wishers, bustling servants on last-minute errands, and the occasional stack or bundle of supplies yet to find a home on a wagon. Stervan Sengril, Rhist Armala and Braal Runcan milled near the wagons, checking a list and pointing at various crates, arguing good-naturedly among themselves.

"Archivist Sanych," Geret said in greeting, seeing her approach as he adjusted the saddle girth on his fine bay horse. "I see you've chosen travel wear that's unlikely to topple off in my presence," he added with a grin, as he took in her travel-worn light brown leather pants, blue tunic and dark, stained leather overcoat. A full water skin rested against her right hip, and a wide-brimmed leather hat covered her light hair and hid most of her face in moderate shadow. The toes of her sturdy boots were scuffed with wear.

"As you noted, Geret, I have done this before," Sanych replied, unsmiling.

Geret stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. "She's not coming, is she?"

"No. She left." Sanych's flat tone left no room for Geret to inquire further without being rude, so he picked another topic.

"You've got a fine horse here," he commented, tilting his head in the direction of the mount Sanych had chosen to send over to the caravan yesterday. "Where did you get him?"

It seemed a troubling question; Sanych didn't look at him as she answered. "Meena chose him for me, down in Braltre."

"Oh, I see. Did you get the basic itinerary I sent over to you?"

"Yes, thank you."

One of the caravan masters bellowed to his assistants down the line that it was time to mount up. In the din, the boyish eagerness in Geret's voice was almost lost on Sanych as he asked, "You were out on the road a few days ago. Can you tell me what it's like out there?" His tone finally teased a small but genuine smile from Sanych's lips.

"You make it sound like I rode in here with dragons breathing fire at my horse's heels, Geret. It's just a road." Sanych's gaze drifted to the road ahead. Ahead, not behind, she told herself. That road's already been traveled.

Geret chuckled. "Sorry. I'm a bit excited." He bounced on his toes a few times.

"I see that," Sanych returned. Then she took pity on the young man's sense of adventure. "The weather's still cool. Once we get off the heights of Vint and Hardyk and cross the border into Kirth, who can say? We might encounter the sirens of the silver sands; our path takes us near where they're rumored to live. And if we manage to miss them and their mesmerizing songs that lure men to their parched doom, there's always the hope that sea pirates will attack us, looking for the treasure we don't have yet. Maybe their captain will whisk you off to sea and make you dive for your weight in pearls before she sets you free."

Geret's eyes got wider, and so did his grin. "Sirens of the silver sands? Sea pirates? Before we even get off the continent?"

Sanych gave her eyebrows a quick lift. "You asked," she said, turning away and walking over to her horse. The stocky roan was shedding his winter coat in patches, having ridden north into weather equal to the middle of his summer. He whickered softly at her approach, her scent being the only one he knew in Highnave.

Geret pursed his lips as he watched her step away. Someone tapped him deliberately amongst all the bustling and jostling, and Geret turned to see one of the caravan masters. The man handed him a speaking cone.

"You want we should stack up some of the empty boxes over here for ya's?" the man, whose name he recalled as Brem n'Kirra, asked him deferentially.

"No thanks, Brem," Geret answered. "I've got it covered." He took the speaking cone and mounted his horse, climbing to his feet on the saddle, then pivoting the animal around slowly, so that he looked back on the endless dozens of horses and attendants who had ended up in his charge. The people gradually saw him and quieted to hear him give the Benefortuna, the traditional Vinten speech given before any great or lengthy undertaking.

Geret swallowed and raised the cone to his mouth, holding it with one hand and the reins with the other. "They say that fortune favors the brave, and that good luck and favored blessings may be begged of the gods," he said into the cone, his voice reaching the many thousands of listeners. "But in Vint, we trust to Wisdom. We pride ourselves on what we have learned, and what the future can teach us. Experience and knowledge are our coin, and to this end, we set forth on a quest, the likes of which have never been seen in Vint, and will likely not ever be seen again. We travel to the far reaches of the globe, to the lands where night reigns while we enjoy the day, where the sun beats down when we rest easily in our beds. We travel in search of experience, of knowledge, and of wisdom. We travel, because there is much we do not know, and our hearts crave fulfillment. We travel for the glory of Wisdom, and the glory of Vint!"

The crowd burst into excited cheers and whistles, and Geret couldn't resist pumping his fist into the air, still holding the speaking cone. Finally he slid down into his saddle and handed the cone back to Brem.

The stocky man nodded in approval and waved his free arm forward, ending with his hand pointing toward the empty road ahead. "Caravan ho!" he shouted in his deep, resonant voice, nudging his mount into motion. Behind him rode two of the other caravan masters, then Geret and his group, which included two colorbearers carrying large Vinten flags, followed by skilled contributors to the quest and members of the nobility. The remainder of the caravan was composed of servants, drivers and their wagon charges: food, supplies, baggage. And all along the caravan, in twos and threes, rode heavily armed guards.

The quest was on its way. As they finally began riding, Geret nodded to Counts Runcan, Armala and Sengril as they fell in next to him. Sanych rode on one far edge of their group, with Salvor Thelios on the other. These would be his traveling companions for the next few seasons. He already knew the Counts well enough, and he knew more than he wanted to about Salvor. That left him with Sanych. She was younger than he by a couple of years, but she was certainly no child. She was already his favorite companion, simply by default. He slowly edged his way over to her, trying to appear so casual as to be aimless.

"Good morning again," he greeted her.

"Good morning, Geret."

"I just wanted to thank you again for coming. It's great to see someone around my age coming along on this long journey. I'm glad you're here."

"Really? Why? I haven't done anything yet." Sanych was clearly puzzled.

"You don't have to do anything for me to appreciate your presence, Archivist," he said, meeting her eyes. "Just be yourself."

"I'm not feeling much love toward myself at the moment, actually," Sanych confessed quietly.

"You're not regretting coming, are you?" Geret asked, concern edging his voice. They hadn't even gotten out onto the main trade road yet.

"No. Not that. I just feel like it's my fault that Meena left. I'm really not familiar with feeling at fault."

At that, Geret laughed out loud. "Don't worry, Sanych; I'm familiar enough with the feeling for both of us."

"Really?" She looked over at him, intrigued.

"It's true," Geret said, warming to his topic. "Let me tell you the tale of the summer day I made it rain ice-water."

Sanych squinted, trying to determine if he was joking or not. Geret enjoyed regaling her with his most spectacular prank. By the time the caravan began to squeeze between the carved cliffs which marked the edge of the valley of Highnave, Sanych's laughter echoed up the cliffs alongside Geret's. He looked up at the walls, as if he might see her voice bouncing about, and saw something that caught his attention.

Sanych noticed his upward gaze and looked as well, and soon everyone at the front of the caravan was staring at a lone figure perched on the top of the overhanging wall of the western outpost. Its left hand held something too slender to be made out at this distance. It was silhouetted against the bright blue sky, but its stillness indicated it was watching them as intently as they were watching it.

"That's no guard," commented Brem. "Archers," he called. Two of the guardsmen at the front of the caravan nocked arrows and drew back on their bowstrings, aiming at the figure sixty feet above the road.

The figure cocked its head slightly, perhaps in amusement.

Sanych's eyes widened as she recognized the gesture. "Stop!" she shouted, standing in her stirrups. "It's the Shanallar!"

The archers lowered their weapons. At the same moment, the distant figure shouted, "Halla hablah 'anna 'lah!" and leaped off the edge of the wall. Gasps and exclamations followed, as every eye that could see Meena watched her spiral down a slender rope in a lazy helix. Her feet hit a knot that was tied in the end of it about a pace off the ground, and she stepped off lightly.

"Call a halt," Geret urged Brem, as he rode forward to meet Meena. Sanych, torn, gave in to her doubts and stayed behind.

Brem ordered the caravan to stop. Geret pulled up in front of Meena amid echoing shouts and neighs.

"Shanallar," he greeted her, giving her a small bow from his saddle. He tried to rein in his excitement at seeing her once more, but he couldn't be sure by Meena's expression if he was succeeding.

"You again, and still impatient, I see."

"It's my nature, I'm afraid. Along with not following the rules, and sneaking up on trouble and goosing it before running away."

That got half of Meena's mouth to smile. "And you're in charge of this rabble?" She waved a hand at the jumbling caravan behind him.

"That's what they tell me. Will you join us this time, Meena?" he asked earnestly. "Sanych said you'd left, but you're still here after two days. Have you changed your mind?"

"Just because I'm not here doesn't mean I've left."

"Oh. I guess Sanych misunderstood."

"It's possible; I embrace the cryptic on occasion. To be honest, I was–" Meena looked up at his happy, handsome face, framed by light waves of hair, his brown eyes glowing even here in the dim canyon, and changed what she was going to say. "I was expecting a bit more fanfare, or at least a horse. I'm not walking to Shanal, O Discourteous Princeling."

Geret laughed at the sudden ease of bringing the mythical Shanallar on his expedition. He ordered one of the extra mounts to be brought up for her. Once she had mounted and the caravan was on its way again, Geret was determined to ride next to her.

"Meena, may I ask you some things?" he asked her, his exuberance for her mere presence tamped down by his awe of actually being in it.

Meena looked askance at him, seeing Sanych riding nearby. The young Archivist was distinctly not looking at her. She pressed her lips together once. "If you like."

Geret rode a bit nearer so that his voice wouldn't carry, and asked a spontaneous question. "As excited as I am to have you with us, I see that something has happened between you and Sanych. Can you tell me what it is?"

"Yes I can, but I'm not going to."

"But you've decided to join with the quest." His grin could not be stopped by the serious nature of the topic.

"I have my own quest: the book needs to be destroyed. Now is the time to do that, and we may both benefit by traveling together." Meena's tone was quiet but firm, and Geret blinked at the sudden change in her opinion. He didn't want to think about what being at odds with a legend boded for his own goal.

"What makes you say that?" he asked curiously. "You weren't at all interested in coming along two days ago."

"You're right. I wasn't. Let's just say, sometimes history tries to repeat itself just out of sheer spite. Spitefulness irritates me. That, and my hand's been forced."

Geret frowned. "I don't understand. How could someone force your hand? You're the Shanallar!"

But Meena only gave him a half smile and replied, "Those who force the Shanallar's hand do so unwittingly, unless they have a death wish. Anything else you want to ask?" Meena asked, meeting his brown eyes.

"About a million things, I'm sure," Geret grinned. "But I'll let you catch your breath. It's not like we don't have time along the way. Oh," he said, remembering, "what was it you shouted before you slid down the rope? I didn't recognize the language."

"You wouldn't. It's Tarnic, from further west than even Shanal. I said, Halla hablah 'anna 'lah."

"It sounds pretty dramatic, being shouted from the top of a cliff like that. What does it mean?"

Meena's lips twitched. "There's more than one way to translate it. One of my favorites is 'Beyond Death, Victory'."

"I like that. I think I'll make it the expedition motto."

Meena winced, and a small laugh escaped her lips. "You go ahead and do that, Geret. Nothing could be more fitting."

Geret frowned a bit, wondering what she meant. "You must have quested many times before," he said, changing the subject. "What were your other quests like?"

Meena snorted, frowning a bit as if the question made no sense. "Quests. They all tend to blend together after awhile."

"Really?" asked Geret, disappointed. "You didn't enjoy the adventure?"

Meena looked at Geret again, her eyes heavy with age. "I never had the luxury of questing simply because I wanted to. I have sought a remedy for the Limbless Plague, a lost king whose throne was stolen by an evil usurper, and a prophesied child who was supposedly destined to reunite an empire in ruins. I have quested for truth, for justice, and for love. I have quested for things, for people, and for my own sanity. You name it, Geret, I've probably quested after it.

"As for this quest," she continued, "I have more than one goal in mind."

"Something other than destroying the Di–the book?"

Meena's jaw clenched for a moment. "I tell you what: if I find the things I seek, I'll let you know," she said aloud, knowing that if she found one of them, she'd have no inclination to explain, and if she found the other, telling anyone would be impossible.

"Deal," Geret agreed, enjoying the mysteriousness of her answer.

Puppy, Meena thought. A cute puppy, though. Clearly, he intended to trot at her heels for the foreseeable future. "Can I interest you in a story?" she asked, raising her voice so that all the riders in her vicinity could hear her.

"Absolutely!" Geret responded, grinning.

"It's one I hadn't gotten around to telling to Sanych yet. It's the tale of Curzon the Crooked and the Eye of Woe."

"Eye of Woe?" Geret breathed, already hooked. He saw Sanych ride closer in order to hear it, and he smiled.

"Now," Meena began, "Curzon the Crooked was born quite straight, in the kingdom of Gothrún, a land of fire and ice. They say he had the fire of the earth in his blood. But Curzon was not a great wizard, no. He was a common thief, and a coward. Afraid of his very shadow, the man ventured out only at night. He used his dexterity and skill to scale walls and pick locks, and his magic gift to slip past wards and alarm spells procured by the rich. Then one day the king's most powerful wizard came to Curzon's town.

"The wizard, named Garrolf the Gilded, wore robes of gold and silver thread. He carried a golden staff, atop which rested the Eye of Woe. Its golden lid was shut unless danger was near, and those who knew of its power prayed that it remained so in their presence. The Eye's gaze brought woe indeed: destruction, pain and death. It was a powerful weapon against the enemies of Gothrún, and only Garrolf could command it.

"Curzon coveted the Eye of Woe. He stole into Garrolf's warded chambers from the balcony on the top floor of the governor's residence. He convinced Garrolf's magic wards to let him pass; the wizard was not awakened by his presence. Curzon stood over the staff of gold and read its magic, like Sanych reads a book."

The Shanallar's gaze was the only one in the group that did not travel to the young Archivist. Sanych lowered her eyes, a blush rising in her cheeks.

"He stretched out his hand and took possession of the staff," Meena continued, "and it did not resist him. But in his glee, he laughed aloud, and Garrolf awoke, reaching for the staff.

"When the wizard found it in the hands of a stranger, with the Eye still closed, he gasped. 'Who are you?' he quavered. He knew that the stranger must be a very powerful man.

"'I am Curzon,' the thief replied, 'and I am taking the Eye of Woe.' Well, this did not please the king's wizard, and he attacked Curzon with the white tendrils of a deadly mist. They should have killed him, but they evaporated into nothing, and Garrolf the Gilded whimpered in despair.

"But as I said, Curzon was a coward. All he desired was the gold in the staff and the thrill of stealing such a valuable object. He backed away toward the balcony, taking the Eye with him. Garrolf was no fool, though; he hurled an empty chamber pot at Curzon, hoping to take him off guard with a non-magical attack. That choice proved fatal, not only for Garrolf, but for many others as well."

By this point in the story, Brem had an ear cocked in Meena's direction. Count Runcan smiled at the storytelling, and even Salvor listened quietly. Meena paused and took a drink from her water skin. Geret nearly burst with anticipation, waiting for her next words. She grinned at him before continuing the story.

"You see," she said, "the chamber pot struck Curzon in the head, dizzying him and breaking his concentration. For a moment, he lost control of his magic, which was holding the Eye's defenses at bay. In that one moment, the Eye of Woe awoke, and its golden lid rose. Garrolf screamed in horror, a bare moment before he was burnt to ash by a massive gout of flame that shot from the eye's pupil. Though Curzon tried his best to regain control, it was too late: the eye had begun its attack, and it could not be stopped until it had completed its spells. The force of the fire stream threw Curzon out of the room, against the railing of the balcony, and the bones of his back were crushed. He toppled over the rail and tumbled seven stories down. Luck was with him, though, and he landed in the fish pond."

Geret chuckled. It sounded like the sort of narrow escape he himself had enjoyed on occasion.

Meena began wrapping up the story. "The governor's house burned to the ground that night, as did many other structures that the Eye's gaze fell upon as Curzon tumbled from the balcony. Many people perished. Curzon was arrested, imprisoned, and sentenced to death. Many hoped he would die of his injuries, sparing the king's men the cost of a rope, but he did not. His back healed with a distinct twist to it, and thereafter, the denizens of Gothrún called him 'Curzon the Crooked', for his deformity as well as his thieving ways.

"He escaped his death sentence by picking the prison lock and shuffling away through the wards set around him by the wizards sent by the king. But nowhere was safe for him. He became a ghost, a wanderer, just one more shadow in the darkness. No doubt, mothers in Gothrún scare their children into obedience to this day with tales of how Curzon the Crooked will come for them after dark."

Meena hushed, yet her listeners still leaned forward. When it became clear she was finished, Geret asked, "So, what happened to him? To Curzon? Was there really magic?"

Meena turned to him and smiled. "You Vintens don't believe in magic, do you?"

Count Sengril gave a quiet snort of disdain. Geret looked down, embarrassed. "I want to. It just never seems to happen here."

"No, it wouldn't, would it?" Meena murmured.

"What?"

"No geysers, either, right? No hot springs or the like?"

"No, that type of thing is extremely rare on Cyrmant. I think there are some up near Nen Thakka, but that's it." Geret's brow furrowed. "You didn't say what happened to Curzon, though."

"You're right," Meena said, her smile maddening. "I didn't. But ask me again later."

Grumbling about wicked heroines, Geret resigned himself to waiting. He caught Sanych giving him a sympathetic glance and gave her a half-grin.

As the conversation picked up and turned to other topics, Geret remembered the parchment case his uncle had given him. His uncle had said to wait until the caravan was across the Kirthan border, but Geret decided he had no intention of waiting that long.

He shot a glance toward Salvor, riding tall and aloof. Maybe Geret would finally learn what strange relationship existed between his uncle and Salvor's father. Why had Halvor pulled out of the expedition at nearly the last minute? Geret resolved to read the secretive note from his uncle that very night. If the information inside was as vital as his uncle claimed, Geret needed to know it right away.

##  Chapter Fourteen

The first lunch on the road was an eye-opening experience for Geret. The caravan did not stop at noon. They had a deadline to meet at the port of Yaren Fel, and the caravan masters knew their craft.

A mounted servant rode up to the fore of the caravan and handed around pairs of large fresh bread slabs that pinched thick, marinated beef slices. Meena and Sanych grinned happily and began eating right away. Geret absent-mindedly thanked the servant and then examined his meal critically, noting the distinct lack of courses and wine.

He sighed and decided that surely, quest food was as much a part of the quest as seeking the goal. With a smile at his new perspective, he commented to the group at large, "It's a good thing we're getting used to roughing it early on."

The Dictat members nodded wisely in agreement, making comments around their first bites. Sanych and Meena, however, looked askance at him, then at each other. Geret savored the fresh yeasty bread and the rich marinade that flavored his beef and eyed the ladies. He was glad to see they were looking at each other now, but somehow he felt it was at his expense.

He finished his large sandwich and washed it down with several large gulps of water from his water skin while enjoying the scenery. The lobeleaf trees were just growing in their new leaves; they passed by copse after copse of them throughout the valley, the soft red buds fairly glowing with promise of life and warmth. Geret grinned. Even spring was excited for the quest.

The rest of the afternoon was comprised of riding, some occasional riding, and even a bit of additional riding. Geret was no slouch when it came to horsemanship, but it had been a couple of seasons since he'd spent this much time in the saddle without a break. He knew riding horseback all day, every day, would make certain parts of him tender before he adjusted to the routine, so he just grimaced and said nothing. He was incredibly thankful when they pulled into a large grassy area beside the trade road a little early that evening.

Supper was late due to lack of coordination, but Geret wasn't thinking about his stomach. He waited until his private tent had been erected, a small white affair with room for a cot and a small table with a washbasin, and his personal trunk. Once he had the canvas walls for privacy, he stepped inside and sat on the cot, pulling the small parchment case from inside his vest and holding it before him. He stared intently at it for a good half a minute, heart pounding.

If Salvor's a threat to my family, I want to know now. I'm not waiting until we reach Kirth, Geret thought. He cracked the seal and opened the small case, shaking out a long, rolled note onto his left palm. He set the case down and studied the note for a moment, unrolling the edge an inch or so to determine which end he had. He had a tendency to skip to the end of letters, and he wanted to pace himself with this one, so he dared not unroll it too quickly and jump to something he wasn't prepared for.

He had the top end, it turned out. He took a bracing breath, let it out, and began to read:

To my Nephew, Geret,

If you are reading this, I assume you are safely away on your quest and out of my jurisdiction. I trust you will hold to your duty and strive your hardest in order to successfully complete this endeavor, even had you not read this letter. But you are reading, for what I have to say must be said. It is only fair that you know why you are truly questing for this Dire Tome in far-off Shanal.

Your cousin Addan was stricken with something fiendish and incurable when he was eight years old. His healers believe it may be a treacherous poison, and I have bent my will these last dozen years to learn who among the forces and nations surrounding us would dare bring such horror upon a child. To date, I have not found any perpetrators.

This ailment, whatever its nature, has robbed him of more than physical strength. To put it succinctly, my son is mad, though quietly so. His condition has worsened rapidly in this last year. I fear there is little time left for him. He cannot be my heir in this condition. I have put off this realization too long, in hopes of his recovery, but it is not to be, not without extraordinary help.

And that is where you come in. I am sending you, Geret, on this quest, so that you may bring back the one book that I have faith may restore my son's health, according to the old priest's journal, before he succumbs to his condition completely and is lost to us. It is my hope to use the book to restore his mind and body to him.

I know you will do right by your cousin, and by me and the whole of Vint. To this end, I bestow upon you the title of Prince of Vint. This title is yours no matter the quest's outcome, because I have named you my primary heir, in the event that you fail in the quest, and yet survive. I know you have no love of rule, nor politics, so I fear no sabotage by your hand, Geret. Introduce yourself thus to all dignitaries and commoners alike. You represent us all to the world, Prince Geret, and you hold my hope in your hands, come what may.

May Wisdom speed your path.

Uncle Beret

Magister of Vint

P.S. Please share the bestowing of your title with the Dictat and see that they accept and disseminate this to the caravan and in all their dealings with foreigners. Read from this letter if you must.

Geret's jaw hung slack. He wrinkled his forehead and blinked a few times, then reread the letter in its entirety. When he had done so, he sat silently, holding the letter, digesting its contents slowly in his mind.

Last summer, when his cousin Addan and his uncle had come to visit his father's castle, and ultimately bring Geret back with them to Highnave, he'd had no notion that his cousin had been anything other than severely exhausted. He'd sat at table one or two nights, made a bit of quiet conversation, and enjoyed his father's aviary immensely. But, looking back now, Geret realized that the too-long silences in conversation, the haunted gazes out the window, and the simple pleasure of watching tiny, brightly-feathered birds flit about, had actually been pointing to the true nature of Addan's illness. His uncle had been right; Addan's madness was quiet.

Geret felt his eyes warm and prickle with the beginning of tears. He and Addan had great times playing as children, dashing about from garden to garden, shrieking and yelling and outrunning their caretakers. Now, unless he was successful at this quest, Addan would be lost to his madness and die.

He swallowed a small lump in his throat. His quest now felt harder, more urgent. It was no longer just a game, a frolic. He felt his mind focus as it never had before, not even for the most spectacular prank.

The Dictat must not know about Addan's condition, he realized, or else his uncle would have simply come out and told them their true purpose in the quest meetings. Why isn't he sharing that information with them? They're his advisory council. If anything warrants their attention, it's the heir to the Magister's position. He must have some reason not–

"Knock knock, princeling. You home?" came Meena's voice from just outside his tent flap. Geret jumped; he'd been so focused on his thoughts, he hadn't heard her approach. And "princeling"...Geret wondered if Meena was able to read the future. She'd been calling him that since they'd met.

He stuffed the note back inside his vest pocket and strode to the tent flap, pulling it open. "I'm here," he said. He looked down at Meena's outstretched arm and saw that she'd brought him a large bowl of stew with a carved wooden spoon protruding from it.

"Hungry enough for more of that rough quest fare yet?" she asked, a small glint of amusement in her eyes.

"Definitely," Geret said, taking the bowl from her. He noticed that she held another for herself. "Would you care to join me inside for supper?" he offered.

"Yes," she agreed. Geret backed up to allow her entry.

With the limited height of the tent, which Geret didn't quite have to slouch under, he was more aware of Meena's height as well as his own. She was only a hand or so shorter than he was, making her one of the tallest women he'd ever met.

"I'm afraid I only have the cot; no stools or the like. But I'll let you pick whichever end you prefer," he offered her.

Meena made a quiet sound of amusement in her nose, not bothering to hide a smile as she looked at the cot. She chose the foot end, closer to the tent flap, and sat down. While she scooped a big spoonful of hot stew into her mouth, Geret sat on the other half of the cot and did the same.

The stew was flavorful and spicy, with healthy-sized chunks of root vegetables and meat bathed in a thick, herbed sauce. Geret was so hungry he ate half of it before remembering his manners.

"I'm sorry. I invited you in and then gobbled in front of you. You must think I'm Daskan."

Meena raised her eyebrows as she licked her spoon. "I'm as hungry as you are."

Geret looked at her bowl; it was half-empty as well. "Not one for ceremony, are you?"

Meena took another bite and talked through her food as she replied, "Nope. Been to enough sheremoniesh to lasht sheveral lifetimesh." She swallowed. "A couple of them felt like they alone lasted a lifetime."

Geret chuckled. "I admit, I'm not up on all your legends like Sanych is. Did you ever do...you know...bad things? That didn't make it into the stories?"

The look Meena gave Geret was direct. Her face seemed to alter, though she'd not moved that he could tell. The power of her gaze mesmerized him and terrified him all at once. A word flashed into his mind: anything. This face was capable of absolutely anything. He gulped, tasting the previous bite of his stew on his tongue again.

Finally Meena spoke, releasing him from her spellbinding gaze and looking toward his small lamp on the table across the tent. "No one is perfect, Geret. Everyone makes mistakes, falters, loses their way." She took another bite of her stew.

Geret did as well, feeling chastised. "I'm sorry if I made you remember something you'd rather not," he offered by way of apology.

"Little princeling," Meena returned, her sarcasm back in place, "I doubt there is any single thing in the world that you could make me do."

Geret heard the challenge in her words and narrowed his eyes with a slow smile. "Really? I think I could."

Meena snorted softly. "Puppy."

He took another bite of stew; as soon as he'd pulled his spoon out of his mouth, he flicked it at her, and she caught it deftly by the handle, her reflexes quick as a cat's. Her eyes glanced at his in triumph.

"I just made you catch my spoon," he said, flicking his eyebrows up.

Meena froze, realizing he'd had no doubt whatsoever about her reflexes. She surprised him by letting out a low, rich laugh that went on for several seconds.

She handed him his spoon back, handle first, and said, "So you did. That's what I get for assuming again." She met his eyes with a much friendlier look than that of moments ago, and added, "I think I'm going to like you, Geret."

"Superb. I like me as well," Geret said, heady with the Shanallar's attention.

Meena snorted at his silliness and ate some more stew. "This isn't bad," she commented. "Not bad at all." She poked her tongue through the bits in her mouth, sorting through the flavors of the stew. "Now me, I make a mean snow weasel stew, if I do say so myself."

"Snow weasels? The smelly creatures in the mountains, more likely to attack your kneecaps than run away? That sneak right into your camp and steal your food stash? Those snow weasels?" Geret's voice had risen to a disbelieving note.

Meena pursed her lips for a moment. "Yup," she nodded. "Those snow weasels. That's why my stew is so mean."

"How do you catch the things? I hear they fight like...well, you know. They fight like snow weasels."

Meena nodded sagely. "That they do."

"You're not going to tell me how you catch them, are you?" Geret said, noting Meena's reticence.

Meena looked up. "It's not hard. The key is to not mind getting hurt, while still avoiding being maimed."

Geret related the concept to sword fighting, and understood. "So it's not a pretty fight, then?" he assumed.

Meena tilted her head toward him, a slightly impatient look on her face. Talking through another bite of stew, she mumbled, "'Sh never pretty, prinshling. 'Lesh you're dueling for show."

Geret was reminded of his duel with Salvor. That had certainly been for show: a means to win back the sword Salvor had stolen.

Meena noticed his introspective look. "You've not killed before, have you?"

"You mean people?" Geret asked, then realized that he'd just given away the answer. "No," he confirmed, "I'm more of a taunter. I like them to go away knowing I bested them. There's no profit in it for me if they die."

"This quest will go on long enough, you'll likely encounter at least one person who won't want to go away at all, 'til you're dead. Best you think on that now."

Geret opened his mouth, then shut it without speaking, choosing instead to nod.

"So," Meena began, "why were you lurking in here? Everyone else is just whining about their backsides or drooling in the stew." She scraped the last of the stew from her bowl and ate it, waiting for his response.

"Well, I just found out my uncle's made me a prince, and I've got to figure out how to inform the Dictat, and–"

Meena interrupted him with a moderate belch. "Congratulations."

Geret blinked at her manners.

"A belch is considered polite in more countries than I have fingers," Meena said, somewhat defensively.

"Oh. We going to any of them?"

"Yes, more than one."

"Superb."

Meena sensed he wasn't going to add anything else; she turned away and began to stand.

"Wait. Please," Geret found himself saying. His hand rose toward Meena's arm, but he dared not actually restrain her.

Meena turned back to him and waited.

"I...I really need to know, Meena, about this book we're looking for," he said, trying to project authority into his voice.

Meena's gaze went cold, yet he could tell it wasn't because of him; her knowledge of the book, her apparent hatred of it, was palpable.

"What do you want to know?" she asked him.

"Can it...can it heal people? Really heal them, of terrible things?"

Her eyebrows raised tiredly. "Yes. It can."

"Really?" Geret felt relief and hope surging in his chest.

"That is not all it does to those who dare to beg its boons, Geret. Tell me, why do you ask that question, of all the questions you can choose from?"

Geret looked up into Meena's eyes, shadowed now as dusk fell outside the tent. The lamp behind her set little bronze highlights afire around the edges of her dark brown hair, and here and there he was sure he saw bright coppery flashes as well. Not sure in the least if he was doing the right thing, he slipped his hand inside his vest pocket and withdrew the note from his uncle.

~~~

Sanych had eaten her fill of stew and had found it quite satisfying. Unlike her search for Geret. She had checked with the Dictat, with the caravan masters, and had wandered through the groups of people sitting and chatting around various bright fires as night fell upon the caravan. Only then did she decide to check his tent.

With the general hubbub outside, Sanych couldn't hear anyone inside, but she saw that Geret's lamp was lit. She lifted the flap and began to step through, not thinking of personal space, not thinking of intruding. The only thing on her mind was the topic she wanted to advise Geret on. She was surprised and discomfited, therefore, at the sight that met her eyes within the tent.

Geret sat on the edge of his cot, looking mournful. Meena sat cross-legged, shins pressed against his thigh, with one hand on his shoulder and the other on his knee. The look on her face was one of such gentleness, Sanych was baffled. She had never seen Meena look that way before. The sight of the two of them so close together made Sanych frown in confusion.

The motion of the tent flap caught Geret's attention; he looked up and cleared his throat as he recognized her. Meena shifted smoothly and rose to her feet. "Later, then," she said to him, brushing past Sanych without another word.

Sanych found her heart thumping more than usual; she wasn't sure what she had seen, or what it meant. She hadn't experienced a wide range of social situations in her sheltered life. If it hadn't had to do with a teacher, a colleague, or a servant, she knew her understanding was terribly limited.

"Evening, Archivist Sanych," Geret greeted her, switching gears.

"Uhm, evening...Geret..." Sanych was mortified to hear her voice so hesitant.

"Did you need to tell me something?"

"Yes." She took a deep, steadying breath. "The weather's going to be a bit wet for the next day. I thought you should know so you can prepare the caravan."

"How do you know that?" Geret asked with a puzzled frown.

"It's...in the clouds," Sanych replied, opting for the short version.

Geret's eyes widened. "You can read weather? That's amazing. That'll be incredibly useful on this journey. Why didn't you tell me you can do that?"

"You didn't ask. Um, that was all I had to say just now, actually," Sanych said, still feeling uncomfortable. "I'll let you rest."

Geret's expression dimmed; he looked...disappointed? Sanych wasn't certain she was in a proper frame of mind to be sure. "Good night then," he said warmly. "I'll see you bright and early."

"Yes, good night." Sanych slipped back out of the tent flap and took a few steps away into the deepening gloaming before pausing to take a deep breath and try and sort herself out a bit.

Before she could, however, a single finger tapped gently on her left shoulder.

"Wisdom, Geret–" she began, turning in that direction, then stopped short. A large yellow prairie rose occupied the space directly in front of her, its sturdy stem held in slim fingers. She traced them up to their owner's face, and met the warm hazel gaze of Salvor Thelios.

"Sorry. Not Geret." He smiled down at her, offering the flower.

Sanych took it. Its sweet-salty fragrance reached her nose, and she murmured, "It's lovely. Thank you, and I'm glad."

"Glad?"

"Glad you're not Geret, this particular moment."

"Really." Salvor tilted his head, pondering this pronouncement for a long moment. "In that case, fair Archivist, I'll simply bid you a good evening, and wish you a restful sleep." He took her left hand and bowed over it, but he didn't kiss it. Instead, he held her gaze for a smiling moment, then turned and slipped away into the gathering darkness.

Sanych pulled her left hand close to her chest and clasped it with her right, holding the flower awkwardly. She watched him walk away until she couldn't discern his form in the dark any longer. Her heart still pounded, and she was still unsure why.

##  Chapter Fifteen

The caravan was late to start the next morning, but not by much; already the caravan servants and members were getting a feel for how long the packing and loading processes took.

Once they were traveling again, Sanych invited the Shanallar to ride a bit further down the caravan with her, and Meena wordlessly accepted.

Once they were riding comfortably within the supply wagons' vicinity, the rumbling wheels masked their conversation nicely.

"Meena, I know you must be upset at me," Sanych began, after a deep breath laced with road dust. "After all that you said about the evils of this book, after you told me to wait at the Temple for you, it must feel like I betrayed your trust when I left to come on the quest." There. She'd said the worst of it.

Meena looked over in mild surprise, but did not immediately respond. Her green gaze took in the gathering grey clouds, the morning dew on the prairie grass, the plodding wagon horses. "You think you're the first person to disregard my words because you think you know better? You're smart, Sanych, but you're not that smart." Meena turned bored eyes on Sanych for a moment, then looked away again.

Sanych felt like she'd been slapped.

Meena continued, "You're a savant who's been coddled your entire life. But I won't be so rude as to let you think you're the gods' own gift to humanity. That would be doing everyone a disfavor, and I try not to be so rude. I'll tell you when you're being a foolish little girl, and when your snap decisions to throw yourself into untold dangers may cost the lives of more people than you could possibly imagine."

Sanych's eyes widened, and she glanced at Meena.

Meena continued blandly, "But, as it turns out, I always planned to bring you to Shanal, with or without the caravan, so the exact manner in which we start off really doesn't matter much in the end, does it? I'm here to save the world, after all."

Sanych felt tension leave her shoulders. Meena didn't hate her after all, though her words didn't make much sense, either. Yet Sanych felt the desire to set things straight about her motives.

"I didn't come to spite you," she said, hating the quaver in her voice.

Meena looked at her silently, waiting.

"I came because someone needed to protect these people. And I might not know which end of a sword to hold, but I know you hate the book they're after, and...well, I thought maybe I could reach the Dictat with what little I know of the truth, if I was patient." She felt foolish, small, offering these weak excuses to such a great woman. "I...I just wanted to help."

The Shanallar stare was so focused, Sanych looked down in embarrassment, studying the thick, pale hairs in her horse's mane. Her heart thudded; what would Meena say?

"I'm impressed," her companion finally said. "I didn't figure you for the heroic type. I guess I won't have to save everyone all by my lonesome."

Sanych looked over at her in surprise.

"Now if you'll excuse me," Meena continued, "I heard it was going to rain today, and I need to find a suitable hat."

Sanych took several minutes to herself, adjusting to the new peace between her and Meena, before riding back up to join the front of the caravan. By the time she got there, only Geret and Meena rode with the caravan masters. The Shanallar now sported a wide-brimmed hat, and she and the prince both turned to her as she joined them.

"Welcome back, Archivist," Geret grinned.

"Thank you. Where did everyone else go?"

"They're seeing to various things or riding with other friends in the caravan; there's really a large number of people coming, for mercantile opportunities, research, you name it," Geret responded.

"Everyone's got more than one reason to be on this quest," Meena said, and shared an inside look with Geret. Sanych pressed her lips together, but didn't say anything.

In the afternoon, under a drizzling rain, the caravan stopped at the border between Vint and Hardyk. Geret showed the border guards their king's permission seal on a Hardysh Letter of Passage, allowing such a large and well-armed party to pass through their lands, and the caravan was on its way again in mere minutes.

Over the next few days, patterns of relations became apparent. Geret, Meena and Sanych usually rode together all day. The Counts were content to either talk amongst themselves or with Geret, and spent much of their time checking on the various aspects of the caravan that were under their direct supervision. Armala's pale hair was easily spotted as he conversed with the caravan masters and wagon drivers in the back, and Sengril and Runcan were never far away.

That left only Salvor. He remained by far the quietest member of the group. He occasionally spoke with the Dictat, and had several short, smiling conversations with Sanych, but he never spoke to Geret or to Meena, and often spent much of the day riding to and from the front of the caravan.

One more border crossing, exactly one week after they had left Highnave, brought them into Kirth. They had been riding close to the ocean for a full day by this time, and its sparkling blue expanse grew larger on the horizon every hour.

The early spring weather was warm and fine, bringing a salty zephyr across the caravan as it plodded on the raised road through sandy dunes that occasionally hid the sea view.

Sanych, deep in thought, heard Geret say, "Did you hear that?" He looked around to his left, down toward the sea and the majority of the dunes.

"What?" Sanych asked.

"Some kind of flute, maybe?" Geret responded, eyes still scanning the bumpy expanse. The sea was still several miles away, but the caravan was trundling parallel to the shore now. It appeared there was nothing between them and the sea but dunes, dunes and more dunes of light grey sand. Somewhere out there, however, someone was making a sound.

Sanych could hear it now. She squinted in thought, recalling all she knew of this area. With Kirth being their neighbor to the west, there was very little she had not read about the country.

Geret breathed in excitedly. "It's the sirens, isn't it, Sanych?" he said. "The sirens of the silver sands! They're calling!"

Meena rolled her eyes in disdain. "Yes, princeling. You're far too tasty a prize for them to let you pass by," she said, snickering.

Geret half-lidded his eyes at her for a long moment, but he could not keep the grin from spreading across his features. "Let's go find them," he urged, nudging his horse forward to talk to Brem.

Sanych looked worriedly at Meena. "Is he serious?"

Meena shrugged one shoulder. "Are they real?"

"The sirens? Yes. They're probably not what he expects to find, though," Sanych grinned.

"No threat to him, then?"

Sanych understood what Meena was asking. She pursed her lips in thought. "Well...probably not, but–"

"Yah! Let's go, ladies!" Geret called back to them, urging his horse into a gallop. Four of the guards from the caravan rode with him, and their mounts sprinted off among the dunes.

"We'd better catch up, Sanych," Meena said, "or this part of the quest chronicle you want to write will be over by the time we get there."

Sanych's blue eyes widened and she turned her horse to gallop after Geret and the guards. Meena rode alongside her, grinning into the salty wind.

The caravan plodded peaceably along without them.

The dunes had a ridge pattern that reminded Sanych of water-rippled mud, but on an enormous scale. The winds consistently blew in off the ocean, and all the ridges pointed toward the caravan, their short, steep faces lit by spring sunlight from the northern sky.

The tracks of five horses were impossible to miss, even for Sanych. Geret and his escort were only a few moments ahead of them, but the constant zigzagging around the taller portions of the dunes quickly made her lose track of which way the road lay.

"No wonder people get lost out here," she called over to Meena.

Meena nodded at her in reply, then looked ahead and said, "Although, that might have something to do with it, too."

Sanych followed Meena's gaze and reflexively hauled back on her reins, causing her horse to hop and snort as it came to a stop, hooves spraying sand.

They had found the source of the whistling.

Sanych gazed at the strange sight before her, realizing with a thrill how infinitely better it was to see this with her own eyes than to read it in a book.

A large round red tent was pitched in the lee of a particularly large dune. Its cloth top and door flaps rippled in the light wind. Set in a circle a couple of dozen paces in all directions from the tent were boundary staves, each flying a long red streamer. Atop the large dune itself, bearing the full brunt of the wind, was a larger staff, its strangely twisted head whistling madly as the wind forced itself through narrow slits.

Sanych also realized that Geret and his guards were facing three red-robed women whose long, curly hair was flying free in the wind. The women carried spears and were backing the mounted men away from the red tent and toward the boundary staves. Snatches of angry voices blew past her ears, and she realized they were not speaking Versal.

Meena laughed. "So these are your 'sirens', are they?" She stopped several paces ahead of Sanych and dismounted, walking ahead toward the boundary staves.

"Meena! Angry women with weapons–?" Sanych called, but Meena didn't even pause to look back. "Not even listening to me," she muttered, nudging her horse into a walk until it caught up with Meena's. She dismounted, leaving the animals to each other's company, and ran through the shifting sand to catch up with her companion.

Geret was trying to apologize loudly in Versal, but it only seemed to anger the women further. They had stopped at their boundary, and two still held their spears pointed at the intruders. The third was gesticulating wildly and talking just as loudly as Geret. His guards all had hands on their swords, ready to draw and defend their prince if he commanded them to.

Sanych caught up to Meena just as she reached the group and stopped at the outside of the boundary staff.

"Sanych," Meena asked, a twinkle in her eye, "do you know their language?"

"It must be Al-beyhan," Sanych returned.

"Can you tell them I didn't mean to trespass?" Geret asked Sanych in desperation. "They don't seem to speak any Versal at all."

The Archivist frowned a moment. "I've never spoken it. I've only read the notes on translations–"

"Good enough; give it a try. Please."

She took a breath. "Quan derai gann il a na quey," she began.

The three women looked at each other and lowered their spears. One coughed in what appeared to be amusement.

Meena rolled her eyes. "Stars and darkness, Sanych. Your accent is terrible." She turned to the Al-beyhan women. "Q'an darai ganil an 'a q'ey," she said, giving the women a chin-lift gesture.

Again the women looked at each other, but with pleasure this time. They all began speaking at the same time, gesturing at the tent and at Geret. Meena exchanged a few more sentences with them and then turned to Geret, who had been watchfully silent on his horse.

"It is the Al-beyhan tradition to set the women apart from their men for one week out of five, Geret. All men are forbidden from crossing the boundary of the red tent, lest they be required to perform atonement. The whistling staff on the dune is supposed to be a warning, not a lure."

"You'd think they'd put a sign by the road, then," one of the guards commented.

"They're sand nomads; theirs is strictly an oral tradition. They travel the coasts in small bands, fishing and gathering seaweeds and shells. They told me they usually stay further from the road during the red week, but this time they couldn't find a suitably large dune any closer to the shoreline."

Geret wrinkled his forehead. "Red week?" His eyes scanned the long red streamers and the bright red tent. Several curious female faces were peeking out at them from its door flap. "Oh! Right." Geret's face flamed nearly as red as the streamers, and Meena made an aside to the three Al-beyhan women, who laughed melodiously. "How do I make this atonement, then?" he asked Meena, his face desperate for a change of topic.

Meena spoke to the red-clad women for a minute. The Al-beyhans cast inscrutable glances at Geret from time to time. Sanych had a hard time following the conversation; this secretive group had certainly never discussed the atonement ritual with any outsider before, and most of the words they used were completely unknown to her.

"You have to spill your blood in the sand," Meena said, casting a quick look at the grey grains beneath their feet. Geret gulped. Sanych gasped.

"Um, how much?" the prince asked nervously.

Meena grinned. "Only a few drops, my quick princeling."

Geret sighed in relief and dismounted. The four guards dismounted as well, and one of them moved the horses over to join the other two. Then the men all drew a little blood from their arms, letting a few drops of their blood fall onto the grey sand.

"Is that sufficient for them?" he asked Meena, while looking at the nomads. They nodded, not needing a translator. "Superb. It's been nice meeting you lovely, spear-wielding ladies. I've got a quest to get back to at the moment, but trust me, I won't forget this experience anytime soon." He turned to go, and one of the nomads spoke to Meena again.

"I'm afraid there's more, Geret," Meena said.

Geret turned back; he knew he'd have to complete it, since he'd admitted guilt by beginning the ritual. "What's next, then?"

He didn't like the nomad women's wicked grins.

~~~

"I have to say, Geret," Meena said, as they rode back to the raised road, "you've got a pair of the finest cheeks I've ever seen."

"I asked you not to look," Geret said, his voice low with embarrassment.

"I know you did," Meena said, smirking. "How was your dip in the ocean?"

"It wasn't too bad, really," he replied. "After we ran naked through three or four miles of sand, I was glad to rinse off the grains that stuck, and the water wasn't cold at all." The four guards murmured their agreement with Geret's summation.

"Well, I didn't look," Sanych felt compelled to state.

"Thank you, Sanych," Geret said.

Meena tsked. "You missed out, girl."

"I was being polite!" Sanych insisted.

"How many times do you get a chance to see a prince's backside?" Meena asked her with a grin.

"Wh–well, it's not really on my list of life goals, now, is it?" Sanych countered.

"More's the pity," Meena said, prodding her with a finger. "You could have had it crossed off by now."

"I'm right here, you know. I can hear you," Geret interjected.

Meena ignored him. "Really, Sanych, if you're going to be out and about on this quest, you should consider stepping outside of your boundaries a bit more."

"Just, not into others' boundaries," Geret added ruefully.

"Point well taken, Geret," Sanych acknowledged. "But you're right too, Meena. Kirth shares a border with Vint, yet we're already meeting people whose culture is completely foreign." Her light eyes sparkled in the sun, and she smiled. "This'll make a great story."

"Don't you go writing about my backside," Geret warned.

"My prince," Sanych protested, "how am I to portray this quest, if not truthfully?"

Meena barked a laugh, then broke into earnest giggles when she realized Sanych was completely serious.

Just as Sanych was about to ask Meena why she didn't speak to the Al-beyhan women as soon as she recognized them, the road came into view, and everyone exclaimed in relief. The party of delayed adventurers climbed the gentle slope to the raised road. A lone caravan guard waited for them.

"Prince Geret," he said, "we were becoming worried. Several of the guards have been searching the dunes for you for nearly half an hour."

Sanych looked to Geret worriedly, and he knew what she was thinking. "Call them back at once," he ordered.

The guard's hand opened the flap on his saddlebag. "My prince, is there danger?"

"Hopefully just delay. Call them back."

"Yes, my lord." The guard pulled out a palm-sized black ball with a long bit of wick sticking out, a flint, and a large slingshot. He dismounted with an easy leap and sparked the wick alight off his dagger, then placed the round ball in his slingshot and fired it up into the sky over toward the dunes. A loud bang erupted and the black ball was destroyed in a puff of black smoke.

"Will they hear that, over the wind?" asked Sanych.

"We'll see," answered Geret. They waited a few minutes, and the first of the guards rode back in from the dunes. In another fifteen minutes every guard was accounted for, and none reported stumbling onto the red tent.

"Well, there you go: happy ending, happy tale," proclaimed Meena, turning her horse toward the caravan.

"It was rather fun, overall, wasn't it?" Sanych smiled.

"Says the one who didn't have to cut himself and run to the ocean naked," grimaced Geret.

"What was that, my lord?" inquired one of the guards.

"Nothing," Geret said quickly.

By the time the group caught up with the caravan it was nearly night. Geret was hailed loudly by the rear guard of the caravan, and the news spread faster than they could ride, so that by the time they reached the front of the caravan, Master Brem and the Counts already knew that Geret had returned safely.

"The Great One returns, unkilled by the treacherous sirens," Salvor greeted Geret, as the prince and his companions rode up into their customary places.

"No thanks to you, Salvor," Geret returned coolly.

"Actually, it was Salvor who sent the extra guards to look for you," Runcan said.

Salvor grinned at the expression on Geret's face. "Can't have our lord and master dying this early in the quest, can we?" he said.

Geret exhaled through his nostrils. Meena glanced between him and Salvor.

"That's not all I did in your absence, though, Geret," Salvor continued, hazel eyes confident.

"What?"

All eyes turned to Salvor, who said, "Since you deprived us of your illustrious, commanding presence for hours on end today, and the Counts had legitimate business to attend to, someone had to make the decisions. I stepped up."

Geret's brows lowered. "And what decision did you make?"

"Yes, Salvor," Count Armala said, cocking his head. "What's happened in our absence?"

Salvor gave the Count a placatory look, then turned his attention back to Geret. "We've picked up a couple of new questers. They weren't keen on riding horseback yet, so you likely passed right by them as they rode on one of the wagons."

"New questers? For our quest?" Geret couldn't help but ask.

"No; they're on a quest of their own. I'll let them explain it to you. I'm sure I've quite forgotten the details already," Salvor said, waving a hand in dismissal.

"Were they Vinten or Kirthan?"

Salvor's grin exuded superiority. "Neither. They're Sea Pirates."

##  Chapter Sixteen

Even Sanych couldn't wait until the caravan stopped for the night. Real Sea Pirates, here on the quest with them! Since she'd learned of the new additions to the caravan, she had been going over all she knew of their culture, little as that was, and she was eagerly looking forward to increasing her knowledge of them. These enigmatic seafaring people rarely came ashore, and they were as infamous for their sea battles and port raids as they were for their mysterious sea-culture. Sanych knew that much of what she had read was written by those who had been victims of the pirates' attacks. She hoped to get a more balanced view; such valuable new information would be a great accomplishment for an Archivist of any age.

The caravan pulled to a halt in the minimal shelter of a particularly high row of dunes that lay next to the raised road. Camp was set up at their base, where the wind was weakest. The wagons were left at the side of the wide road; their horses were brought down next to the camp. Fodder for them was not running low yet, but the caravan masters planned to send scouts ahead tomorrow to determine the distance to the next available foraging grounds.

Such matters occupied the Counts' deliberations rather frequently, since the three of them were doing the work of four men. Geret and Salvor were not so hampered, though. Sanych could tell that Geret held no love at all for the young nobleman, who was simply along for the ride, not taking up his father's abandoned duties, nor apparently contributing to the quest in any meaningful way. She found him clever and charming, though, and enjoyed talking to him.

A servant led the two newcomers to Geret's camp area as the tents were being set up for the night. After several nights' rearranging, the tents now formed a ring around a larger-than-usual fire pit, not yet lit this evening. Meena lazed on a folding stool, twining grasses into an intricate plait. Geret was lending a hand to the servants who were putting up the Shanallar's tent.

Sanych sat a little apart from everyone and wrote notes in a small journal. She had come to realize that while she could accurately recall events that happened to her anytime she wanted, it was still easier to remember things that were written down, even if she was the one doing the writing. Every day she summed up what she considered the most noteworthy events, using Archivist shorthand.

As the two pirates stepped into the circle of tents being raised, Sanych, Geret, Meena and all the servants and guards in the area turned to get their first look at them. The Counts were, as usual, eating their supper while they worked in their tents, and Salvor had wandered off, apparently not interested in hearing the pirates' tale a second time.

The girl strode in first, ahead of her male companion. Her bearing was confident and decisive. She looked to be several inches taller than Sanych and appeared two or three years older. Framing her face were two long, oddly twined ropes of copper-bright hair, contrasting with her vivid turquoise eyes. The rest of her barely-tamed curls were a much darker red, reminding Sanych of Meena's new hair color. The pirate girl's skirt first appeared to be made of random colorful patches, but as she stepped closer, Sanych realized each patch was a different swatch of silk or satin brocade. Her low-cut white blouse was heavily trimmed with soft falls of lace. She wore a dazzling collection of jewelry: gold-and-turquoise banded hoops in her ears, an ornate golden collar with a dangling amulet, various styles of rings, and numerous types of bracelets. Even her boots had rows of small golden dangles down the outer edges.

"I give you greetings, fellow travelers," she said, stopping in front of Meena. All tent-erecting ceased, and Geret stepped over next to Meena's chair, but the pirate girl didn't even look at him. "I am Rhona m'Kora of the First Clan Agonbloom, of the Southern Sea Clans," she said briskly, her Versal accented with lilts and long vowels, "and you have my thanks for letting us join with you." The other pirate stepped up beside her. "This is my cousin, Ruel Menihuna. I bid you never say his name as 'Rool', for he will go away and cry, and then I will have to hurt you. It is 'roo-ell', or you may use my short-name for him, and simply shout, "Oi, Slave!'"

Ruel gave his shorter cousin's arm a shove. "That's 'Sir Slave' to you, wench," he grinned. Sanych's eyes were drawn to him, and she took in his white shirt and knee-length berry-colored pants above new-looking dark leather boots. His hair was neither as bright nor as wildly curly as Rhona's; waves of a dependable dark brown curled about his forehead, and the hair of his crown was pulled back into a tail that dangled down to his wide, lacy collar. Even his eyes were more sedate, a cool storm-blue. "Forgive my cousin Rhona, I beg you," Ruel said, looking at Geret. "She's a bit full of herself, which is why we're here."

"Is not," Rhona contradicted, brows frowning in denial.

"Welcome to our caravan," Geret responded politely, ignoring Rhona's retort. "I am Geret Branbrey Valan, leader of the expedition and Prince of Vint. This is Meena, my guide, and Sanych elTiera, Archivist and recorder of our journey. Please stay with us for supper and tell us about your quest."

"Oh, shiny. I could eat." Ruel grinned. He fetched over a couple of stools from in front of the nearest tent. He sat on one and set the other beside him for Rhona, who took it without acknowledging his kindness. Sanych frowned, and Geret schooled his face to stillness, but Meena snorted in amusement.

Geret waved the servants back to work, grabbed a folding stool and sat down near his guests. "If you don't mind, please tell us how you came to be off your ships. I've never met a Sea Pirate. I've never even heard of one being ashore, and here there are two of you. Where are you going?"

Rhona squared her shoulders and grinned. Ruel merely rolled his eyes a bit and nodded his head in her direction.

"We're on our Age Quest," Rhona said, chin high. "And we are not Sea Pirates. We're of the Sea Clans. There are many pirates at sea who aren't of our culture."

"I didn't know that," Geret said.

"What's an Age Quest?" Sanych asked, seeing that there was much to be learned from listening to the conversation. She scooted her stool closer and mentally tucked away the tidbit about the preferred way to refer to Rhona's people.

Rhona transferred her gaze to the younger girl. "When Clan children are deemed ready by their parents or guardians, a quest is presented to them, as a challenge of readiness for full adulthood. Every child receives the same quest, but each quest is different."

"Except ours," interjected Ruel. Rhona glared at him. "Well, it's true. Our birthdays are so close, and with Rhona's heritage, everyone demanded I go on her quest with her. I didn't get my own." He shrugged a shoulder. "But I'm used to that."

"Isn't her heritage yours?" asked Meena.

Ruel laughed mirthlessly. "Not at all."

"But, what's the quest?" Geret asked. "How can they all be the same, and yet different?"

Rhona shifted, adjusting her skirt, making sure attention was back on her again. "Clan children are sent ashore. They have to spend time with the first person or people they meet, and do what they're doing. The idea is to get us to open our minds to another way of life, here on land, and take what we've learned back to sea with us when the task is completed."

Meena, Sanych and Geret exchanged glances. None of them had been present when the Clansfolk had talked to Salvor on the road.

"What did Salvor tell you we were doing?" Geret asked.

"He was the tall man with the black braid?" Rhona asked, her warm tone of voice expressing her appreciation of Salvor's looks. When Geret nodded, she replied, "He said your caravan was bound for Yaren Fel. He said he'd leave it to you to explain any specifics you wanted us to help you with along the way."

"What can you do?" Geret asked with genuine curiosity.

"Well that's not really the point, is it?" Rhona asked tartly. "We're here to learn about you." Geret blinked at her tone of voice, and Ruel nudged his cousin's elbow.

"What?" she asked him.

"You're doing it." His voice was a bare murmur.

"Doing what?"

"That thing you told me to nudge your elbow if you started doing."

Rhona's eyes widened. "He's just a...oh, scuttle it! I'm so used to...I wasn't thinking." She turned back to Geret. "Just be patient. I'll figure out how you work."

Sanych noticed that Meena was laughing silently behind her hand, while pretending to scratch her nose. "What is it you're used to?" the Archivist asked.

"Our culture is matriarchal. The captains are women, the clan leaders are women. Women speak, and men do as we say."

"So that's why you're doing all the talking, and Ruel's just sitting there?" Sanych asked.

"Yes," Rhona said, and Ruel nodded silently.

"Well I'll make it a priority to educate you about how our culture works then," Geret said, "so you don't get into trouble while you travel with us."

"Well, I assume you'll protect us from that sort of thing," Rhona said.

A calculating look crossed Geret's face. "Actually, I'm feeling it's my steadfast duty to make sure you fully grasp the culture you're here to learn about. I make the rules, and you follow them, because you came to my caravan for your quest. I'm in charge, and you're not. Clear so far?"

"Yes," said Ruel.

"But what if your rules are stupid?" asked Rhona, crossing her arms, clearly anticipating such. Sanych gasped through her nose and glanced at Geret to see his reaction.

Geret merely leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and smiled at her pleasantly. "Then you can go home in disgrace, Sea Pirate. You want to actually work for your quest, you can stay and learn. But if you're going to be a snotty little fool about it," Geret pointed toward the dunes, "the ocean's that way."

Rhona's turquoise eyes widened in outrage and she stood up off her stool. Behind her, Ruel rubbed a hand over his mouth in trepidation. She took two steps toward Geret, her nostrils flaring. The prince merely sat up straight again and grinned up at her. She pointed a finger at Geret and said, "You little mudbound arsecloth of a dirt-wa–"

Crack!

Rhona staggered back from Meena's full-armed slap, and would have fallen if Ruel hadn't stood to steady her. She stared at the older woman, a hand held to her right cheek in shock.

Meena's green gaze blazed across the short distance between them. Geret looked incredulously at Sanych, who could only shrug and shake her head in ignorance.

"You seem to forget the purpose of the Age Quest, little one," Meena said, her quiet voice strengthened with the heat of anger. "Do you just barnacle onto your family's hull, or are you actually interested in sheeting the wind? Clan m'Kora may have risen to become First Clan since last I saw them, but if you're any example, it's more likely that all the other Clans died off in mortification at your long-lost and not-lamented talents. Do you steal your swag from the dead?" she taunted.

Even Ruel bristled at that insult, but he had to hold his cousin back by her shoulders. Rhona struggled to rush at Meena, who merely stood, arms akimbo and chin held high, waiting.

"You know nothing, dirtwalker! I am the heir of Clan m'Kora! I will rule the seas one day!" Rhona hissed.

Meena chortled, unconcerned. "Not if you don't pass your Age Quest. And that judgment call is not one you can make. Only the one whom you take your quest to can tell you if and when you have successfully completed it. Which in this case," Meena pointed, "is Geret. So you can do as he says, with a spirit of learning, and prove useful to your Clan, or you can get tossed back in the sea to grow a year more, and earn the deserved mockery of every Clan member in your fleet. Good luck trying to rule the seas at that point." Meena folded her arms and stared Rhona down.

Ruel whispered urgently into Rhona's ear. She jerked away from him, but merely stood looking humiliated for a few moments. Then she stepped slowly to Geret and dropped to her knees on the sand in front of him, eyes downcast.

When she spoke, it was through clenched teeth. "Forgive me, Prince Geret. I don't want to dishonor my family. Please teach me of your ways. Whatever I have to do in order to pass my quest, I will do."

Geret looked up at Ruel, whose face registered relief mixed with a bit of satisfaction, and grinned at him. He reached for Rhona's left hand with his right, and she gingerly placed it in his grasp and met his gaze.

"Superb," he said, a wicked gleam entering his warm brown eyes.

~~~

The next day finally saw the end of the dunes. All afternoon, the caravan progressed along a high row of dark grey, columned basalt cliffs, where the road followed a wide cut into the stone itself. The sea was beating itself happily against the stone just a short distance away, and the lure of fresh seafood drew cooks and their servants down the gentle slope to the tide pools. The scouts reported the end of the cliffs could be reached just before sunset, so Geret ordered the caravan to push on just a bit later than usual. Half an hour before the sun dropped behind the horizon, the head of the caravan came around the last corner of the cliffs and saw the rolling palm forests of Kirth laid out before them.

Geret smiled with relief and wonder, looking at the glorious view. Dozens of tiny, puffy white clouds dotted the western half of the sky. Ahead of them, both sides of the road swarmed with thousands of rustling palms, their first crop of dates still tight and green on the stems. The low sun blazed directly into Geret's eyes, and he felt the heat of the day radiating off the dark cliff face to his right. He turned to his closest companion and asked with a smile, "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Rhona looked at him, her face reflecting her intense discomfort. "Can we please get off these things now?" she asked, tilting her bright hair so one cordage braid brushed the mane of her longsuffering horse.

"We'll make camp soon," Geret assured her, pointing out the spot down at the edge of the palms where the scouts were already clearing the ground.

Rhona whimpered, but said no more.

Sanych looked over at her in sympathy. She turned to Meena, but the older woman spoke first.

"No. It'll be just as bad tomorrow if I do. Calluses grow for a reason."

"Are we stopping soon?" Ruel asked tiredly from behind them, where he rode next to Salvor. "I've heard of the dirtbound–sorry, the landfolk–getting seasick, but I didn't know it was possible to get horse-sick."

Salvor chuckled. "It probably only happens to the Sea Clans."

Ruel smiled agreeably and was about to speak when his cousin overrode him.

"It's just him. I'm not horse-sick."

Geret folded his lips inside his teeth for a moment in exasperation. She'd been like this all day, sniping at Ruel over trivial things. They were only half way to Yaren Fel, and already the girl was driving him mad. Sure, she was vivacious, but she was also aggravating! Geret had a sudden, out-of-generation feeling: surely his father had looked on him this way, every time a prank had gotten out of hand. As the odd sensation settled into Geret's brain, he felt old for the first time in his life.

"Wisdom, that's just wonderful," he said aloud.

"The view, or the stopping soon?" Meena asked, shading her eyes with her hand for a moment, as she looked ahead to the halt spot.

"Everything. Everything's just wonderful."

"Can't be that shiny–" Rhona started to say.

"You," Geret clipped, pointing at her. "No more talking until I say you can talk. Once my tent is set up, you and I will have a discussion. In fact, I want you to help the tent crew raise it yourself."

"But—"

Geret snapped his fingers to halt her speech. "You think just sticking you on a horse all day is the worst thing I can come up with?"

Rhona opened her mouth again, but managed to refrain from speaking, and closed it. She breathed quickly through her nose, staring out at the retreating shoreline.

Sanych thought she saw the sparkle of a tear in one of the Clan girl's eyes. "Good thing there's more than one kind of callus," she said in a low voice.

Meena hmmed agreement.

~~~

The tent crew willingly accepted Rhona's help setting up Geret's tent, and when they gave her the mallet, she pounded the stakes into the soft earth with efficiency. Sanych brought Meena a plate of freshly cooked seafood and they stood a short distance away, watching her work.

"Should we say something?" Sanych asked.

"To whom?" Meena responded.

"Well, to Geret. I think he's being mean."

"You would, child."

"What do you mean, I would? Isn't it obvious what he's doing?" Sanych turned furrowed brows to Meena.

"I daresay more things are obvious to me than to you, Sanych. If you had to craft the ruler of a nation in one week, how drastic a measure would you take?"

"It's not Geret's job to fix what he thinks is wrong with other people."

"Isn't it? Would you rather he were apathetic? That he let her keep her own beliefs, unchallenged? Her quest is to learn of us. Geret's doing the best he can with what he has. In the end, it's up to Rhona whether she gets anything out of this journey or goes home unaffected. I suspect that the women of the Sea Clans have a much harder time on their quests than the men do."

"I can see that," Sanych replied, as she watched Rhona help one of the tent crew carry in Geret's cot. "Her hair is fascinating. The only other person I've seen with two-tone hair is you."

"I wasn't born this way though. She was, most likely," Meena said, but Sanych saw a speculative look cross Meena's features for a few seconds.

By now, Sanych had given up on asking Meena about her strange and wonderful gifts. The Shanallar always told her to ask again later. "Does that mean something to you?" she asked instead.

Meena turned her head to Sanych and confessed, "More than I want it to."

~~~

Geret stalked through the circle of tents, passing Count Armala, who hushed a conversation with Salvor and nodded politely. The prince had been making sure Rhona did as she was bid, and now he approached her and asked her to enter his tent. Once they were both inside, he closed the flap and stood facing her, arms crossed. She turned and mimicked his pose.

Silence.

"You're really very pretty, you know," Geret said abruptly. Rhona blinked. "All that exotic clothing and jewelry doesn't hurt your image either."

She offered him a tentative smile.

"It's really too bad your personality is such scat. You're constantly rude to your cousin. I don't know how he puts up with you. And as for me, and the rest of us poor dirtbound people, well, thank Wisdom we have you to put us back on the right path every five minutes. If it weren't for your expertise on everything you open your mouth to talk about, we'd be lost and dead within the day, I'm sure of it."

Rhona's jaw muscles bunched, as she refrained, with effort, from speaking. Her turquoise eyes sparked with anger in the dim light of the tent lamp.

"Here's what you'll do to occupy yourself for the rest of the journey: you'll ride scout with the water-seekers a few times. You do know what water looks like, I presume, so that'll come in handy. You'll also help the hostlers care for the beasts at the end of every day, since you owe your transport to a horse. That's food, watering, and grooming. But not for too long, because I want you here after supper to do my laundry for me. I'll get a couple of the women to show you how it works if you're unfamiliar with the process. And piracy is frowned on here. You want it, you'll have to trade for it." He pointed at her jewelry. "Anytime you want something to eat or drink, or any action by anyone else for your benefit, you trade. You understand my rules?"

Rhona stood in shock, betrayal and anger writ large on her features. Geret waited silently. Eventually she nodded.

"Good. Now if you hurry, you can still help the hostlers with the horses this evening. Go on," Geret nodded toward the tent flap.

Rhona swallowed, sighed, and stepped slowly toward the flap. When she had nearly reached it, Geret called her name, and she turned toward him expectantly.

"Just remember, I haven't yet given you permission to talk. To anyone." His imposing height made his stare all the more intimidating, and Rhona turned and hurried from the tent.

~~~

The dusky-skinned man lay prone on the black stone floor, his night-hued robes splayed around him. His fingers brushed the wall before him, though those on his right hand were encased in a silvery, metal glove that moved like real skin. Torches gleamed in the stygian darkness, revealing endless textual carvings on the surrounding basalt walls. Yet there was a blank circle in the carved wall above his head, at about chest height, as if the words and symbols had simply melted away.

The silence in the room was so complete that he could hear the breathing of the handpicked followers who had accompanied him here on his annual pilgrimage. He liked to remind them of the power he possessed, getting them all in here unharmed. He also liked to demonstrate that power directly, and it was just about time to do so.

He rose to his feet, adjusting his robes, and turned to face the enormous room behind him. His white-irised eyes fell on the black dais rising smoothly in the center of the room. Between it and him stood a dozen low-level, yet nonetheless loyal, minions. The passion of zeal burned in their eyes.

Which to choose? The man knew that he needed to weigh the value of his selection's talent against the impact of its loss on the rest of the group. His eyes lit on a young man, tall and handsome in the light of the torch he held aloft.

"You." The man spoke in a whispery voice, as he pointed at his target with a silvery finger.

The young man followed his master onto the black dais behind them, and the group turned to watch, unaware of what they were about to witness.

"You follow the Hand of Power?" the master asked.

"I do." The young man nodded, eager.

"What gift do you bring to augment our power?"

"I can focus my strength, do amazing feats. All for the glory of Dzur i'Oth."

"How pure is your zeal?"

"None here is more dedicated than I!" the young man shouted, looking down at his fellows in challenge.

The white-eyed man nodded in satisfaction. "Then your sacrifice is acceptable." He drove his silvery hand into the man's chest, shredding his tunic and grasping his heart. The minion gasped in agony, but did not struggle. There was barely a murmur from the watching torch-holders. The dying body of the sacrifice tumbled to the dais, leaving his heart in the master's hand. Fetching a small golden goblet from his robes, the master squeezed the heart over it, hearing the blood's trickling stream echo in the small container.

All eyes were on him. He dropped the heart onto the dais next to its corpse and raised the goblet high in his unsilvered hand. "The Hand of Power is eternal," he called, his voice echoing. His chosen minions echoed his chant. "The Hand of power is infinite. The Hand of Power is life. The Hand of Power is death!" All eyes dropped to the corpse, and the people at the foot of the dais prostrated themselves in submission. The master knew his message had been received. From now on, these too would be his. He tipped the goblet against his lips and drank of the thick, cooling liquid. The dead man's ability would begin to manifest soon.

Bloodmagic is nearly all we have left, he thought, draining the last drops of blood. Without the Great and Dire Tome of Ages, it is the only way to hold onto my power. Soon, though, my long-laid plans will fruit, and we shall rise from the darkness on a wave of power the world has not seen in centuries. We will take our place once again as the feared and wondrous wielders of magic, and the world will tremble to see our deeds.

The man ordered his minions to rise and clean up the mess, then stepped off the black dais. He walked to the near wall again, pressing a hand against the smooth circle there. He'd had the 'priest's journal' sent across the sea nearly four years ago. Knowing that little in the world motivated one like threatening the life of one's child, he expected instant action once this supposed path to safety appeared. Yet there had been many delays. Years had passed. He had not lost hope of success, though, since his resonance spells found that the Great Tome's name was being spoken aloud with greater and greater frequency.

Until recently. The last few weeks, his spells had returned almost zero vibration from the name of the Great Tome. He smiled in the dimness. She was coming.

She will give me the Tome. And with the Tome in my possession, I can right every wrong the world has done to itself.

The body and the blood were disposed of, and the master led his minions out of the Heart of the Dragon. Fate willing, he thought, the Great Tome–and the world–will be in my hands before next year's pilgrimage.

##  Chapter Seventeen

The caravan was halfway to Yaren Fel from where Rhona and Ruel had joined up with it, and Rhona was elbow-deep in a warm tub of water, scrubbing Geret's socks against a washboard. The humidity kinked her loose curls into frizzy masses, and the long-since dirty lace at her sleeve cuffs was drenched. Her shoulders were not happy in this hunched position, and her stomach was empty and growling, since she'd been with the horses during suppertime.

Through the tent flap, she could hear laughter and see the flickering light of the prince's campfire. The Archivist and the guide were with him, as were Salvor and the other lords of Vint. She distinctly heard Ruel's laughter in the mix. She'd seen Salvor escorting him around the caravan and the small towns they passed, encouraging him to see the world, and specifically women, through the eyes of a nobleman. Rhona rolled her eyes and blew a frizzy strand out of her face. That train of thought was nothing but trouble for Ruel if he took it back home with him, but he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself at the moment.

If only my quest would have turned out so easy—

"Rhona!" A hand on her wet forearm made her jump and drop the end of the washboard into the tub, causing soapy water to splash all over her once-white shirt. She decided she'd need to trade away some more jewelry for another one tonight, as she looked around to see who had surprised her.

It was Geret; he was crouching by her, looking into her eyes. "Wisdom, didn't you hear me the first two times?" he asked.

And now I'm going deaf. Rhona wryly shook her head at him.

Geret let go of her arm and wiped the soapy water off on his pant leg. "I came in to tell you that I've been hearing great things about you from the hostlers and the scouts. You've impressed me, to my surprise. I'm lifting your prohibition on speaking. Feel free to talk to anyone you like."

Rhona raised her eyebrows as she contemplated this change.

"Sanych says the next town along the road is having a Springfest. We'll stop there tomorrow night," Geret added. "Looks like the last sock, there. Why don't you come on out and get some food?" He stood with a genuine smile and invited her out with a tip of his head.

Rhona exited the tent, breathing in the cool tropical air of the Kirthan evening.

"...and they tossed me back down the gangplank, arse over crown, shouting, 'Weatherhag!' at me," Sanych concluded, to the hearty laughter of Salvor and Ruel.

"Who called you that?" Rhona asked, causing everyone gathered around the fire to look over in surprise. She joined them, sitting next to Geret on a vacant stool and accepting a bowl of spicy rice from Ruel.

"The script on their hull was Byarric," Sanych responded.

Rhona snorted through her mouthful of food and began to speak, but then changed her mind. She looked at Ruel and nodded her head in Sanych's direction as she continued chewing.

Ruel looked pleasantly surprised, and turned to Sanych to say, "If you'd demanded passage, they would have given it to you anyway. The fools are superstitiously fearful of those who can command weather. They probably took you for a true weather witch, and were afraid of making you angry while you sailed with them." He seemed tentative about insulting the Byarrans, but Salvor looked over at him with approval.

Sanych had stopped chewing in fascination. "Really?" she asked through her food, looking at the young pirate.

He chuckled at her. "Yes, really. They're dead fast with their boats, it's true, but that's because they're afraid of most things on or under the sea." He and Salvor laughed, and even Rhona chuckled.

"Anyone would be, if they knew what was down there," Meena interjected wryly.

"And how would you know?" Rhona asked, before she could catch herself. She pinned her lips shut and looked at the dark earth beneath her boots.

Meena paused a moment, then answered, "'Hearken well, and you will hear, a tale to grip your soul in fear. A tale once told, and ne'er forgot, of evil seen, but never sought.'"

Rhona and Ruel's eyes widened. "An Auld Fable?" they chorused in disbelief.

"How do you know of those, Meena?" Rhona asked.

Meena shifted on her tricorner stool. "Sit still and hear, my children," she said, grinning wickedly and tilting her face up from the fire for maximum shadowing. "And pray thanks to gods above and below that you sleep on solid earth this night. For the brightness of the full moon–" Meena gestured grandly to the sky above, "–draws upward the gargantuan, poison-skinned horror that rules over every Deep One in the black. The red-eyed monstrosity rises only to feed upon the unwary. Listen well, children, to the dark, disturbing tales...of Nethermaw."

Even Sanych shuddered, and when Meena's tale was completed, in the dark of the cool night, she cursed for the first time her ability to remember every single detail.

Her dreams were very disturbing that night.

~~~

The next day's sun burned away Sanych's bizarre mental images of the night before, and the day's ride was pleasant and easy. The caravan passed along the wide, well-maintained road that cut through the thick tropical forest. They threaded their way through small clusters of homes that made up occasional villages. Gratefully, they accepted dippers full of water from helpful and amazed homesteaders as they went. Rhona traded jewelry for her water and received stunned smiles along with her refreshment.

In the afternoon, Rhona rode back from scouting, her assigned escort watching closely to see that she didn't fall off. She pulled up next to Geret.

"The next town is closer than we estimated. Their festival has been going since morning. Do you want the caravan to stop early?" She hoped she didn't sound too eager.

"Yes, let's do that. A little time off from traveling sounds pretty good to me, and I bet it will sound even better to everyone else." He rode ahead a bit and asked the caravan masters to spread the word.

By late afternoon they reached the Springfest. Whoops and calls of excitement ran up and down the caravan as the high-fenced town came into view around a curve in the road. The jungle was cleared far back from the fence so that crops could be grown close to town, grouped within their own smaller fences as well. The scent of the sea was strong here, though. Geret guessed it might be just down a cliff a half-mile or so from the southern wall of the town, through the fringe of trees he could see there.

As they rode in from the east, it became clear that the larger part of the Springfest was outside the town fence, close to the forest. Crowds and booths and enormous tents filled the space where there might otherwise have been crop-fields. Geret ordered the caravan to set up camp on the northern side of the road, in a fallow spot among the fields. This left them half a mile from the town itself, which was close enough to get the residents' attention. While the caravan was still arranging night camps, a small delegation came out from the town to meet with its leaders.

The mayor of Fernwall, a short man with wide dark eyes and a big smile, invited Geret and his companions on a favored tour of the festivities. He was nearly beside himself with glee as he realized that the entire caravan was about to descend on his town for trading, carousing, and spending of gipp. He personally led his honored guests through his town, pointing out significant landmarks and buildings to them. The town had been laid out well, so it wasn't too long before they exited through the southern gate and entered the festival area. The green grass was trampled flat. Several orange tents at the town gate offered food, and purple tents offered wine and citrus beverages. A large area ahead was cleared for dances or other performances; currently it was half full of small children cavorting and squealing as they played.

The mayor stopped to announce their arrival to all those in earshot.

"My good people!" he shouted, standing up in his stirrups. "We have guests, all the way from Vint! I bid you all to make the entire caravan welcome–" He waited for cheers and whistles to die down before continuing, "And most especially Prince Geret and his guests!" The mayor gestured to Geret, and all those listening went ecstatic with cheering.

Geret blinked at the reception he was receiving, then waved an arm in response. "Is Vint so favored in your town, Mayor?" he asked.

"Currently, yes, Prince Geret," the mayor said with a smile. "The closer to the capital you get, however, the more self-absorbed the people get. Let us," he gestured to his townsfolk, "show you the true spirit of the Kirthan people. Have yourselves a good evening. Since you are so favored a dignitary, my people will not charge you or your personal entourage anything for your food or entertainment this night."

"Superb; I'm starving," Salvor murmured, causing Meena to chuckle.

"But we will be happy to pay anyway," Geret responded, with a glare at Salvor.

"Your highness is most kind," the mayor said, bowing in his saddle.

"Please, may we walk though?" Rhona asked politely.

"My legs need a good stretch too," Sanych added.

"Of course." The mayor nodded and led them to a dismount area. Afoot, the group began to look around and decide what they wanted to do first. Salvor clapped a hand onto Ruel's shoulder and began to lead him away, but Meena stepped over to join them.

"I'm curious to see what it is young men find interesting these days," she murmured, falling in step beside Ruel.

Salvor grinned and said, "I doubt it's changed since your day, Meena."

"'Your day'?" Ruel asked, as the threesome began to get lost in the crowds.

Sanych watched them leave, then turned to Rhona. "Would you like to walk around with me?" she asked the pirate girl.

Rhona looked down on the shorter, younger girl, then back at Geret, who was being commandeered by the three Counts. "Sure, you can tag along with me." She turned and headed off into the crowds, leaving Sanych to catch up.

They walked along the narrow booth avenues, looking over the items for sale. Most were simply the excess inventory from the shops in town, at lower prices. Rhona gave running commentary on their trade value as the pair walked. Sanych kept quiet for the most part, until she saw the bookseller.

"Let's look over there," she suggested, walking across the avenue and stopping before the displayed wares. She reached out reverently and touched an older leather cover, tracing the hammered Kirthan script. "By Wisdom...Old Kirthan. I haven't seen Old Kirthan for years," she commented absently.

"You think it's worth trading?" Rhona asked, peering over her shoulder.

"I'd never trade this book!" Sanych insisted, aghast.

"Well then, what's the point?" Rhona huffed.

"What are you on about, child?" the booth's owner asked sharply, eying Sanych's hand.

Sanych looked up into the wizened woman's dark eyes. "Good woman, I am an Archivist at the Temple of Knowledge in Highnave. I mean no disrespect to your book. I was just wondering if you knew its origins. The Old Kirthan books we have are nearly falling apart with age. We can't even open them anymore, or they'll break. But this one appears in very good condition. Where is it from, please?"

The old woman's eyes widened at Sanych's mention of her title. She eagerly bid the girl to wait a moment. She slipped behind a heavy curtain in the back of the booth, returned with a small, flat bit of parchment and handed it to Sanych, who read the book's provenance: Book of the Lineage, Fourth Dynasty of Kirth. Scribed by Dre Hassa'nat, Year One Forty Six of Said Dynasty. Held in possession of Dynastic Tomekeepers until sold at the end of their lineage, Common Year Fifteen.

Sanych gasped. "We don't have this book. How much do you want for it?"

The bookseller named an exorbitant price, and Sanych countered with an offer of half that. The woman's eyes glinted. Another two offers each, and Sanych felt she was finally being offered an honest price.

"Done," she said quickly. "I'll write a scrip for you; please deliver the book to the Temple of Knowledge in Highnave, and they will see you paid."

"But..." the woman blinked at her monetary good fortune. "But won't you want it now?" she asked, slowly handing a blank parchment and ink pot over to Sanych.

Sanych started writing. "I'm heading away from Vint, if you hadn't noticed. I dare not take such a fascinating book into the unknown with me. It belongs in the Temple."

"The unknown? Archivist, you can only go another three days before you reach the end of the entire continent. Where are you going, that it's unknown to even your learned self?"

"Our quest leads us to Shanal," Sanych said, unsure of the reception her words would have.

The woman frowned a moment. "Never heard of it. It's across the sea, then?"

"Yes..." Sanych turned and looked for Rhona, who might have a clearer idea about traveling the sea.

The young pirate was gone.

##  Chapter Eighteen

"Are you sure? I don't see anything," Rhona said, squinting into the evening gloom. The cliff she was looking at was sheltered from the fading sunlight, making it even harder to spot anything out of the ordinary.

"They're there. Come on, Rhona," the young man named Mahal said, taking her hand. "I'll show you." He led her down the start of the switchback trail.

Far below them, through the massive swaths of giant fire ferns, Rhona could see the rocky beach and frothy shore. She smiled at the sight. The scent of the sea air brought back memories of adventures with Ruel aboard her mother's ship, Harbinger.

"So what is the secret of the fire ferns, Mahal?" she asked curiously, as he led her carefully between their overarching dark green fronds.

"Don't touch, remember," he reminded. "See the orange tips?" He stopped and pointed, keeping his finger a good handsbreadth away from the fleshy orange nubs that lined the edge of the frond. His other arm rested warmly against Rhona's as he clasped her hand in his. "One touch, just a single brush against them, no matter how gentle..." he demonstrated by holding their hands up and brushing a knuckle across the back of her fingers, "will leave fiery welts for a day. It burns with all the wrong kinds of fire." Mahal stepped closer, looking down on Rhona's turquoise eyes as they glowed in the dim evening.

She smiled eagerly up at him. "Really. Tell me more about the right kinds of fire, then."

Mahal licked his full lower lip and grinned. He leaned down and kissed her, and she did not pull away. "Right this way, my lady," he said, turning to pull her further down the trail. "The dragons I told you about are the second best kind of fire," he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

She laughed softly. "You Kirthans."

"Ah," Mahal said in mock disappointment. "I'm not your first Kirthan?"

Rhona chuckled. "That depends on how you mean it." She wasn't about to tell him that she'd threatened more than one with scarring if they didn't hand over their goods.

Now it was Mahal's turn to laugh. He slowed and stopped at a corner in the trail, then he pointed into the greenery that clung to the nearly sheer slope. "See in there? The green roof?"

Rhona squinted. It was hard to make out anything in the shadowed green jumble. She was used to staring at flat horizons and looking for masts. "Yes, I think so," she finally said.

"That's one of the dragons inside. Shall I show you? Are you too frightened?" he teased.

"I'll go if you go," Rhona said, lowering her chin and giving him a warm, direct look.

"All right. I'll protect you if it decides to try and eat you, Rhona." Mahal held her hand more tightly and led her carefully from the trail. They only traveled a dozen steps into the jungly growth, but Rhona glanced over her shoulder once and nearly panicked. She had no idea where the trail was, and she was afraid of touching the fire ferns.

She clung tightly to Mahal's hand. "You'll definitely need to protect me. I can't see the way out anymore," she said, her voice a few notes higher than usual. Mahal only chuckled.

And then they were under a green roof. It was copper, weathered to a green patina, making it blend in well with the ferns and other flora on the cliffside. The roof had room underneath for them and for a squat, wide device the likes of which Rhona had never seen. Most of the contraption seemed to be a swinging section, hanging below metal braces in a pyramidal shape. The swinging portion, a fire-blackened metal vat fashioned into the likeness of a dragon's head, looked like it could be locked into place at one end of its arc. There were ropes and pulleys as well, along the short floor, arranged in a block and tackle grouping. But while Rhona understood that part, she didn't grasp what the purpose of this 'dragon' was.

"It's...amazing," she said, not wanting her ignorance to make her appear foolish.

"Isn't it? Since they were built, and the fire ferns planted, we haven't had a single successful raid by the Sea Rats. These beasts can hurl fire many hundreds of feet and burn their ships before they get close enough to land."

Rhona looked up at Mahal's handsome smile and felt her blood run cold. "S-sea Rats?" she asked.

"Yes, that's what we call the Sea Pirates here. They try to scurry up our cliff, like wet little rats blown ashore from the wrecks they call ships, and take our hard-earned money and goods. They're petty thieves, but they fight like demons. So we built the dragons to protect us." The pride in Mahal's voice was clear. "We're far enough down the coast from Yaren Fel that the sultan's forces don't patrol here like they should. We're on our own most of the time, and we take care of ourselves."

"Well...good for you," Rhona managed to say. All warm thoughts for the young man who'd lured her away from the Springfest with promises of dragons had now vanished. Rhona was alone on a cliff full of dangerous plants with someone who would likely attack her if he learned who she really was.

Mahal noticed the trembling in Rhona's hand. "You're not really worried about Sea Rats, are you, Rhona?" He slipped his arms around her and pulled her against him, his warmth seeping into her. "I really will keep you safe. I'll fire these dragons off myself if I have to. I know how," he bragged, his throat rumbling against her temple as he held her.

Rhona forced a laugh and stepped back from him. "Afraid of Sea Rats? That's just silly. I'm just...just cold, is all. Maybe we should go back." She tried to tug his hand in the direction of the trail, but he just stepped up to her again.

"Come on," he teased her. "What about all that talk of the right kinds of fire? I bet we could get it pretty hot in here," he said, bending down to kiss her again.

As his lips moved against hers once more, Rhona trembled. She'd never been alone and unarmed when confronted with someone who hated her kind. She knew his current passion for her would turn into a fire of hate if he learned she was Clan, and she could feel that fear taking over, beginning to show on her face.

"Wait, wait," she blurted, pushing away from Mahal. "Uh, which clan attacked Fernwall? Who climbed up the cliff?"

"What?"

"Which pirate clan attacked your town?" Rhona repeated.

"How the deeps do I know? They're all pirates! Each is as bad as the other." A contemplative squint came over his face.

"Not true. Agonbloom would never have attacked like that. That's more Deeplight's or Leviathan's style. You can't just...just lump everyone together like that." Faced with Mahal's indiscriminate hatred, Rhona suddenly realized she was guilty of the same in regard to all the different nations that surrounded her watery empire. To the Sea Clans, a dirtbound was a dirtbound. She tucked that thought away for later, though.

"Why are you defending them?" Mahal asked, his voice slow with the beginning of comprehension.

"I'm–" Rhona's instinct was to say that she wasn't defending anyone, but she couldn't get the words out. This was her culture, and it was all she had known until just a few days ago. "Just...every story has more than one side," she said.

"And how does a girl from a landlocked country know different clan names for Sea Pirates?" He took a step toward her.

Rhona knew she was giving herself away when she turned and bolted. The look on his face terrified her. She made it about four steps before he grabbed her arm, but his grip slipped on all the lace on her sleeve, and she lost her balance and fell to the ground, crushing small flowers and plants beneath her.

She panicked, whistling a Clan call for help, though she feared she was out of earshot from the entire Springfest.

Mahal seized her by the back of her hair and hauled her to her feet. "Do your friends know what you are, little rat?" His other hand grabbed tightly to the back of her skirt's waistband, and he headed for the trail, making her stumble along in his grip. He started to run, to angle Rhona toward the outer edge of the next switchback.

She could see her final fate now: she'd drop from cluster to cluster of fire ferns, until she smashed against the rocks at the base of the cliff. If she was lucky, she'd be dead, and not feel the burning sting of the fern's poison.

She began shouting at him in anger and fear, but Mahal talked over her. "I think I should save them the trouble of finding out, and just chuck you back into the sea–"

A thick crunching sound arrested Mahal's movement, and his hands jerked free of her. He cried out in pain, and the evening sky tumbled about in Rhona's view as her momentum carried her, head over heels, toward the fire ferns that lined the edge of the switchback. Her hands scrabbled against the trail, against the greenery, and she screamed in terror.

Strong arms gripped her waist and slowed her slide, and she and her rescuer skidded a few more feet toward the edge. Only when she'd fully stopped did she dare open her eyes and see what had happened.

Ruel stood at the corner of the switchback, short sword in hand, resting its blade against Mahal's throat. Her attacker's nose bled freely. He tried to wipe the blood away, but Ruel took his eyes from his cousin and smacked the back of Mahal's hand with the flat of his sword. The storms in his blue eyes easily promised death.

It was Geret who had saved her from tumbling through the fire ferns to her death. Their skidding slide had deposited her on her belly in his lap. "Thank you," she said shakily, pushing herself to her knees. "You saved my life."

Geret was equally as shaken, having been sure moments earlier that he wasn't going to be fast enough to catch her. His success flushed him with glee, and he got to his feet and helped Rhona stand as well.

"You're a bit dusty, Rhona," he said, grinning.

More quick footsteps on the trail brought Sanych pattering to a stop, eyes wide. "You found her," she panted.

"Thanks, Sanych. We did find her," Geret said, putting a comforting arm around the still-trembling Rhona and starting to walk back to the bend in the trail.

Ruel turned his full attention to Mahal. "You. Did you touch my cousin?" he asked, lowered brows banking the storminess in his eyes.

Mahal squinted in outrage at this other Sea Rat. Ruel flicked the tip of his sword, and it cut a thin red line across the young man's cheek. Mahal hissed, then nodded in reply to the question.

"You bastard dirtwalker!" Ruel snarled, drawing his blade back for a more serious attack. Sanych, newly arrived to the situation, gasped.

"Ruel, no!" Rhona shouted, reaching out a dirty, scuffed hand.

Ruel frowned and looked at her, waiting for instructions.

Rhona swallowed, looking from Ruel to Mahal. "The Clans attacked Fernwall, Ruel. He's got reason to hate our kind. Don't make it worse on my account. Please."

Speaking seemed to drain the rest of her energy. She leaned heavily against Geret, who said, "Sanych, can you go find Meena, please? I'd like her to escort Rhona back to our camp, then I'll have to see the mayor. Ruel, will you please take the prisoner back up the cliff and turn him over to the caravan guard? You both are under my protection, and I'll do what I must to make sure you're not unfairly treated."

Sanych jogged back up the hill to get Meena. Ruel twisted Mahal's arm behind him and pushed him up the path. Geret and Rhona came last. The sky was dimming; stars were visible above. In the silence following the conflict, they could hear crickets resume their chirping.

"Thank you again," Rhona said, relief making her eyes prick with tears. She leaned on Geret's chest as he escorted her up the trail.

"You seem surprised. Yet another detail of our culture, Rhona: we like to be heroic and save people from danger."

"Even girls with scat for personality?"

"Well, we might not like it, but we'll do it anyway."

They walked back to their horses, where Meena was waiting for them. Geret helped Rhona mount, charged Meena with taking care of her, and turned to go find the mayor.

"Wait, Geret, please?" Rhona asked. Geret stepped closer to her horse.

"You want me to argue for or against leniency?" he asked her.

"Neither. Do what you want. I just need to do this first," she said, and bent down toward him. Her warm lips brushed his for a moment. Before he could think of anything to say, she got her horse to head generally in the direction of the caravan. Meena remained, watching his expression.

"Whoa," Geret breathed, putting his hands on his hips.

Meena's dark eyes glittered in the light of the Springfest torches. "I guess you've managed to endear yourself to her after all."

"I guess so." Geret gently rubbed his lower lip with the back of a finger.

"Best go talk to the mayor, princeling. And, Geret."

Geret turned to look up at the Shanallar. "Yes?"

"There's very little I owe to anyone. But I'll gladly owe you a life debt for your actions tonight. You saved my grand-daughter's life." She nodded and turned her horse after Rhona's meandering mount, leaving Geret stunned in the Springfest torchlight.

##  Chapter Nineteen

The mayor of Fernwall was not happy.

"But she's a Sea Pirate!" he protested to Geret, pacing in his small office.

"She is under my protection, Mayor. And she was in no way attacking Fernwall, but was in fact the victim of an unprovoked attack herself," Geret said, glowering. "Now, if you prefer, we can simply leave tonight, take our coin, and shake Fernwall's dust from our wheels. If we do this, however, not only will you be out any further profit from us for this festival, but no Vinten caravans will be stopping here in Fernwall, ever again."

The mayor's jowls wobbled once as he clenched his jaw. He eyed the Vinten prince coolly. "I see you have a point," he agreed. "Such actions should not be allowed without punishment. I will see the man is dealt with accordingly."

Geret raised one corner of his mouth in what might have passed for a smile. "You and I likely have differing opinions on what passes for 'accordingly', Mayor. Throw in a small fine, and I think we can come to an accord."

"How small are we talking?" the man asked, rubbing his upper lip.

"I'd say two hundred gipp should cover it."

The mayor's eyes bugged. "Two hundred? Surely, my good prince meant to say one hundred gipp."

"Perhaps I did, perhaps I did," Geret conceded, and the mayor relaxed. "But since I accidentally said two hundred, I think we should stick with that figure. I'll take it now, from your coffers, Mayor, and you can get your reimbursement from Mahal when you punish him."

The mayor met Geret's dark eyes for a long moment, and realized he had no other recourse. "In the long term," he said with only a small grimace, "I'm sure this will benefit both our nations." He waved forward a servant with a coffer.

"Well said," Geret murmured, as he watched the mayor count out the fine.

The caravan pulled out earlier than usual the next morning, abuzz with rumors. Geret recalled Meena's final words to him late last night as he trudged back into camp after the meeting with the mayor. "She doesn't know about me, Geret. Please keep it that way for now."

Angry, exhausted, frustrated, Geret had merely nodded and gone to his tent.

Now, with Fernwall an hour behind them, he rode over to Meena and asked her to explain about her last comment. She looked at him for a long moment, then wheeled her horse around and rode back to the wagons. Geret followed. Thoughts of the mythical Shanallar having children filled his imagination. He'd never thought of it before. Why, there could be hundreds!

But Meena dashed that wild thought. "I managed to barter my way onto a Clan Agonbloom ship to escape a threat here in Kirth," she began. "And no, it wasn't their raid-in-progress, but that's another tale.

"The Agonbloom were in a position to destabilize Southern Sea piracy if they began challenging other Clans for raiding rights. That served my purposes at the time, so I stayed with them for several years, encouraging them. Because I stayed so long, there were...social pressures. I had a daughter with Hawill, the brother of the Clan's Prime. I named her Jaeci. She was my second and last child." Meena's expression turned melancholy. "A life this long is a curse; who would ever wish to outlive their own children? After I stepped ashore, I swore I'd never have any more."

Such bitter loneliness was beyond Geret's understanding. He decided not to ask after her other child. "So your daughter Jaeci is Rhona's mother?"

"Actually, no. There are a few extra generations in there. It's been too long for Jaeci to be her mother."

"You didn't keep track?" Geret asked in surprise.

Meena gave him an impatient look. "The scope of my life, oh mortal princeling, is so beyond that of my daughter's, all her offspring's, and yours as well, that it does not even compare." She sighed. "And it never does any good trying to explain. Just accept that I had more important things to be doing, for longer than she even lived."

Geret recalled his own mother, so loving, yet taken from him too soon. "More important than even–"

"Yes," Meena hissed. "Yes, Geret, more important than my family. Your lives are too short to see the overarching themes that weave themselves through the world. Only I can see them, and only I can do anything about them, to ensure they turn out best for the most people. To ensure that certain evils are kept hidden.

"Your history, Geret Branbrey Valan, is my doing, and you should thank me for it. I could have Sanych write a dozen volumes on what might have been, and the stories in them would make you scream in the night. Do not pester me about what you think I should have done differently. It's too late. Even I can't go back and change the past, else I would have stayed far away from the Cult of Dzur i'Oth."

"The what?" Geret asked, despite feeling rather small and childish in the face of Meena's diatribe.

Geret could have sworn that the look that passed over Meena's face was fear. It was quickly replaced by her usual cynicism, and she replied, "That, princeling, is a story for a more dangerous moment."

He blinked. "A...what?"

Meena smiled, imbuing Geret with the frustration that Sanych so often felt in the Shanallar's presence.

"So, you're just going to let your living flesh and blood leave when we reach Yaren Fel, and never tell her who you are?" he asked. "That seems harsh, even for you." He urged his horse back to the front of the caravan, leaving Meena behind.

As he rode, he looked around at the wagons and the road ahead, thinking back to the small wooden quest models on the giant map back in the palace. Were all endeavors, even this one, merely pawns for Meena to move about on some grand map in her mind? What of her desire for the outcome of this quest? Could he, in the end, truly pit himself against a legend and win? Was this Dire Tome one of her "overarching themes" in the world, where she could see more clearly than he? If he, like Meena, ended up having to do the right thing for the most people, would that mean sacrificing his cousin's life?

~~~

The caravan lumbered on; the last days until they reached Yaren Fel were filled with more towns and far more interaction with the locals. Rhona and Ruel took to riding back amongst the wagons, and often Salvor joined them. Geret, for all his dislike of the arrogant Vinten nobleman, appreciated his gesture of solidarity and protection for Geret's guests.

Ruel told Rhona about Meena being the Shanallar; he tried his best to recreate the stories Meena had told him as they'd walked through the Springfest. At first he himself had not believed, because Salvor had clearly been disinterested. But the way she had spoken, and her attitude of indifference to her own stories, made it clear she hadn't merely been trying to impress him. Rhona listened, amazed at the stories Ruel shared. She also found a growing appreciation for the confidence her cousin was beginning to exude. He had just blurted out the information about Meena; back at sea, he would have asked her permission first.

Rhona, for her part, continued to follow Geret's instructions for her own quest, although with towns so close together now, scouting for water wasn't necessary anymore. Her actions made Geret feel like a complete bully, but when he told her she could leave off, she surprised him by insisting on completing her tasks until the caravan reached Yaren Fel.

Geret had to smile; when he'd first met Rhona, he hadn't been impressed with her at all. Now, he had to admit, she was quickly becoming someone he liked to be with, and he was already wanting to postpone their arrival in Yaren Fel. He didn't want either Rhona or Ruel to leave. Not only were they both enjoyable company, but when they left, Geret would have to spend a lot more time around Salvor, and aboard a ship, too. He was dreading that lengthy confinement.

The day before the caravan rumbled into Yaren Fel, the Counts sent emissaries ahead of them to meet with their ship's captain and with the Kirthan sultan. Late that night, hoof beats thundered into camp, and in minutes Geret had been awakened by urgent servants. He threw on a shirt and boots over his rumpled breeches, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and stood up while one of the servants lit the lamp in his tent. The three Counts and the emissaries pushed their way in, and Geret knew something had gone wrong.

"Runcan, what is it?" he asked, his last word slurred through a yawn.

"My lord, there is trouble in the Kirthan capital. The sultan has a situation." The red-haired Count looked to the emissary that had tried to reach the sultan with news of the arriving prince of Vint.

"My lords," the short, slender man said, bowing, "the Inner City is in revolt. Its gates are locked from within, and none without know what is happening. The merchant guild are in uproar, and from what I could gather, they are either in control of part of the sultan's senate, or they are controlled by them. Most believe there is actual bloodshed going on, and that it has to do with fighting for the guild's rights. We would do well to swing wide of the Inner City, and wish the sultan well from afar." The man's voice was steady as he spoke to his masters, but his body showed fatigue and strain.

"Thank you. Get this man some food and drink," Geret said, addressing one of the servants in the background, who nodded and directed the emissary out of Geret's tent.

"There's more, my lord," Count Armala said, glancing at the other emissary, a black-haired woman.

"Yes? What news from the ship?" Geret asked her, concern warring with eagerness. Raised in a landlocked country, he had yet to see any ship at all with his own eyes, let alone one of the Sea God class.

"My lord," the woman said, bowing her head respectfully, "I was able to meet with Captain Galanishav. He is worried about the revolt in the Inner City as well, and mislikes leaving his ship within range of the sultan's navy. When I asked him his intentions, he said if it came to it he would sail without us."

"What?" Geret blurted. "He can't do that!"

"My lord Geret," Count Sengril said, rubbing tiredly at his large nose, "I'm afraid he can. The ship is his to command; he must protect his own interests in case of danger."

Geret covered another jaw-cracking yawn with his hand, then said, "It'll take us two days to load everything onto the ship, if I remember right." Runcan agreed. "Then we should trim the caravan down and get to the ship as soon as we can." He addressed the emissary again. "Get a few hours' sleep, and ride out again so you reach Yaren Fel at first light. Tell Captain Galanishav that we will be there tomorrow for loading, and that anything we can't load up by dusk, we'll leave behind. That should hold him till we get there."

The Counts muttered while the emissary bowed in assent and slipped out of the tent.

"My lord," Sengril argued, "everything we're bringing with us is essential. That's why we needed to charter one of the Sea God ships in the first place!"

Runcan was already thinking out loud. "We can't leave the food stores; they'll have to come. The trunks full of foreign protocol will need to come too...we can do without the sample bins–"

"No, we can't," protested Armala, golden stubble winking along his cheeks. "There's so much to be learned about the new plants and animals we discover along the way! The task of collecting samples is one of my main purposes for coming on this quest!"

"Gentlemen!" Geret called. He waited until the Counts were silent. "We have to leave something. In fact, we have to leave most of it. It'll take us half a day to reach the Dock District; that leaves us one quarter of our estimated loading time before dusk tomorrow. We need to cut our supplies and people by three fourths."

"Three fourths?" Sengril repeated blankly.

But Geret's mind was already working on the logistics. "Come on, we've got work to do," he said, pushing through the Counts. "Let's wake up the caravan masters and get some help. If we start now, we should be able to take some of nearly everything with us and only cut our load by about two thirds."

Geret led the way to the ring of tents where the caravan masters slept. Once they were awake, things began to happen in quick order. The wagon loads were already inventoried onto onboard scrolls, and switching the loads around was just a matter of deciding what would go where.

Servants scurried about by the dozens, unloading trunks, boxes and barrels everywhere. The only holdups were when Geret and the Counts, and many of the other nobles who came on the quest for reasons of their own, argued about what would be kept and what should remain behind.

In the end, Geret had to pull rank. The quest's purpose was to find the Dire Tome, and Geret himself, as a prince of the realm, had been charged with that duty. Everyone else on the quest had either been assisting with that goal, or at least not hindering it, until now. Geret had to tell all the nobles who had attached themselves to the caravan for personal glory to go back home. He longed to lump Salvor in that group, but he knew he couldn't, not with the other Counts' solidarity toward Halvor Thelios' son.

With the departure of all the hangers-on, much of the baggage and many of the servants went as well, making Geret realize just how bulky the caravan had been. Ah, politics, he thought.

That still left a large portion of the caravan to sort through. Once the Counts realized Geret meant to take a little bit of each of the projects they held dear, they were more supportive of him. By dawn they had slashed the caravan's wagon count from one hundred and twenty down to thirty-eight, with a similar reduction in the number of people accompanying them.

Geret and the Counts let the caravan masters decide which of them and their personnel would head to Yaren Fel and which would return to Vint. It turned out that Brem would be the only caravan master continuing to Yaren Fel, but he was taking nearly half the servants, in order to get the wagons to the docks and load all the supplies onto the ship in a timely manner.

Not many people slept during the night, but since Geret's camp circle was one of the furthest away from the wagons, everyone who was still in their tents did sleep, and woke to a beehive of activity at breakfast time. Those who were being booted from the caravan insisted on having their breakfast first, so the cooks' tents and wagons were still in full use, their supplies not yet packed.

Rhona and Sanych went together to get breakfast, still sleepy in the pre-dawn dimness. They walked back to their own fire, eating porridge with raisins, watching and listening to the chaos all around them.

"What's going on?" Rhona asked.

Sanych glanced at the two groups of wagons, and the busyness around each. "I don't know," she replied.

"Morning, girls," Meena called, catching up to them with a bowl in her hand.

"Do you know what's going on?" Rhona asked her.

"The caravan's splitting. Some trouble in Yaren Fel, and our ship's about to leave without us." Meena grinned and took a large bite of porridge.

"Ship?" Rhona said, alarmed. "When were you going to tell me you're taking a ship? I thought you were going to Yaren Fel and then turning around for home!"

"And why are you so happy?" Sanych added, not answering Rhona.

"Well, that's your fault for not asking enough questions, Rhona," Meena responded. "As for happy, I guess it feels like old times."

"So where are you really going?" Rhona seemed strangely insistent.

"Old times?" Sanych asked curiously.

"Stop, you two. I do have two ears, but only one mouth." Meena looked at Rhona, her expression almost fond. "Once in Yaren Fel, a Sea Clansman saved my life during a bit of a rush like this one will be."

"He what?" Rhona asked, stopping.

"Yes," Meena said. "Tossed me a rope as I ran along the docks, and shot the Kirthan right behind me with his hand crossbow. He went down, and the rest of the mob on his heels tripped over him. Gave the Clansman just enough time to pull me aboard, as his sister's ship set out to sea after a raid."

Sanych took the story in stride as yet another fascinating bit of Meena's life, but an odd look was creeping over Rhona's face.

"Amazing...that's just like...how...gods above and below, that's impossible!" she finally managed. "How do you know that story?"

"What story?" Sanych asked, while Meena and Rhona watched each other closely.

Rhona shifted her gaze to Sanych for a few moments to say, "It's the story of how my grandmother's grandmother joined the Clans. It was before Agonbloom rose to become First Clan. She stayed with us for a dozen years, and then..."

"Then she what?" Sanych couldn't stop herself from asking.

Meena's expression had dimmed a little under Rhona's intense scrutiny.

"She fell overboard during a storm. Trying to save her daughter," Rhona said.

"It was a hurricane," Meena murmured. "We hadn't been able to reach safe harbor before it caught us. Foolish girl was up in the rigging for a dare. I gave her the worst tongue-lashing of her life up there in the wind and rain."

Rhona's jaw went slack, and her breathing sped up. "Clan law changed because you died. Yet you're here, alive. How? And why didn't you come back?" Rhona's last, plaintive question made Sanych shut her mouth and look to Meena.

Meena looked pained. "I..." Her eyes flickered to Sanych, and the Archivist suddenly had a suspicion that Meena hadn't fallen from that rigging by accident.

"Eat up, ladies!" Geret's brisk voice carried to them as he jogged by on the way back to his tent. "The sun will be up in half an hour and we need to be on our way then. If you want your tents and belongings to come with you on the ship, you need to get them packed."

Meena and Sanych headed for their tents, eating large bites as they went.

Rhona stood in the middle of the camp path, hands held up in frustration, and called after them, "What ship?"

##  Chapter Twenty

"And why do you go by Meena now?" Rhona asked, helping Meena roll her tent. "Wasn't 'Lakara' good enough for you?"

Meena tied the tent's straps together, holding it in its packed position. "'Lakara' was just the name I had at the time I joined your family."

"Gods above and below," Rhona said as a thought struck her. "Ruel told me you're the Shanallar."

Meena began stuffing a few last items into her duffel.

"The things you can do..." Rhona knelt and grabbed Meena's wrists, looking her in the eye.

Meena halted reluctantly. "We'll be late, child."

"Can you get stabbed through the heart with a sword and live, and not even have a scar? Can you will yourself not to die in a fiery ship? Has your hair ever had more than one color to it?"

"Yes; I don't know; and..." Meena held a bit of her hair straight out from her head, showing Rhona the red that was growing in to replace her dark brown. "Yes."

Rhona stared at Meena's hair. "It's you."

"It generally is," Meena agreed diffidently, freeing her hands from Rhona's grip and tying the duffel shut. She stood and walked to the pile of luggage and tents that were being loaded onto one of the last wagons.

Rhona followed her, carrying the tent. "You're the reason Agonbloom rose to be First Clan. Those things you can do, your descendants inherited from you."

"What?" Meena was so startled, she dropped her duffel. She spun to face Rhona. "That's impossible." She searched deeply into the girl's eyes, looking for the lie.

Those turquoise eyes widened with emphasis. "It's not," she insisted. "Those things all happened. My grandfather lost a champion's duel, but he didn't die when his opponent stabbed him through the heart. Great-grandmother Jaeci's ship caught fire after my mother was born. Everyone thought she was dead, until they saw her dive off the ship with one of the Clan's children in her arms. When they pulled her aboard the nearest ship, the child had burns, but she didn't. And as you see," Rhona waggled one of her copper-bright braids, "I've got two kinds of hair color. Always have."

Meena stared at her, horrified. "I never meant..." She swallowed and tried again. "I didn't mean to share. I always thought..." Her throat closed on a sob. "I thought I was alone."

Rhona studied the living legend before her, her very own flesh and blood, and shook her head, smiling. "But you're not."

~~~

Sanych brought her gear over to the wagon with difficulty. After she'd dropped her satchel for the third time, she looked ahead toward the wagon in exasperation and saw Meena embracing Rhona, laughing and crying at the same time. Sanych's jaw dropped.

"What're they on about?" Salvor asked with an air of disinterest, pausing beside Sanych. His glossy dark hair was loose about his face, and his usually prim vest was unfastened and hung open, revealing his magenta shirt.

"Meena is her great-great-grandmother."

"So it's a hello and a goodbye all at once? Bad timing there." Salvor tsked and frowned at the hugging women. "On the other hand," he said with a flourishing gesture, "I have retrieved these lovely blooms for your viewing pleasure." He smiled and held out a small bouquet of tropical flowers. "To celebrate our departure."

"Oh, this must be heaven's doorknocker," Sanych exclaimed, taking the bouquet and examining a golden-hued orchid with a distinctively shaped lower petal. She gingerly fingered its loveliness and examined the other flowers in the bouquet.

Salvor chuckled at her single-mindedness. "You're so different from any other girl I know, Sanych. I like that."

Sanych stopped studying the flowers and looked up at him. "You do?"

"You're one of the most interesting people I've ever met," he said, hazel eyes dark in the faint pre-sunrise glow. "I hope we can get to know each other better aboard ship."

Sanych smiled up at him. The first oranges of the sunrise clouds were reflected in the sheen of his black hair, and she decided he really was rather handsome, as men went. "I'd like that."

"Good; let me help you with those," he smiled, indicating her bags. He carried them to the waiting wagon. Sanych brought the remaining bag and handed it to a servant, who loaded it on top for her.

Rhona and Meena had left, talking constantly to each other, and Sanych felt a pang of jealousy. She might have been the one to seek out the Shanallar, but she'd never be as important to Meena as her own flesh and blood.

Salvor eyed her distant look. "I think we're about ready to run for it; you ready?"

Sanych snapped back to the present. "Yes, I think so."

"Let's get to our horses." Salvor looked around at the campsite. The last supplies and equipment from tents and breakfasts were being loaded for Yaren Fel. The people who were returning home to Vint were taking their time. Looks of anger and jealousy emanated from the nobles who were being excluded from the quest. "We don't want to be murdered for our places in the caravan, do we?" he asked with a grin. He put a protective hand on Sanych's back as he escorted her to their mounts.

There were several minutes of confusion as the much-curtailed caravan reorganized itself in motion, but they were on the road when the sun first shone its bright rays over the horizon.

Geret and the Counts were busy all morning, encouraging the riders and wagoneers to keep a fast, steady pace. Meena was deep in conversation with Rhona and Ruel. That left Sanych and Salvor to keep each other's company. As they talked, Sanych found herself wondering why Geret disliked Salvor so much. The young Vinten lord was clearly well-traveled and educated. The urgent hours passed swiftly for her, and she was surprised when Salvor touched her hand and pointed ahead to the imposing stone wall that bounded Yaren Fel.

"We're here," he said quietly, all trace of earlier good humor gone. Sanych took her cue from his sober expression, eyeing the fifty-foot walls of dressed dark red stone with an air of caution.

The main gates of Yaren Fel led directly to the tropical city's heart, including the Inner City itself. However, the caravan was headed for the Dock Gate down by the sea. The road that led to the sea ran hard against the enormous wall for the entire mile between gates.

The shortened caravan swung onto the wall road and approached the Dock Gate as it sloped to the ocean. As they rode, Sanych noted that for all the guards she had seen manning the walls at their approach, only a few were looking outward. The rest were preoccupied with the explosive situation within the city itself. Geret rode ahead to speak to the gate guards as the caravan slowed near the gate, and was pleasantly surprised to see the emissary woman he'd sent out ahead to the ship's captain this morning. She nodded to him and spoke to the guards, and they gave the command for the sturdy metal-bound doors to be opened.

Once the caravan was through the gate, the full scope of the port of Yaren Fel was made clear in a single glance across the gentle slope before them.

The enormous, international port section of the city folded around the most western point of the continent, a slender arm of land that jutted into the sea. The Yaren Fellows, as its denizens were called, had tamed the rocky jut of land and smoothed it into an enormous wedge-shaped network of docks and warehouses. As far as anyone in the caravan could see, the land within the Docks District was covered with scurrying men and women clutching belongings, crowded wooden walks, and large storage warehouses being emptied at a frenetic pace. It seemed everyone wanted to get out of Yaren Fel today.

The seas–the Southern to the left and the Middle to the right–met each other beyond the furthest point of Cyrmanti land, and were tamed by a series of jetties. A heterogeneous swarm of ships moved about serenely on its surface, from the smallest pleasure craft and fishing junks, to swift local merchant ships that plied the coasts with their full-bellied sails and tubby hulls. They had pulled away from the docks in all directions, only to be replaced by others whose captains were willing to risk a revolt for extra gipp from fleeing passengers.

But one ship dominated the entire port, sea and land alike. It lay berthed against an enormous dock that was built nearly half a mile out to sea. The ship's upper decks and mastworks broke the horizon even at that distance, as if it were a crowned king of the sea, and all other ships were paying homage and going about its royal business.

The Sea God awaited.

"You know of the Sea Gods, Sanych?" Salvor asked, unable to tear his own eyes away from its magnificent sight.

Sanych looked out at the enormous craft in awe and murmured, "The Sea Gods are built in the Eiranti country of Kazhbor by the Czet'roiy Dynasty. They're over five hundred feet bow to stern and two hundred abeam. Either nine or ten masts, depending on specifications, with the tallest ones reaching far over two hundred feet. Loading capacity is approximately thirty-five hundred marine tons. Four decks nearly the full length of the ship, with a minimum crew of six hundred and fifty sailors–"

"Thank you, Sanych, I get it," Salvor laughed. "You're smarter than me. You don't have to rub it in."

"–and they can carry a small city's population–sorry."

"No, I understand. They're magnificent. The numbers just make them more so. It's literally a floating city. Did you know they grow their own food crops on board and carry a live herd of cattle? Of course you do," Salvor said, as he saw her expression. They both laughed. "Do you know everything about everything, Sanych?" he asked.

"If I did, would I be on this quest?" Sanych returned in a teasing tone.

Salvor watched her for a moment, then smiled slowly. "Then I shall make it one of my goals to try and find things you don't know."

"You will?" Sanych asked, unsure of his motivation.

"So that I can teach them to you, and not feel a complete moron."

"Ah," laughed Sanych. "Then it's a deal. I would not want such a fine lord of Vint as yourself to feel foolish, especially in the presence of foreigners."

"Your loyalty to Vint is admirable," Salvor said, nodding in mock seriousness, and Sanych laughed again.

The caravan train trundled down the wide road, dock houses and import stations lining both sides. The colorbearers proudly rode at the head of the line, their Vinten flags snapping in the freshening breeze. Even those fleeing for their lives stopped and stared, if only for a moment, at the caravan train.

Geret rode behind the flags, trying his best to seem princely. Rhona and Ruel caught up with him and began speaking urgently.

"Prince Geret, Rhona and I need to get out of this city. If we were recognized in this fear-plagued environment," Ruel said, "they'd kill us."

"We need to know if our Age Quests have been completed to your satisfaction," Rhona added, with a quick glance around. She pulled her newly-traded-for blouse close around her neck, bare of the golden collar she'd traded for it.

"Why didn't you ask me before we arrived at the city, then?" Geret wondered.

"We were so caught up with Meena..." Rhona looked back toward her ancestor, now riding up from among the wagons, where they had been talking all morning.

"Then we didn't want to run off and have the wall guards spot us," Ruel added.

Geret nodded. "I understand. Your quests are complete. Take those horses as far as you need to. I hope you make it back to your Cl–family safely," he said.

"Thank you," Ruel said, meeting Geret's eyes. "For the quest, and for saving Rhona."

Geret smiled. Ruel turned to Rhona and said, "I'll find us a way out," and started to fall back, letting his horse get lost among the caravan wagons. Rhona nodded to him and stayed behind for a moment.

"I have to ask, because no one ever answered me: where are you going, ultimately?"

"We're going to Shanal," Geret answered. His eyes were drawn to the Sea God that awaited them.

"Oh!" Rhona uttered, following his gaze. "I've heard of that place; it's in some of our legends. Treasures, dragons, powerful wizards. The Sea God is for you, then?" Geret nodded, and she smiled enviously. "Very shiny. Even I've never been aboard one. Our fleet could probably catch one, but it'd blow us to the deeps before we saw a wink of swag. My mother's ship Harbinger is a fine vessel, with more long-haired skulls than any other Clan Prime has, but even her galleon is mere krill to a Sea God. You know, I hear they carry their own complement of concubines," she smiled lasciviously at him, then laughed at his open-mouthed speechlessness. She closed his jaw for him and said in farewell, "Safe voyage to you. I hope you find what you seek."

She pulled her hand from his chin, and he found himself catching it. Rhona looked at him expectantly.

"I'll miss you," he said simply.

Rhona blinked, then smiled. "And I you, in a few days when my saddle sores heal up. Travel safely, Geret of Vint." She pulled her hand away slowly, drifting back with her horse into the jumble of wagons.

Wondering if he'd ever meet any Sea Clansfolk again, Geret turned to look at the caravan's destination.

Just then the emissary to Captain Galanishav rode up. With Geret's permission, she began explaining to him and the Counts the process of loading half a mile out to sea.

"Why is the dock so much longer than any of the others?" he asked.

"The sea floor is very shallow here. The draft of the ship is deeper than the other vessels, and its rudder is very large. Apparently it can't turn quickly either. That's the closest they could bring it to shore, while still letting it return to the sea easily."

"I'm just glad to see the ship hasn't left without us," Geret said.

"The captain is holding you to your word about abandoning any unloaded cargo at dusk. He was pleased with your understanding of his concern for his ship, though. I think he'll be more than willing to assign additional men to the loading. Although, as you see," she nodded ahead to the large contingent of soldiers guarding the entrance to the large dock, "his men have their work cut out for them."

Geret watched as a family of six was allowed past the guards, belongings carried in the arms of even the youngest boy. They trotted quickly along the dock, staying to the very center.

"He's taking on refugees to fill the empty berths, since we've shortened our complement by so much. I wonder if he's even telling them where we're headed," Geret mused wryly.

They arrived at the long dock, where the Sea God loomed even larger, like a floating mountain, forested with masts. Geret spoke to the well-armed men on behalf of his caravan. Once they realized who he was, and that his caravan's passage had been paid in advance, they were much friendlier. Several of them began to organize the caravan wagons into a more efficient loading order.

The loading process began. The wagons were not unpacked, nor were they rolled down the dock itself; the width of the dock was for foot traffic, and to ensure structural integrity in rough seas. Instead, the wagons were rolled onto a ferry barge, two at a time, and ferried right along the side of the dock, until they reached the Sea God. Geret and the Counts, along with Meena, Sanych and Salvor, rode over on the ferry with the first wagons.

Beside them, on the dock itself, a few more refugees struggled with armloads of belongings. Geret's brown eyes grew meditative as he watched them, while everyone else's eyes were glued to the amazing vessel. When one of the young men dropped the top three boxes off the stack he was carrying, Geret made a giant leap to the dock and picked them up for him. The Counts quickly argued and called to him to return to the barge, but Geret merely shook his head and walked with the refugees.

As the barge reached the ship, the group stepped onto the dock again. The Sea God towered over them like a wooden castle. They all craned their necks back to look at how high the masts loomed. Exclamations of amazement followed, and even Meena said this was the finest Sea God she'd ever seen.

Geret and the other young men reached them shortly, and the prince handed off the boxes to one of the crew and rejoined his companions.

While the cargo from the first two barges was loaded through a lower hatch and settled in the cargo hold, Geret led his group up the passenger gangway, which entered the ship's hull at an angle and reached the dock right above the cargo area. Regular, round openings in the hull all along the length of the ship a deck above them sported fine bronze cannons, causing Geret to reconsider the chaos behind them from the ship captain's point of view. As they passed through the hatch itself, the thickness of the hull made Sanych murmur aloud.

"This must have taken an entire forest to build," she said, looking around the vast interior.

They entered a large foyer. Supports, thick and strong, yet intricately carved into gleaming pillar designs, were at every corner of the walls and corridors. A wide, curving staircase with an ornate banister led up to the next two decks, accessible through heavy doors inset with numerous thick glass panes. The staircase exited onto the top deck through a small stair house, and it continued below to the lower deck as well. On the walls in the foyer and down the corridors were occasional murals and tapestries of sea adventures and exotic locales.

A crewman approached and smiled warmly, used to seeing expressions of surprise and wonder. He wheeled a large scroll around until he found the assigned quarters for Geret and his large party. He began to apologize profusely to the prince for the riffraff that would be sailing with them, but Geret glared at him coldly.

"Have a small group of the refugees assigned to my personal table every meal," he said, and when the crewman gulped and agreed, Geret moved past him without another word.

The Counts stayed behind to organize the quarters assignments with the servants who would be arriving momentarily.

Sanych caught up with Geret in the long corridor and handed him a strip of parchment. Light filtered down from above through groupings of slender, pale yellow glass cylinders set into the ceiling, giving the illusion of dim sunlight.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Our room assignments, from the crewman. I thought you might like to know where you're going."

"Oh." Geret shook his head, silently berating his quick temper. "Thank you."

They located their spacious rooms. Meena said they reminded her of Sanych's rooms back at the Temple. Salvor commented that they seemed small to him, and Geret glared at him and kept his mouth shut with effort. Soon, they headed to the upper deck.

The top deck of the Sea God was flat and smooth, a vast expanse of pale yellow wood occasionally inlaid with dark paneling to indicate sections that were off-limits to passengers. The wide, dark roof of the steering shelter, sculpted to allow the wind to sweep past, rose toward the stern, housing the ship's wheel and the captain's charts. The wide central staircase had its own large stair house, domed in a geometric glass pattern favored by the people of Kazhbor. Dotting the deck in measured distances were other smaller stair houses leading down to other sections of the ship.

The wind was incredibly strong at this height, coming in off the ocean from the southwest. Even though they were half a mile out to sea, they could still make out the confused anthill of motion that covered the Dock District. The wagons were making smooth trips to the cargo hatch, and files of the Counts' servants were trailing their way down the enormous dock. Nearly every one of them hailed Geret with smiles from below as they climbed the gangway. Some cast worried glances back at the docks area, and others showed immense relief to be entering the ship at last.

Salvor caught sight of a single small sloop that was angling toward the Sea God rather than out to sea. He watched it approach for a moment, then exclaimed, "Wisdom's head! That's Rhona and Ruel!"

"Where?" Meena asked, leaning out. She spotted the small sloop and put her fingers to her lips, letting loose with a piercing whistle that lilted and trilled across the distance to the smaller craft.

Several moments later, a returning whistle reached their ears, and Meena laughed aloud. She walked along the rail and followed the sloop's progress as it passed the Sea God's bow and tacked south-southwest out to sea. More whistles flew through the air, garnering her strange looks, but she had eyes only for the two crew members of the stolen sloop.

She watched her family sail away for a few minutes after they were out of whistle range, then returned to Geret, Sanych and Salvor.

"Little scamps, stole that sloop and bolted," she said with a fond smile.

"But, don't the refugees need it?" Sanych asked.

"They told me they gave away all the rest of their jewelry to pay the refugees on it to go board other ships. They didn't threaten them; they just wanted the sloop. How's that for progress?" Meena grinned. Salvor and Sanych exchanged odd looks, and Geret chuckled.

"Did they say anything else with those whistles?" he asked.

"Yes. But it was just for me." Meena closed her eyes for a moment and savored the memory of the pirates' last message to her.

"I'm glad they got away safely," Geret said, and Meena nodded, smiling.

Two hours passed. Crew scampered on the deck and up in the forest of masts and rigging, making ready to depart at their captain's notice. Other passengers strolled along the rails or stared back at the shore as well, grateful to be out of that chaos. Eventually, Meena turned from the array of sights at the rail and looked across the immense surface of the Sea God itself.

"What do you see, Meena?" Sanych asked, glancing at the expansive deck.

"It reminds me of—"

The boom of an enormous explosion reached the ship, and all eyes turned to look back at Yaren Fel. A great fiery cloud roiled up from the Inner City, turning dark within seconds.

"Folly! What was that?" Geret exclaimed, squinting at the city in shock.

Salvor was shaking his head, jaw slack. "That was bad. Whatever it was. Look." The group followed Salvor's pointing finger and watched as the masses of refugees on the docks fled the enormous licking flames within the Inner City's wall. They streamed toward any ship still at the docks. Two more explosions, less dramatic but more terrifying, followed within a minute. The guards at the land end of the Sea God's dock were quickly overwhelmed, and a mass of fleeing humanity pelted down the half-mile dock. Some fell into the sea along the way, buffeted by the crowd.

Those already aboard the Sea God exclaimed and pointed, or covered their mouths in fear and shock. No one could look away.

A loud wooden scraping sound came from nearly directly below, and Sanych looked over the rail and exclaimed, "What are you doing? Stop! Put it back!"

Geret looked down. Crewmen had pushed the gangway out of the ship; it now lay across the dock, at the feet of several would-be passengers who were frightened and verbally insistent. He thought he even recognized caravan master Brem among them.

Thumps carried from the berth deck, indicating that the entry hatch was being sealed. Sanych continued to plead for them to open it again, along with a growing crowd of people on the dock below, until Meena pulled her from the rail and sat her down forcefully against it. The older woman knelt before her and took Sanych's face in her hands.

"Stop, Sanych. It's too late. The captain's made his decision–I know it's horrible–" Meena grasped Sanych's frantic hands as they slapped at her.

The Sea God began to drift with the current.

Geret met Salvor's eyes. The young noble might be a prig, but he was raised in the same culture as Geret was, and at this moment, Geret admitted he trusted Salvor more than any other man on this ship. "Stay with them," he ordered. Salvor nodded assent and casually put a hand on his sword. The Thelios family crest upon its pommel winked in the sunlight.

Geret turned away and stalked off to find Captain Galanishav. He soon learned, however, that no amount of demanding would sway the man. Galanishav sported the sandy beard sans mustache that distinguished Kazhbor men from sailors of other seagoing nations. His short stature did nothing to hide the steel in his spine when it came to his beloved ship, however. He would not be budged.

Geret protested angrily and for quite some time that several of his wagons of supplies had been abandoned at the docks, as well as an unknown number of his countrymen. But Galanishav was having none of it.

"You, my kind prince, do not understand the ways of the mobs. I have seen, in my life, three panicked mobs rush for ships, for one reason or another. It is not anything I would wish to force upon myself again. There are plenty of other ships for them, and they may flee the city in other ways. They do not need my Kazhak to save them. This is my final word, and you must accept it, yes?" Amber sparks fairly flew from the man's eyes. "Beside that, you know it takes two hours to dock this ship, yes? Our sails will be aloft and filled soon, and we will be under way. It is a long journey to Shanal. I suggest you accept my decision, unless you would care to pilot us across the seas yourself. No? Then good day."

His mind in turmoil, Geret strode back down from the bridge deck at the ship's stern to where he'd last seen Sanych, Meena and Salvor. Only Meena remained. She turned at his approach and gauged his mood by the look on his face.

"You knew he wouldn't do it," she offered, the wind whipping tendrils of her dark hair across her face and ruffling the short collar on her jacket.

"I had to try," Geret grated, clenching his jaw in impotent frustration. "Those are my people. I said they could come." Geret pointed toward the dock, tiny now in the distance, and saw the mob clustered on the deck. Some of them had desperately tried to swim after the ship, but there was no way they could catch the Kazhak. The enormous vessel was just beginning to belly into the wind, now that its sails were raised on all nine masts.

"You did everything you could, Geret. No one should ever expect more of you than that."

But the troubled look did not lessen on his features. "Where are Salvor and Sanych? I asked him to look after you both."

"Sanych was pretty distraught. She may be a living wonder with that memory of hers, but she's still only fifteen. He took her below to her quarters. I told him to, if it's any consolation. If you hadn't noticed, I can look after myself just fine."

Geret's brown eyes raised to Meena's green ones, and she saw the agony in them. His fine adventure was falling apart, leaving him reeling, struggling to remain in charge of whatever remained of his quest.

"Come, princeling," Meena said, taking him gently by the elbow. "I think you're looking off the wrong side of the ship." Meena led him forward as the ship slowly turned with the wind, and as the Kazhak slid past the westernmost tip of Cyrmant and out into the wide, beckoning sea, Geret stood with her as she pointed ahead to the west.

To Shanal.

##  Chapter Twenty-one

Four hundred years ago

The arrogance!

She had stolen into the ancient, abandoned temple on the scrubby, red-soiled slopes of the volcano to the northeast of the city, on information that led her to expect she would find the usual type of gathering: a few dissident speakers, a rather larger group of blind followers, and somewhere, a mastermind, whom she was to remove from play.

Oh, how wrong she had been.

Queen's Agent Jacasta Triserren had been captured by the secretive gathering known as the Cult of Dzur i'Oth, and it was her own fault. She had neglected to surveil her surroundings and targets thoroughly before entering the crypts below the ancient Dragon Temple, and had been rendered unconscious without even seeing her attacker. The ease with which she had been taken frightened her.

Who were these people?

In the pitch-blackness of her prison room, she had lost track of how many hours she had been incarcerated.

The frigid water of the pool she was standing in rippled against her bare ankles. The short chain from her manacled wrists was anchored below the waterline. She could either lay down in the water and die of hypothermia, or stand up, hour after hour, racked with exhaustion.

Eventually, she heard a heavy door open. After a moment of sleep-deprived thought, she turned her head toward the sound. A single candle lit the way for the two hooded figures who entered. They approached and paused at the edge of her pool. She wryly noted that they were both wearing warm-looking boots.

After a long moment of silence, the taller one intoned in a deep, masculine voice, "The Synod of Eleven summons you. Prepare to meet your doom, lifeslave."

Jacasta frowned, but did not reply. The hooded people waded out and unlocked her chains, then each grasped one of her wrists and began to force her out of the pool.

However, there was nothing to be gained by fighting to escape, she realized. Her feet were entirely numb, and she stumbled often, cutting her toes on the edge of the shale steps that led up to a pair of doors.

The doors opened, revealing a black-walled chamber, lit by green torches every few feet. Eleven black-robed men and women stood around the outer edge of the room, each inside a six-foot ring of gemstones in the floor. One circle in the center of the room was unoccupied except for another set of manacles, chained to the floor by a handful of links.

Near the door, centered opposite the body of cultists, stood an ornately carved obsidian lectern. A large book with a soft black leather cover lay facing the rest of the room. Odd drawings and strange text danced across its visible pages.

The waiting people were silent and still as the two attendants forced Jacasta to kneel and locked her hands inside the grip of the manacles. The book was behind her, the people in front. No one spoke. The two attendants left as silently as they had entered, and shut and barred the doors behind them.

The green flames hissed quietly. Their odd light winked off the gemstones inset in the black stone floor.

"You have been sent to us, Jacasta Triserren, because you are worthy to be our lifeslave," the man directly ahead of her said.

Jacasta craned her neck to look the man in the eye. "I was ordered here to kill you," she said coldly.

The man only smiled at her. "That is what we instructed Queen Anzadi to tell you. Now, your life belongs to us. Any last words, before we make use of it?" he asked.

Jacasta pushed herself up with her hands as straight as she could, and took in a measured breath through her nose. "Mark my words. Though you may take my life, you are all doomed. I am Oathbound now."

A puzzled murmur passed through the standing cultists, and the man spoke over them sharply. "Silence! It matters not. We do not know this oath-binding of which you speak. Nothing can stand against the terrible power of the Great and Dire Tome of Ages! Once this ritual is complete, all the determination of the queen's forces will be as the wind against a mountain. We will become eternal beings, to die no more, nor suffer hurt. Let the ritual begin!"

The certainty in his voice shook Jacasta. For the first time, she was truly afraid; she realized she had no idea what these cultists were capable of. She'd never sensed anything like that book in her life. Where had they gotten such a dark artifact? Why weren't the Ochre Masks handling this? Why had she not been warned? Could Queen Anzadi truly be in league with this cult? And if she was, what did that bode for Shanal? Jacasta felt like she was suddenly on the edge of an enormous precipice, looking down with vertigo, unable to stop herself from plunging off into nothingness.

The cultists raised their arms as one and began a lilting chant. Green fire danced through the air, alighting on each cultist like a flaming crown. It arched from each of them out to Jacasta, all at once, encasing her in a green sphere that met the gemstone ring on the floor.

Jacasta squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the end to come quickly. She had no idea how pernicious fate could be.

Suddenly the fiery green trail between Jacasta and the cultist who had spoken to her turned a violent, eye-stabbing shade of pink and began vibrating madly in the air.

"Something is–" the man began.

Jacasta's sphere turned the same color, nearly blinding her through her eyelids.

"—wrong with the—"

The other fiery links blazed pink. Three of the cultists collapsed to the floor. Their trails of flame zapped around the room like loose jags of lightning.

"—ritual! Close—"

The room became one massive vibration, and Jacasta felt like her lungs were trying to breathe sound. She exhaled in panic and pressed her face against her hands, waiting to die.

"—the Tome!"

The vibrations peaked, then there was no more sound at all; no more were there fiery crowns or trails through the air. No more sphere of pink fire. Only the green torches burned, but Jacasta couldn't hear them with her burst eardrums. She screamed into her hands, feeling only the vibration of her voice within her body. It took several tries for reason to reach through her pain.

She looked up. The cultists were dead, their forms twisted in agony or collapsed in boneless heaps. She waited to see if she was still going to die, but after several more minutes, decided that she was not.

At least, not from the ritual. She was still manacled to the floor. She'd already been without food or water for at least two days. If her Oathen could not find her soon...

After yanking her wrists bloody against the manacles, she gave up and lay down in exhaustion. Sleep overtook her in moments.

Hours later, she heard the sound of the door being unbarred. The realization that she could hear again, already, was followed by a growing awareness that she felt no pain at all. Even her wrists felt completely uninjured. She sat up and shifted to face the doors, perfectly sure who would enter the green-lit room. A smiling sob of relief spread across her features.

A male figure bearing a bright torch and a naked, deadly blade burst in, shouting her name.

"'Ware the book!" she called in warning, rattling her chains in an attempt to point to it. The man looked at it briefly, then ran to her side, dropping the torch to the black stone floor a few feet from her. He knelt and touched her manacled hands, then her face.

"Jacasta," he breathed. "I brought others; we'll get you free." He turned and shouted back toward the doors, and faint footsteps ran in their direction. "We've killed as many as we could, but many escaped or weren't here to begin with."

Jacasta huddled against her husband's warmth. "I knew the Oath would hold. I knew you'd find me, Arisson."

##  Chapter Twenty-two

The sun rose behind the Kazhak's stern and set before her bow, day after day. The continual wind blew them westward, and they made good time across the water's deep blue surface. The ship, so enormous upon the face of the sea, had only a slow side-to-side roll that took nearly a minute to complete. Sanych compared it favorably to the pitching of the Ondanta across the Bay of Whales. She didn't even find herself remotely seasick.

She noticed that the ship's heading was further south than she expected, so she asked one of the navigation crew about it. He responded that the Kazhak had left Yaren Fel with insufficient supplies to sail northwest directly, as they had originally planned. The Sea God would resupply at the Port of Ha'Lakkon in Ha'Hril, an island nation off eastern Eirant and a trading hub for the entire Southern Sea. Most of the refugees planned to disembark there as well.

Salvor enjoyed drawing the young Archivist's attention to a game of chance the sailors played, called Shut the Lid. It involved a box with a lid, and nine numbered tiles anchored on pivots inside, as well as the inevitable pair of dice. Salvor confessed that he played it because anything involving a wager was irresistible to him. Sanych joined him for his pleasurable company as well as the game itself; although the rules were simple, the outcome of each game was seemingly random, and that randomness fascinated her.

The Counts spent the first week at sea bemoaning the loss of every item that had been abandoned at the Yaren Fel dock. Once they'd gotten that out of their systems, they became very focused on trying to construct a new timeline for the quest. They invited Meena to join them often, and she gave them what detail she could about the locations they would be traveling to.

One of the ship's officers, unaware of the rivalry between Geret and Salvor, suggested one day that they might wish to have a mock sword duel to while away their boredom. Geret scowled immediately, and that caused Salvor to laugh aloud.

"He's afraid I'd beat him if he had to play fair," Salvor said.

Geret looked back at Salvor and replied, "One match by your rules, and one by mine, then."

Many of those who had spent time around the two young lords of Vint had begun to realize they did not get on, and there was an enormous crowd on the upper deck the afternoon of their first duel. Outfitted in practice armor and long blunted swords from the Kazhak's standing armory, they saluted and began the duel, agreeing to stay strictly to the proper dueling rules of Vint.

Salvor advanced immediately, and Geret recognized his short, direct stabs from the last duel they'd fought. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. Geret found himself backing up, parrying madly. He wished he had a dagger at the least, but in Vint, proper duels were done with a single sword, and nothing else. He decided to change up his style instead.

Ducking quickly to the left, he exposed his chest to Salvor's blade for a moment, and Salvor lunged, forcing Geret into a forward tumble. The crowd oohed and cheered. He rolled away from Salvor, then spun to meet his oncoming blade. Their hilts met, and Geret used his height to force Salvor to a standstill.

However, Salvor also recalled their last duel, and he feinted forward, getting Geret to commit his weight, then pulled away. Geret lost his balance and stumbled heavily, and the crowd gasped.

Salvor darted after him, forcing Geret to turn and defend himself. During the split-second before his sword came to bear, Salvor slipped his practice blade in and tagged him directly over his heart, and Geret staggered back a step before catching his balance.

"You're mine, trickster," Salvor hissed, eyes bright with triumph.

Geret held his hands out wide in agreement. "You seem to be right," he admitted, grinning. "But now we get to play by my rules, to the same goal."

Salvor sniffed and stepped back a pace, readying for the salute that would mark the next duel. "And what are your rules, my prince?" he asked formally.

Geret's eyes found their way to Sanych in the crowd, next to Meena. Her brows were drawn together in a small vee of interest. He looked back at Salvor and hoped Sanych would forgive him.

"There aren't any," he said, lunging at Salvor, tackling him around the waist.

"What–oof!" Salvor exhaled sharply as Geret's shoulder drove him into the deck boards. He kicked Geret off and rolled to his right, entering a low ready stance, sword held wide.

Geret clambered to his feet as well. They circled each other warily for several moments, and Geret kept his feet mobile, eyes on his opponent's torso. He flicked his sword toward Salvor's left side, and while Salvor batted away the blade, Geret dropped low and swept Salvor's leg with his foot, making him fall and crack his head. Salvor groaned and stayed limp for a moment.

Geret rose to one knee and whacked Salvor on his biceps with the metal practice blade. His opponent cried out as the muscle spasmed. Geret stamped onto Salvor's blade, pinning it, then poked Salvor in the chest with his sword, thus technically winning the duel. He leaned on it as he rose to stand, breathing heavily. Salvor wheezed under Geret's weight.

The crowd stood silently for a moment, not having expected the fight to go this way, or be over so quickly. And then they began to cheer, albeit hesitantly.

Salvor muttered under his breath and recovered enough to bat the jabbing blade from his padded armor. Sanych ran from the crowd of onlookers and knelt by him, asking if he was all right. Geret stepped back, his sword held loosely. As Sanych helped Salvor to his feet and wrapped his arm onto her shoulders, the Vinten lord gave Geret a sly, triumphant look. Geret glared at him, feeling that he'd somehow been bested twice.

As the crowd broke up, Meena ambled over to Geret, a wry look in her dark green eyes. The sunlight caught the red growth of her hair, making her crown look as if it were glowing with heat.

"Not very princely, was it?" Geret said, shoulders slumping.

"Look on the bright side," Meena said, pretending to console him, "you got the crowd to cheer for you anyway."

Geret frowned in thought. "I could have sworn, after I bested Salvor, that he said, 'The things I do for Vint'. I can't figure what he meant."

Meena's eyebrows shot up, and she looked thoughtful. "Well, whatever he meant, I think I deserve a congratulatory drink for your win. You can have one too," she said with a smug grin, leading him toward the stairs that led below decks.

~~~

Sanych spent endless hours with the Counts, poring over the details found in the few books that had successfully been loaded on board the Kazhak. During the voyage, she found time to read every one of them. Runcan, Armala and Sengril listened to her summations and estimates as if she spoke the foreseen truth, and worked her to the point of exhaustion with possible scenarios.

Often, Salvor came in to take her to a meal and get a break from their constant brainstorming. He learned which tea Sanych preferred, and began asking ahead for it to be ready when he escorted her to the dining hall. They would sit and talk quietly, eventually moving to the upper deck for a bit of exercise, weather permitting.

"She must be seeing something in him that I don't," complained Geret, as he watched Salvor guide Sanych through the main dining hall doors.

Meena looked at him with a smirk. "She is smarter than you; you're probably right."

Geret was stung. "What do you see in him?"

"I see that he's more like you than either of you want to admit. It's why you two don't get along: you're two sides to the same coin."

Geret stood aghast. "Me, like him? That's ridiculous."

"Oh yes, I've never seen two young men at odds before," she said with a knowing smile.

He pursed his lips and sighed through his nose. "What can I do? I can't stand him, and we're only nine weeks into this quest! I swear, I might end up killing him just to save my sanity. It feels like we've been stuck together forever."

She raised her eyebrows and looked at him, and he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Sorry. I've only had eighteen years to your four hundred. Nine weeks is a lot more of my lifetime than it is of yours."

Meena smiled. "Salvor must surely be a worthy foe, for you to spend so much time disliking him."

Geret refrained from denial. "Well, I suppose. He is better than me with a sword. And he's not a complete fool."

"The Tarnic people have a saying: 'Embrace your friends with one arm and your enemies with two.'"

"Aren't those the same people who say 'Halla hablah 'anna 'lah'? The ones with more than one meaning to everything?"

"Yes." Meena smiled in approval. "Not only is it good to keep a closer watch on your enemies, but being that much closer, you're poised for a preemptive strike."

Geret looked thoughtful. "I wouldn't say no to that idea, if I find out he's taking advantage of Sanych. Something about him...I just can't put my finger on it."

Meena leaned onto the table with her elbows, choosing not to comment on Geret's concern for the young Archivist. "That's for you to figure out. I'm not saying you're wrong. But perhaps a prince of the realm should withhold judgment until both sides have been heard, if he wants to be fair."

He clenched his teeth and sighed. "All right."

Later that day, Geret found Salvor and asked him if he'd like a rematch. Salvor scoffed that if he wanted to get beaten up by a thug, he could ask one of the ship's merchants to lend him a security officer. He didn't need to pester his prince. Geret replied that he'd go easy on Salvor, if it would make him feel better. To which Salvor retorted that he had no intention of going easy on Geret.

Again they gathered on the upper deck, and again Salvor trounced Geret. This time, however, Geret was not so much trying to defend against Salvor as learn his techniques. The man was lightning-quick, and his aggression was unrelenting.

As Geret picked himself up off the deck boards, listening to the crowd cheer for Salvor, he rubbed his chest through the padding and remarked, "Whew. You've got to be the best swordsman I've ever known, let alone dueled."

Salvor raised his dark eyebrows and paused in his strutting. "Well, you're slightly less of a fool than I took you for, my prince," he said quietly.

"I wonder," Geret replied, "which of us could master the other's technique faster."

Salvor's gave Geret his full attention, and a smile came to his full lips. Eyes full of dark promise, he said, "Let's find out, shall we?"

Geret flicked his sword hand in a few circles, loosening his wrist again for the next round, which would be by his rules, and sank back into a ready stance. An eager grin came over his face.

~~~

"I can't believe you let him split your lip like that, Salvor." Sanych tsked, holding a cool wet cloth against his face as he sat in a chair in his quarters.

"He's quite the brawler. I'm sure our country would be in perfectly lawless hands, should he ever slaughter his way to the Magister's position."

She gasped. "Don't even joke about that. That's terrible!"

"I'm sorry," Salvor said, his words a bit muffled as he turned to look up at her and got the cloth over his mouth. She smiled, lowering the cloth, her eyes drawn to his lips.

"And you're not nearly as upset as you were last time he beat you. What were you saying to each other out there?"

Salvor smiled with the unhurt half of his mouth. "We have a bit of a challenge between us. He's trying to best me at my style, and I'm trying to best him at his."

"Are you serious?" Sanych said, pausing in mid-wring of the cool cloth, water spattering out of the bowl as she turned to look at him. Seeing he was in earnest, she rolled her eyes. "Men."

"Dear, sweet Sanych. You'd feel differently if you thought we were fighting over you," he teased.

Sanych frowned. "Why in Wisdom would you do that?"

Salvor only grinned, then winced, touching his lip. "If you were a man, you'd understand."

"Then thank Wisdom I'm a woman!" she retorted.

"I do," Salvor agreed, brushing a gentle finger along the back of her hand, making her blush. Changing topics, he asked her, "How much longer to Ha'Hril?"

"I estimate two weeks and four days. It'll be nice to get solid ground under my feet after this, and I can't wait to see if it's really true that the only reason the toothspice plant grows in Ha'Hril is because the island is dominated by a volcano." Sanych's eyes sparkled at the thought.

"Toothspice is from Ha'Hril?" Salvor asked, but he wasn't listening to the in-depth response that Sanych regaled him with. He knew he could get her to repeat it again, word for word, later on. For the moment, he was mulling over the task he'd set himself once they reached Ha'Hril. Geret's sudden interest in their competition might prove a hazard.

##  Chapter Twenty-three

The weeks passed. Geret and Salvor dueled regularly, managing to set aside their egos for a little while every few days.

Captain Galanishav took a shine to Meena; now and again he strolled the upper deck with her, deep in conversation. She learned from him that each of the nine great masts on the Kazhak were named for different deities. The foremast was named for Cingor, king of the Kazhbor wind gods. The next two masts, set across from each other to port and starboard, were named for his twin wives: Talya, the homeward wind, and Temya, the outbound wind. The other six masts were named for their children, each controlling a different aspect of wind.

"It was Temya," the captain confessed, as he strolled with Meena one day in the humid spring air, "who drew me to the sea. Who draws me still. The unknown is the greatest wonder and mystery, and my soul is hers to command. Even its danger fascinates me. Which minds me, I should forewarn you: the Kazhak will begin his defensive nocturnal measures tonight."

"What measures?" Meena asked.

"The moon is nearing fullness," Galanishav said, stroking his sandy beard and gazing up at the blue sky. "We fire black powder from our cannons during the nights of the moon's brightest week."

"It is that time of year, isn't it?" Meena agreed. "Mating season. They feed under the moonlight to keep their strength up."

Galanishav's eyebrows rose. "You know the Deep Ones?"

"Not personally. I haven't been that unlucky yet." She smiled, and Galanishav chuckled. "Have you ever seen a Deep One?" she asked.

"But once. A day out of Salience Harbor in Hynd. It was spring then also. A large wave rocked our ship, an eighty-foot schooner, and the lookout spotted an enormous form breaking the water's surface. The creature had risen from the depths and was swimming swiftly toward land. I know not why; the moon was not even remotely full that night. One swift flap of its appendages beside our ship nearly capsized us. Two crewmen fell overboard. We feared our deaths were at hand that night, but the great beast passed us by." Galanishav took a thoughtful breath. "I am not sure they are as bloodthirsty as the legends say."

"Legends are often misleading," Meena agreed, nodding.

That night, the cannons boomed out every twenty minutes, all night long. Meena snuggled into her large feather bed, comforted by the sound. It had been many years since she'd heard it, and she dreamed of Hawill.

~~~

Marela m'Kora, her dark red hair bound into thick braids at her nape, looked down at her daughter, visible on the main deck through the spokes of the ship's wheel. The young woman below her stood by the rail, gazing eastward.

The warm waters of the spring-flooded Southern Sea below Marela's ship, the galleon Harbinger, swirled counter-clockwise, reflecting the turquoise sky and her daughter's eyes. The ship had entered the Gyre at Westward Deeps yesterday, and soon other Clan vessels would arrive from all directions for Spring Trading.

Marela tipped her head up and took a deep breath, letting her eyes play over the bright white streamers atop her triple masts. Skulls with long tangled hair still attached also clustered at the base of each streamer. The effect was quite intimidating to Marela's targets, though the heads belonged mostly to Clanswomen who had perished in battle. Those of the Clan who lost their lives early were kept close by the Prime, that they might still prove their worth even in death.

She loved Spring Trading. It had always been her favorite Clan holiday, and when she became Prime of Agonbloom, she extended its length from four to six weeks. The more relaxed atmosphere loosened her Clansmen's swag-hold covers a bit more, and there were more inter-ship crew transfers as well. Some became permanent, coupling up and remaining together, at least until the next Spring Trading, and the Clan was stronger for it.

Now that Rhona was a full-fledged adult among the Clansfolk, Marela knew it was a mere matter of time until she challenged her Prime for the right to lead. Rhona and Ruel had transferred to the Harbinger just in time to make Spring Trading, and Marela fully expected Rhona to make full use of its many opportunities to seek support for herself against her mother.

Until she overheard her daughter talking to Ruel that night.

The pale blue lanterns of other Agonbloom vessels, tinged and shaped to match the deadly jellyfish their Clan was named after, winked around them on the horizon, offering the comfort and power of numbers. No other clan would dare make an aggressive move during First Clan's Spring Trading. The evening breeze was warm and gentle, and the low creak and stretch of the rigging and spars overhead, even the faint knocking of the skulls in the high distance, were comforting in their familiarity.

Marela opened her cabin door as a prelude to exiting onto the main deck, and caught Rhona's hushed voice. Squinting, hoping to learn of Rhona's plotting against her, she eased the door nearly shut and put her ear to the crack.

"You don't think of them?" Rhona asked her cousin.

"Not much," Ruel answered, his guarded voice as low as hers.

"I do." Her daughter sighed, and Marela's eyes shifted at the wistful sound. "It just feels like we didn't finish properly. They were headed across three oceans, and we didn't even set boots to planks with them."

"He said we're done. That's enough for me." Ruel's voice was diffident.

"Of course it is," Rhona murmured, a thread of envy in her voice. "All you ever have to do is take orders."

"And all you ever have to do is give them," he countered.

There was a pause. Marela imagined her daughter's turquoise glare piercing Ruel, pinning him to the wall.

"You don't understand," she finally said, dismissing him. "You're just a man."

Ruel laughed, his voice humorless. "Is your prince just a man, too?"

"Don't be daft, Ruel; he saved my life. Besides, you were taught to finish a chore just like I was. It doesn't feel finished, no matter what that dirtwalker says."

~~~

The next morning, Harbinger pulled alongside the brigantine Destiny's Logbook, and the day began with trading swag, crew members, and meals. Marela saw that Rhona spent much of her time accepting congratulatory gifts to replace the jewelry she'd lost on her quest, yet she didn't wear nearly half of what she got from the crew of the Logbook.

A suspicion began to grow in Marela's mind; yet, ever patient, she waited for her prey to come to her.

And come she did, yet subtly so. Behaving childishly and carelessly, Rhona shunned the responsibilities of the adults and played small tricks as she had before her quest. Marela eventually had enough and confronted her on deck.

"Rhona, did you slip from the rigging and crack your skull? Quit messing about and get to work!"

"Prime, does a child do a woman's work?" the girl countered.

Marela smelled a rat. "If she lives that long. Speak your mind, wench."

Rhona explained how the dirtwalkers she and Ruel had found upon landing ashore had planned to travel across the sea to the far-off land of Shanal, yet in a moment of weakness, the boy in charge of the expedition had told them to leave, lest they get hurt by the masses of dusty people around them.

The eavesdropping crew laughed at the dirtwalkers' expense; no Clansmen ever feared the mudbound.

"You think your quest remains incomplete, then," Marela summed, crossing her arms as the wind bit at her back, splaying her thick braids across her shoulders. "That you're still that smidge of a girl who used to be afraid to brush the Ladies' locks." She nodded to the skulls clunking together aloft her masts.

Rhona frowned. "Half grown, perhaps," she allowed.

Marela pursed her lips, the lean planes of her face tanned and weathered. Meeting her daughter's eyes for a very long moment, she jerked her chin and said, "My cabin."

Rhona followed her across the deck and through the double doors. Within the spacious cabin, Marela stalked to the silverwood counter that ran beneath the windows across the stern. She turned and leaned her hips against it, bracing her palms on its lip.

"So this is how you plan to do it? Force me to choose between sending you away, or accepting that you passed the quest over your own objections? Clever, Rhona."

Rhona blinked. "I'm not—"

"Either way I choose, it looks weak. Either I'm desperate to keep you around, a weak leader who needs a strong heir, or I'm paranoid, intimidated by you, and must force you away from me." Marela clenched her jaw for a moment, and then nodded to her daughter. "You've learned well."

Rhona was silent so long, Marela realized she might be giving the girl a bit too much credit. But that was fine; it was never what was said that mattered, but what was done. Knowing the difference was the mark of a true leader.

"I'd prefer you send me to finish the quest," Rhona finally said, her voice casual.

"I'm sure you would," Marela said. "It would give you time to gather whomever you like and bring them and their crews to the challenge."

"I wouldn't bring others to my fight!" Rhona said.

Her mother shrugged a shoulder. "It's been done before," she said. "Tell me, if you really wish to finish your quest, where's the shiny?" she asked, rubbing two fingers against her thumb as if polishing a coin.

Rhona smirked, easing a buttock onto the edge of the Prime's table and relaxing. "Where's the shiny? It's in Shanal, of course!" She pointed off to the northwest. "Who travels halfway across the world and doesn't expect to be made richer than a king for it? I only had a week, so I didn't learn much, but they had over a hundred wagons with them. And," she grinned, still meeting her mother's eyes, "they're traveling in a Sea God."

Despite her cynicism, Marela's eyes widened. "You'll not catch them," she warned. "Sea Gods, for all their size, are equal to any Clan vessel for speed, and they carry a fleet's worth of cannon."

"They'll stop along the way. They left Yaren Fel in a bit of a hurry."

"And if you miss them entirely?" Marela raised her eyebrows.

A troubled look crossed Rhona's face. "Then I'll have done all I could," she answered, her voice husky.

Marela ran a finger along a short scar on her weathered cheek as she considered. "Very well; challenge whom you like in single combat," she said, referring to the captains of her Clan ships. "You have until the end of Spring Trading. Those you defeat will accompany you. I do have a caravel just for you, for completing your Age Quest, though..." she gave her daughter a half-smile, "I'm not sure you should receive it, since you're out to finish that selfsame quest."

"I don't need it," Rhona said quickly. Her mother grinned widely, exposing two gold teeth.

"Of course you don't. But a captain needs to learn how to properly provision a ship. Take her with you, Rhona."

"Him."

"Your ship is a him?" Marela asked, eyes scything through Rhona's soul, baring it in that instant, exposing its secret.

Rhona flushed, then let out a chuckle. "Of course. I have to get everyone to work for me, don't I? Especially the men!"

Rhona issued her first challenge three days later. Marela watched her carefully, second-guessing her decision to let her go, and what it would mean for them both if she demanded Rhona remain with the Clan. When Rhona won the challenge, and gained the allegiance of the captain of the Green Pearl, Marela came to a decision. She'd let Rhona go after her prince, after all.

It was the only way the stubborn wench would learn.

##  Chapter Twenty-four

Weeks of crossing the Southern Sea finally brought the Kazhak to the island nation of Ha'Hril. The day before land was visible, everyone who cared to glance westward could still pinpoint its location over the horizon, from the white plume of steam that reached high into the atmosphere. The volcano that had formed the land that became Ha'Hril was rumbling a bit, and it was a subject of speculation among the passengers, as to whether it was going to erupt soon or not.

Sanych said it wasn't likely. The mountain known to the Hrillians as Heren Garil Sa had had three eruptions in recorded history, every five to seven hundred years. It hadn't yet been four hundred years since the last eruption, which had blanketed the island with ash and nearly destroyed the toothspice industry.

The dock for the Sea Gods at Ha'Hril's port city of Ha'Lakkon was not nearly as long as the Yaren Fel dock since the sea was deeper near shore. Refugees and Vintens alike gathered on the upper deck to look out at the city as they drew nearer and nearer.

The enormous ship began its docking turn, angling to glide in against the dock with the help of several dozen dockworkers. The refugees abandoned the top deck, going below to gather their meager belongings. As he watched them, Geret silently wished them well in their next journeys; he had enjoyed meeting most of them during their transoceanic voyage.

About an hour before sunset, the ship was finally made fast. The refugees disembarked as soon as they could, leaving the few remaining regular passengers, including the Vinten expedition, on board.

Sanych lamented that there wasn't enough daylight to go into the city and learn much tonight; she decided to get an early start tomorrow. She invited Salvor to go along with her, and to her surprise, he agreed with alacrity.

The next morning, a sky island of clouds surrounded Heren Garil Sa. The mountain's steam plume was tinted pink with sunrise when Sanych and Salvor disembarked to explore the city. Ha'Lakkon angled gradually from the sea to the lowest slopes of the volcano, promising to give their legs some proper exercise.

The night before, Captain Galanishav had announced that they would be there for a day and a half for restocking supplies and trading, then the Kazhak would depart for Hynd and points northwest, sailing ultimately to Shanal. Knowing she had only one day to learn the secret of the toothspice and any other mysteries that Ha'Hril might hold, Sanych was determined to wring as much from the day as she could.

She visited the markets, the library, and the city hall complex, presenting her credentials. She listened to various experts detail the life cycle of the toothspice plant, its harvesting, and the process of creating the chewy ginger-colored confection known the world over as toothspice, chewspice, and sweet lockjaw. Nearly all of Ha'Hril's arable land was covered in crops of succulent toothspice plants.

Sanych wondered aloud to the Minister of Agriculture, within his large ashbrick office, why it was that the plant grew nowhere else in the world, and he seemed to consider for a few moments before answering.

"It's the soil, Archivist," he said in a quiet voice, his thick Versal accent not readily understandable. He eyed Salvor idling in the background as if he expected the man to run outside and begin shouting this information.

Sanych frowned in concentration. "What's in the soil?" she asked.

"We're not sure, to be honest. We have tried to grow the plants in secretly imported volcanic soils from other places, to no avail. There is something specific, some certain mineral, we believe, that is inherent in only our native soil."

Rather than being disappointed, this fact cheered the Archivist. She thanked the Minister and left with Salvor. They'd rounded a corner and were passing a public fountain when she noted he'd left his recently purchased sun hat inside the Minister's office. Chagrined, he patted his black hair, feeling the heat of the sun again, and excused himself, returning to retrieve it.

Once he had his styleless woven hat on again, they toured the city's sights together, making their way through the international crowds and eating at street side cafes, where they hid from the tropical sun under wide blue-and-yellow tabletop parasols and large-leaved, potted palms. Multi-level ceramic planters sat on many street corners and around fountains across the city, sprouting ferns and climbing vines and gigantic fragrant tropical blooms in gorgeous, multicolored welcoming arrays.

Sanych declared she'd not had as much fun since she and Meena won their bet aboard the Ondanta. As they grabbed a bite to eat in mid-afternoon, Salvor asked her to tell him that story, and between bites of a baked spinach-and-cheese-stuffed roll, Sanych obliged. Salvor, however, didn't seem entirely focused on her story; his eyes wandered around the enormous downtown square as if vaguely searching for something.

In fact, now that she thought about it, he'd been acting that way all day.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" Sanych asked, interrupting the end of her story and following his gaze around the fanciful, pale ashbrick architecture of the Hrillians.

"I'm sorry; I am a bit distracted, aren't I?" Salvor grinned. "Come, let's walk," he said, holding out his hand for hers, pulling her to her feet with a warm smile.

They meandered the rest of the afternoon, hand in hand, down the steepest scenic walks, the quietest business streets and the most crowded, widest central avenues. When he pulled her onto his lap on a secluded bench beneath a rustling palm and kissed her with thorough tenderness, all thoughts of his earlier distraction fled.

Part of Sanych's mind spent the rest of their time in the city trying to decide if this qualified as her first kiss, or if the shy peck one of the stable boys had given her back at the Temple still counted. The rest of her mind was in a happy daze, and the world seemed brighter than it had mere hours ago.

The sky darkened, and they ambled back down toward the sea. Gentle breezes touched Sanych's hair, bringing the sound of a fireburst, and she looked to the center of the open square they were edging past. A fire breather atop a short platform was performing for a growing crowd. The woman's long dark hair was slicked back into a fat swirl atop her head, and her scanty outfit's brass bobs gleamed and glinted in the light of the burning wand she carried. As Sanych paused to watch, the woman passed the wand in front of her lips and blew. A burst of flame that somehow resembled an eagle in flight spread into the air, remaining a moment longer than seemed natural. The crowd cheered and tossed coins into the performer's small basket.

Salvor distracted her by nibbling on her fingertips, and they continued on their way, but Sanych continued to puzzle over the woman's performance. She'd had no vial of flammable liquid, and had seemed to shape the flame. Had she missed something, a trick the woman had done, or was there something more to it?

It's magic, a voice whispered inside her head.

But I don't believe in magic, she replied.

Yes, you do. You believe in Meena.

A strange tingle shot through her, and she grinned. She looked over her shoulder in time to see the fire breather exude a swirling dragon of flame.

Evening brought them back to the ship, where Geret, Armala, Runcan and Sengril had been trying to understand the local language in order to locate and buy up as many replacement supplies as they could find in the docks section and surrounding markets. It wasn't easy. Meena hadn't been around to help all day.

She didn't show up for the supper meal aboard ship, either, and when Geret worried aloud that she might be in some sort of difficulty, Sanych laughed merrily.

"Geret, trust me, if Meena were in some difficulty in Ha'Lakkon, there would be fires and explosions–"

A low rumble from Heren Garil Sa occurred at that moment, startling Sanych, and the others chuckled at the look on her face.

"Maybe she's battling the volcano," Salvor teased, eyes alight.

"I wouldn't put it past her," Sanych answered. "Although, heat's not her forte."

"What do you mean?" Sengril asked, prompting Sanych to tell the ice-storm story, emphasizing how Meena could hibernate in freezing temperatures, but did not tolerate being warmed quickly.

"Fascinating," Runcan murmured. "She's a fascinating woman."

"As long as she gets us to Shanal, I don't care if she's the most boring woman on the planet," Armala said, and the other Counts laughed.

Finished with their meal, everyone began heading for the stairs that led down to the berth deck. Sanych smiled and asked Geret if he had a moment; she had found something she wanted him to see. Geret, against his will, glanced at Salvor. The young nobleman averted his eyes, but not before Geret read a mixture of smugness and disdain in his hazel gaze.

"Sure, Sanych," Geret said, more loudly than he needed to.

Salvor hesitated, but any intentions to eavesdrop were frustrated by Count Sengril, who drew him aside, murmuring earnestly in his ear. Geret caught a final, unreadable glance from the impetuous young lord before he turned and followed the Counts below, leaving the prince behind with Sanych.

Sanych remained in the aisle and began a short recitation of what she'd learned that day in the city. "Come with me," she segued, "there's a tapestry I found on the berth deck that I finally understand; you'll see!" She headed off without looking back to see if he was following. Geret shook his head and grinned, then traipsed after Sanych. Anything to put off the evening's drudgery of going over the quest's account books.

Sanych trotted down the steps and headed away from their rooms until she came to a small lounge, currently unoccupied.

"See this tapestry?" She pointed across the room to a depiction of a volcano erupting, its lava nourishing the toothspice plants, distinguishable even in woven form by their arrowhead leaves.

"Yes; what about it?" Geret frowned at the linen illustration.

"The lava, see, is 'watering' the toothspice. The Minister of Agriculture told me there's something in the soil here that makes the plant grow. If only I had thought to get a sample!"

"You think, if you took some of the soil from Ha'Hril home to Vint, you could actually grow the toothspice?" Geret asked, skeptical.

"Absolutely," Sanych said. "I'm sure it would need a solarium, but the soil is the key!"

"Key, to a lock no one could pick..." Geret mused. Then his expression cleared. "Of course! Toothspice is the exclusive product of Ha'Hril. So far. If we could set up a small solarium farm, we could get the corner on the mainland market for toothspice. We'd be raking in the gipp!"

"What? No! I mean, I've solved the mystery of the toothspice. I know the answer now."

"But what to do with that answer, that's up to the rulers of Vint," Geret said, preening.

Sanych put her hands on her hips. "That's not what I intended."

"But the Temple of Knowledge exists to aid the Magister. One day, you'll be one of the Masters of the Temple, and you'll serve my cousin Addan." A shadow crossed Geret's face as he was reminded of his purpose on this quest. "Then we'll see what we can do with the toothspice, Archivist," he said, recovering his equilibrium.

"Good luck getting the soil from them now; they know that I know," huffed Sanych, turning and heading for the corridor.

Geret realized she was upset with his grand scheme. He caught up with her at the corridor's edge. He was about to speak when he saw Salvor in the distance. The man looked over his shoulder, away from them, as if making sure he was not being followed. He was dressed in simple dark greys and had a large floppy hat on his head. He reached the hatch and slipped down the gangplank, out of sight.

Geret realized that Sanych had stopped and watched as well. He turned to her. "Where's he off to? Didn't you two spend all day in the city?"

"We did," Sanych replied, watching the now-empty hatch with a fatuous grin. Then she frowned. "I can't imagine where he's going, without me."

Geret found himself annoyed by her attitude. "Maybe he's going to go join a street gang." He saw Sanych's dark look and cleared his throat. "Uh, let me escort you back to your room, Archivist," he said, propelling her ahead of him. He walked with her to her door and bid her a good evening. Then, as soon as her door was shut, he bolted for his own room down the hall. He changed his clothing as quickly as he could, strapped on his sword, grabbed a light cape, and pelted down the corridor for the hatch.

Between his distrust of the nobleman and the way Sanych mooned after him, Geret was determined to find out what Salvor was up to, even if it killed him.

The sailors on watch at the base of the gangplank were of no help to Geret as to where Salvor had headed, since the last large crates of supplies were cluttering the great dock, and dockworkers and deckhands were working and jostling everywhere. Geret trotted up the dock and entered the streets of the city. He wished now that he'd pestered Sanych for details of where they'd gone, and whether Salvor had wanted to go anywhere in particular. He tucked that thought away for the next time he followed someone who'd spent the day with a girl with perfect recall.

Geret practically ran through the streets, ignoring the Hrillians who tried to sell him things or chastised him for jostling them in his rush. Once he reached the lower gates to the city proper, he caught a glimpse of Salvor's floppy hat from a distance and thanked Wisdom for his own height. He pushed through the busy night square, lit by dozens of tall poles supporting steaming yellow lamps that contained some mysterious form of light source, trying to keep an eye on that hat.

Salvor did not suspect he was being followed. He walked at an easy pace and didn't look around him, except at street corners, as if trying to remember where he'd been earlier. Geret angled himself so that he was behind the multi-level planters whenever Salvor approached another corner.

Once, Salvor seemed to get lost up a steeply sloping road, and he turned around suddenly and retraced his steps back down. Geret dodged quickly into a damp, dirt-floored alley and walked for several seconds, until he was sure Salvor had passed him by. He returned to the street and continued trailing, at a more discreet distance this time.

Eventually Salvor reached a small night market and headed for a business whose door opened directly into the market's edge. As he stepped inside, Geret slowed, calculating his next move. He lifted his hood and pulled his cape a bit tighter around him, then sidled over to a gap between two of the buildings edging the market area, ensuring him a clear view of Salvor's exit.

Not two minutes later, the young nobleman came back out, and Geret remained still as he strode past not three paces away. Once Salvor was around the corner, Geret slid back into the market's main walkway and entered the building, lowering his hood.

The inside of the small business consisted of a rectangular room built of ash bricks, a front and back door, a single window, and several dark wooden cabinets and countertops. The light in the shop was poor, emanating from two of the steaming lamps like Geret had seen throughout the city. He couldn't even tell what sort of business he had entered, being unfamiliar with the Hrillian script on the door.

A greasy man with dark, curly hair sat at the long, low counter, tucking a thick envelope into a mail bag. He looked up as Geret entered.

"You like-a mail message also?" the man asked in broken Versal, after giving Geret a once-over that convinced him his newest patron was also from the east.

Geret shook his head. "No. I want to buy that message," he said, pointing at the mail bag. The clerk's bushy eyebrows lowered in confusion. Geret removed his money bag and shook out a whole handful of gipp. "For that message, and any instructions for it."

The man's eyes widened and darted between the glittering coins and Geret's face. With a small sigh of regret, he said, "Sorry, sir. Cannot do for that price. Extra instructions for crate very 'spensive." The man tapped a low wooden box with his sandal. "Heavy. Delivery boys want extra when they drop it off after noon meal today. Say they pull a muscle."

Geret felt a shiver of ice shoot down his spine. What is Salvor doing? Who's the letter for? Does it have to do with the quest, or some issue back home? What's in the box that's so expensive, and why is he paying for it here, secretly? He frowned at the crate. Maybe the letter will tell me what's inside.

"All right then. Just let me read the letter, and you can keep the gipp." Geret belatedly reasoned that if Salvor was reporting to his father about the disasters that had happened on Geret's watch, then it would be better for Geret if the letter was delivered undamaged.

The clerk practically leaped to his feet, handing Geret the letter with one hand and scraping the gipp from his palm with the other.

"But you stay here, sir!" the man protested. "Message must deliver. My job!" Geret waved absently to the clerk and took the letter closer to one of the steaming lights. He examined the envelope. It was stamped with Salvor's personal wax seal, the symbol of a hunting fox.

Geret pursed his lips. The hiss of the lamp caught his attention, and he reached up a hand to feel its emission. It was warm, with a hint of moisture. He held the envelope above the lamp until the buff-colored wax softened, then wiggled it loose with the edge of his dagger.

He set the envelope on the edge of the counter and carefully began to unfold the letter within. Something brushed against his skin, falling from the letter. Geret looked down to see a long black hair resting against the back of his thumb. He held still and picked the hair off, setting it completely inside the envelope for later, then opened the letter.

The first word took him completely by surprise.

Imorlar,

Greetings from Ha'Hril, fair city of ash, where we have detoured for supplies. Our caravan rejects have likely returned home, cursing Geret's name. Traversing the sea is rather boring; however, our departure from Yaren Fel was not. May I suggest we offer the sultan a more favorable trade rate for a season, if that is not already being done? If he survived the infighting, his gratitude will doubtless prove useful one day.

Geret is determined to follow this quest to the end, the fool. He does not see it for what it is. Apparently your assignments hindered rather than helped, as I surmised. You owe me a bottle of your best brandy, and I fully plan to collect when we eventually get home from this absurd journey.

Dense as he is, the "prince" does not grasp my true purpose on this quest, and remains just as ignorant of certain others' purposes as well. Too bad for him. If it is to be spelled out to him, I believe it will require a large, blunt object. I truly fear for Vint if he is ever allowed to take the High Seat of Wisdom.

I will continue to perform my task, distasteful though it is. The Archivist, to my surprise, has surpassed even my high expectations for her. I believe her future with us can be arranged, given time and opportunity.

The usual safety precautions, as always, are at the back of my mind.

ST

Geret nearly crumpled the note in rage. He stood still, breath hissing through his teeth, for nearly a minute. Thoughts whirled rapidly through his head, and the mysterious crate and its unknown contents were forgotten.

Imorlar, who had recruited him, was also in league with Salvor. Salvor's father, Halvor Thelios, had suddenly abandoned the quest to stay at home. Pieces of an enormous puzzle flitted past his mind's eye. Where did they fit?

Imorlar's first task to Geret had pitted him against Salvor. Were they both testing him? His loyalty to his uncle? And then, all that lurking about in storerooms and scribners' file rooms, chasing statistics. Had that been busywork to keep him out of the way? Out of whose way, though?

Geret realized he was still standing in a mail depot in Ha'Lakkon, not back in the Magister's palace in Vint. He focused on the letter in his hand, swallowed, and read it a few more times, memorizing it. Then he folded it up, replacing the hair from where it had fallen–safety precautions at the back of my mind, indeed–and tucked it into the envelope. Warming the wax with the lamp's heat again, he gently tapped it down, sealing it firmly, and returned it to the clerk. Without a word, ignoring the man's bow and word of thanks, Geret spun and strode from the small building.

Ideas began blending in his head, and he felt a plausible, yet horrific, concept begin to form: Imorlar, the Magister's Seneschal, was in league with Halvor, his son, and who knew who else, in a plot to wrest control of the nation from the Magister. With Geret away, his uncle and his ill cousin Addan were fending for themselves against a ravening horde of greedy, power-hungry collaborators.

Fiery rage burst inside Geret's chest, and he began running. Salvor couldn't be far ahead. To be fair, he'd give the man one last chance to explain himself. But Geret knew how it would end. He and Salvor would have one last duel. And this one would be by Geret's rules.

##  Chapter Twenty-five

The blood pounding in Geret's head made it difficult to hear anything beyond his own breathing and footsteps. Rage gave him strength and speed, and he pelted through the hissing light pools on the lamp lit streets, dodging occasional pedestrians.

Salvor couldn't be far ahead now.

He recalled Meena's question about whether he'd ever killed a person before. Embracing his rage, he decided that the answer was about to change. As soon as Salvor had exposed his collaborators, and Geret had killed him, he was turning this quest around and going home. They could start again later, but if his uncle and cousin died in some evil plot while Geret and a third of the Counts were away, there was no point in trying to retrieve the Dire Tome.

Geret rounded a corner, finding he had a well-lit view for several blocks. Yet Salvor was nowhere in sight. Geret came to a halt, breathing hard, searching for his target.

A slight sound to his right made him draw steel and pivot to face it.

"Fine evening for stalking, isn't it?" Salvor looked coolly at him from the mouth of an alley.

Geret's lip curled; he lunged uphill toward Salvor with his sword. The nobleman's blade remained in its scabbard, and he easily avoided the reach of Geret's weapon.

"Stop, you fool," he began.

"No, you're the fool. Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?" Geret growled, jabbing again, backing Salvor into the alley. "Why don't you tell me when your cadre planned to make its move back home? Or has it already been done? Were you going to kill my uncle, or just bully him into becoming a puppet for you?" Each question was punctuated by a quick jab at Salvor's chest, and the man repeatedly dodged.

"You've been paying attention to my style during our duels on deck," he commented.

Geret bared his teeth. "I plan to use whatever method I need to cut the truth out of you," he said coldly.

Salvor's eyes widened as he heard the cold promise in the prince's voice. Flicking his gaze to the naked steel that floated nearer than he liked to his breastbone, he raised his hands in a gesture of harmlessness. "I'm quite sure I can come up with an explanation that will satisfy your curiosity, Geret," he began, but Geret cut him off.

"You idiot! I read your letter! It's safely on its way to Imorlar as we speak, but I know the truth. Don't pretend you didn't write those words. 'Dense as he is, the "prince" does not grasp my true purpose on this quest... Too bad for him. If it is to be spelled out to him, I believe it will require a large, blunt object.'" he quoted. "Are you supposed to kill me, so I can't return home to save my uncle from Imorlar's plot?"

"Geret, you're the last person I expected to intercept that letter," Salvor said, his voice low.

"Right, because I'm a fool; I get it. Now, who–are–your–partners?" he asked, jabbing repeatedly, making Salvor evade. With his last word, Geret lunged suddenly, slicing through Salvor's right sleeve and drawing a deep cut through his upper arm.

Salvor hissed in pain and dragged the Thelios-crested sword from its scabbard with his wounded arm. "You want names, trickster? I'll give you names," he said, blocking Geret's next thrust and slashing wildly in defense. "Imorlar. Your uncle's seneschal."

Geret bristled at the memory of how he'd enjoyed at least some of his time training with Imorlar, and it drove him to attack. He dashed past Salvor and reached out with a quick slash, forcing his opponent to parry. Passing behind him, Geret pivoted quickly, trying for a quick jab to Salvor's back, but Salvor spun away, recognizing the tactic.

"You want another name?" Salvor said, now on the downhill side of the battle. "Halvor Thelios. Yes, that's right, my father. He–"

"He lied to the quest! You were a plant, a spy!" Geret called, seething.

Geret engaged Salvor again, and they danced around the alley in a circle of flashing blades, slashing high, cutting low. They dodged and parried, leaped and scuffled. The fight put Geret forcibly in mind of their play duels aboard the Kazhak, and he brought his full focus to bear on the fight, knowing that Salvor was his technical master.

Salvor finally managed to grip Geret's sword wrist and shove him bodily away toward one of the alley's ashbrick walls. Geret thudded against the bricks with a cough. Salvor checked his blood-soaked sleeve for a moment and then said, breathing heavily, "My father agreed to go on this quest, knowing all along that he'd bail out at the last minute and send me in his place. That was the plan!" he shouted, slashing his blade through the air.

Geret rushed forward, holding his sword out in front of him. Salvor adopted a wide ready stance. At the last moment, Geret slid to the bricks below him and skidded into Salvor's left leg with his feet, hooking the man's ankle and shoving his knee back, making him stumble and fall backward. Geret tried to get a leg lock on him, but Salvor kicked him in the chest and he flew backward, dropping his sword.

"Who else?" he wheezed, rolling over and reaching for his sword again.

Salvor was already on his feet. He tried to kick away Geret's sword, but Geret threw himself into Salvor's legs, tangling them. As they fell together, Geret clambered bodily up Salvor until he sat on his chest. He twisted the sword from Salvor's grip and punched him in the face several times.

"Who else!?" he shouted in the man's face.

"Runcan..." Salvor bubbled through a bleeding nose, "Gerzal, Rentos too." Geret did not know those Counts well; they stayed behind when the quest left, to advise the Magister as they always had.

"By Wisdom..." Geret breathed. There really was a conspiracy. An odd sound made him look down at Salvor; Geret was surprised to see him laughing quietly through the blood flowing from his nose.

"You think this is funny? I'm about to kill you," Geret grated.

"You'll want the last name, Geret. The ringleader."

Geret froze, his neck muscles taut. "Who?"

"Beret Branbrey, His Wisdom the Lord High Magister." Salvor's chest heaved in silent laughter.

"I don't understand." Geret's mind went perfectly, completely blank.

"You fool." Salvor grinned bloodily. "We're the good guys."

"You're lying," Geret insisted. "Trying to save yourself!"

Salvor rocked his head back and forth on the alley bricks. "Your uncle assigned me to protect you. The arrogance, our initial meeting–Imorlar and I set it all up. We wanted you to fall for the ruse. You had to hate me, so the others wouldn't suspect we were all working together. You, me, Imorlar. All helping your uncle defend against the conspiracy of his greedy enemies. But, as I suspected, you were too dense to see it."

"That's a lie," Geret said, but his heart wasn't in it. He recalled how Salvor had been the one to send the troops back to look for him in the silver sands of Kirth. How his uncle had kept the truth of Addan's madness from his own Dictat. "Imorlar had me doing boring stuff."

"Just because you weren't aware of the importance of your work doesn't mean you're not with us. All the information you gave Imorlar was used to determine which Counts were trustworthy and which were not. Your uncle was very grateful for your services, though he couldn't say so. You had to be kept in the dark, to keep you safe."

"So why tell me now?" Geret gave Salvor's grey collar a shake.

"I'm still sworn to protect you, Geret, even from yourself. This quest is more dangerous than you know. If you told what you have just learned tonight to the wrong person, your life would be in danger."

"I'm still not convinced you're not that wrong person," Geret growled. In the distance, numerous footsteps approached.

"Then how come the better swordsman's lying on his back, beaten bloody? You don't have a mark on you, Geret. I would never bring grievous harm to my sworn prince. I gave your uncle my oath of honor. He is in danger, Geret, as are you. But not from me; not from us."

Tingles swept through Geret's entire body, and his eyes stared at the bloody work of his hands upon Salvor's face. The grooves of his knuckles were lined with the man's blood. His beaten opponent remained silent, watching Geret's face; they both knew that his life hung in the balance.

And then, so did Geret's.

"Anghi lo bei," a low voice said from the alley's mouth, and as Geret and Salvor both looked over, several other figures joined the speaker.

"Quen ur mettau?" one asked the first, gesturing between Geret and Salvor with the point of a dagger.

The first man grinned and pointed to Geret, and the men began to advance into the alley, drawing short swords or pairs of daggers.

"Wisdom! Let me up," Salvor hissed. Geret leaped away, picking up both his own sword and Salvor's. He pivoted to face Salvor as the man spun to his feet, but then he suffered a moment of indecision.

If he gave the sword back, Salvor could kill him. These men might even be working for him. His eyes flicked to the advancing men.

Salvor wiped his bloody nose with a sleeve and raised his hand to receive the sword Geret still held.

Geret remembered when Salvor had advanced on him after their very first duel, bright blade in hand. He had only handed it over, despite the look in his eyes.

Geret tossed the sword. Salvor caught it by the handle and brought it to bear toward the other assailants, and he and Geret stepped closer together for mutual protection.

A thrill passed through Geret: he had chosen wisely. He set all ramifications of that choice aside and focused on living long enough to sort through them.

The thugs spread out in an arc, blocking the entire alley. Geret counted quickly; there were eight of them. And he'd just beaten his only ally bloody.

Not the best odds.

"Run?" he suggested to Salvor.

"No. I want to know which one they're working for," Salvor responded, eyeing the advancing, grinning men.

"Which who?" Geret asked.

But there was no more time to talk. The thugs didn't want them collaborating on strategy, it seemed. Two of them advanced on each of the young men, while the others blocked the exit.

Salvor leaped at one of the men immediately, causing him to stumble back. He occupied the man's space and flicked a jab at the second attacker as well, putting them both on the defensive inside three seconds. Geret realized now wasn't the time to take notes on Salvor's style. His two opponents rushed him at the same time, determined not to be taken down by a single foe.

The alley rang with steel on steel, grunts, curses and shouts. Passersby quickly fled, not wanting to be pulled into the scene or killed for witnessing something they should not.

As the fight stretched to two minutes, then three, Geret and Salvor focused their efforts on working as a team against their opponents, tangling them up and cutting them down.

Salvor reached down to a downed thug and scooped up a dagger. Instead of keeping it, however, he tossed it to Geret, who caught it and immediately flicked it toward one of the men in the back, catching him in the upper chest. The man dropped his short sword and clutched at the weapon embedded in his chest, then sank slowly to the bricks.

Salvor slashed at his remaining opponent, making him back off a step, and scooped up the dead man's other dagger. "For Wisdom's sake, keep this one!" he shouted, tossing it to Geret as well.

Geret grinned wickedly, leaping aside from a slash to catch the dagger. He pivoted around behind one of his attackers and drove the smaller weapon into the man's kidney a few times. The stabbed man stumbled into his ally, who shook him off and lunged at Geret, catching him a grazing blow against his ribs.

Geret hissed; it stung like fire. The three rearmost thugs rushed up to help the other two finish the job before they lost too many of their number.

Geret frantically ducked and slashed, leaped and twisted, but three on one was too much for him. He found himself backing away, unable to do much other than parry and dodge. A glancing blow to his left arm made him drop the dagger; it skittered downhill, leaving him with only his sword.

"Salvor!" he called, noting how awkward it felt to ask the man for help when he'd been intent on killing him ten minutes ago.

Salvor parried a sword strike, punched one opponent in the face, and pivoted to kick the other in the knee. He dashed toward Geret and drove his sword into one of the prince's attackers from behind. The target fell against Geret as he went down, though, and Geret stumbled. The other two men leaped toward him, and Salvor lunged at one of them with a full-body tackle, knocking him to the ground. He rolled off the man, gaining his feet in a flash, but the prince's third attacker chose that moment to strike.

Salvor lunged forward, and the thug thrust the sword home.

Geret gasped and swore.

Salvor went limp with a sigh, the short sword throbbing with the rhythm of his heart, and collapsed back into Geret's arms.

"Folly, no!" Geret cried. There were still three men in the alley who wanted him dead, and his only ally had just sacrificed himself for nothing. He set Salvor down gently and stood over him, seething, sword at the ready.

The men advanced on him, wary. The one who had stabbed Salvor snatched up Salvor's family sword and taunted Geret with it.

"Come and take me, then. If you can," Geret gritted, body pumping with more adrenaline than he'd ever felt in his life. He felt so alive at this moment, he thought he might take flight, or breathe fire–

A loud bang erupted at the mouth of the alley, echoing painfully in the semi-enclosed space and startling everyone. Geret thought he could see a puff of black against the mere dimness of the Ha'Hril night, and felt hope blossom in his heart. He leaped at the man who had just stabbed Salvor, slicing his arm as the man clumsily tried to parry. Geret kicked him in the knee, then the sword hand. As the man cried out and reached for another weapon, Geret grasped his sword in both hands and spun in a tight circle, bringing his sharp blade down on the man's neck.

Apparently it's harder to decapitate someone than the stories say, Geret thought, watching the man writhe helplessly and scrabble at his gushing neck.

Another explosion rocked the alley, much closer to the two remaining thugs. They stopped advancing on Geret and looked up, past him. Geret kept his eyes on them.

A voice called down, echoing in the alley. "Ha'Hril kadden fa, naut ensa." In quick succession, two black-fletched arrows sprouted from the thugs' chests. One man collapsed where he was. The other raised his sword and got all the way to Geret with a last, pathetic swing. Geret blocked it easily and shoved the man over onto the bricks, then stabbed him in the heart for good measure and payback.

He stood for a few moments, panting heavily. Sweat dripped off his strained face, and he mopped his brow with a sleeve. He turned and looked up at the roof behind him.

"Thank you, Meena."

Meena nodded, bow in hand. She unstrung it, tossed it down to him, and skittered down a support beam to the alley floor. The bow's wood was dyed black, and he realized it wasn't Meena's.

"The city guardsman a few blocks over will be wanting that back. I'm not sure he deserves it," she said.

"I wish you'd been one minute earlier," Geret said, moving over to Salvor's side. He knelt by the man and reached out to slide Salvor's eyelids over his blank hazel gaze.

Meena grabbed his hand. "One minute? Move over." She bumped him away with her hip, and Geret caught a whiff of bitter minerals from her hair. She knelt next to Salvor's body, feeling at his vital areas with gentle hands.

"Meena, he's dead. The sword was throbbing with the beat of his heart." Geret's voice cracked, and he gulped. For the first time, he thought of how he was going to tell Sanych that Salvor was dead.

"Geret, when I tell you, and not before, I want you to pull the sword out of his chest."

"What?"

"Do as I say, princeling," Meena ordered, eyes on Salvor.

Geret had been through such an emotional gamut the last half an hour, he didn't argue or question any further. He merely stepped across Salvor and put his hands lightly on the short sword's handle. "Tell me when."

Several more seconds passed. Then Meena said, "Now!", startling him. He jerked the sword up roughly, though he had intended to merely slide it out. All thoughts of whether it even mattered on a dead man evaporated as he stared, openmouthed, at Salvor's first shuddering breath.

Meena held the nobleman's shoulders down as he convulsed, eyes rolling. Geret dropped the sword and leaned onto his chest as well.

"What did you do?" he asked, in total disbelief.

"I've given him a chance. He was nearly gone. It'll take him a while to come around, if he comes around at all."

Salvor's convulsions ceased, and he subsided into unconsciousness. Geret laughed for a moment in amazement, then looked at the skin through the hole in Salvor's shirt. It was completely healed over.

"Meena..." Geret began, but he couldn't find any adequate words.

"You do your job, Geret, and I'll do mine," Meena said with a small smile. "Now, hold still. I see you're bleeding, too."

Geret dutifully held still while Meena checked him over, and felt an odd redistribution of warmth within himself under her ministrations. She didn't seem to do anything other than gently check on his wounds, but when he lifted the torn part of his shirt to examine his own sword wound, his skin was as unbroken as Salvor's.

"I...I don't know what to say. I didn't quite believe...still having trouble..." He felt his side again and grinned, shaking his head. "I can't think of the right words, except 'thank you'."

"At least your mother raised you to be polite, Geret," Meena smiled. "Now, let's get back to the Kazhak before anything else happens out here, shall we?" She snatched up Salvor's sword and strode out into the street.

##  Chapter Twenty-six

Earlier that day

Meena had left the Kazhak early in the morning, stopping only to acquire a horse and a few supplies before riding south toward the steaming peak of Heren Garil Sa. For defense, she carried only a short sword and dagger; her bow would only be a hindrance in the confines of her destination. Once out of the city, she was surrounded by toothspice plantations, an encroaching green carpet on the dark red soil of the volcano's sloping sides. As she rode up toward the peak itself, she could gradually see the larger, southern area of the island come into view. Most of it was comprised of small villages and innumerable fields of toothspice, sloping down to the sea over a dozen miles further south.

The sea air occasionally freshened the smoky, sulfuric atmosphere with its salty teases as she halted her mount near a few small cave openings. A complex series of lava tubes trailed back into the earth, beneath the scrubby, wind-angled trees that clung to this particular ridge of the mountain's still-vegetated slopes. A small steam vent a few dozen paces to her right had killed off all the greenery within a windscaped radius.

Meena closed her eyes, her mind flying back through time. She had stood here, once before. The mountain had loomed much higher over her then; much of it had since blown off and settled on the city below, burying its old iteration, then been formed into ashbricks that created its current streets and structures.

The throb and pull of what she sought within the tunnels was strong. It called to her, and after so many centuries, the thrill of its silent voice sped up her heart rate. Soon, she couldn't sit still any longer. She dismounted and hobbled her horse. Pulling a large tool satchel from her saddlebags, she strode toward the fourth tunnel entrance from the left. The call was strongest there, and she trusted her blood more than her memory.

An hour later, deep in the veins of the mountain, Meena stopped, feeling the pull of the key directly beneath her feet. She breathed in through her nose; the tang of minerals and stale water was strong here, close to the caldera. The air in here was hot and bitter, like a summer day in the Desert of Glass. She set her lantern down and laid her tools by her feet. Hands playing over the smooth lumps of stone, she listened intently to the thrum of the device she sought. Finding the spot directly above it, she placed a finger there and reached back for her sledgehammer.

Two hours later, Meena was kneeling on the tunnel floor, reaching as far as she could into the new hole she had created, chipping away with a chisel and hammer. She was unmindful of the myriad cuts her arms, torso and knees had received from the sharp, brittle edges of the brownish stone chips. Her shirt sleeves hung in blood-soaked ribbons, though her skin healed over every time.

Sweat beaded her brow and ran in rivulets off her chin. She was glad she hadn't needed to add to the atmosphere by blowing anything up with the smoke bombs she'd liberated from the Vinten quest's armory aboard the Kazhak. Finally, she could feel the top of the key with her fingertips.

She dragged the lantern closer to the hole, leaving bloody fingerprints on its wire handle. The key gleamed at her. Redoubling her efforts, Meena excavated the small object and lifted it up to the light to examine it. The small, dark sphere pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and as she held it, all the remaining rock fragments that had adhered to it for the last four centuries fell away.

"You remember him better than I do, now," Meena told the key.

It did not reply.

"Well, it's you and me again. This time, that treacherous book will get what it deserves." Meena tucked the key into its old home, scooped up her tools and her lantern, and left the lava tube, muttering about needing that extra shirt she'd brought.

~~~

Geret felt as fresh as if he'd just woken up from a full night's sleep. He lifted Salvor's unconscious form from up onto his sturdy shoulders and carried him down to the next main road, following Meena. At the corner, Meena handed the city guardsman stationed there his bow and quiver, but her glare could have burned stone. The man wisely said nothing.

"What did I miss?" Geret asked, as Meena turned away from the guardsman.

"Just some local idiocy." Meena headed downhill toward the city center, and Geret took large strides to keep up, shifting Salvor on his shoulders.

At the next main intersection, he and Meena found a rickshaw driver willing to cart them to the docks, and he gratefully set Salvor down and clambered next to him in the narrow seat. Meena perched on Geret's knees and tucked her feet under Salvor's ankles. She braced herself with an arm on the side of the rickshaw and checked the unconscious man again, as if reassuring herself that she had indeed saved him. During the cramped ride, Geret told Meena all that he knew of the evening's encounters.

Soon they arrived at the Sea God dock. It was still bustling with late night supply loading, and no one glanced at them twice, even with Salvor loaded again onto Geret's shoulders.

Geret carried Salvor all the way to his quarters, while Meena kept a lookout to make sure they were not seen by anyone in their party. She opened Salvor's door quietly, and they laid him on his bed.

"I'll go get Sanych," Meena said, setting Salvor's sword on a side table. "You stay put."

"Why do we need Sanych?" Geret asked.

"You know someone else who can piece this together any better? You stay in here. I'll be right back."

Meena slipped quietly out the door. Geret wondered again what Salvor had meant by "which one they're working for."

He sighed. He'd just have to wait for the details. Shrugging his shoulders to roll off the tightness from carrying Salvor, he noticed that his cape and shirt were sticky with the man's blood.

He had just pulled one of Salvor's clean shirts over his head–a deep blue one–when the door opened. Geret's hand moved to his sword, until he saw that it was Meena who entered. Sanych was right behind her.

When the Archivist saw Salvor lying on the bed–shirt soaked with blood, eyes closed–she covered her mouth with her hands and shrieked. Meena hurriedly shut the door and locked it.

Geret strode forward. "You didn't warn her?" he said roughly.

Meena scowled at him. "I did. She's fifteen."

Geret took Sanych's hands and got directly between her and Salvor. "Sanych, he's all right. Meena saved him. He's just resting. He'll wake up later. Right, Meena?" he asked.

"That's the plan," the Shanallar responded. She strode over to the bed and started getting Salvor out of his bloody clothes. "Maybe, Geret, you'll be good enough to find him a new shirt to wear, seeing as you've located his closet?"

Geret offered Sanych a chair, but she said, "No, I want to help," and joined Meena by the bed. He walked to the closet and pulled out a cream shirt, then laid it on the bed.

Once the women had cleaned Salvor up and made him comfortable, they sat with Geret by the bedside.

"How long will he sleep?" Sanych asked, glancing worriedly at Salvor's pale countenance, his limp fingers intertwined with hers.

"A few hours at least. His body had quite a shock."

The young Archivist bit her lip. "He's just so still. Are you sure there's nothing we can do for him?"

Meena leaned forward and took Sanych's other hand in both of hers. "It's all up to him now. But I didn't bring you here for Salvor. We need your help to save Geret from another attack."

"Another? Is that how Salvor got hurt? I can't help you with that; I've never held a sword in my life!" Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Sanych, relax. Just listen to Geret. Use that archival memory–who among the Counts might want Geret dead?" Meena looked into Sanych's eyes.

"The...Counts?" Sanych gulped. When Meena and Geret both nodded, the Archivist's eyes darted to Salvor again, and she swallowed hard.

Geret picked up his tale from earlier in the evening when he'd left Sanych at her door, repeating all the names he'd learned from Salvor. Sanych listened in silence, her free hand pressed over her lips.

When he had finished, Meena got them both a cup of hot tea and began her own tale. Neither Geret nor Sanych had any idea where Meena had spent her day, so they both listened raptly.

"I took a horse and rode up to the volcano," she began. "It didn't take too long, but longer than last time." She could see Sanych was dying to know what happened; she smiled indulgently at the young girl. "I had to go there, you see, because that's where I hid the key."

"The key to what?" Geret asked, leaning forward.

"The key to the book's otherworldly prison."

"What? There's a key?" Sanych burst out.

Meena grinned for a moment. "Yes, and no one can take the book from its hiding place without it. But anyone who possesses the key could conceivably retrieve the book, so I brought the key here from Shanal, nearly four hundred years ago."

"I can't believe you didn't mention the key," Sanych pouted.

"I'd think you'd be used to that by now," Meena said, raising an eyebrow. "Hiding it was the first thing I did after locking that dark volume away. I knew that Heren Garil Sa was about to erupt. I stayed here in Ha'Lakkon until the signs of the coming eruption were so constant that evacuations were taking place from every port.

"And then I climbed into the mountain. The key is as indestructible as I am, though neither of us were intended that way. Originally, I only wanted to destroy the key. But I didn't want to chance my own destruction in case the key and I were linked more strongly than I thought, so I chose instead to hide it in one of the many lava tubes that riddled the slopes of the volcano. I left Ha'Hril, satisfied that, between the magic of the key and the magic of the mountain, no one would ever learn its location.

"Today, the key called to me just as strongly as it ever did. It took a bit of smashing and picking to reach it, but it's in my possession again."

Meena put a hand to her breastbone and winced for a moment, then withdrew a small black orb straight out of her body and held it out to show them. It fit easily in her palm, glistening wetly in the light, and seemed to pulse just below the threshold of hearing.

Sanych wrinkled her nose, then looked puzzled. "Do you smell that?"

Geret concentrated for a moment, then looked at Meena. He needed no confirmation; he'd smelled it earlier this evening. "Blood."

Meena nodded. "There's enough blood in this tiny sphere to fill a body. Specifically, my body. This key is a product of the book itself; I had to empty my veins into it in order to hide that black opus from the world. Because I healed so quickly, it didn't kill me like it should have." A dark cloud of memory passed across Meena's eyes for a moment. "I was supposed to die. He was supposed to take the key and destroy it. But things didn't work out that way."

"Who's 'he'?" asked Sanych.

"Ask me in Shanal. That is where his story should be told." Meena's eyes grew thoughtful as they stared at the small black orb.

While Sanych gritted her teeth at yet another put-off, Geret asked, "Wait, Meena. We only came to Ha'Hril by accident. When were you going to tell us about this key? We could easily have planned to come here from the start, if we'd known. We might have gone all the way to Shanal without even knowing we needed a key!"

Meena turned a cool green stare in his direction. "Exactly." She pushed the sphere back into her body, where it disappeared without leaving any trace. "And I'm going to be the one to keep the key."

"How did all your blood fit in there?" Sanych asked hesitantly.

"Magic."

Sanych understood and nodded. She recalled Meena's use of that single-word answer to the Masters of the Temple of Knowledge.

"No, wait, Meena," Geret protested. "I meant, how did you plan to get the key? Ha'Hril wasn't on the Kazhak's itinerary." He squinted. "Did you have something to do with the riot in Yaren Fel? To try and divert us to a closer port?"

Sanych, who hadn't been present for the "overarching themes" conversation, darted her eyes quickly between the other two. "What?" she blurted.

Meena merely laughed. "No. I really didn't have enough time to set that up. I merely suggested to Captain Galanishav that we alter course to Ha'Hril, rather than try to make Hynd. He found my suggestion eminently reasonable." Meena's slight smugness left Geret wondering exactly how she'd brokered that deal. "But I would have come here for the key with or without that riot, and with or without any of you. Except perhaps Sanych." The Shanallar smiled at the Archivist, who wasn't sure if the words were a compliment.

"All right. But how did you know about the attack on me?" Geret asked, getting back on track with the events of the evening.

"I've got good hearing. That main street where the guard had apparently gone deaf is one of the roads that leads out of the city and up over the volcano's flanks. I heard the clash of swords and the shouting. Saw a few people hurrying out of that street. I didn't know it was you and Salvor in the alley then, of course. Ironic, isn't it? Just trying to be helpful, and I ended up saving your sorry skin!"

Geret gave her a wry smile. "If you hadn't come along, we'd both be lying in that alley. Again, you have my thanks. Consider your life debt repaid," Geret said.

Meena nodded graciously to him. "So that's everything, Sanych," she said. "Can you make sense of it all enough to pull out a name? One of the Counts other than Runcan, perhaps?"

"I'll need a few minutes to think." Sanych put her middle fingers delicately against her temples and frowned, then relaxed and closed her eyes. The others could see her eyes flicking back and forth occasionally under her lids.

Eventually she sighed and shook her head, opening her eyes. "I don't see anything definite, without more information. I'm so sorry." Her eyes turned to Salvor, still asleep on the bed.

"It's not your fault, Sanych," Geret said. "You're a wonderful addition to this team. We'll just have to get you more information, is all."

Meena's sharp voice cut in. "Think again, princeling. We don't want them to know you suspect anything. We're stuck on this ship for quite a while, with little clue to the dangers we're facing."

Geret sat back in his chair and scratched his chin, then nodded, albeit with reluctance.

Sanych, still upset, added, "I've never known of a Count to stoop to murder."

"That doesn't mean they haven't gotten away with it secretly. When Salvor wakes up, I'll want him to talk to you and see if you can figure it out together. And if there's anything else I can think of, I'll tell you as well."

"All right." Sanych nodded. "What do we do now?"

"We need to act normally," Meena said. "We'll say that Salvor was attacked by thugs and Geret saved him, and leave it at that."

Geret and Sanych agreed, and Geret escorted the ladies back to their rooms and made sure they bolted their doors before taking a moment to compose himself. Then he went and knocked on the Counts' doors and informed them of Salvor's condition. Both Sengril and Armala appeared as shocked as Runcan was, and Geret cursed his lack of court experience, leaving him unable to read subtleties in their demeanors. He was sure one of the two suspects was shocked at the attack, while the other was merely shocked at the wrong target being wounded.

They all insisted on seeing Salvor and summoning the ship's physicks to tend him. Geret let them do both. He told them Meena had helped Salvor, but he made it seem that she'd done that only after Geret had brought him back to the ship.

The physicks proclaimed him sleeping deeply and said they would check on him in the morning. After the Counts returned to their rooms with promises of doing the same, Geret took one last look at the sleeping man.

"You still owe me more answers, Salvor," he murmured quietly. "You can't die now." His lip curled, and he added guardedly, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but...get better soon." Geret turned and left the room, taking Salvor's key and locking the door behind him.

A few moments later, he tapped on Count Runcan's door. When the man let him in, Geret's face was a mixture of doubt and determination.

"Is Salvor awake already?" Runcan asked, shutting the door behind Geret.

"No. But it's because of him I'm here. It's probably no secret he and I don't get along. I think that in this case I have to trust him, though."

Runcan's eyebrows rose. "In which case, exactly?"

Geret sighed, put his hands on his hips and faced Runcan directly. "In the case where you're all spying for my uncle and didn't think me worthy of letting in on the secret."

"Oh." Runcan turned and indicated a padded armchair. "That case. Perhaps you'd better sit down, then, my prince," he said.

Geret sat, and Runcan joined him.

Geret steeled himself, looking intently at Runcan. The slim, red-haired man seemed as calm and centered as he always had. That he was secretly allied with Geret's uncle, against some sort of takeover plot, seemed bizarre and otherworldly. Geret relayed the entirety of the evening to the Count, including Meena's miraculous healing of Salvor.

"So he was telling me the truth?" Geret asked, squinting in disbelief even now.

"I'm afraid he was, Geret," Runcan confirmed, nodding. He explained that Count Thelios and his son had worked closely with the Magister for two years, protecting his interests while appearing apathetic, in order to be approachable by the opposition. He also added that the assignments Imorlar had given Geret were an attempt to make him aware of the larger scope in which the Dictat operated, to prepare him for dealing with them as well.

"You see," Runcan said, leaning forward, "this quest is but a distraction created by the Magister. He's separated Sengril and Armala from their conspirators back home. They cannot communicate easily anymore, and the plot against your uncle has hopefully stalled out."

"So what is it they're after? What do they want?" Geret asked, leaning his elbows onto his knees.

Runcan sighed. "We don't know. They've been efficient at covering their tracks, hiding their communications. Before the quest left, we hadn't been able to learn of their true purpose, but they've been working at it for years. Years, Geret."

Wisdom, what have I waded into? Geret thought. "They're not the only ones with secret ways," he said aloud. He told Runcan that Meena had detoured the ship here to Ha'Hril so she could retrieve the key that only she knew existed, and that she kept it within her body with some form of magic.

Runcan exhaled slowly and ran his fingers through his light red hair. "If we push her, she will merely leave us and retrieve the volume alone. And then destroy it. We must not aggravate her. And we must not aggravate Sengril or Armala. They're doing their duty as Counts on this quest; they know it's punishment, and they accept it. Their part in any plans back home is on hold, and there's nothing served by fighting the part they've been given in the meantime."

"How can you be so sure? Eight men just tried to kill me in an alley! Are you so confident it wasn't one of them?"

Runcan looked shocked. "Geret! The Counts are not thug lords! Their warfare is conducted in the ways of trades, tariffs, and alliances with like-minded merchants. Vint is as civilized a nation as you will find! I fear you've been living a bit too far into your imagination, lad. No Count would resort to base murder simply to tip the scales in his favor."

"You know that for sure? You'd bet your life on it?" pressed Geret.

"I would indeed," Runcan said, meeting Geret's eyes. "I've known these men for decades. Their actions are not dissimilar from what mine would be in the same situation."

Geret blinked. This sort of cultured warfare was a bit above his comprehension; he had no idea that his uncle and the Dictat operated on such a cerebral level. Although, he had to admit to himself, with Wisdom as their model of perfection, the Dictat embodied the nine wisest men in the entire land, save his uncle. Geret felt a little hurt that the Magister hadn't told him about the quest being a distraction for the Counts, as well as a means to save Addan's life. His uncle was a true puppet master, causing everyone to dance to their own small parts of the greater song, unaware of how much there was that they did not know.

Until now. Now it was starting to come together. He rubbed his forehead vigorously, wishing he could scrub away the fuzzy feeling in his mind.

"I'm not so sure I can just accept that," he admitted. "If Salvor had been killed, would you still feel as certain?"

Runcan leaned forward onto his elbows. "Even more so. They would never endanger him; they believe he's willing to join their side, remember? Any thugs sent to kill you by them would have specific instructions to avoid harm to Salvor, or any other potential ally."

Geret nodded as if convinced, but in his mind he recalled that the sword strike that had pierced Salvor's heart had been aimed at his; the nobleman had leaped in the way at the last moment.

"I'll take my leave, then," he said. "Hopefully Salvor will wake soon. I have more to discuss with him." He rose and stepped to the door.

"I'm sure you do, lad."

##  Chapter Twenty-seven

Before dawn the next morning, the Kazhak put out to sea. After breakfast in the nearly-empty dining hall, Meena ascended the curving staircase to the upper deck and looked back at the receding view of Ha'Hril and Heren Garil Sa from her position behind the steering shelter. The volcano had shot out a particularly large cloud of steam and ash this morning, and the sunlight filtered through it, leaving ray fingers reaching toward the western horizon.

She felt oddly complete with the key in her possession again. With its return, distant memories grew sharper, however. Lost in thought, she leaned on the rail and stared back at the volcano island until it could not be seen any longer, even from the height of the Kazhak's deck.

Sudden footsteps made her look behind her.

"Meena, he's awake!" Sanych said, breathless. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"In a running, obvious sort of way?" Meena scowled, looking around at the crew that had noticed Sanych approach her.

"No! Not 'til I saw you just now," Sanych replied, stung.

"All right. Did you know?" Meena asked, tipping her head toward Salvor's location below deck.

"About his being a...? No, I had no idea. He's very charming and open about most subjects, but others, we just didn't talk about. When I brought something up that he didn't feel comfortable discussing, he'd distract me with–" the young girl blushed, and Meena raised her eyebrows. Sanych darted a look at her, a shy smile flashing across her lips.

Meena sighed, shaking her head, a faint grin on her lips. "Let's go see what he has to say for himself."

~~~

Geret slouched in a chair across the sleeping chamber from Salvor's bed and watched as the Kazhak's medical staff made sure their noble passenger had recovered from his violent encounter. Their patient was sitting up in his bed, clean maroon shirt laced loosely over his chest, letting them listen to his heart with a tube and feel his pulse for minutes at a time.

Salvor was clearly getting annoyed at their attentions, however, and soon waved them all away. As they bowed their way out of the sleeping chamber, he smoothed his black hair back from his hairline as if pulling worries from his mind. He picked up an extra large mug of tea from his lap table and took a long sip, eyeing Geret over the rim.

Seconds passed in silence. Finally, Geret spoke. "Runcan confirmed your story last night." He watched Salvor for nonverbal cues.

But the young nobleman merely arched a dark eyebrow. "And?" he asked, taking another sip of tea.

"And he feels it's impossible that either one of them hired the men to kill me. Personally, I disagree, since you seem so confident it was one of them."

"It's my job to think people are out to get you," Salvor growled, taking a hot gulp of tea and grimacing. "For which I don't exactly blame them. Glad to hear you're listening to me, though."

At that, Geret scowled. "I'm not much interested in listening to you. You were acting with me all along."

Salvor nodded guardedly. "A bit."

"Were you acting with Sanych too?" The prince leaned forward in his chair. "Because she seems pretty attached to you. I'd hate for her to be left in the dark about how things really are."

Salvor examined his tea dregs and sighed slowly. He raised his eyes back up to Geret's, a dark strand of his hair falling nearly over one eye. Geret thought the look in his eyes was guilt.

The outer door to Salvor's quarters opened. Salvor darted his eyes toward the door to the foyer and smoothed his hair back again. After a few moments, Meena and Sanych entered the room.

"Well, I'm glad to see that you didn't die, after all," Meena said with a smile. She walked over to Salvor's bedside and commandeered his forehead with her palm.

"Yes, mother," Salvor murmured with a grin as he submitted to her touch. "Is it true I have you to thank for my life?" Salvor asked.

"Geret was a bit torn as to how he should feel about your death; I figured it was only fair to remove that decision from him until he could be sure."

Salvor smirked self-deprecatingly. "Hopefully he won't have to think about that for a long, long time. And thank you. I admit, I thought most of the rumors and stories about you were so much bone-rattling and word-tapestries. No more."

"You're welcome," she said with a laugh. "Though you only had to ask, really. Why no one thinks of that until it's too late always baffles me."

Geret gritted his teeth as the conversation moved away from betrayal and lies, and on to other things. Everyone seemed to accept that they were all one big happy team of conspirators, and that the "bad guys" were harmless. Everyone but him.

The notion burrowed into his mind and festered there. For days, he found himself biting back angry replies, not only to the Counts who had once plotted against his uncle, but to his allies as well. He slept poorly, and the nightly cannon fire as the full moon waxed and then waned did not aid his slumber. In the deepest dark of the night, he sometimes wondered if a sea monster attack might not be the answer to all his problems.

Salvor maintained his arrogant cover even around Geret, but the prince did catch him acting differently with Sanych, and wondered if that was his true self, or yet another façade. He realized Sanych had already fallen in love with the nobleman, and wondered whether it was any of his business, and why he cared.

After a week of holding in his feelings, Geret realized what he needed. He lay staring at the ceiling in his quarters, right arm resting on his forehead, and suddenly it came to him. Nostrils flaring, he jerked up from the bed, pulled on his low boots, and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

It would feel so good to let his frustration out.

Geret made his way to the dining hall. Salvor sat with Meena and Sanych, regaling them with some story or another. They laughed for a few moments, then paused and looked over as they caught sight of him.

Geret stopped in front of the table they occupied and looked Salvor in the eyes.

"You and me. Right now, on the upper deck. Let's duel."

Salvor raised a lazy eyebrow. "Is that a command, my prince?"

Geret's lip curled. "Yes." He turned and stalked away toward the armory.

Salvor caught up to him there, and they silently gathered their padded armor and blunted metal swords from the sparring locker of the enormous room. Salvor watched Geret intently, but offered no words to him. As Geret turned to exit the armory and head up to the top deck, Salvor stood aside for him. But Geret wasn't quite done in the armory yet.

He stepped toward Salvor and shoved him up against the wall, holding him there. Unhurt but startled, Salvor's eyes widened briefly, but he held his silence.

"You're loyal to me, Salvor?" Geret growled. The older man nodded without hesitation. "I could strike you down and not fear your hand in retribution?"

A doubt entered Salvor's hazel eyes, but he nodded again without pause. "Yes, Geret. I'm sworn to protect you, even from my own hand. I thought I'd proved that when I tried to die to save you back in Ha'Lakkon."

Geret's smile was icy. "So you did." He turned quickly and left the armory, and Salvor eyed the blunt metal blade on his sword for a moment. A feeling of foreboding settled into his stomach.

A small crowd was already gathering in anticipation of the duel. Most of the passengers left on the Kazhak were with the quest, or had opted for an opportune journey to Hynd when the ship had arrived unannounced in Ha'Lakkon. Several dozen unoccupied sailors had also wandered over, having enjoyed watching the previous duels between Geret and Salvor.

Geret stalked over to the crowd, feeling the warm tropical air whip the tail of his hair as the Kazhak cut swiftly through the unsettled weather. How appropriate, Geret thought, as he stepped into the hastily chalked circle, whipping his sword left and right in anticipation. A long moment later, Salvor caught up and stepped into the dueling circle opposite him.

Meena and Sanych had claimed spots right at the edge of the circle. Seeing the strange looks on the duelers' faces, Meena murmured, "Something's not right."

"What do you mean?" Sanych asked, watching the two men salute each other and assume their respective stances.

"I think Geret's here to let off some of his steam. He's been angry for days. I hope he's not too hard on Salvor."

Geret lunged immediately at Salvor, jabbing repeatedly in Salvor's favored approach. Salvor leaped past Geret and swatted his arm with the blade of his sword, and the two turned toward each other and regrouped.

"What?"

"Sanych, pay attention. Would you want to meet someone with Geret's expression in a dark alley?" Meena tipped her head toward the Vinten prince, who was currently snarling as he slashed repeatedly at Salvor's chest. Salvor backed up, parrying deftly, then dropped to the deck and rolled to the side. Geret lunged after him, but Salvor raised his blade just in time to stop the blunted weapon from tagging his chest.

Sanych swallowed. "He's not going to hurt Salvor on purpose, is he?"

Meena shook her head, watching Salvor take a calculated swipe at Geret's kneecap and connect. "It'll take effort. Salvor's as good as I've ever seen."

At that, Sanych turned to look at Meena. "He's that good?" she asked, missing entirely the part where Geret and Salvor both lunged at the same time and ripped each other's right sleeves.

Geret reacted first, grabbing Salvor's wrist with his left hand, twisting it around behind Salvor's back. But as Geret was dragging his sword blade back out of Salvor's sleeve, the man's other elbow rocketed into the left side of Geret's head. The prince staggered, allowing Salvor to break free.

The crowd oohed and cheered. Sanych found herself gripping Meena's hand tightly.

Geret caught Salvor's next quick thrust on his blade, stepped in close and thrust the narrow steel spike on the hilt of his sword into the thin cloth seam over Salvor's ribs. His opponent tried to leap back and absorb some of the blow, but it was clear the blow hurt him.

"Forgive me, my prince," Salvor coughed, sketching a quick bow, "I hadn't realized this duel was to the death." The crowd laughed, thinking it was a joke.

Geret managed a rictus of a smile and lunged toward Salvor. He changed his angle of attack downward at the last second, but Salvor kicked out and caught Geret's blade on the sole of his boot, driving its tip into the deck boards. Lunging forward, Salvor caught Geret with a knee to the stomach and toppled him onto his back.

Geret wasn't going to let Salvor have his sword so easily though; he landed high on his shoulders, feet still in the air, and snaked them around Salvor's right leg, pushing him away from the sword that quivered in the wooden deck.

Salvor stumbled away rather than falling, and Geret rolled to his feet. He jerked the sword from its wooden prison and leaped after him.

Salvor turned and caught Geret's blade on his own. He flicked it away, then struck toward Geret's chest. Geret dodged backward and shoved Salvor's sword arm off-target. He grabbed Salvor's sleeve and pulled him to the right until they both toppled to the deck in a heap. Salvor's head and left shoulder thudded painfully into the deck, and Geret ended up on his knees. He started to bar Salvor's arm against his thigh.

But Salvor was having none of that. Being nearly upside down, he braced his feet against the deck and lurched into Geret's back, knocking him to his hands and knees. Both men scrambled to their feet again. Geret shouted a vile oath, making Salvor grin.

Sanych covered her eyes. "I'm not sure I can take much more of this," she murmured.

"Relax, Sanych. When Salvor dies someday, it won't be at the hands of an angry princeling. Anything between now and then is mere spice."

"How can you–" Sanych began, then turned to look as the crowd flinched, murmuring to themselves. Salvor was staggering away from Geret, a hand to his cheek. When he stopped and lowered his hand, Sanych could see an ugly gash raking his cheek.

"Not so pretty now, are you?" Geret asked idly, turning the sword in his hand so that he could examine the blood on its blunted edge.

"I never claimed to be pretty, Geret," hissed Salvor. "Just arrogant." He twirled his sword twice in a figure eight.

"So you did," Geret said, flicking his blade. Droplets of blood spattered against the deck boards. He raised his left hand and grinned smugly, then gestured for Salvor to attack him.

He did not wait long. Salvor's face darkened into an angry mask, and he went on the offensive. His blade flicked toward Geret's face, and the prince began a high block. Halfway through, Geret remembered his earlier conversation with his opponent and realized Salvor was feinting. He stepped back to the side and blocked low. His blade barely caught Salvor's as it snaked in toward where his stomach had been. Their hilts locked together, and their eyes met in anger.

"You don't trust me, Geret. I understand that. But you should. I meant what I said." Muscles strained, metal rubbed, as the men pressed themselves at each other.

"Shut up and duel!" Geret hissed.

Suddenly Salvor shifted his weight, and Geret pressed his advantage. Salvor's left hand snaked in over Geret's right, and he danced away with Geret's sword in his hand, leaving Geret's empty hand outstretched in a parody of supplication.

The crowd began to cheer, but silenced itself quickly. The drama was not over.

"You wish to hand down punishment, my prince?" Salvor called from across the dueling circle, holding both swords out to his sides. "I am your subject, and that is your given right. None may question you. If you see fit to punish me–to punish me–then far be it from me to stop you!" Salvor let his dueling sword fall to the deck and stepped toward Geret, holding the prince's sword out before him as an offering, as he had held out the prize sword after their very first duel back in Vint. Salvor dropped to his knees, still panting from the exertion of the duel. A sad smile crossed his features as he looked up at Geret, who had been glowering silently since Salvor had stolen his sword from his hand.

Geret did not take the sword immediately, though Salvor held it up on his palms. "Why are you doing this?" the prince uttered.

"I know what you're doing, Geret," Salvor said, so quietly that only his prince could hear him. "It's not only foolish, it's dangerous. And I don't mean for me; they are watching. But if you want to finish what you started in that alley, you go ahead. And do it here, for all to see. No secrets. My life is, as always, in your hands."

Salvor raised the sword a bit higher. Slowly Geret reached out and took it.

The crowd murmured its disapproval.

Salvor remained kneeling at Geret's feet, holding his arms out to his sides harmlessly. His eyes remained locked on Geret's. Blood oozed from the wound on his cheek.

Sanych couldn't look anymore. She buried her face in Meena's shoulder and murmured tearfully, "Please, tell me he's not going to do it! Make him stop, Meena."

"Hush," Meena said, putting an arm around the distressed girl. "Some lessons must be learned this way."

"I don't want him to get hurt!" Sanych said into Meena's shirt.

Geret stared down at Salvor. A single calm thought coalesced and quickly expanded through his seething frustration, overwhelming him: no secrets.

This man before him had already given his life for Geret, and now, incredibly, was willing to let Geret take that life again. To Geret's shame, he briefly toyed with the idea, but rejected it in disgust. He hadn't realized how twisted up his thoughts had been getting, these last few days. Here before him, on his knees, was the one man Geret knew he could trust with his life, and this was how he treated him, because his pride had been stung.

Geret was ashamed.

He dropped to one knee by Salvor's side and put his hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm sorry. You were right. The last person I should be taking my anger out on is you. I haven't been thinking straight, I guess. But I am now, and I'm done with secrets. I hope you'll forgive me." Geret looked over to the edge of the crowd, his eyes searching.

"For using me, or for what you're about to do?" Salvor asked with a wince, leaning a hand on his knee to ease the ache in his cracked rib.

Geret looked back into Salvor's hazel eyes. "Both," he said. Then he rose to his feet and stalked off.

The crowd parted, letting him through, murmuring in confusion.

"You can look now," Meena said wryly, and Sanych looked over, seeing only Salvor in the dueling ring. Sanych ran over to him, and Meena followed her. The crowd began to disperse, muttering.

"Wisdom! Look what he did to you," gasped Sanych, as she looked closely at Salvor's right cheek. She reached for the wound hesitantly, but Salvor grasped her hand and held it to his shoulder.

"You want some help with that?" Meena asked, eyeing the wound herself.

"You think it'll scar?"

"It's deep enough."

"Then no. I really am too pretty."

"Arrogant lordling," Meena chided, though a smile belied her words. "Did you two make up or break up?"

"I think we made up. When we talked, something seemed to click in his head." Salvor looked worriedly in the direction Geret had gone. "But I think he's not done rocking the boat. We should stay with him."

Meena helped Salvor up while Sanych retrieved his sword for him, and together they followed after Geret.

##  Chapter Twenty-eight

The pudgy man descended the ramp from the white marble of the temple into black basalt hallways, lit by green torches. His mind was filled to bursting with the news he had to impart; it would assure him a higher position with the Hand of Power.

A voice arrested him, and he turned to see his bald rival, skulking in the shadows as usual.

"You," the fat man said, "are about to get demoted."

"Really? Do tell, Anchis," his rival drawled, leaning against the stone wall.

Anchis felt the massive import of his news pressing against his lips from within. "I've come from the farmhouse," he prefaced. "It was time for the quarterly sacrifices."

The other man's lips pursed. "Did you use young ones again this time? You know how upset the Hand of Power was when he realized you'd not drawn off enough blood for the last spell."

Anchis glowered. "I used full-grown sacrifices this quarter. I'm not an idiot." He shrugged his shoulders, flicking off his irritation, and continued. "The point is, the spell found something this time. After centuries of waiting, it's happening!"

His rival stood away from the wall, electrified. His eyes bored into Anchis. "What's happening?"

The fat man rocked on the balls of his feet, chin high. "The thief and the key are reunited. We can track the magic of the key from now on!"

The other man's face fell, and Anchis knew his rival was feeling his base of power disappear beneath him. Nothing could compete with delivering this news to the Hand of Power, and they both knew it.

"I guess you should learn to live with a lesser position now," Anchis said with a smug grin, brushing past the bald man with an arrogant stride.

Black lightning crackled through the air, and Anchis screamed and dropped, writhing, to the warm stone floor. "And you should learn to keep your mouth shut. Oh, but I fear my advice has come too late."

Just before the body's tremors subsided into fatal stillness, the bald man gathered a few drops of Anchis' blood with a quick slice of his dagger. He let them fall from its point into his own open mouth. Swallowing, he smacked his lips, as if he could taste the magic in the man's blood.

It would take a few minutes for Anchis' magic to blossom within him, but he could already tell that Anchis had gathered several other magics himself. The man grinned, knowing he'd effectively doubled his magic ability in a single stroke. The Hand of Power would not be pleased with Anchis' death, high as he was within the cult, but the power of the news that only he now knew would more than absolve him of the crime.

He stepped over Anchis' cooling corpse and strode down the hallway toward the Hand of Power.

~~~

Once the crowds cleared away from the dueling circle, Meena, Sanych and Salvor could see that the prince of Vint had gathered a dozen of the quest's Vinten guards, always close to hand, in a circle surrounding the three Counts. Now they stood three masts away from the dueling circle, and Geret was speaking to them, although the wind carried his words.

"What's he doing?" Sanych asked.

"Folly!" cursed Salvor, his padded armor now reddened with his blood where it had dripped from his cheek. "He's tipping our hand!" He started to run toward Geret, but Meena's strong grip on his arm arrested his movement.

"I admire your training, Salvor, but does any of that really mean much, out here?" Meena gestured, indicating the wide sea.

"It'll make things simpler," Sanych said, squinting in thought. "I think we might have erred in not doing this earlier."

Salvor turned to her and smiled as they kept striding across the deck. "Wisdom love you, Sanych. You'll be a fine counterpoint to the Dictat someday." Sanych blushed. "If we all live that long," he added, glaring back at Geret.

As the three of them closed in on Geret and his gathering, the guards separated Runcan from the other two and let him go. The red-haired Count came around the circle of guards and stood behind Geret's right shoulder, whispering urgently. The young prince merely held up a hand to silence him, watching as Armala and Sengril were forced to their knees.

Salvor swore again and jogged the last few steps to Geret's left side.

"Geret–" he began, but the prince interrupted him, speaking to the Counts on their knees.

"You see what I am willing to do to my friends," he said coldly, indicating Salvor's face. "How much worse for my enemies, then, do you think my wrath might be?"

Armala's dark eyes darted to Salvor's face, and in that moment, Salvor saw that the Count had been unaware of his true loyalty until now. "Two years of my life, wasted and worthless," he growled, causing Geret to glare at him out of the corner of his eye.

Behind them, Meena sat down on an enormous spool of thick rope, examining her fingernails, her back to the confrontation. Sanych halted with her, but her desperate stare made it obvious she wished to stand closer.

"Don't stay on my behalf," Meena said. "Just remember you're only an advisor to the prince. And he doesn't have to listen to you."

"I don't know enough to advise him in this situation anyway," lamented Sanych, gripping her pant legs tightly in small fists.

"Then you might as well stay out of his way." Meena tossed her red-and-brown hair out of her eyes and scraped a bit of dirt from under a nail.

Sanych reluctantly leaned against the other side of the large wooden spool and stared at the confrontation. The humid sea wind whipped at her hair, and she tucked the fine blonde strands behind her ears, where they could not blow into her eyes again.

"My prince–" Armala began cautiously, but Geret wasn't interested in letting him speak yet.

"How much worse for them, when I learn the truth? That they have an interest in threatening my family? In destabilizing the reign of a good and noble man? How much worse do you think my wrath would be then, good Counts?" Geret breathed, his voice lowering in volume as well as temperature, so that his audience had to focus intently on his words. When he paused, they looked at each other for a few moments, and Armala nodded once, slowly.

Sengril turned back to Geret and spoke. "My prince, you are an unknown quantity. Your uncle was truly wise to send you with us on this quest. While we have done our utmost for this journey, thrown ourselves into it with all the skills that we possess, we have always wondered if it might not come to this in the end. Was this the Magister's plan all along? Or did he simply give you free reign over our fates? Although the timing of your decision may never be known to us, ultimately it is irrelevant. We have broken the laws of Vint, and have done so willingly and purposefully. We accept your punishment, whatever it may be."

Geret blinked.

Salvor, right beside him, read the confusion on his face. "This is what it means to be Dictat," he whispered.

"You have nothing to say in your defense?" Geret asked.

"Of course we do," Armala said. "Are you willing to hear it?"

"Keep it short." Geret put his hands on his hips.

"We have had the worthiest intention in mind during our secret actions: to make Vint a better place. All our work, our going behind the Magister's back, has been toward a long-term plan for change in the way we deal with our neighbors. A test, if you will. The trade agreements we made, the deals we brokered without his consent, needed to be made to gauge whether our country could succeed in expanding its borders in any direction, or if the idea of a Vinten empire was, in the end, mere folly."

Geret looked closely at Armala. "I'm sorry, a what? A Vinten empire?"

"Yes, of course," Sengril confirmed, nodding. "With the wisdom that our culture imbues in its citizens from a young age, we believe ourselves to be more capable of successfully controlling a large empire than any other nation on our continent. We've put years of study into the feasibility of a Vinten empire, and have since decided to move forward with the next stage: field-testing other nations' receptivity to new Vinten legal requirements."

"By Wisdom," Geret murmured, rubbing his face with both hands. "Did my uncle know that this was your plan?"

"We don't think so, not the ultimate goal, anyway." Armala shifted uncomfortably on his knees.

"Did you consider actually telling him?" Geret asked, raising an eyebrow. He faintly heard Meena snort in the distance.

"He would not have agreed, Geret," Sengril said, shaking his head seriously.

"So your plan is to turn Vint into an empire and boot out its Magister too. Have you no respect for what my uncle has done for our country?"

"My prince, your uncle is a perfectly acceptable ruler of Vint as it is now. Of the empire, should it come to fruition, he would neither approve nor wish to rule. We would not need to 'boot' him. He would step down willingly."

Armala nodded in perfect agreement with Sengril's words.

Geret ground his teeth. The words they spoke sounded like actual language, yet they made no practical sense to him. It was madness of the worst kind: the kind that thought itself sane. He felt slightly dizzy as he tried to imagine what world they must be living in, inside their heads.

"All right, you admit that you've been plotting illegally at home. An offense punishable by death. How about attacking me in Ha'Lakkon? Was that you as well? I'm relatively sure I can't kill you twice, but I can make it hurt for a long time first."

"Geret, I told you–" Runcan began.

"I know what you told me, Braal. I need to hear it from these fine, upstanding Counts," Geret countered, never taking his eyes off the kneeling men.

Sengril responded, "You're referring to the men who attacked you? That was not on our order, my prince. We would never bring harm to you."

"Do you have any way of convincing me of that?" Geret asked, raising his chin and crossing his arms.

Armala's eyes flicked to Salvor for a moment. Salvor stared back impassively. "In the future empire of Vint," the Count said to Geret, "we would need a leader we could trust to grasp opportunities for advancement as they came along. An opportunistic free-thinker. We hoped to test Salvor's loyalty and further our cause at the same time. We appealed to him to persuade you to pull away from your uncle and be that ruler."

Geret's jaw dropped, and his chest suddenly felt full of cold, empty space. "What?" he managed to ask, his voice faint.

"The alley attack was your own folly of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The moment we heard what had happened, we sent a sizable monetary incentive to the Governor of Ha'Lakkon, to find and punish the street gang you ran afoul of. Surely you see that we would never bring harm to you, Prince Geret. We hoped you might rule over us."

"Oh, I'll rule over you, all right," Geret promised darkly. He turned to Salvor. "Is it true, what they asked of you?"

Salvor looked at Armala for a moment, then back at Geret. "Yes, it is."

"And you didn't think to mention it?" Geret said with an angry jerk of his head.

"Since I had no intention of doing as they asked, no. I didn't feel the need!" Salvor retorted.

"Why did you think they were trying to kill me, then, when they specifically told you they wanted me alive?"

Salvor looked Geret in the eyes. "It's my job. I think everyone is trying to kill you, and not without good reason; you're practically begging for someone to attack you, when you sneak off the ship and steal into Ha'Lakkon by yourself..." Salvor shook his head angrily. "It was much easier for me to blame the Counts for the alley attack. They're a known quantity. It would have been easy for them to justify it, seeing a logical chance to keep you from doing exactly what you're doing now."

Geret raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.

"You still don't understand the level of subtlety on which the Dictat operates, do you?" Salvor asked, a complex weave of smugness, accusation and frustration in his voice. "They hadn't yet placed me in their confidence. I couldn't take the chance of trusting anything they said, especially where your life was concerned."

"Do you trust what they say now?" Geret found himself asking.

Salvor looked over at the Counts again. After several long moments, he shifted his eyes back to Geret. "Yes. They're angling for leniency by telling the truth."

"Too bad for them," Geret began, turning back to the kneeling men.

"Wait!" Sanych called, striding over. Her hands were clenched and her face was strained, but she strode right up to Geret and stopped in front of him. Tipping her head way back, she glared into his dark eyes and said quietly, "You have no authority to kill these men, Geret."

"Get out of my way, Sanych," Geret said, putting a hand on her shoulder and pushing her to the side. She let out a small cry of dismay.

Salvor firmly pulled Geret's hand away from her, while Runcan protested, "Geret, stop. You're forgetting what position Sanych holds. It is her right to advise you."

Geret paused and looked more closely at the young girl he'd shoved aside. She was shaking and her breathing was uneven, but her face was set in determination.

He lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sanych. Forgive me." He waited until she nodded at him, and then tipped his head toward the Counts on the deck and said, "Tell me, then."

She took a deep breath. "Not even the Magister himself has the authority to put a Dictat member to death without a full Temple trial. You may bind them over for trial, but you may not punish them yourself."

"Well that rule's gonna be the first to go," Geret growled.

"I know, it's not fair in this instance; they've admitted their guilt. But no one will look on you fairly if you are not fair to these men, now." Sanych's blue eyes stared intently at him.

Geret took a moment to consider her words, looking out to the distant blue horizon. Was his upbringing fading so quickly, here in the tropical heat? Melting away like so much stolen ice? He felt terribly off-balance, bouncing from a painful duel with Salvor to breaking open years-old secrets and threatening the traitorous Counts with death.

He tipped his head up and looked at the incredibly tall masts above him, their lugger sails full of wind. He missed the solid footing of dry ground, and willed himself to remember its sensation. He needed to stop being foolish; this was no prank.

Geret swallowed and addressed the guards. "Take these two men below to the ship's brig. Guard them day and night. Give them basic necessities, and all the quest maps and books, but don't speak to them. They can work for the glory of Vint with an ankle chained to the wall."

The guards murmured their assent and helped the men to their feet. All of them escorted the Counts toward the aftmost companionway. Relief was plain to see on the prisoners' faces, and Armala turned to Geret and said, "I thank Wisdom for your mercy, my prince."

"Thank Sanych elTiera. She's spared your lives," Geret growled in response. Then he turned to Sanych. "And my somewhat tarnished reputation, too," he added, then sighed and shook his head, running his fingernails back along his scalp. He raised his eyes and looked at Salvor. "I take it back. You were right. I couldn't have handled it."

Salvor tipped his head slightly in salute to Geret's admission. "There's hope for you yet, Geret."

The prince turned back to Sanych. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I didn't mean to frighten you like that. I...haven't really felt like myself for days." Sanych nodded uncertainly at him, but she didn't seem convinced, and he cursed himself for ten kinds of fool. He needed her expertise on this quest, but he also valued her friendship. He'd lost some of her trust today, and he became determined to earn it back. "If you see my old self wandering around lost anywhere on this ship, send him over, will you?" he said lightly.

But the Archivist merely smiled briefly and looked away.

Wincing, he added, "And before I change my mind, I want you to do something for me, Salvor."

The nobleman squinted, but readily responded, "What's that?"

"I think I'm going to need you to hit me. Hard."

"What?" squeaked Sanych, her eyes darting between the two men.

"Come now, Sanych," said Meena, who had walked closer unobserved. "Let's leave the boys to the rest of their resolution, shall we?" She took the Archivist by the elbow and gently removed her from between the two men. "Fill me in on the rules about convicting Dictat members of criminal actions. It's been a while since I was in Vint," she said, leading Sanych toward the starboard rail.

The men watched the women walk out of hearing range. Salvor turned to Geret and asked, "You mean that? Why?"

"You're more right about me than I like. I am a fool. I haven't handled this well, and I don't really deserve to be in charge of what pitiful remnants are left of my once-grand quest."

"You're right; you don't," said Salvor, loosening his right cuff and rolling his sleeve up. "That's why we all have to rely on each other. Especially now."

Geret watched Salvor adjust his sleeve. "I'm kind of hoping that letting you take a shot at me will begin to endear me again to Sanych. I think she's afraid of me."

"She is. You were out of control today. It didn't help that you were beating on her favorite nobleman just now, either," Salvor added smugly, flexing his right hand and rolling his shoulder.

"What she sees in you, I'll never know. Maybe, if I'd known the real you from the beginning, things might have turned out differently."

"Perhaps. You know what else you should wish?" Salvor said, studying Geret's abdomen critically.

Geret tensed his trunk muscles in anticipation of the blow. "What?"

"You should wish you'd specified where you wanted me to hit you," Salvor said, as the outer edge of his fist connected with Geret's temple. As his prince crumpled bonelessly to the deck, Salvor grinned, chuckling, as he winced and put his hand on his wounded cheek.

"Folly, that stings," he grumbled. He bent down and hefted Geret onto his shoulders, then stood with a grunt. "Luckily for you, payback goes both ways."

He carried Geret all the way down to his quarters and flopped him on the bed, tossing a blanket over him, then stood back and studied his handiwork. A deep bruise was already forming on Geret's temple.

"Wisdom love you, Geret. I may be sworn to protect your sorry arse, but hitting you made my day. You need any more humbling, just let me know." Salvor sighed and nodded, then headed back to the upper deck, locking Geret's door safely behind him. He grinned crookedly. Couldn't have anyone else hurting the prince today, after all.

##  Chapter Twenty-nine

The next evening, Sanych steeled herself and descended to the lowest deck. Following her mental map of the Kazhak's layout, she arrived at the brig as the two imprisoned Counts were eating their simple supper of rolls and broth.

The sailors on guard duty at this particular cell along the long hallway nodded respectfully to her, and she asked if she might speak to the prisoners. When the men nodded in the affirmative, Sanych stepped up to the metal barrier and rested her hands lightly on a cold, dark crossbar just above her waist level. The Counts looked up at her.

"Good evening, Archivist," Armala greeted her. He sat on a wooden bench to her left, holding his wooden bowl in one hand and a hunk of cold bread in the other. His left ankle was attached to a metal hoop in the wall beneath the bench by a length of chain that allowed him relative freedom around his half of the cell. Sengril was in a nearly identical situation on the right side of the enclosure. The trunks of quest maps and papers were open in the middle of the floor, where both men could access them together.

"Good evening, Count Armala, Count Sengril," she returned. "How...how fares the study?"

Sengril smiled sympathetically. "It's all right, Archivist. We'll survive. At least until our trial back in Vint."

Sanych swallowed uncomfortably.

Armala glanced at Sengril for a moment and then spoke. "It's going well, Sanych. Nothing new, as we've been over this many times before. But it was...merciful...of Geret to give us the distraction, and we may yet find some new nugget of information about Hynd, Shanal, or the Tome itself."

"Well...I'm glad you're...mostly comfortable. I just..." she faltered.

The Counts shared a look.

"It must be awkward, feeling that your leaders have betrayed your country," Sengril said quietly. "Your trust in our authority has been broken."

Sanych gripped the cold metal bars, her eyes on their joints. "Yes."

"Please understand, that to us it does not seem so. We acted in good faith, hoping to change the way Vint was ruled, not for our benefit, but for its own. Think, perhaps, that your trust in us has not been broken, but rather, stretched. Stretched so far that perhaps new concepts may enter and be accepted?"

Sanych raised her eyes to meet Sengril's, confusion and hurt warring in her expression.

Armala intervened. "Eh, perhaps with time, Stervan. She is young, yet."

Though the statement was spoken gently, it still caused Sanych to clench her jaw. "Good evening, sirs," she said, turning to leave.

As they listened to her footsteps grow fainter down the long hallway out of the brig, Armala said calmly, "That girl has the most potential I've ever seen among the Temple folk. If she doesn't rise to Mastery within ten years, I'll eat my toes."

"Rhist, your sense of drama is misplaced," smiled Sengril. "You may have to eat your toes for nutrition long before we get back to Vint."

"Your perception is duly noted."

Sanych stomped up the spiraling stairs to the berth deck. How can they sit there as if they have done no wrong? They clearly broke the laws! I'll never stretch my trust far enough to accept what they did! Never!

The light filtering in from outside the ship was so low, Sanych knew it must be nearly sunset. Tonight, the cannons would not fire, as they had for the previous seven days, and she intended to sleep deeply and well, if her frustration and anger didn't keep her up. Maybe if she had a good talk with Meena. The Shanallar always had a wider perspective on this sort of thing–

The ship shuddered.

Sanych leaned on the banister for support, twisting her head around as if she would be able to see the source of the motion. She had blindly trusted in the enormous Sea God to carry her across even the deepest seas without incident, and now she was suddenly afraid. She bolted up the stairs and ran down the long port-side corridor toward Meena's rooms.

A slow rolling sensation caught her unawares, and she realized the corridor was tipping under her feet. She slowed, uncertain. Then the ship righted itself. The sudden motion had Sanych staggering for her footing, and she lurched against the corridor wall.

"Meena?!" she called.

Doors were opening in curiosity, and the few dozen passengers berthed along the corridor peeked out, trying to ascertain what was happening. Voices rumbled around her in a handful of languages, with Versal and Hrillian dominating her ears. Members of the quest asked her what was going on, but she had no information for them.

Meena entered the corridor, looking concernedly at the passengers. "If you're still upright," she called to them, "hold onto something." She spotted Sanych, still several dozen feet away, and started jogging over to her.

The ship jerked heavily to port, tossing everyone against the outer wall of the corridor. Sanych thudded against the wall, crying out as she felt a painful crack in her right wrist.

~~~

On the top deck, Salvor and Geret had been dueling, but with an intent to respect each other as full allies, when the ship shuddered for the first time. Geret was distracted enough that he stopped and looked up at the tall masts overhead, seeing them wiggle back and forth at their tops. Salvor, less easily distracted, immediately tagged Geret over his heart, and only then, grinning smugly, did he look around as well.

"Did you feel that?" Geret asked.

"My winning? Yes, yes I did," Salvor said.

"No, not that. The ship. It vibrated."

"Is my prince trying to get out of losing by blaming it on the ship?" Salvor asked, beginning to strip off his protective padding.

"No," Geret responded, turning to look at Salvor and finding his gaze drawn to the stitched cut on his cheek. "You won; I was distracted."

Salvor smiled and nodded his head in acceptance of the victory. A moment later the ship rolled, and they both staggered several feet across the flat, open deck before regaining their balance. Just as quickly, the deck righted itself and they staggered again.

"Something's wrong," Geret said, shaking his head. "Do you think we hit something?"

Salvor looked around quickly. There was no land in sight, and the eastern horizon was darkening. Recalling the time of the lunar cycle, he replied ominously, "I'd rather bet that something has hit us."

Geret's eyes flicked to Salvor's in alarm, then just as quickly scanned the port side of the vessel. He started toward the rail, but Salvor grabbed his arm.

"Please tell me you're not that foolish."

"Then let's find Galanishav," Geret said, changing his mind, and the two men jogged aft. Already they could see sailors scrambling to follow bellowed orders from the captain and first mate, within the wide steering shelter.

The ship heeled sharply to port and stayed that way, and Salvor and Geret tumbled to the deck and skidded sideways, coming to a stop against a stack of crates secured with a cargo net against the ship's rail.

"Folly," breathed Geret, wincing and rubbing his head. Salvor pulled himself up to his knees and held onto the cargo net with his hands. They heard a loud wooden cracking noise, but could not find its source.

"Where is it? Is it attacking us?" Geret asked.

"I don't know," Salvor replied quickly, looking around. Sailors had skidded to the rail on both sides of them, and were starting to pick themselves up and try to complete their duties, even though the deck was tilted nearly fifteen degrees. "Whatever is going on, I'm getting you to the longboats."

"What? I can't just leave the ship! You actually think it's safer out there in a longboat? And what about everyone else? Meena, Runcan? What about Sanych?" Geret demanded.

He had the satisfaction of watching Salvor's face tighten in regret, but the man said, "No, Geret, my duty is to you first and foremost."

The ship's prow settled further into the water as if something were pulling it down. Geret gazed up at the beautiful reds and pinks that were just beginning to alight on the cotton-puff clouds overhead. Another stunning tropical sunset.

Perhaps his last. His heartbeat thrummed to a determined tempo.

There was no way his last act was going to be abandoning his friends.

Geret stood and dashed past Salvor, heading up the tilted deck toward the main stairhouse a short distance away. Salvor swore loudly and lurched after him, roundly cursing him for three kinds of fool.

From below the edge of the port rail, an odd organic sound, reminiscent of making a rude noise with one's mouth, heralded the sudden appearance of two enormous, pale grey tentacles. Thicker than the Kazhak's masts, and nearly as long, they shot skyward at a terrifying speed. Reaching their furthest height, the wedge-ended appendages arced across the ship's bow and fell heavily across the deck. Geret skidded to a disbelieving halt, and Salvor tackled him to the deck.

~~~

In the silence following the ship's tipping, the few dozen people in the long corridor with Sanych began climbing back to their feet. Some moaned and held injured limbs.

Sanych had just regained her footing, holding her right arm awkwardly in her left, when the ship lurched sideways, and everyone yelped or screamed as they were thrown heavily back down to the lower edge of the corridor. Sanych lay dazed, staring at the ceiling, while someone crawled across her lower legs in an effort to get out of the corridor. Further down the corridor, toward the bow, an enormous cracking sound burst in, and people began to panic.

Sanych clutched her right arm to her chest and staggered to her feet again. Her small stature was not in her favor as she tried to press through to Meena; she kept getting buffeted out of the way of other scrambling passengers. Meena, being taller, stronger and more stubborn, soon reached her and pulled her to the edge of the corridor.

"Let me see it," she commanded. She let her fingers play gently along Sanych's arm, feeling the spiral break. "You'll feel fine in a minute. Come with me. We need to get up on deck," she said, taking Sanych's other hand and tugging her along through the thinning crowd.

As they reached the main stairwell, they saw it was packed with people trying to go both directions, and no one could get by. Everyone was shouting and some were crying in fear. Some others began to clamber over the outside of the banister to travel up or down as they needed.

Meena's eyes scanned the scene, taking in the wraparound balconies on each deck. "Amateurs," she muttered under her breath. "Sanych, wait right here against the wall."

"I will," Sanych said, clutching her upper arms with her hands. She pressed her back against the tapestry behind her and stayed out of everyone's way, watching Meena.

The Shanallar ran at the closest low corner of the room and leaped into the air, planting one foot halfway up the front wall and quickly thrusting off with it. Her other foot landed higher on the side wall, and she lunged off that leg and reached up with her hands. They grasped the overhanging floorboards of the fire deck, and she pulled herself up to, then over, the railing.

Sanych darted her gaze to the overfilled staircase. No one seemed to have noticed Meena's ascent to the fire deck's balcony.

Meena pulled a small dagger from her belt and began slicing at a large tapestry. It fell from its moorings and vanished from Sanych's view.

Armed sailors began flooding the fire deck from auxiliary stairwells. They did not stop to use the packed main staircase, but hurried on past, about their defense duties. Sanych wondered if the numerous cannons on board would be powerful enough to injure whatever was out there, and found herself fervently hoping so.

The ship shuddered heavily, as if something had crashed atop the bow. Voices rose in panic. A few unlucky people fell off the stairwell from various heights and thudded to the berth deck below. No one helped them. Sanych clung to the tapestry behind her and prayed to Wisdom that Meena would be quick.

A minute later, a thick slice of tapestry tumbled onto her head, and she looked up to see Meena holding the other end of a hastily-constructed tapestry rope. Sanych grabbed on tightly, entwining her arms into the thick woolen creation, and tried not to focus on how old it was or how much it had been worth, up until about three minutes ago. The fact that her right arm was completely healed was a nice distraction, and she took a few moments to be grateful.

Then Meena was grasping her elbow and helping her over the rail. "Wait here; I'll climb up one more level."

As sailors continued to speed past her, carrying cannonballs or powder kegs, Sanych looked down at the berth deck. Its full floor, as opposed to the upper decks' balconies, had made it easy for Meena to leap up. She wondered how–

The tapestry rope fell again, brushing her shoulder. Sanych squinted and craned her neck to look up at Meena, who merely waved at her impatiently. Sanych gripped the slice of tapestry and held on tightly.

When she was halfway up to the upper deck's balcony, just beneath the colored glass dome that arched over the staircase, the ship lurched so heavily toward the port bow that Meena swore and nearly toppled over the railing. Sanych dropped a couple of feet in midair and spun into the center of the open space as Meena twisted, struggling to hold both her balance and the rope.

"Meena!" Sanych screamed, swinging dizzily two stories above the berth deck.

"Hold on!" Meena called, gritting her teeth as her elbow dislocated against the railing bars. "Just hold on!"

~~~

Up on deck, Salvor was pinning Geret to the deck and roundly cursing his foolish sense of bravado. A bamboo ridge pressed into Geret's cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, Geret saw sailors emerging onto the upper deck, wearing armor and brandishing long polearms.

"They're going to fight it," he said in amazement, his words slurred against Salvor's hand.

"What?" Salvor said, looking up.

Geret elbowed him in the jaw and flung him off, darting away toward the domed stairhouse. He was nearly at the door, which was overflowing with panicked passengers fleeing out onto the broad upper deck, when the great creature clinging to the bow of the Kazhak heaved, rippling its tentacles and pulling itself up onto the very ship itself. Though the stairhouse was right in front of him, Geret could see part of the creature, at least momentarily, above the roof, before it landed with its enormous dark red bulk across the bow. The sound of the splintering foremast cracked through the air.

The impact was horrifying. Geret was thrown bodily into the stairhouse wall as the bow of the ship plunged deeply. He began to wonder whether he would die of crushing injuries, or of drowning. The sound of splintering wood was deafening. As he frantically grasped at a small wooden rail and held on, he saw Salvor, along with dozens of armed sailors, sliding helplessly toward the bow, tumbling madly and scrambling for something to arrest their descent.

Screams came from within the stairhouse. Geret wasn't sure who he pitied more, those scattered like discarded game pieces across the broad deck, or those still trapped inside.

And then, over the din, he heard a familiar voice from within the stairhouse, demanding that someone continue to hold on. As the ship struggled to right itself, and its bobbing gradually grew less violent, he released his lifesaving rail and staggered to the doorway. He braced himself there with aching arms and squinted into the dimness of the interior.

He blinked, wondering if he'd struck his head. Sanych swung madly in midair, clinging to a makeshift rope, while Meena was bent nearly backwards over the rail, clinging to its other end, a short distance from where he stood. Stowing his questions for later, he staggered along the tilted balcony, stumbling over other passengers in his way, until he reached Meena's side.

The rope she had wrapped around her waist was now tangled around her left arm, which dangled at a grotesque angle from the elbow, over the railing's edge. Meena was arched sideways over the rail, holding herself in place with her feet, desperately jammed into the railing's bars, which were creaking in protest.

Geret grabbed her flailing right arm. "Meena! I'm here," he assured her. He gingerly reached past her body and grasped the thick rope, pulling slowly. Once there was enough slack in the rope, Meena extricated her arm, gasped and sat down, cradling her injured limb. Geret swiftly pulled Sanych up to the railing.

"Geret?" the girl called in surprise, over the shouts and screams below them.

"At your service, Archivist," Geret replied grimly, helping her over the railing.

To his surprise, Sanych hugged him tightly for a moment and whispered, "Thank you," before kneeling beside Meena. "I'd help, but Geret's stronger," she said, and Meena nodded in agreement.

"What do I need to do?" he asked, not wanting to make Meena's condition worse. "You can't heal this?"

Distantly, they all heard the forward cannons begin to fire.

Meena looked back at Geret. "Not 'til the bones are set back in position. It's healed up around it already, but I rather like my limbs to be useful. Just hold my arm very, very still," she said, offering him her left wrist.

Geret grimaced at the thought of damaging her healed flesh just to set the joint right, but gripped her wrist and lower arm tightly in his strong hands. Meena breathed in and out once, then jerked her left shoulder back, using her whole body's strength. There was a distinct click in her elbow, and she gasped in relief and smiled, flexing the joint.

"Much better. Where's Salvor? Shouldn't he be guarding your eyebrows from too strong a wind?"

"He slid. I don't know how far. The creature has crawled up on the bow." Geret gulped in spite of himself. "I've never seen...I don't know..."

"What does it look like?" Sanych asked, unable to help herself.

"I didn't get a good look at all. Its body is dark red, with at least two grey tentacles nearly as long as the masts. Meena," he asked, "do they eat people?"

"Not sure. This is a new one for me. Let's get out of here and out onto the open deck."

The three of them made their way out onto the deck again, feeling the ship shift and roll beneath their feet. They crouched and moved along the outer wall of the stairhouse, keeping a hold on the polished rail, in case the creature decided to try and fling them along the deck again.

At the corner of the stairhouse, Geret took a peek toward the bow, looking for Salvor. He didn't see him immediately, and his gaze was quickly commandeered by the fantastical creature that claimed the foredeck as its own, over fifty paces away.

The monster, Geret noted, was only dark red in body, and that color, amazingly, was flickering like the embers of a fire. It lay now along the long axis of the ship, two long tail-like appendages dangling off the port bow. They reminded Geret of a flycatcher's tail feathers. The long tails connected to the brilliantly pulsing ovoid body and melded seamlessly into long, rippling, translucent fins that ran the entire length of the creature's mantle, right up to its head. The creature's eyes, large and greenly reflective, gleamed in the increasing darkness of twilight. All these features, however, paled in comparison to the eight pale-brown, sucker-covered arms that were exploring the nearest parts of the deck and twining around the second and third masts. When the creature reached higher up one of the masts, Geret had a momentary view within its mouth and saw an enormous, wicked-looking beak. It was easily twice as long as he was tall. He thought he even recognized the pair of grey tentacles that had shot from the creature several minutes earlier, now lurking to either side of the beak.

"Folly!" swore Sanych, peering over his shoulder and startling him. "They're going to attack it?"

Geret looked again and saw the sailors gathered among the masts amidships, clearly hesitant.

"Geret!" Salvor's voice called from the sailors' direction.

"Salvor!" Sanych responded, hurriedly gesturing for him to join them. The man jogged up the angled deck cautiously until he slid around the stairhouse wall with them. He immediately grabbed Geret by his shirt front and slammed him against the wall.

"Fool," he said angrily, "you may not be required to listen to me, but for the love of all that's wise, would you give it a try sometime? Say, maybe when your life is in danger?"

"Salvor," Sanych said, placing a hand on his sleeve, "he saved my life."

Salvor's eyes lowered in Sanych's direction for a moment, and he slowly released the prince, letting his feet touch the deck again. "Nicely done, hero," he growled. "I swear to Wisdom, if you tell me you have some clever plan to save the ship from the sea monster, I will knock you out right here."

Geret glowered back at him. "I don't. Do you? Because we could use one!"

The ship heaved again, and everyone held on tight to the railing around the stairhouse. Sanych, now closest to the corner, took a peek. "It's shifting onto the ship. It moved its tail up next to its body...and it's changed color. Amazing!"

Once the ship stabilized again, the others peered around the corner as well. The creature had altered its color to a pale brown. Everything from its tail to its arms had gone nearly invisible against the deck, and only the massive bulk of its body against the dying sunset gave away its presence.

"How does it know what color the deck is?" Geret asked.

The armed soldiers were milling, picking up courage to rush the creature. Even from this distance, in the gloom, the leaders' imperative arm gestures were unmistakable.

"The Deep Ones are powerful creatures," Meena said quietly, gazing at the enormous brown bulk of the sea creature. "Surely they are also observant and clever."

The sailors found their courage and rushed madly at the creature, yelling at the top of their lungs. The humid air seemed to clog Sanych's lungs as she watched them run to their apparent doom; she could not breathe, could not look away.

The sailors reached the creature's long slender arms and stabbed wildly at them with their glaives and military forks. A few sailors slipped past the arms and began trying to stab the head or eyes.

"Why isn't it retaliating?" Geret wondered, squinting in the dimness. The last oranges of the sunset flared off angled blades in the distance. The ship's outer lamps hadn't been lit yet due to the creature's attack, and the top deck was dimming.

"Maybe it's–" Salvor began, but was interrupted by a new impact upon the ship. Something had struck them amidships on the starboard side, and the ship rolled slowly.

"Another one?" Sanych said, turning to Meena.

But Meena wasn't there.

"Meena?" Sanych called into the gloaming. She spotted a running figure that had nearly reached the port rail.

Meena leaned over the edge for a long moment, then ran back to them. The serious look on her face forestalled all questions. "Brace yourselves," she said, and hunkered down next to the port side of the stairhouse wall, clutching the wooden rail. Sanych joined her without hesitation, and the men crouched on either side of them.

"Another enormous cuttlefish? Its mate?" Salvor asked quietly, fingers white on the rail. The sound of hundreds of sailors attacking the monster seemed very loud.

"It's not the same creature. Whatever's down there has a dorsal fin and tusks. And it's more than twice as big as the cuttlefish up here with us."

The ship juddered, seemed to pivot around its bow, where the onboard creature's weight held the ship firm against the surface of the sea. The stern skipped across the water for a frighteningly long time before splashing back down. The long rudder snapped off with a great wooden shearing. The force of the sudden blow knocked everyone from the rail and slammed them back into the wall a split second later. They clung again to the rail as the ship rolled heavily. Screams of sailors who had fallen overboard carried up to the top deck. A few unlucky sailors who had been trying to gather in the sails lost their balance and were flung bodily to the deck or the sea below.

Sanych raised a shaking hand to her bleeding forehead, to find Meena's hand there at the same moment.

"You'll need your head tonight," she told the girl, and quickly turned to Salvor and Geret, who were heavily bruised and dazed as well. The wound on Salvor's cheek healed up along with his bruises, and his flesh rejected the stitches, shoving them out like unwanted parasites, leaving only a tiny scar.

As she finished with her emergency healing, a massive fabric rip made the group look up in time to see the fourth mast collapse aft into the next mast in line. Their rigging became tangled, and the enormous sheets of canvas tore, stabbed through by falling spars.

"At least it didn't fall on us," Sanych said, still crouching.

"Another strike against the ship could jar it loose," Meena said. "And I think I know what's going on."

"What?" Salvor asked, as dozens of cannons on the port side of the Kazhak began firing their cannons down at the threat below the sea's surface.

"The creature in the water is hungry. The creature on the foredeck is supper. It's up here thinking this ship is large enough to hide it. That's why it's not fighting back. It thinks it would give itself away by retaliating against the sailors. They're probably not doing it much harm anyway." She pulled a morsel of bread from a pocket and popped it into her mouth, chewing.

"But the creature in the water seems to know where its food is hiding," Salvor said desperately. "How do we make it go away?"

"Hey, I'm hungry," said Geret, watching Meena. "I could settle down with a nice plate of flash-fried seafood myself."

"Ugh!" Sanych replied, shuddering. "Flash-fried is nearly raw! They just wave it through a flame for a minute! It's disgusting."

Geret shook his head, amazed that such a normal conversation was happening when they were about to die. And then, his whole body began to tingle with excitement. He breathed in slowly, savoring the realization he was having. "Yes. Wisdom, yes! It could work!"

"What could work?" Meena asked, her voice keen.

"Folly, I said no schemes," Salvor growled, making a fist and reaching for the prince.

He found himself flat on his back with Meena astride his chest, her own fist cocked above his face. He blinked.

"Your view of the world tends toward the narrow, doesn't it?" she asked, then continued without pause. "Let the man save your life, so you can continue to save his."

"You don't even know what his plan is yet," Salvor protested, a hand hovering protectively above his nose.

Meena looked at him as if he were dense, then glanced to Geret.

"We need fire," the prince said. "And oil, lots of it. Meena, get the soldiers to quit attacking the monster and start carrying as much oil as they can from the fire deck. Sanych, I need you to go tell Galanishav what we're doing. Salvor, as always, you're with me." Geret stood up, and Meena did the same, letting Salvor rise also.

Salvor glared at Meena as she swallowed her bite of bread. "It's not nice to play with people like that."

She smirked at him. "I never claimed to be nice."

"Wait, Geret, what are we doing?" Sanych asked, half-distracted by the others' conversation.

Geret grinned at her. "We're going to feed the sea beast some flash-fried seafood."

##  Chapter Thirty

The water seeped in quietly, insidiously. It curled around the bars and gently flooded the areas beneath the men's benches. Its calming, briny warmth belied its deadliness; Sengril inched further up his bench, away from the encroaching liquid, and wiped a trail of blood from his temple.

"I've half a mind to just slip on in, Stervan," Armala said with a half-smile, as he held a selected book on his lap.

"How do you plan to counter your additional buoyancy?"

Armala rattled his ankle chain in response.

"Ah. Thought of everything, did you?" Sengril asked lightly, noting that one of the guards' bodies outside the bars had enough water under it to float now. The unlucky man had been felled as his head struck a wall when the ship had shuddered several minutes ago. "Me, I will wait here on my bench. Perhaps the crew will scare away whatever is attacking us, and they'll pump out the water down here in time to save us."

Armala barked a laugh. "You always were the optimist. I'll miss that about you."

~~~

Geret dashed down the corridor and rammed open the door to the powder magazine with his shoulder. Salvor hurried after him.

"So the oil, I get," he said to Geret. "Why the powder?"

"I want to get that thing off the ship quickly. A quick exit needs a quick fire." Geret hefted a small barrel of powder from the floor and tossed it to Salvor, who caught it with a stagger. "A quick fire needs a quick start, and I don't know anything that burns as fast as this," he added, picking up his own barrel and heading back toward the door. "Besides," he grinned, meeting Salvor's eyes, "didn't you ever just want to blow something up?"

Salvor glared. "No," he growled, "I'm more of a stab-it-to-death type of fellow."

"Ah. Maybe that's why we haven't gotten along." Geret lifted a small lamp off its hook and ran back up the corridor with his barrel. Salvor was right behind him.

When they gained the upper deck once again, they saw sailors forming a line across the angled deck. It extended from where Meena stood, on the stump of the broken fourth mast, toward a smaller staircase that led down to the fire deck. Salvor and Geret made their way toward her.

The ship bucked in response to another nudge from the hunting sea creature in the water, this time at the bow. Salvor stumbled and dropped his barrel. It cracked upon impact and rolled down the deck, spraying bits of powder, until one of the sailors stopped it with his foot. Geret managed to dance around and keep his footing, very mindful that he was holding both a very explosive powder and a live flame. Salvor retrieved his barrel and they caught up to Meena.

"The oil's coming, Geret. Where do you want it?" she greeted them, eyeing the foredeck from her higher vantage point. The enormous camouflaged cephalopod was lurking quietly a few dozen paces away, still matching the deck in shade and texture, if not in shape.

"Right in front of it," Geret responded, setting down his barrel and pointing to the deck where the creature's thick arms were tightly tucked together.

"You heard the man," she called to the sailors.

Geret took Salvor's damaged barrel and hefted it, guessing how much powder remained inside. "How far do you think you can throw this?" he asked him.

Salvor judged the distance to the creature. "Not that far."

"Me either," said Geret. He bolted for the creature.

"Folly take your eyes, Geret Valan!" Salvor shouted angrily, running to stop him. But Geret only ran about half the distance separating them from the monster, then pivoted and flung the barrel from his arms like a stone from a sling. He stopped to watch it arc through the air, and as it landed and splintered a few feet shy of the monster, Salvor caught up to him and grabbed him by the collar.

"You are getting to be more trouble than you're worth," he growled, yanking Geret back in the direction of Meena and the sailors.

Geret merely grinned cockily. He wasn't about to mention that the creature's tentacles could easily kill them all even at their "safe" distance. This was his first experience with epic death, and he was enjoying himself immensely.

Sanych skidded down the deck as Salvor pulled Geret through the line of sailors. "I told the captain your plan, Geret," she panted, eyes wide at her proximity to the sea monster. "He's quite furious that you're planning on burning his ship, but he's too busy trying to keep it from sinking at the moment to stop you. He says he'll either hang you or give you his oldest daughter's hand in marriage, if you manage to succeed. I think he's serious."

While she was speaking, buckets began arriving from the fire deck below, brigade-style; each was half full of oil, and the last several men in line started throwing their contents on the deck close to their feet. Others ran the empties back.

"No, throw it on him," Geret instructed. "And on the deck beside him! His only way out must be back to the sea!"

The men did as he asked. At first the creature didn't respond to the viscous liquid splashing onto its skin, but after a dozen or so buckets, it flicked a suddenly bright-red arm out and knocked two sailors across the deck about twenty feet. Everyone froze, waiting. The creature merely tucked its arm back into place, resuming its brown shade. The two sailors struggled to their feet, and the oiling continued.

The creature twitched in irritation a few more times, reddening its skin for a moment and scattering sailors about. Geret started to feel antsy.

"All right, everyone back up," he called, stepping forward with the lamp. The sailors obeyed with alacrity, some limping or walking gingerly.

"I should do that," Meena said, hopping down from her mast-stump. Geret held the lamp out to her.

The creature in the sea bit the ship's bow and shook it. Its predator too close for comfort, the cephalopod on deck raised its top two arms up in a threatening position, turning them a flashing combination of red and white. It also raised its head up on the rest of its arms and shot a glowing liquid from the enormous siphon on the underside of its body. The substance arced out and landed on the deck in front of the ship's defenders, splattering them heavily. It smelled of fish and organic chemicals.

Geret dropped the lamp trying to protect his face, and several people were knocked over by the force of the splatter. An enormous swath of the deck was now aglow with a lemon-yellow chemical light.

Sanych spat some of the foul-tasting stuff out of her mouth and murmured, "Amazing."

Salvor helped her stand again and brushed some more of it off her face with a dry part of his sleeve cuff. "If you say so," he said.

The creature sensed that it had fired its defensive liquid in the wrong direction. It humped around with its arms, dragging its back half, until it had shifted its body to face the bow. Deck boards cracked en masse under its enormous weight, and even the numerous support struts creaked; some shattered completely. It angled itself over the prow of the ship and fired its goo again, down into the sea. The ship's shaking stopped immediately.

"Folly's bastards!" Geret cursed, sieving glowing goo out of his hair with his fingers. "Now it's turned the wrong way, and we're out of fire."

Meena jogged past him, a lamp in one hand, and the remaining powder barrel balanced on one shoulder; Geret had not realized she had momentarily left them. She had somehow managed to avoid getting slimed as well.

Not only heroic, but clean and stylish, he thought, grinning.

The creature's long, delicate tail flicked angrily in their direction, knocking several sailors to the deck even at this distance.

"Everyone back!" he called, and the large group of defenders fell back past the center mast of the ship.

Meena ran right up to the edge of the oil slick, which the creature had spread everywhere with its flailing, and hurled the lamp onto Geret's earlier powder spill.

Instantly, white-hot fire blazed up, cooling to yellow flames as the oil caught fire as well, and the deck began to burn in an arc nearly thirty paces wide, trapping the creature at the bow of the ship. Meena quickly darted toward the starboard rail.

The creature flopped back around to get a better look at this strange phenomenon, and did not understand what it saw. It flared red and white with thin blue ripples along its entire skin. It bent its long, slender, spineless body away from the prow and pulled itself directly toward Meena with its suckered arms, recognizing her, a living creature, as more of a threat than the fire. The extreme front end of the foredeck cracked heavily, and Meena could see that some areas in the monster's trail had absolutely no decking remaining, and the support beams were pulverized.

Meena shifted the heavy barrel in her grip and examined the deck, the rail, the splintered bow. Amidships, she saw the anxious sailors, some with fire hoses and seawater pumps, ready to put out the flames. The creature wasn't intimidated enough by the fire; it was staying to fight rather than taking its chances with its predator below. At this rate, the ship would burn down to the point of uselessness before the monster returned to the sea. It just needed a little encouragement.

She thought for a moment she could see Sanych's face, even at this distance.

"See you later, Sanych," she murmured. She waded into the fire arc at the starboard rail, the powder barrel balanced on her head.

"What is she doing?" Sanych cried, lurching forward. Salvor grasped her shoulders and held her tightly against him, his eyes locked on Meena's distant figure in the licking flames.

The cephalopod did not like this small creature approaching it through the strange yellow heat. It waved its red-and-white arms at her for a few moments, clicking its enormous white beak. When she did not stop, it launched its tentacles out, piercing her body with the long bony hooks on its wedge-shaped pads. It paid no mind to the small cylinder that toppled from her head into the inferno as it pulled her into its open beak.

Sanych screamed, a long, terrified note of despair. Geret and Salvor swore in astonishment. The sailors swore as well, or called out in shock, in several languages.

The barrel cracked and exploded, sending a plume of roiling smoke high into the darkening sky. The creature flinched and lurched away from the sudden explosion. Its weight on the heavily damaged bow was too much for the support beams. With the shriek and crunch of tearing wood, the Kazhak's bow collapsed onto the fire deck below, and the monstrous creature toppled, arms flailing madly, into the sea.

The sailors immediately raised a cheer, despite the ship's hefty rocking. Sanych tore loose from Salvor and bolted down the deck, and he and Geret followed her. The oil fire had spread far too widely to simply leap over, however, and they could not reach what remained of the bow until the sailors caught up with them, bringing the fire hoses and pumps. Siphoning water directly from the sea through long hoses, they pumped as quickly as they could, while Sanych wrung her hands impatiently, biting her lower lip and trying not to cry. As soon as there was a clear path, she dashed ahead through the crushed deck boards and scorched areas to kneel down at the shattered edge of the bow. Geret, Salvor, and many of the sailors joined her.

The surface of the water below was still.

Sanych gripped a broken support beam and squeezed it hard, unmindful of splinters. Her entire body tense, she willed Meena to surface. Tears formed in her eyes, but did not fall; she didn't want to blink.

"I can't believe it," Geret said, stunned. "It ate her. She let it eat her."

Salvor silently shook his head as he studied the ocean's surface far below.

"Meena!" Sanych cried, shaking the tears loose onto her cheeks. "Please! Where are you?"

The sailors began murmuring. Comments of sympathy, bravery and amazement rippled among the crowd at the broken bow.

"Sanych," Salvor said, touching her shoulder with a gentle hand, "let's get you out of here." She turned and looked at him, anger, hurt and surprise writ large across her sadness.

"What's that?" one of the sailors called, pointing. An enormous, pale yellow shape darted by.

"A garrim," another replied, his voice awed.

Geret leaned forward for a better look; Salvor gripped the back of his gooey yellow collar and pulled him back a step, but Geret didn't even notice. "All coated with this dye," he added, fingering the stuff where it had soaked into his sleeve.

The surface of the sea suddenly roiled madly, and a tentacle shot up into the air, higher than their heads, before it quickly retracted. A few moments later, a ship-sized, yellow-spattered silver back breached the surface, wrapped from below with half a dozen of the cephalopod's arms.

But the outcome of the battle was inevitable. Sanych stood and clung to Salvor, weeping, unable to stop watching the scene below. It felt as if she were watching Meena die all over again. The shark-like creature had its way with the cephalopod, whose death came only when too much of its flesh had been ripped away and consumed. The cephalopod's glowing blue-green blood spread through the water quickly, bits of arms and guts floating, silhouetted, to the surface.

Eventually the larger sea monster descended out of sight, its hunger sated. The cyanescent blood diffused into the blackness of the night sea. A lone tentacle pad drifted past the damaged bow, its only remaining color display being the grey of death.

The shark-like garrim regurgitated its victim's enormous cuttlebone, and it spiraled to the surface, its bluish-greyness barely visible in the dim distance as the Kazhak drifted with the current.

The sailors began their enormous task of cleaning and repairing the ship, leaving the three friends together at the shattered bow.

Salvor held Sanych tightly, an arm around her shoulders from behind, as she stared down at the sea; the strain of recent events showed plainly in the lines on his face. "She saved us, Sanych. We can go on because of her."

Sanych unclenched her jaw to speak, but did not tear her eyes from the water. "No. We can't go on after this."

"You quested to find her in the first place, when no one believed she even existed. Why are you giving up so easily now?" he asked gently.

"Because she had the key to the evil book's prison inside her chest. The quest is over without that."

Geret and Salvor exchanged a glance. They had forgotten about the key. Without it, the quest was dead. And so was Addan.

A long silence stretched.

"We'll turn around for home as soon as we get a working rudder," Geret promised, swallowing a lump in his throat.

##  Chapter Thirty-one

The great hulk of the once-proud Kazhak limped away with a distinct list to port as the night passed overhead. The fires were quickly put out, and the bilge pumps were manned day and night. The fourth mast was cut down from the rigging of the fifth, and its components used for emergency repairs elsewhere, as were the remains of the other broken masts. Several cargo holds had been at least momentarily flooded, and nearly all cargo had been damaged or ruined by seawater, including the freshwater casks that were for everyday use aboard the ship. Once they were flushed, clean drinkable water slowly filtered in from the sea filters, but everyone was on half-rations or worse for the first day after the attack.

Galanishav instructed his crew to fashion a makeshift rudder from pieces of the broken masts, and managed to regain some steering capability, but he insisted to Geret that it would not withstand a transoceanic journey, nor would the ship itself, without extensive repairs. Many sails on the remaining six masts had to be taken down, though, to prevent excess speed overwhelming the bilge pumps with water. The Kazhak's progress across the Middle Sea slowed to a crawl, and Galanishav steered toward the easiest landfall, which, according to his charts, was only a few days away.

Once the water was pumped out of the brig and lower holds, the ship righted itself and the decks were once again level. The cleanup crew found all the guards and prisoners dead. Most had drowned in their cells, some clearly in a panic, by the contortions of their bodies. The Counts of Vint, however, had each chosen a single book from their trunk and held it to their chests in their final moments.

When a ship's officer informed Geret of the loss of the two Counts and wondered aloud about the books, Geret explained, with mixed emotions, that it was a tradition of Vint to be buried with a book in one's grasp, to represent the eternal Vinten dedication to learning, knowledge and wisdom. The officer nodded, impressed that two prisoners had accepted their fates so willingly, but Geret felt a stab of regret. If he had managed to keep his mouth shut, they wouldn't have been down in the brig in the first place. Their crimes against Vint were real, and carried the death penalty, but in his heart of hearts, Geret didn't believe the death they'd received was the way things were supposed to go.

Geret, Salvor and Sanych, as well as the dozens of sailors who had helped them fight off the sea monster on deck, had found it impossible to wash off the monstrous cephalopod's glowing goo. Their skin, where the chemicals had seeped into it, glowed in the dimness below decks and remained pale yellow even in direct sunlight. Salvor's comment that at least it hadn't been poisonous didn't even get a smile from Sanych, and she showed no interest in considering the possible chemical makeup of the substance.

She spent the next day in a state of near-silent depression. When she could be coaxed to talk, she said that she continued to hold out hope for Meena's return. Then her eyes would unfocus, and she relived the moment when she had watched her dear friend get eaten alive, and she subsided again into silence.

Geret gathered the remnants of his quest members together the day after the attack and told them of Meena's bravery and sacrifice, and that during the attack, a critical piece of the quest had been lost, and they'd have to return home as soon as they could find a way. Afterward, he pulled Runcan aside.

"Where were you during everything?" he asked. "I thought maybe you'd..." But Geret couldn't finish the thought.

"I stayed in my room. I got tossed about something fierce in there, but with the cushions and blankets from the bed, I didn't fare too badly in my cocoon. Moving about seemed to invite peril," he added, seeing Geret's puzzled look. "I thought it best to stay in one spot. Either my room was going to survive the attack, or it wasn't. I had my book, just in case." He smiled gently.

"You heard," Geret said quietly.

Runcan laid an understanding hand on his prince's shoulder. "Yes. They made their peace, and I can do no more than accept that."

All thoughts of questing were put aside. Everyone lent their hand where it was needed most.

The cannons fired every twenty minutes, all night, every night.

Six days later, the Kazhak sighted land.

~~~

Sanych held her palm up to a shaft of sunlight that filtered steadily through the waving palm fronds far above her head, and bent to examine the crystalline bits of sand that stuck to her perspiring skin, which had lost most of its yellow tint over the last two weeks. Most of the flecks were white, clear, or faintly pink, and made of coral. The gently-sloping beach on which she found repose was covered in white sand, after all. But occasionally she found a brown-striped fleck or a pure black one, and amused herself by guessing what sort of rock they might consist of.

"Miss elTiera?" a voice called, interrupting her scrutiny. She looked up to see one of the ship's officers standing a few feet away. "Are you ready, miss?" he asked her politely, and she nodded wordlessly and stood, brushing the sand off against the rough fabric of her salt-stained cream pants.

She took the lead along a nearly invisible trail into the jungle, stepping carefully over quicksand patches and avoiding anthills, leading the way unerringly to the one source of fresh water anyone had found since they had landed here. Three dozen sailors, carrying empty water jugs suspended between bamboo poles carried over the shoulders of two men each, trailed after her.

When they reached the basalt cliff with the cool, sparkling pool of spring water at its base, the men quickly went to work filling their jugs. Sanych moved out of their way and began examining the tiny plants that grew from the cliff's damp face. She had already mentally catalogued the large ferns and the trees here at the spring, on previous visits; it was time for a new category.

There was more variety among the tiny plants than she had expected, and she had not finished studying them all before the last water jug was full. She took a moment to note exactly where she'd memorized the last plant, then turned and led the group back along the winding trail.

The panorama of the beach opened up before them, and the water carriers headed for their filling station, just inside the tree line. The ship's officer gave her a grateful nod, which she returned. The man had no idea how much she appreciated the distraction of navigating through the jungle.

She climbed up on one of her favorite perches, a coconut palm at the edge of the sand. It leaned so far over toward the sea that it was nearly horizontal for ten paces' worth of trunk. From here, at the edge of camp, she had a good view of everything her world now contained.

The damaged Kazhak was anchored offshore a couple hundred paces, where its short makeshift rudder would not touch bottom. It bobbed gently in the small swells of the protected bay they'd managed to sail into two weeks ago. Sailors took shifts aboard her, manning the bilge pumps day and night. But they would not need to do that for much longer, if all went according to Galanishav's plan.

Sanych turned her eyes toward the beach itself. The slope of this beach was minimal, so there was a large swath of creamy white sand between the gentle waves and the actual edge of the jungle, which housed the bulk of the beach camp. Palm fronds, seaweed and various small dead creatures washed up every night, and self-appointed beachcombers collected everything that might be of use.

Captain Galanishav had insisted that everyone move off the Kazhak, and so nearly fifteen hundred people had spread themselves throughout the nearby jungle. Mattresses and hammocks, blankets, tarps and even Geret's quest tents from the cargo hold were transported to shore and distributed among the marooned. The few remaining quest members, mostly cooks and servants, had proven their worth by helping the camp to organize more quickly, under the expert direction of Count Runcan.

As for the docking project, it was left in the hands of the sailors, under Galanishav's direction. They had begun dredging a channel below the tide line on the second day, and it was nearly finished. Some future part of the plan included use of the ballast stones on the flattened seafloor, but Sanych hadn't been let in on the details and could only guess at their purpose. However they were used, the Kazhak was going to be brought up onto the shore for proper repairs. Some of the sailors and passengers, including Geret, had taken the ship's axes into the jungle and had felled trees to use in the repairs; quite a large stack of felled hardwoods rested in a clearing near the jungle's edge. The heat of summer was intense here in the tropics, and the middle of the day was nearly unbearable. Everyone left their work and took to the shade for several hours during that time.

Sanych didn't like this spot because of the view of camp, though; she liked it because she could see a wide swath of ocean. The bay was shaped like a flattened horseshoe, facing northeast. And somewhere out there, she had to believe, was Meena. She hoped to see her come in from the ocean, every time she looked.

Virtually unkillable, the Shanallar had called herself. Sanych had thought long and hard, through sleepless, tear-filled nights, about the encounter with the Deep Ones, and she had come to the logical conclusion that Meena's actions that night had been a calculated risk, and that she'd fully expected to survive.

Unless something had gone wrong with the plan.

Had she really meant for the creature to eat her? Maybe she was just getting close enough to drop the barrel, and had planned to heal from the explosion, while the monster dropped into the sea without her in its gullet.

Irritated with the repetitive nature of her thoughts, Sanych thumped the sturdy tree trunk with the heel of her hand and looked back out to sea. Meena had been eaten by the cephalopod, which had in turn been eaten by the garrim, but that didn't preclude her survival. Until she had proof of Meena's death–and she doubted she ever would–she decided to put her faith in Meena and wait for her return.

No matter how long it took.

Which brought Sanych to her other recurring, uncomfortable thought: Meena had the key to the Dire Tome's prison. Despite her claim that she intended to take Sanych to Shanal with her, she hadn't even hinted that the Archivist might have a role in the actual destruction of the Dire Tome. What if Meena just changed her mind about Sanych and headed for Shanal without even looking back?

That thought always made Sanych feel lonely. She could barely remember her parents, and most of her relationships at the Temple were with colleagues. Meena had stolen into her heart and filled a gap she didn't know existed. And now she was gone. Would she ever see the Shanallar again?

It was nearly time to hide in the shade; midmorning had come while they had been at the spring, and the heat was bearing down as the sun approached midday. Sanych waded into the warm sea and sat down for a minute, soaking her thin clothing, then let the breeze cool her as she headed for her tent under the waving palms.

##  Chapter Thirty-two

The next day, Geret and Salvor decided that while their day-long tasks distracted them quite well from thinking about their failed quest, Sanych was missing such a luxury. They decided to try and help her out of her distant quietude.

"I'm done with the hunting parties for today," Salvor said. "We didn't find a single beast, which is a first for this area. Even those thrice-foolish mynah birds were quiet for once. So I'll see to Sanych first. I know what she needs." He grinned, giving Geret a quick eyebrow-raise.

Geret glowered. "You know she's not yet sixteen, Salvor."

"I'm well aware she's not old enough for marriage, or that which comes with it." Salvor squinted accusingly. "That's an awfully quick jump to thinking the worst of me. Unlike you, I've not yet tried to toss aside my upbringing in a passionate moment."

Geret recalled bitterly how he'd wanted to execute Armala and Sengril, and realized he was guilty as charged. "Fine, do what you like, then." He left, leaning his axe on his shoulder, bothered that Salvor got to spend time with Sanych while he had trees to chop down.

Salvor convinced Sanych to take a walk with him to the spring, and they ambled slowly, while Salvor kept a lilting, easy conversation going. Once they reached the monolith and the spring, Sanych began to point out how far she had studied the plants on the cliff's face, and the features of each.

"You'll turn me into a botanist yet, Sanych elTiera," Salvor smiled, picking a miniscule, ball-shaped purple flower on a hair-thin stem from its root system in the cracks of the cliff. "What are you going to name this one?" he asked with a smile, tucking it behind her ear.

Sanych inhaled its incredibly strong spicy fragrance. "It might already have a name in Hyndi. We're only a few days' sailing from its borders."

Salvor was surprised. "You've seen Galanishav's charts?"

"Of course," Sanych responded easily. "He's made me study everything documenting his journey. It's all I did the first few days: look at his logbook, the maps and sea charts, depth measurements along shore. In case it got lost somehow. He seems very uneasy on land, that man."

At that moment, the burbling spring, a few feet away, suddenly emitted an odd slurping sound. By the time they'd turned their heads to look at it, the water that usually bubbled gently out of the rock-embraced gap had vanished.

"What in the name of Wisdom...?" Salvor said, walking over to its edge and looking cautiously down into the rough-edged, three-foot-wide hole. "I can't see the water at all!" he exclaimed. "There's just an empty shaft–"

Sanych grabbed his hand. "You'd better back up," she said, tugging him away from the empty spring.

"What does it mean?" he asked. "I've never heard of anything like that before."

"Pucharo, the Scribe of Hardyk, documented dozens of parallels between subterranean tremors and unusual water-level events."

"Maybe you could say that again, in Versal this time," Salvor asked, frowning at the empty hole in the ground.

"I mean, water sources like wells and springs do funny things if there's an earthquake going on somewhere nearby. And sometimes not so near. It's fascinating reading." Sanych grinned.

Salvor only shook his head and smiled. "I bet it is. Well there's no quake here, luckily for us." He selected a new plant specimen on the cliff's face. "Tell me about this one; it looks like its leaves are made of foam."

Sanych explained at length about the small plant, and Salvor smiled to see her so happy, so distracted from her thoughts of Meena.

~~~

Back at the beach camp, Geret gave himself a break from chopping trees and took a long drink from the water bucket. Thirst slaked, he pulled up the tails of his shirt and wiped his sweating face on them, then eyed the ocean. It looked cool and inviting.

"I won't tell, my prince," Runcan said, approaching with a smile.

Geret grinned at him. "All right, hold whatever thought you came over here with. I'll be right back."

"It's just lunch," Runcan replied, holding up a knotted cloth.

"Superb. I'm starved. Wait right there." He jogged down the sandy white expanse and into the ocean, his woven footwear letting the cooling water flow right next to his feet. But just as he reached down with his hands for some to splash on his face, it retreated from him. Cursing his bad timing between waves, Geret waded out further, but to his astonishment, the water kept retreating.

"What? Hey!" he shouted at the ocean, holding his arms up in protest. "That's cheating! I'm hot!" He waited another few moments before stalking back onto the beach, barely wet to his knees. "So much for that idea," he groused to Runcan. "I think I just got pranked by the ocean."

"My prince," Runcan murmured distractedly, "I think we have larger issues." He pointed, and Geret turned to look.

He saw how far the sea had retreated in the time it had taken him to trudge back up to Runcan at the tree line. Before him now lay hundreds of paces of wet, bared seafloor, stretching nearly the depth of the entire bay. Coral reefs were exposed like the twisting walls of a labyrinth. Fish flopped helplessly on the sand. Long kelp strands lay limp, streaming like wet hair toward the retreating sea, draping over enormous pink fans, spiny sea stars, blue sea pens and countless other creatures. The trench that the sailors had been digging to hold the Kazhak for repairs had been widened on the sides and filled in on the bottom: days of work reduced to a mere divot by the retreat of the water.

And the Kazhak itself was just settling to the seafloor like a dying dragon, careening over as if it lacked the strength to hold itself upright. Its six remaining masts slowly pointed out to sea, and its cracked hull rolled into view, revealing its second broken rudder in three weeks.

The faint cries of the sailors inside the ship could be heard as the enormous vessel, more than five hundred feet long, rolled to a stop with a series of loud wooden cracks.

"That," Geret pointed at the ship, "that can't be good."

"I believe our course of action should now be to flee for high ground, my prince," Runcan said with a small, courteous bow.

"What? Why?"

"What goes out, must come in," he said.

"We can bring lunch, right?" Geret asked, eyeing the package of food. Runcan gave him a look of impatience, thrust the lunch into his arms, and turned and ran toward the trail into the jungle. Geret followed on his heels.

As they ran through camp, the slight, redheaded Count shouted for everyone to flee the beach, warning them of the danger. Many stopped to stare at the marooned Sea God, while others quickly gathered items and dashed to follow the Count as Geret was.

Into the jungle they fled, flashing past trees and brightly-colored flowering shrubs. Geret glanced back several times, desperate to see if the sea had returned yet.

"What's going on?" he panted, shifting the lunch from one arm to the other.

"It seems to be a quake ripple," Runcan responded, running steadily past giant fern fans and broad fruit tree leaves. "Happens when there's an earthquake at the shore or under the sea sometimes."

"But we didn't have an earthquake!" Geret protested. His breakneck run through the jungle was only making him hotter, and rivulets of sweat made their way down his spine, soaking his shirt.

"The ocean is just a giant puddle. What happens when you drop a rock into a puddle?"

Geret ducked under an enormous leaf, then leaped over an anthill. "Ripples!" he said.

"Exactly," panted Runcan.

"Folly," cursed Geret, thinking of the size ocean ripples must be, wondering if there was high enough ground to be had.

Minutes passed, filled with flashing greenery and aching breaths. "Nearly there," Runcan called over his shoulder. Geret looked behind them.

No one was following.

"Wh–? Where is everyone?" he said, turning and stumbling to a stop in a humid clearing. He listened, straining his ears to hear anyone over the sounds of his own thudding heartbeat and gasping lungs.

Runcan called twice into the surrounding flora, directing people to his location, but after he received no answer, he said, "We can't wait. It may already be at the beach."

"Runcan?" came a voice ahead of them.

"It's Salvor," Geret said.

The two men ran toward Salvor's voice. They found him and Sanych stepping out of the shrubbery at the edge of the spring's clearing, holding hands. Geret realized he and Runcan had run over two miles.

"What's going on?" Salvor asked, alarmed at the two men's evident haste.

"A quake ripple is coming; we need to get out of its way," Runcan said hurriedly, running toward the monolith.

"Oh, Wisdom!" breathed Sanych. "The spring was right!"

"Folly!" cursed Salvor, tugging her hand toward the monolith. "How much time do we have?"

"Minutes," called Runcan, circling the monolith at a jog, looking for a way up through the thick vines and palms that clustered at much of its base.

"Where is everyone else?" Sanych asked, her pale eyes scanning the jungle's impenetrable verdancy.

"We don't have time to find them," Salvor said, meeting her eyes and shaking his head.

"Here!" called Geret, who had run the other way around from Runcan. Everyone else ran to his location and looked where he pointed.

A nearly-vertical face of rock rose from behind an enormous palm fan shrub. The dark red basalt formation provided numerous hand and footholds, with its hexagonal breaks and surfaces, as it sloped toward the top of the forty-foot-high rock. Though the angle was intimidating, even Sanych admitted that it looked a bit like a tiny stairway, leading up above the surrounding palm trees.

"I'll go first," Geret offered, "or Salvor'll have my head. Sanych, follow me." Geret tucked his arm through the knotted lunch cloth, pushed past the palm shrub and found a low step on the rock wall, then began making his way up the monolith. He kept his hand and foot placement close together, knowing Sanych was watching his every move from below.

Distant shrieks echoed through the jungle. Runcan and Salvor whirled and called at the top of their lungs, but no one came into view.

"Hurry, Sanych," Runcan said. "I think our time is nearly up."

Panting in fear, the girl stepped to the rock wall and place her hands where she'd seen Geret put his. The rock was cold, immoveable. Right about now, Meena would have been chiding her about daydreaming, when she should be hauling her arse up the rock already. Sanych squeezed her eyes shut, blinking away the beginning of tears, and climbed for her life, looking above to Geret for her next moves.

As soon as she was on the wall, Salvor motioned for Runcan to go next.

"No. The prince and the Archivist need you far more than they need me."

"Don't be–" Salvor began. A thundering, hissing sound faintly reached their ears.

"If you don't climb that cliff, I'll run off into the jungle," Runcan said, squinting. Such an absurd statement from a member of the Dictat would normally have been amusing, but at this moment, it brought sudden clarity to Salvor's mind. He nodded and leaped onto the wall beneath Sanych's heels.

Geret reached a point that was even with the tops of the palm trees and saw a spot near the very top of the rock where a large chunk had fallen away, leaving an area with a vertical wall and horizontal floor the size of a wagon bed. The only downside was that it received the full brunt of the summer sun, which was blinding after the dimness beneath the jungle canopy. He scooted up to it, set down the lunch, and turned around to help Sanych onto the narrow rock platform.

Movement drew his eyes toward the sea. Geret froze in shock.

The entire forest was being washed toward him by the largest flood he had ever seen. The frothy brown wall of water was nearly as tall as his perch, and it simply overwhelmed everything in its path. Geret's eyes caught sight of the Kazhak, rolling madly at the leading edge of the surf, its masts long since snapped off, a manmade wonder reduced to a mere driftwood log at the mercy of the wave.

And it was tumbling directly toward them.

"Hurry!" he bellowed. The alarm in his voice spurred everyone to scamper upward even more quickly.

Geret grabbed Sanych by the arms and dragged her across the rough stone, pressing her against the vertical basalt columns, then he turned and leaned over the incline.

"Come on, you lackwit sluggard, move your arse! My grandmother moves faster than you!" he shouted, slapping his hand on the rock.

Seconds later, Salvor slapped his hand onto Geret's wrist, and the prince grasped Salvor's wrist and bodily hauled him up onto his feet. They both turned and bent over the edge, extending hands down toward Runcan, whose face was white in the dimness below the palm tree canopy.

They could all hear mad wooden crashing, even over the roar of the sea, as the wave swept the Sea God closer. The ship was starting to break apart as it slammed through the jungle.

Sanych backed against the solid rock in terror as she surveyed the wooden monstrosity headed directly for her. She feared the wave's force would crush them between the ship and the rock.

"It's coming!" she shouted, her body trembling from adrenaline.

Runcan's hand reached up into view, fingers bloodied. Salvor and Geret grabbed it at the same time and stumbled backward toward Sanych, pulling the Count with them.

The leading edge of the enormous wave reached the basalt monolith, and the Kazhak slammed against it. Large fragments of the ship were flung into the air in the collision. A shattered portion of the bamboo deck landed, skittering, next to the four refugees, causing them to flinch and cry out, and sheets of water poured down on them, threatening to wash them from their perch. Thunderous cracking deafened them as the great ship's keel split. As the Kazhak shuddered and snapped, the water sieved through its dying skeleton, and then, with a shrieking moan eerily like that of a dying animal, the ship broke entirely in two and was swept out of sight.

The wave's immeasurable force shook the basalt cliff like a great silent bell. Water rooster-tailed up off the leading face of the rock and sluiced along the wall, now that the ship was out of its way. Sanych was in its direct path, with the three men behind her. As the immense force of the water threatened to scrape her from the monolith, she screamed and clung to one of the hexagonal columns, wedging her fingers into a crevice. Sandy water sheeted across her like a waterfall; particles wedged themselves in her teeth and eyes and ears. She felt someone grip her around the waist and hold on tightly, supporting her against the liquid onslaught.

At least the water's warm, she told herself, as her arms began to ache. Surely minutes had passed by now, yet still the water surged past the rock, trying to scrub her off like an unwanted barnacle as it headed inland as far as the terrain would allow it.

Eventually, the sluicing torrent ceased, and Sanych collapsed to the rocky platform, coughing on sand and brine, while her eyes teared up, trying to wash out the embedded sand fragments. Her arms were nearly numb from exertion and sand-scouring.

The arms that had held her steady now gathered her close, and she recognized Salvor's scent and huddled against him, weeping in relief. He soothed her with gentle words, trying to calm his own thudding heart.

They had survived the first wave. So far.

The thundering push of the wave's leading edge faded away into the distance. Quieter sounds–eddies and whirlpools, masses of popping bubbles–now made themselves heard.

And still the water came in from the sea, pale brown with mud and sand.

No one spoke. Minutes passed, and their world shrank to a single outcrop of rock.

Geret shifted position and realized he had been kneeling on the lunch cloth for a while now. Slowly, he untied its sopping knot and unfolded each of the four corners of cloth, laying them as flat as he could. This lunch had been packed for him by one of the cooks, who was most likely now dead. It had been wrapped on a table that was probably another mile inland by now. And it represented the only food the four of them could hope to eat in the foreseeable future.

He surveyed the contents. Three roasted boar sandwiches, soaked with seawater and embedded with sand. A mango, freshly picked and only slightly bruised from being knelt on. A small knife to peel and cut said mango. Lastly, a small skin, which, upon smelling the contents, Geret said held mango juice.

Everyone watched him. Gingerly he picked up a sandwich and passed it down the row. "Eat up," he said.

Everyone ate their sandwiches, sharing a bit with Geret so he wouldn't need to cut open the mango yet. By the time they finished eating the soggy creations, the water had stopped flowing inland and began to mill and swirl around on its surface.

"Going back out soon," Runcan commented.

"Good; I can't wait to get down off this rock," Geret said, rubbing a sore spot on his back where he had leaned against a rocky spur.

"We can't get off yet," Sanych said quietly. "There will be more waves."

Geret looked at her in shock. "Like this one?" he blurted.

"I hope not," the girl shuddered. Salvor put a hand on her shoulder for comfort. "We should just wait here until tomorrow."

"I don't think so," Geret protested.

"You leave this rock and I'll beat your head senseless," Salvor threatened, "and tie you up on this ledge."

"Oh, a fine protector you are," Geret retorted.

"My lords," interrupted Runcan gently. "I believe there is a compromise to be had here. The waves, as I recall from reading in the quest books–Sanych, please correct me if I am wrong–have intervals between them. A gap of time, where it is more safe to venture forth. If you two would care to descend together to look for useful tools or food such as coconuts or mangoes, then return swiftly to this ledge, I think our time here can pass less abominably. From this height, we should be able to shout for you with enough time for you to ascend safely, should a wave come while you are below."

Sanych nodded. "Those gaps of time aren't predictable, though. An unnamed sailor who witnessed a quake ripple in Jenka Nala estimated the gap between waves at twelve minutes, and in another quake ripple at Yaren Fel, thirty-four years ago, they were over an hour apart."

"So, we should hurry, then," Geret summed with an arched eyebrow.

The water began to retreat back to the sea in earnest, sucking heavily around the rock as it departed. Masses of trees swept past them at high speed, leaving them to wonder if any would remain rooted.

When the water level dropped to nearly nothing, they could all see that the surface of the land had been completely altered. An entirely new sea arm had gouged its way several hundred paces into the former jungle. It lay filled with brown water and a few uprooted trees. Other rocky hills and spires dotted the landscape in all inland directions, revealed now by the absence of obscuring greenery. The spring at the foot of the monolith was filled with salt water. Most of the trees had collapsed, and many had washed away to the sea. The only remaining tree species were palms. The undergrowth was mostly scoured from the face of the earth, and vast expanses of light brown mud lay in every direction. Behind them, they could see the broken skeletal halves of the Kazhak, left where the sea abandoned it, against the edge of the hills another mile distant.

While Geret peered around the back edge of the rocky spire a bit later, he saw a strange smudge far out to sea on the southeastern horizon. "Take a look at that," he called to the others, and they all looked as well. "What is it? It can't be a fire out in the ocean."

Sanych's eyes flicked back and forth as she slipped into recall mode for a few moments, then she raised them back to the southeast. "Oh, Wisdom. I think it's Heren Garil Sa."

"On Ha'Hril?" Salvor asked. "Aren't we a bit too far to see it from here?"

"Not if its erupting," Sanych said quietly.

Runcan shook his head. "There's your earthquake. I hope they had enough warning to escape."

All eyes focused on the pyroclastic eruption far in the distance. Its dark brownish-grey ash cloud streamed up into the atmosphere, defying gravity.

Sanych recalled her afternoon in Ha'Lakkon with Salvor, and the people and places they had seen together. The beautiful city with the steaming night lamps had stamped itself indelibly on her mind, and she sighed, heart aching. She, for one, would never forget the way it had been.

"I guess," Salvor shrugged slightly, "that it actually could be worse for us."

"Let's get off this rock before the next ripple gets here," said Geret to Salvor. They climbed down the monolith. In a few minutes they managed to retrieve a lone coconut floating in the puddle at the spring, and a length of rope tangled in a mass of tree trunks. Once they were safely back atop their haven, they cracked open the coconut and consumed its flesh, little though it was.

With most of the forest out of the way, it was easy to see the rest of the quake ripples approaching, but none were anywhere near the size of the first wave. They gathered a few stranded fish and more coconuts as the day went on.

On two occasions, they came upon bodies from the beach camp, tangled in other debris. Broken and twisted as they were, the victims were unrecognizable, yet Geret and Salvor marked their locations, intending to come back and offer final respects once the waves had completely dissipated. In all their hours of searching, they never found any other survivors.

When the fifth wave didn't even reach the rock, the two men descended yet again and began to hunt in earnest for more durable supplies.

The erupting volcano was ever more visible on the horizon, and the slanting sunlight cast an enormous shadow behind the ash cloud.

With less than an hour of daylight remaining, they splashed through the mud, darting from one arboreal tangle to the next. Salvor had found a few feet of heavy cloth, so muddy he couldn't make out what it had originally been. He was just gathering it from where it snagged on a stump when Geret suddenly shouted.

"Salvor!" he called, waving him over. Salvor slogged over to the enormous tangle of trees, mud and debris that Geret was examining, and saw an odd blue-grey object sloping up from the top of the pile.

"What in Wisdom is that?" he called.

"No idea. I'm going around the far side." Geret jogged through the mud around the tree pile, and Salvor went around it the other way. What they found amazed them.

The object lay at a slight angle, one end supported by the uprooted trees, the other resting on the mud, as if it had been set down by the hand of a god. It was nearly eighty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, flat on the top, and barely rounded on the bottom, resembling a shallow-drafted skiff. Its porous surface was the color of a cloudy blue sea marbled with tracings of grey, and it was covered with a scattering of wet white sand. Geret approached it and touched it gently with one finger. It was hard, yet didn't seem to weigh much. He leaned against it with all his weight and managed to get it to rock a bit. He licked the salt from his lips as he pondered a sudden idea.

"What now?" Salvor asked, leaning on the enormous ship-like object for support.

"I have a plan to get us out of here."

Salvor frowned and shifted his feet in the mud. "How 'out of here' did you have in mind?"

Geret leaned his elbows on the other side of the structure. "There is no more Kazhak. There's no more quest, no more beach camp. We need to find civilization and make our way home from there."

"Agreed."

"This looks like it'll float quite well."

"You're joking."

"Sanych knows the way to Salience Harbor."

"You're mad!"

"We can gather a bit of food, maybe salvage some sailcloth from the Kazhak."

"It's not going to work." Salvor crossed his arms.

"It'll work fine. All my plans work," said Geret. "I want to go home. Don't you?" he asked, his eyes full of exhaustion and too much of the day's horror.

Salvor met his eyes for a long moment, then nodded.

"You are all my responsibility," Geret said, eyes full of shame. "I've failed everyone else, but I'll get us all home alive, or die trying. Halla hablah 'anna 'lah," he murmured, a trace of self-mockery in his words. "This I so swear, Salvor, upon what honor I have left as a prince of Vint."

Salvor gazed at him with what might have been sympathy. "It's getting dark, Geret. We should head back to the rock."

The muddy prince nodded. He let his hands slide off the Deep One's cuttlebone and plodded back toward the basalt monolith, where Sanych and Runcan awaited their return.

##  Chapter Thirty-three

After an uncomfortable night huddled atop the basalt monolith, everyone crawled out from under the muddy cloth that Salvor had found for their blanket, into the bright morning sun. They climbed down the monolith and slogged to the broken halves of the Kazhak, as Geret explained his plan more fully. Salvor and Geret plundered the wreckage for anything of use, from flint and steel to a spare topsail and lugger yard to replacement swords from the armory. The expressions on their faces when they exited the ship's crushed sections said more than words; the sailors who had been killed inside the ship had not been easy to let lie.

Her practicality struggling through tears, Sanych suggested they burn the ship's halves as a memorial, as well as to prevent predators and disease from disturbing the dead. Geret and Salvor agreed without hesitation. They retrieved the remains they'd found the day before and respectfully laid the bodies inside the Kazhak's hull.

"It's too wet to burn," Runcan said. "Let's wait. If we find others while we're searching for supplies, we can bring them in as well."

The best thing that happened on that first day, as the southern sky turned hazy brown from Heren Garil Sa's ashy cloud, was that the spring began to bubble fresh water again. Sanych was overjoyed and drank straight from it, slaking her thirst and rinsing her long hair out for several minutes.

Memories of her stolen time with Salvor yesterday felt alien now. The persistent reality of the waves' devastation, the unearthly dimness of the sky, made her feel his kisses, his love, had been washed away as well. Would they find moments as peaceful as those, ever again? Only if we live that long, Sanych thought, as she rose to her feet in the mud and hurried back to tell the others about the spring.

When he learned they didn't need to drink mango juice all the way to Salience, Geret re-entered the crushed cargo hold, looking for the old expedition water skins. They were mostly mangled, their crates shattered. He retrieved several dozen, which Sanych filled at the spring, checking them all for leaks.

Sanych, as the person most familiar with local edibles, assumed the role of food provider. She walked to and fro across the muddy flats and up into the hills past the Kazhak's broken hull. She found plenty of fruits, tubers and stranded fish, but didn't see any signs of local inhabitants or survivors.

The men lugged supplies from the devastated Sea God, argued over how to rig the sail, or whether they wanted two, and decided that the cuttlebone needed to be shaped and weighted if it was to sail properly.

On the morning of the second day, the survivors took some time from their building and gathering to honor their lost friends, companions and countrymen. Geret and Salvor started fires in the two halves of the enormous ship, fueling them with oil-soaked bolts of cloth, and dashed out to safety, joining Sanych and Runcan at a safe distance.

"Rest well, friends," Count Runcan said, over the increasing roar of the flames. "Rest well. Vint has lost good souls, but we will remember you."

The smoke billowed from the cracks of each section, streaming between the crushed planks, obscuring the mast stumps and shattered decks. As the conflagration grew, the group moved back, avoiding the heat on an already scorching morning.

The fire patiently claimed each successive deck for its own. The entire wreck was ablaze, and the wind of the firestorm howled past the small group who watched. Enormous tendrils of twisting flame raised into the sky with the fervent heat. The wind blew so fast that it screamed through the ship's planks.

Sanych gasped, sickened.

"It's just the wind; no one's alive in there," Salvor said, putting an arm on her shoulders.

"No, look," she said, pointing at the fiery monstrosity. "It looks like a Deep One, made of fire. I-I can't watch."

She whirled around, stomach queasy. Now that she'd drawn the comparison, the others could see it, too, and they were no more comforted than she.

"Let's get back to work," Geret grated. "We're not dead yet." He turned and walked away. All day, the Kazhak blazed, and when they woke the next morning, massive embers were all that remained.

Four days after the quake ripples struck, the Cuttleboat was ready to set sail. Now a trimmer fifty feet in length, with a single mainsail and a simple tiller aft, she looked like an organic ship that might come to life. Slung beneath her keel were two cargo nets of ballast, as she had a tendency to wobble with every tiny wave. The center hold area was full of food and water skins, and had a collapsible shelter cobbled together of decking, in case of storms.

It was muddy, hot work, but once the boat was afloat, even Salvor was impressed.

"I do believe this idea might work after all, Geret," he said, after the ballast had been adjusted. "You do know how to sail this thing, don't you?"

"No. I assumed Sanych would know how," Geret responded, and waited until Salvor's expression turned to trepidation before grinning at him and adding, "Come on, it can't be that hard. Steer with the tiller, follow the shore, sail into Salience Harbor. Easy as falling down."

"Do you think Meena will be waiting for us in Salience Harbor?" Sanych asked quietly.

Geret, Salvor and Runcan exchanged glances.

"It is possible," Runcan said kindly.

"Let's put to sea," Geret said grandly, wading out into the shallows. Everyone clambered aboard the makeshift boat. Geret and Salvor raised the sail up the mast, pulling in concert, and Runcan watched it fill with wind while he moved the tiller stick back and forth, getting a feel for the vessel's steering capability.

Once they sailed out of the bay, the sea grew rougher. Sanych hunkered down in the hold, a mere three feet lower than the surface of the cuttlebone, and sat among the coconuts. She was already seasick.

"Four days' sail mostly north, and we'll be back on dry land," Salvor sympathized, handing her a mango. "Eat; it's supposed to help."

"No way," Sanych grimaced, holding her stomach, "I don't even want to think about food right now."

A half smile turned up one side of his mouth. "Then maybe you'd best not hide down here with it." He smiled at her pained expression.

Sanych found that staring ahead at the flat blue horizon helped ease her seasickness, so she often stayed at the front of the hold area, just behind the mainsail, and rested her forearms and chin on the rough bluish surface of the cuttlebone. Eating, sailing, and sleeping, the four sailors passed two days, keeping land no more than a few miles away from their port side.

Every low area on shore was devastated by the quake ripples, yet all the spots high enough to be spared, whether cliff, mountain, hill or monolith, were completely untouched. It gave them the odd feeling that the sea had somehow dropped its level suddenly, and they were seeing what had always been covered, rather than new devastation. The land became more rocky as they sailed north, and there were fewer swaths of destruction each day, though the ones they did see were no less completely wiped out than their own beach had been.

In the afternoon of the second day, Runcan, who spent most of his time at the tiller, called out and pointed to the shore ahead. A mile or so from where they sailed, a rocky spit curled up and away from the white beach, ending in a sea cliff. Geret squinted against the bright white sand next to the rocky spit and saw two people jumping up and down and waving their arms at their boat.

"More survivors?" Sanych asked, shading her eyes at her usual position in the hold.

"Let's go see. Runcan, make for shore."

Runcan steered the tiller over and the Cuttleboat angled to port. When the two people on shore realized the boat was turning toward them, they shouted and jumped in the air and hugged each other.

Several minutes later, the Cuttleboat eased into the shallows, and Salvor tossed over their anchor stone. He and Geret splashed to shore, while the two stranded men ecstatically ran toward them and greeted them in excited Hyndi.

"I'm sorry, fellows," Geret said with an apologetic smile, "but I don't speak Hyndi. Any chance either of you speak Versal?" he asked, not expecting a positive reply.

"Yes, but poorly," the thinner man said. He had dark hair and eyes, and appeared a few years older than Salvor, while his companion, equally dark, looked several years older than he did, and had a thickening middle. "Please, will you convey us to the next city? We can reimburse you, once we arrive," he said haltingly.

Geret's eyebrows rose. "For someone who speaks Versal poorly, you've got a good vocabulary," he said with a grin. "We'll take you with us. Are there any others with you?" he asked, gesturing to the shore.

The two men exchanged an odd look, which raised Salvor's suspicion meter a notch. Then the thinner one replied, "No, not anymore."

"I'm sorry," Geret offered. "If you have anything you want to bring, best get it now. We've got a good wind blowing out there."

"All we have, you see here," the refugee responded, holding out his filthy hands. A glint of some form of bracelet peeked out from under his left sleeve, matted with nearly as much dirt as his hands.

"Then welcome aboard the Cuttleboat," Geret invited.

"What form of ship is this?" the man asked, pointing to it in puzzlement.

Geret smiled. "I'm not really sure, but it's getting us to Salience Harbor."

The four of them clambered back aboard. The two refugees took a bit longer, feeling compelled to wash off as much mud as they could from their persons before boarding such a bizarre, sea-colored vessel.

Geret then introduced himself and his friends by their first names, and asked, "What would you like us to call you?"

"My associate's name is Hull. But my name is lost to me, alas. Perhaps you can provide one that will suit, for the time being," their Versal-speaking companion replied.

Geret frowned and looked to Sanych, who said quietly, "It's a Hyndi tradition. Pick something."

Geret raised his eyebrows in surprise and turned back to the man. "How about Addan?"

The man nodded pleasantly. "It has a nice sound. You know someone with this name?"

"The prince of my country."

The alarm on the man's face was instantaneous. "Oh no, no," he said, waving his fingers as if fanning a candle. "I could never take such an important name. Please, something more...suited to my current station?" He gingerly held up a flap of his filthy shirt. Sanych giggled, and he smiled at her with even, white teeth.

Geret grinned. "Gryme."

The man nodded. "Gryme. It does suit, and I thank you. I shall treasure your gift in my left pocket," he said, holding his hand over his heart and bowing his head in Geret's direction.

They sailed on northward. Hull wordlessly offered to spell Runcan at the tiller, and over the next few hours, he showed a remarkable skill at steering. Each man drank down an entire water skin apiece within the first hour aboard, and Sanych sliced up some mangoes for everyone to eat.

Gryme ate his mango slices delicately, savoring each piece with small sounds of enjoyment. Hull, on the other hand, crammed his mouth as full as he could get it, smiling widely and trying to chew at the same time, as he nodded his thanks to Sanych. As he wiped the juice off his chin with his sleeve, Sanych caught sight of a rough iron bracelet on his left wrist.

Geret asked Gryme how he and Hull had come to be on the shore. The man gave a quick glance toward Hull, then looked back at Geret. "Hull and I," he began, gaining Hull's attention, "were being pursued. Our lives were at risk from the men chasing us. It was the sea god's own providence that the wave came and washed us all away as we fled their arrows. When the water put us back down, our pursuers were nowhere to be found, and we were finally free of pursuit," Gryme said, thumbing the bracelet on his left wrist through his shirt cuff.

"You're very lucky, then," Runcan said, nodding to Hull with a smile. The man smiled back jovially.

"Why were they chasing you?" Geret asked.

Gryme ran a finger along the bridge of his nose and replied, "I think such stories are too dull for such a stunning summer day," he said, and though his words were halting, his tone was clear. Geret nodded and moved on to other topics.

That evening, Hull spoke to Gryme in a language none of the others recognized, and Gryme translated, "He says he wants to steer through the night, to get us to Salience more quickly."

"That's very kind," Runcan said, nodding to Hull, who stood by the tiller.

"Go ahead," Geret said, gesturing, and Hull sat down and continued steering, turning his gaze to the newly emerging stars.

"What language does your friend speak?" Sanych asked. "I've never heard it before."

Gryme looked at her, a warning in his dark eyes. "It would do you no good to explain, I'm afraid."

Sanych frowned in puzzlement, and caught a silent glance from Salvor. She nodded to Gryme and let the comment pass.

Everyone else got as comfortable as they could in the hold, but Salvor whispered to Geret, "I'm staying awake. We don't have any idea who that man is." Geret nodded and shifted over by Sanych, while Salvor propped himself up in a corner opposite Gryme.

"Who do you think these men are?" Geret whispered to her in the darkness, as they lay on their backs next to Runcan, with an extra sail over them all for shared warmth.

"Not sure. They're so different. The things Gryme knows...he seems well-traveled, educated. Hull...not at all." She felt Geret nod beside her.

"But he seems to have been born steering ships."

"Pirate?" Sanych guessed, her voice so low Geret nearly missed it.

Geret shrugged. "Why would he be with Gryme, then? Did you notice they both have a bracelet on their left wrist?"

"Yes."

"I wonder if they were chained together..."

Now it was Sanych's turn to shrug in the dark. The humid breeze of the sea gently caressed them.

Before Geret could stop himself, he blurted quietly, "Do you love Salvor?"

Sanych stiffened beside him, and he clenched his teeth and winced, wishing his brain had been paying better attention to his mouth.

"I...don't know," Sanych finally replied.

"I'm sorry," Geret whispered quickly. "None of my business."

Sanych rolled her head in his direction. "I probably love him more than you do," she whispered, her voice smiling.

"I'm pretty sure that, of everyone on this boat, Salvor is the last person I'd love," Geret grinned back, turning his head as well. The starlight painted Sanych's cheek a glowing blue, faint in the moonless night, and her pale eyes glimmered like star shine. Geret blinked, realizing how attractive Sanych was. His eyes drifted to her smiling lips.

Wisdom, I want to kiss her.

"Geret?" Sanych whispered hesitantly, a frown marring her smooth forehead.

He took a deep breath and leaned over to Sanych, pressing his lips gently against her warm ones. She gasped quietly through her nose and pulled away, and Geret winced again, and silently cursed himself for a fool. He quickly scooted back to his spot and stared at the stars overhead, pressing his traitorous lips shut.

"Folly," he whispered, "I'm sorry."

Sanych didn't reply.

Between the kiss and the mysterious strangers on board, it was a long night for everyone.

Runcan took the tiller back at first light so Hull could get some sleep. When Sanych woke, she watched the shore until she recognized a landmark–a natural stone pillar–that had been on Captain Galanishav's charts. Only then did everyone relax around the strangers.

The next afternoon, as he sat forward of the mainsail, watching the sea skim beneath the bow, Runcan came to sit by him, leaving Salvor to take a hand at the tiller.

He cleared his throat. "You know who you are, even though it is our secret at the moment," he said quietly.

Geret nodded, anticipating a conversation about Gryme and Hull.

"Don't you think she is even more aware of that than you are?"

"Wisdom," Geret muttered, closing his eyes. "Wasn't as quiet as I thought, was I?"

Runcan smiled slightly and shook his head.

"Well, that makes me another kind of fool, then, doesn't it? She won't even look at me. What should I do?"

"Give her time. I won't pretend I can order out your feelings for you, nor hers for her. That is the bailiwick of the young and the emotionally in tune, and I am neither," he smiled sympathetically. "I only suggest that you keep in mind the next five years or so, and let your actions now be toward an end you wish to achieve thereabouts." Runcan nodded, looking wise, and let him alone again.

Geret sighed. What if I don't know what I want five years from now? At this rate, I won't even live that long.

##  Chapter Thirty-four

As the final hours of their journey wound down, the same question arose in all their minds. It was Salvor who spoke it first.

"What do you think has happened to Salience?" he asked, as the sun beat down on them in the heat of the afternoon.

"It shouldn't all be destroyed," Sanych said thoughtfully. "At least part of the city's on top of a mountain, isn't it?"

Gryme laughed, a rich, melodious sound. "You easterners. You have never seen the glory that is Salience, have you?" He lifted his chin as they shook their heads. "Then let me paint you the scene, please." He shifted in his spot on the edge of the hold, and held his hands in a forward-pointing wedge.

"Salience is the northernmost point of the continent of Eirant. All trade passes through her, in the literal sense." He grinned and held up a finger. "The greater city is indeed on the top of the rock, where her royal gardens blossom and her wise women chant, and her night beacon shines out for all to see, and sail by safely. But the deep beating heart of Salience lies beneath."

His hands traced the shape of an arch. "A bower of dressed white stone marks the entrance to Salience Harbor, and within the deep reaches that lie behind it awaits the most protected port in the known world. The stone walls rise a thousand feet on either side, and meet at the very top, creating an enormous cavern. Through what can only be described as mystical means, it is as bright as daylight within, and unless one looks up to the stone ceiling far overhead, it feels as balmy and bright as any beach-side dock. And, oh, the docks! They extend in delicate, floating mazes throughout the inner harbor, and ships of all sizes, even the largest, most fantastical ships to grace the seas, can easily berth in Salience, for the width of Salience harbor, past the channel and deep in her heart, is over two miles.

"But," he warned, "this harbor's riches are not for the taking, though generations of pirates have tried. The narrow channel that leads back to the docks is fraught with man-made underwater reefs, each with a single passage point. Every ship that enters Salience must follow its pilot boat, or risk spitting itself on the reefs' defenses. The Hyndi can alter the passage points to the left or the right at will, so pirates trying to memorize the pattern are doomed to failure. Stopping to search for the passage points will only get them killed by the Salience Harbor Defense Forces. Yes, my friends, it is true," Gryme summed, "you have not seen grandeur, you have not seen wonder, you have not seen the glory that the hands of men and women can create, until you have seen Salience."

Dusk fell, and the wind blew them steadily closer to Salience Harbor. A faint light appeared in the distance as they sailed past a rocky promontory.

"That is Salience; sail for their night beacon," Gryme told Runcan.

As the miles fell away, Hull grew noticeably agitated, and finally he rose and stepped over to Gryme, engaging him in a short conversation that no one else could follow. As Salvor watched, Gryme's expression blanked into neutrality, and he nodded thoughtfully to Hull's words. After a short reply, he stood and made his way to where Geret and Salvor were both sitting.

"Gentlemen," he said quietly, "I pray you listen with more than your ears." He met their eyes with a serious expression. "My companion Hull has a plan, and for everyone's safety, I suggest we implement it."

"A plan for what?" Geret asked.

"For slipping into Salience unnoticed."

Geret opened his mouth, and Salvor elbowed him in the ribs, making him cough. "What would be the benefit of this plan?" the nobleman asked Gryme.

The man looked uncomfortable. "Certain aspects of our story have been left out, for your protection," Gryme whispered, carefully revealing his left wrist to them so that none but they could see. The iron ring he wore was a manacle; its broken chain contained a single twisted link. Just as the worst possible thoughts were beginning to pass through Geret's mind–Desperate convict? Escaped slave?–Gryme added, "And for mine." He let his sleeve fall again.

"Do you require our assistance?" the prince asked.

"I do not require anything of you; you have already been more than generous," Gryme said with a wide smile. "However, as you observe, my travails are not at an end. My esteemed colleague speaks a few words of many languages, and some I dare not utter. I cannot ask for your assistance, my friends, without endangering you."

Salvor pressed his lips together. "Then tell us the plan for Salience, and we will see what can be inferred from it."

Gryme smiled gratefully. "This ship is as swift as a dolphin, and nearly as light as a feather. All that I said about Salience's reefs is true, yet Hull believes they will not actually reach high enough to damage this craft, due to its extremely shallow draft. He believes we may slip inside in the night, so swiftly that we will evade both pursuit and attacks from the Defense Forces."

Geret and Salvor exchanged a look. "And then what?" Geret asked.

"Then, he simply wishes that he and I will go his way, and you will go yours," he replied, emphasizing the word his.

"Do you share his enthusiasm for his way?" Salvor asked.

"Assuredly not," Gryme said, with a tiny shake of his head. His expression spoke of fear and caution. "My continued association with him will prove terminal for me."

Salvor squinted, his eyes darting over Gryme's shoulder. Geret's eyes widened, but he managed to keep his mouth shut.

"As my breathing continues," Gryme murmured, "so does his obliviousness that I'm aware of his plan."

"I understand. As for his plan, you are amenable until the point of parting ways?"

"Very much so. Being unnoticed in such a large area will make it easy for one to disappear," Gryme said, and his dire intent toward Hull was clear.

"What if there's damage to the harbor from the quake ripples?" Geret asked.

Gryme paused, pursing his lips. "I think that will work in everyone's favor, should there be such chaos. Do you think this plan can be done?"

Geret's heart pounded. He resisted the urge to peek at Hull, to see if he was looking at them.

Salvor noticed his visible tension. "Geret, you may be good at pranks, but it takes a dissembler of my caliber to handle this." He stood and walked over to Hull and gripped his forearm companionably. Hull gripped Salvor's in return, puzzled. Salvor smiled, looking convinced by the man's idea, and told him, "We like your plan. We will follow your orders."

A wide grin split Hull's face, and he nodded happily, gabbling in his foreign tongue.

Gryme stepped up beside them both. "He says he knew you could be trusted to see things his way."

Salvor grinned and nodded.

Runcan handed the rudder off to Hull then, and after rummaging in the hold for a few moments, slipped up beside Geret. Handing him a slice of smoked fish to eat, the Count murmured, "Just because he speaks our language does not mean he tells the truth."

Geret nodded silently, as if in thanks for the food.

They sailed closer to Salience. As the bright beacon on the cliff grew brighter still, Hull spoke. Gryme translated, "Look for the white stone arch. We will turn there."

The Cuttleboat drew closer, and Hull sailed them as near as he dared to the shore of the rising cliff. Yet there was no white stone arch. A worm of worry squirmed in Geret's belly.

"Look!" Sanych pointed from her customary resting place.

A silent, dark vessel lay ahead, at anchor in the dimness, and Hull steered the Cuttleboat quietly around it, trusting to the small vessel's natural camouflage.

They silently passed the sentry ship, barely daring to breathe. As they swung back in from the sea, they could see a few tumbled white stones of immense size. They lay half a mile ahead, on the sand and in the surf, where small waves foamed at their bases. A few intact stones still remained on their rocky perch at the foot of the cliff.

The Cuttleboat slowly passed the stone blocks. Some of them showed faces that were carved in deep relief and inset with colored stones, which all appeared as shades of grey in the night. Just past the blocks there was a wide water channel, and Hull swung the tiller over, angling the Cuttleboat into it. With a few gestures, he ordered that the ballast nets be cut loose from the boat. As the weight below fell away, the Cuttleboat rode higher in the water, feeling more unstable at the mercy of even the small channel waves.

Geret murmured, "There's the other side," and pointed across a wide expanse of water to the other foot of the fallen arch, where other stones lay cracked and tumbled. Even further in the distance, another sentry ship slept at anchor.

"Did the quake ripple really destroy the arch?" Sanych asked.

"Shh," cautioned Hull.

Geret leaned over the edge of the boat and looked down into the warm sea. He thought he could see several white gleams in the murk below. He glanced up to the air above him, shivering with relief that he hadn't been here when the arch fell.

Slowly they entered the shadow of the massive cavern that housed Salience Harbor, passing harmlessly over any surviving reefs below them.

The wind pushed them into the cavern, then abruptly died down. It was very quiet inside, and so large that it did not feel like the inside of anything. A warm yellowish glow radiated from far above, giving the amount of light one would see on a cloudy winter day back home in Vint.

Hull murmured, and Gryme translated, "Lower the sail." Geret and Salvor complied, as Hull steered them toward the left side of the enormous cavern.

"Something is wrong," Runcan said to Gryme. "Where are the docks? Further inside?"

Gryme's brows lowered in study as he gazed ahead of them, holding onto the bare mast. He shook his head and walked aft to consult with Hull for a minute, then came forward again. "I think the wave destroyed everything. The docks extended this far, at least against the cavern wall. We will need to row."

They broke the hold shelter into individual boards and used them as paddles, three of them to a side. The further they entered Salience Harbor, the more surreal it felt. There was no sign of human habitation whatsoever. The usual raucous gull calls associated with previously visited ports were missing. Only the slap of the waves against the cavern walls caught their ears.

"Looks like we won't be catching a ship from here for quite some time," Geret mused darkly. "Folly in a firkin."

"The elevator system is at the center of the back wall." Gryme pointed, and they paddled in that direction.

A large group of wooden fragments floated idly by the starboard side. Salvor pushed them aside with his makeshift paddle. Soon it became clear that this was merely a hint of the destruction that had ensued in the harbor when the quake ripple struck eight days ago. The back wall of the cavern was one giant ship graveyard, and as it loomed out of the dimness of the distance into full detail, the paddlers stopped in amazement. Hulls, masts, decks and miles of docks were broken together and heaped onto the wide stone dock that ran the length of the cavern's back wall, all two miles of it.

"Now what?" Geret asked, as it became clear that there was no one here to overhear them.

"Look there," Gryme pointed toward the center of the stone dock. "They've been working on clearing it. There's a space open. I bet the elevators work there."

Everyone rowed with a will, eager to get solid ground under their feet again. Geret's stomach clenched as he anticipated what would happen next, according to Gryme. He was still unsure whether he believed the man, and that made his anxiety worse. What if they killed Hull, only to discover that Gryme had been the true danger all along?

They paddled up to the cleared area and pulled alongside a small stone dock that jutted out from the larger one. Gryme began handing their supplies out to Salvor and Geret, while Hull paced the dock, looking toward the elevator system, which was silent and still in the warm light from above.

Once everyone was on the stone dock, Geret let his hand rest on his sword and tried to avoid looking at Hull. The man hadn't been rude or threatened them in any way. Geret frowned again and looked down at his boots.

Sanych suddenly gasped right next to him, and Geret looked up to see that Hull had stepped up behind her and put a dagger to her throat, holding her across the shoulders.

Geret began to draw his sword, but suddenly he found Gryme's dagger at his own throat.

"Sorry," the man hissed to him.

Salvor, whose blade had already sung out of its sheath, shifted his target from Hull to Gryme, and he stepped forward, seething with anger. "We trusted you!" he said coldly, amber eyes aflame, reflecting the yellow light.

Hull seemed confused, and as his eyes darted from Salvor to Gryme, Geret realized what was going on. But how to keep Salvor from killing the wrong man?

"Salvor, you fool, don't bother with me. Save the princess!" Geret shouted, looking toward Sanych.

All eyes shifted back to her, and in the time it took for Hull to realize that Salvor's expression was not anger, but confusion, Gryme had darted around behind his companion's back, using Geret for cover, and had slit his throat with a swift, bloody yank. As Hull sank to the dock, writhing and cursing breathily, Gryme grasped the man's dagger hand and held it away from Sanych. The girl flinched and ducked away, running to Salvor, who held her tightly in one arm, his sword still pointed at Gryme. Runcan loitered safely behind the swordsman.

Salvor shouted, "What in Wisdom's name is going on, Geret?"

Gryme raised his hands, indicating harmlessness, and Geret stepped over between him and Salvor's blade. "We weren't wrong, Salvor," Geret began.

"No, lad, let me speak for myself," Gryme said, and stepped up beside him. Salvor waved his sword blade at him, urging him to step away from his prince, whom he'd just threatened with a dagger. Gryme eased over a few steps. "It's time I told you a bit more of the truth."

"I'll say."

"Hull and I were prisoners of Clan Swordfish together. They are one of the Sea Clans. Ah yes," Gryme nodded, "I see by your expressions that you know of them. Their language is Old Kroilen, which," he nodded to Sanych, "if had I told you earlier and you had recognized it as the Clans' tongue, none of you would likely have survived. Swordfish is not known for their mercy. Hull was one of their own. He committed some serious offense, involving a woman. I believe he spilled her wine onto her lap during supper. The Clan sold us to slave traders at sea, and the traders brought us ashore to gather food for them. Hull and I escaped the chain gang," he held up his wrist, indicating the manacle, "and were fleeing pursuit when the wave struck; that story was all true. We would likely have been captured and killed if not for the sea washing in."

"How does that merit his death?" Salvor asked, keeping his sword trained on Gryme.

"I had been captured off a Jualan voth-nai, a ship of leisure. They are used by the cultural elite between the islands of the Jualan archipelago, to the northwest of Hynd. Hull knew of this, and asked me many times, subtly, how much I was worth. I am certain he planned to sell me back into slavery, or to one of the Jualan Houses."

"So, you're not Hyndi? That whole 'give me a new name' thing was a show?" Geret interjected.

"I am not Hyndi, and I apologize for the deception. I did not trust anyone at that time. As for being Jualan...our politics are rather complicated, and let me just say that any Jualan who would be willing to ransom me right now would only do so for the pleasure of executing me himself. Please, gentlemen, believe me, I only meant to surprise Hull by pretending to take Geret hostage as well. I had to act fast, or the princess would have been merely the first victim of your party.

"Geret, you have a quick mind, and I thank you profusely and with good grace; your perception allowed me to save your lovely princess, as well as myself. My most profuse apologies to Princess Sanych; I never intended you harm. I had no opportunity to share more details, and could only hope for this, the best of all possible outcomes." He put his hand over his heart and bowed his head to them all.

Runcan spoke from behind Salvor. "He certainly does speak like a noble. He's nearly as flowery as you are, Salvor."

"And I'm not a princess," Sanych said. "I'm an Archivist."

"I'm afraid I don't know that term," Gryme said.

"It means I'm more valuable," Sanych said, lifting her chin toward Geret and meeting his eyes for the first time in days. Geret smiled briefly and nodded.

"How about sharing your real name with us, then?" Salvor asked. "As a sign of good will and all."

Gryme paused and looked down at the stone dock for a moment, and Salvor grinned darkly. "That is fair; you have saved my life, not once, but twice. It is only right that I entrust my fate to you further. My name is Kemsil Urondarei, of the House of Jath, Keepers of the Celestial Calendar, and I am at your service, my friends."

"Geret Branbrey Valan, Prince of Vint," Geret said, stepping forward and gripping Kemsil's forearm in greeting, as if they'd never met.

"Geret!" protested Salvor.

"Truly?" Kemsil asked.

But Geret merely grinned, nodding, and added, "And this charming example of wisdom is Lord Salvor Thelios." Ignoring Salvor's heated glower, Geret went on to introduce the others in the party by their full names.

The issue of what to do with the Cuttleboat was the first thing they dealt with as a new, cohesive group. Sanych wanted to leave it as it was, saying it was a unique craft. Kemsil was of a mind to try and sink the thing, so no one would know they'd arrived and ask questions.

Geret and Runcan formulated a quick plan. "I'll take Sanych to meet the caliph," the Count said, "and the Cuttleboat will be our gift to him. Letting him think we have such amazing craft is perhaps a lie of omission, but what wonders it will do for our reputation at court!"

They dropped the Cuttleboat's rock anchor and bade farewell to the trusty vessel.

"Let's get off this dock, shall we? Before someone else shows up and tries to kill us," Geret said, clapping Kemsil on the shoulder and heading for the elevator system. "I'd like to get home in one piece."

Kemsil smiled and joined him, the others not far behind. Salvor sheathed his sword, looking mildly annoyed that he wasn't allowed to kill Kemsil for threatening Geret.

"Feel free to stab Hull a few times, Salvor," Geret called over his shoulder, "before you kick him into the harbor, if it'll make you feel any better." A few moments later Geret heard a splash and grinned.

Dozens of elevator entrances were cut directly into the rock of the far wall, across nearly thirty paces of the harbor's stone dock. Many were hidden from view by the mass of dead ships and docks. Of those that were visible, most had splintered wooden cages and frayed rope ends dangling into view, if there was anything visible in their entrances at all. The clearing crew had freed and repaired half a dozen of them, however, and it was to one of these that Geret strode.

Once everyone was inside, Kemsil lowered a bamboo gate attached to the front of the elevator's cage, then ratcheted the long metal bar into the up position.

"How far up does this go?" Salvor asked, with uncertainty in his voice, as he gazed up into the darkness of the shaft overhead. The elevator lurched into motion, and everyone grabbed at the inner rail for support.

"Several hundred feet," Kemsil replied. "Lesser Salience is the bedrock that supports Greater Salience, where the Citizenry live. It is a city unto itself, carved from the living rock. We will find shelter there; all walks of life are accepted in Lesser Salience. Embraced with open arms, even." Kemsil grinned in fond remembrance.

"As long as no one tries to kill me, I'll be happy," Geret commented.

A few moments later, Kemsil said, "It seems you are determined to head for your home, Geret, whilst I will do everything in my power to stay away from mine. And yet we both find ourselves stuck here in Salience."

Geret nodded and stared up into the blackness of the shaft, feeling the elevator cage rumbling upward. He hoped that someday soon, he could begin to grant himself redemption for the loss of the quest. For the hundreds of Vintens on board the Kazhak, and for the now-inevitable loss of his cousin Addan.

At the top of the shaft, a pair of guards who were trying their best to get drunk asked them a surprised question in Hyndi, which Kemsil parried with a laughing reply. As the guards chuckled, he led the group past them, away from the enormous row of elevators.

They followed him through the hypogeal streets of Lesser Salience, down broad curving avenues and across carven squares supported by dozens of white marble pillars. Every street and intersection had on its high ceiling the same dim yellow glow that brightened the harbor far below them. There were many denizens of Lesser Salience still out and about at the shops and taverns, and raucous laughter echoed down the alleys from nearly every direction.

"Does this town have such a thing as peace and quiet?" Salvor wondered aloud, as they turned a corner into a broad street with only occasional light from above.

"No," grinned Kemsil, as he stopped and knocked at the third door on the left. After several long moments, the door opened, and a woman's face peeped out cautiously, her curly brown hair framing an oval face set with dark-lashed brown eyes. When she laid eyes on Kemsil, she breathed a Hyndi oath and shut the door quickly. Salvor and Geret had time to exchange a glance. They heard the rattling of a door chain, and then the woman flung the door wide open and launched herself into Kemsil's arms.

"Kemsil!" she exclaimed, kissing him on both cheeks. He wrapped his arms around her in return, catching her waist-length curls in his hug and holding her off the ground.

Runcan cleared his throat.

Kemsil grinned and apologized, setting the woman down. He began speaking to her in Hyndi. After a few exchanges, she waved her hand invitingly to them all and backed into the residence.

"We may stay with her tonight," Kemsil said. "Her name is Anjoya, and she is a hostess. Here in Lesser Salience, that means a great variety of things, including the fact that she has a large home for conducting parties and meetings, so there will be more than enough room for us."

Anjoya seemed to have no end of well-appointed sleeping chambers in her home, and with a graceful gesture and a kind smile, indicated one for everyone in turn as she led them down one of her hallways. She let Kemsil translate for her, and gave him the last room on one side, next to Salvor's.

~~~

When everyone else had slipped gratefully into their rooms and closed the doors, Anjoya stepped close to Kemsil and whispered in Hyndi, "You know you are not required to stay in your own chamber this night."

Kemsil smiled appreciatively, but shook his head. "I am afraid I cannot visit you tonight, Anjoya. The banns have been placed."

Surprise entered Anjoya's wide, dark eyes. "That soon..."

"I'm afraid my sara Alima was impatient," Kemsil said, using the term of endearment mockingly. "It has been several weeks now."

"Weeks? Then how..." Her hand slid gently to his left wrist. "Kemsil!" she breathed, pulling up his sleeve and exposing the slavers' manacle. "Is this some terrible joke? Tell me she did not put this on you!"

"No, Anjoya. This is not Alima's version of the marriage band," he said lightly, but she saw his smile did not reach his eyes. "I am not wed yet. There were, shall we say, complications, in getting to the chapel on time."

Anjoya's jaw slackened. "Not wed, after the banns were placed? But...the Aldib will kill you," she whispered, as if someone might be listening even now.

Kemsil merely nodded. "Yes. And I fear Salience might be too close to home to hide me well, or for long. I do not know what I shall do yet."

"I will help you," Anjoya nodded emphatically. "You possess qualities unlike those found in the rest of your House. Don't shake your head at me, my lord. I have hosted for them often enough at your recommendation. I see the way they scheme and plot. You are different."

"Because I am the third son of a minor cousin of my House. I am a pawn, and can have no personal ambitions for myself."

Anjoya slashed the air with her hand. "No. You are different because you seek to better yourself without hope of reward. Now come with me, and I will get that awful thing off your arm, and we'll see what we can do about hiding you."

~~~

The white-eyed man stepped back from the gold-and-glass device, tucking his smooth hands inside the enormous black sleeves of his robe as the last vestiges of ethereal blue fire faded before him. His black eyebrows caterpillared together, and his pale gaze swept the curved roof of the opalescent green cavern, before they lit on his subordinate, a step below him on the hematite dais.

'My master, what news?" the bald man asked, bowing his head and staring at the reflective silvery steps, avoiding those white eyes. His master's eyes did not scare him, per se, but every time he saw how easily the man handled his power, controlling even the most difficult of magical items, he felt a thrill of awe at the degree to which his master had dedicated himself to his work. Awe, followed by jealousy.

If his master could see the jealousy in his face, he would never see another sunrise.

"It appears to have worked as we intended, in the end," his master replied in his whispery voice. "Ha'Hril is devastated. The sea floor ruptured from the island northward, far enough to cause a tsunami of excellent size. The waves even managed to destroy their ship as planned. She will be alone now, and no port or ship for a thousand miles survived to convey her back to the east. She must now come to us alone, and suffer our wrath." The man paused, and sniffed in annoyance.

A thrill of fear shot through the subordinate; had he somehow offended his master? Did he suspect?

"M-master?" he asked hesitantly, not needing to fake the quaver in his voice. "Is something amiss?"

"My plan has succeeded, and yet..." He twitched his black robe around his chest irritably. "...And yet, the key does not move as I wish."

The other man waited silently, shivering away his adrenaline. Once he could trust his voice, he asked, "What are your orders, master?"

"We will need," his master said, displaying brilliant teeth against his light brown face, "more sacrifices."

##  Chapter Thirty-five

Sanych and Runcan exited the gilded elevator into the warmth and light of Upper Salience. A gentle sea breeze blew, teasing Sanych's multi-braided hair as it spilled from her open-topped turban.

"Which way?" Sanych asked, looking both directions down the main street from the elevator's surrounding platform. A massive, ornate building stood at each end of the boulevard. The western one, nearly silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, was several levels high, domed in silver, and had a set of three towers set against one side of the dome. The tallest possessed slender metal arches on its open top that might be used to mark stars' positions in the sky.

The eastern structure was built of orange-gold bricks, set afire by the sun. Massive staircases led in series up to the gilded doors, blindingly bright in the sunlight. Arches and decorative crenellations supported small winged statues whose particulars couldn't be made out at this distance.

"I believe the orange building is the caliph's dwelling, Archivist. Let's try that way first." Runcan started off the platform, stepping aside for a group of merchants who were heading for the elevator. Sanych stood rooted to the spot, staring at the silver-domed building.

Runcan paused. "Archivist?"

Sanych's head snapped around. "I'm sorry, Count Runcan." She joined him, and they reached the busy boulevard. Government buildings, tall and ornate, lined the way, and men and women of state strolled in small groups, or exited two-wheeled carriages behind pale horses. All wore turbans; the women's were open at the top to allow their long, braided hair to cascade down their backs, and Sanych was glad she'd let Anjoya take the extra time to prepare her hair in the same style, so she didn't stand out.

She couldn't quite bring herself to let the hostess dress her in the current midriff-baring style, though. Her hand touched the light cotton of her tunic.

"Do you believe I am mistaken?" Runcan asked.

"No...I just..." Sanych's brow furrowed, and her uncharacteristic hesitance drew Runcan's full attention.

"What is it, Sanych?"

She drew herself up and met his eyes. "I've seen that building before. But...I've never been to Hynd until now." Her eyes dropped aside and her brow furrowed in confusion. "Or, so I thought."

~~~

Inside the caliph's large rose-marble receiving room, Runcan, using the caliph's one Versal translator, explained choice details of their situation, and asked permission of the Hyndi ruler to remain in his city until a ship arrived that could convey them back across the Middle Sea. The caliph agreed, insisting they stay at the palace as his welcome guests.

Many guests and petitioners milled at the back half of the room. Some were being helped by lesser officials, while others waited for their turn to do the same. Sanych noted one of the caliph's advisors, a woman in a silvery dress, staring at her on more than one occasion. She looked across the room later to discover the woman had disappeared.

As a courteous guide in matching burgundy robes and turban arrived at the bronzed entryway to escort them to their quarters, a group of six silver-clad women strode into the room. Everyone else seemed to know who they were, stepping aside for them. Even the caliph ceased his conversation and paid full attention to the women.

Sanych's stomach turned over. She knew they were here about her. What did they want? She put a hand on Runcan's arm.

The short conversation between the caliph and the women in silver dresses was amicable, and soon they approached Sanych and Runcan, the Versal translator in tow, his eyes wide.

"Miss Sanych, is it?" he began. When she nodded, he continued, "These women are of the Silver Hand. It is the females' compound within the Navel of the World, Salience's mystical center at the other end of the Grand Boulevard. They have, er, requested that you be housed with them during your stay." He dry-washed his hands, keeping his focus on her, away from the intimidating women beside him.

"I see," she managed to reply in an even tone. "Did they say why I've received such an...honor?" The women were watching her as if she were a curious new addition to a zoological garden.

"The caliph's advisor sensed something in you. They wish to help you feel more comfortable. You are virtually alone, far from home. They have many distractions for the learned mind, whether painting, studying the constellations, researching in the library–"

"They have a library?" Sanych interrupted. The Silver Hand women smiled at her eagerness.

"Yes, the Great Library of Hynd is right next to the Navel of the World."

Sanych met Runcan's eyes, anticipation spilling from her gaze. He smiled. "Go on, then. But send a message if you need anything," he said, in his best avuncular tone.

"Thank you," she said.

The Silver Hand didn't wait for her verbal agreement; they gathered her in among themselves and began jabbering away in Hyndi, walking out the door.

By the time their carriages pulled up in the drive before the domed building at the other end of the boulevard, Sanych had learned a few Hyndi phrases, and repeated them, to the delight of her carriage-mates. One of them, Shashei Cheriya, nodded and looked as if she'd expected nothing less.

Sanych realized she had no idea what went on in a mystical center. As far as anyone in Vint believed, magic was a myth. She was both nervous and excited. Then she recalled that she'd seen this building before. Had she been inside? When had she been in Salience before?

And why couldn't she remember?

That was the most disturbing thought of all.

~~~

Cautious, Sanych decided not to ask up front if anyone could tell her why the dome of the Navel of the World looked so familiar to her. She needed to feel more at ease first, learn about these women and their ways.

The Silver Hand let Sanych spend many hours in the Library of Hynd. One of the mystics always accompanied her, teaching her Hyndi. The mystics also arranged for her to have use of one of the small study rooms. Sanych began to rewrite her notebook, which had been lost when the Kazhak was destroyed. She also began to collect books on trade routes and prevailing wind patterns and store them on a shelf in her small room. She tacked sea charts on the wall and created one enormous map of the waters surrounding Salience: the Middle Sea to the east, the Jade Sea to the southwest, and the Empty Ocean to the northwest, beyond the Archipelago of Juala.

She learned that the Silver Hand had a hierarchy of ranking, according to ascendance, as they termed it. It was not based on what the mystics could do, but the strength with which they could do it. From the lowest Shayou to the most powerful Shadon, each woman had her own gift. Even those who had affinity for water could do different things with it. Sanych watched one day as two women at a fountain on the compound grounds used their magics. One could create statues of ice, while the other could melt them by heating the water in the fountain with a single finger. They made a friendly competition of it, though the Shashei's heating power eventually overwhelmed the ice-making Shalin's creations faster than she could build them.

It felt as if Sanych had entered another world. While part of her mind dutifully recorded all that she saw, another part could only marvel at these women's innate abilities. One day in the library, she asked Shashei Cheriya in broken Hyndi how this magic could possibly exist.

"By the hearth, I cannot say," the dark-skinned woman replied. "There has always been magic at the Navel of the World. Strangers come here sometimes, and find that they can suddenly control the wind, or read minds. If they leave, their gift vanishes, so those who embrace the gift must live here with us."

"Was it like that for you?" Sanych asked.

"Yes. I came from Kauna'kana as a merchant's daughter many years ago. As we came into the city with our caravan of goods, I suddenly felt my mind opening to other minds, hearing their thoughts. It terrified me at first, but the Silver Hand taught me control, and I have remained here ever since."

"If you left, your gift would leave you?"

"It would," Cheriya confirmed with a nod. "Only in Salience are we blessed with our gifts. It has always been this way."

Cheriya did not know more than that, and none of Sanych's research or questions over the next two days turned up any definitive answers. Frustrated, the Archivist took a walk around the upper city, deciding to learn more about the city of Salience itself. Cheriya accompanied her, speaking of the only other topic Sanych discussed, aside from magic.

"May the moon witness, Archivist, I have never heard of someone surviving being eaten by two Deep Ones in one day," the Shashei said, shaking her head in doubt. "Perhaps it could happen in Salience Harbor, but your ship was days from here."

"You don't understand. Meena has gifts all the time. I don't know how that works, but it does. She can heal moments after she's injured. Surely that gives a reasonable hope that she survived."

"Does she need air to breathe?" Cheriya asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't know for sure. I...never asked." Sanych felt her cheeks warm. When does that question ever come up in conversation, anyway? she thought.

"Well," the Shashei sighed, "you may feel free to use the library, or ask anyone you want, about Deep Ones and currents, but if it did not happen in Salience..." She shrugged, her black braids swaying against her pale green turban.

Sanych ground her teeth. Cheriya was a lovely, helpful woman, but she couldn't grasp magic existing outside of the parameters she knew. She needed to ask someone else–

Sanych's thought was interrupted by a familiar sight. She saw a pale-brick building, several stories tall, that caught at her memory. It was just one of dozens of multi-family dwellings on this long, residential street. Her eyes were drawn to the second story window on the left end.

There used to be red flowers there, in a big pot, she recalled. They smelled stinky. Her feet halted.

"Archivist?" Cheriya stopped beside her, looking to the window as well.

Mama made me finger cakes for my birthday. I dropped one out the window, for the downstairs neighbor's dog.

"Archivist Sanych, are you all right?" The woman placed a hand on Sanych's shoulder.

I could see the Navel's dome from the window.

Sanych blinked and met Cheriya's coal-dark eyes. "I'm fine," she replied, as her attention drifted back to the window. She felt awkward telling Cheriya that she'd lived here in this apartment building, since she'd kept the fact secret that she recognized the dome of the Navel of the World on sight, but now the situation had gone beyond that. She summed up her strange recollections to the Shashei, who listened in silence as they walked.

"You do not recall living here, yet you remember nearly everything that is said and done in your presence," Cheriya summed. "Could be that your mind was not developed enough to remember. You were two, maybe three."

"But I do remember parts. Why don't I remember it all?"

Cheriya sucked her lips in and nibbled them, thinking. "By the hearth and the stone, there may be a way to find out. If you trust me."

~~~

"Many of your earliest memories have been covered up, Sanych," Cheriya said, leaning back and removing her hands from the girl's head. "I am sorry." The woman clasped her hands in her lap, looking away.

"Covered up. Here at the compound, you mean. You know who did this." It was not a question. Sanych hadn't enjoyed the feel of Cheriya walking quietly down the halls of her memories, and she had no idea what the Silver Hand was looking for, but the expression on her face said more than enough.

"Yes. I sensed them through the hidden memories. You have two Hands in your memories: Shayin Ahousi has passed away, but Shalin Ebie is still here."

"Let's go see her." Sanych rose to her feet.

Shashei Cheriya led the way through the cool grey marble hallways. They found Shalin Ebie alone in her room, spinning wool on a fine new spinning wheel. The room smelled faintly of lanolin. Cheriya explained what Sanych had remembered, and what she herself had found in Sanych's mind. The elderly woman looked up at Sanych.

"It's come to this, I see," she said, gesturing for the girl to sit. "By the hearth, I'll be glad to let this secret off my tongue. A friend of your family brought you and your cousins here as small children and had Shayin Ahousi test you to see if you possessed the innate spark of magic. You were the only one who did. Your family friend knew of your ability to remember things, and didn't want you to know you could grow up to do magic here in Salience. Didn't want anyone else to know you could do it, either. Said it wasn't safe for you."

Sanych was stunned. What family friend? She had cousins? She was going to be a mystic? Only if I stay here in Salience, she reminded herself. Her eyes flicked from side to side. "That must be why we left Salience, then. To keep me from finding my gift."

"Have any gifts manifested in you since your arrival here, child?" Ebie asked kindly, setting aside her wool. "You're about the right age for it."

"No," Sanych replied, shaking her head. "I'm the same here as I was at home. In Vint," she added.

"I see." Ebie sighed heavily, her wrinkled face sagging in sorrow. "Your family friend was right to protect you. What's coming must come. But if you know of it, then they might know of it. And if they know of it, your death is their easiest out."

Sanych's heartbeat sped up.

Ebie continued, "She warned me you might find me one day. Now I've said my piece for the sake of my conscience, but since your gift is still slumbering, I must redo my old work. Stay, Cheriya; I'll have to do you next."

As Sanych opened her mouth to ask what she meant, Ebie squinted at her, and Sanych's world went blurrily blank.

Minutes later, Sanych and Cheriya made their way back across the compound to Sanych's guest room.

"I'm sorry she couldn't be of more help, Sanych," Cheriya said.

"Not as sorry as I am. If only she could have given us something, anything at all!" She made small fists of frustration and banged them rhythmically on her thighs as she walked.

"Well, the aged are prone to bouts of enfeeblement. We can't say we didn't try."

"I guess I'll never know why that building looked so familiar to me. I could have sworn...But she was right. I should focus my attention on finding Meena. She's the most important person in my world right now."

~~~

Geret, Salvor and Kemsil had slipped into anonymity among the myriad harbor repairmen, at Anjoya's suggestion. There was good pay for any man who wanted it, and though the hours were long, there would be no shortage of work for several more weeks. It was an ideal way to gauge the harbor's eventual readiness to receive a ship of sufficient size to carry them safely back to Vint, whether a Sea God or not.

The common halls of the harbor men in Lesser Salience were packed, the food was tolerable and plentiful, and the two Vintens easily began to pick up not only Hyndi, but swatches of several other languages, especially the coarser phrases.

Kemsil, who had asked them to continue calling him Gryme, entertained them with his fluency in multilingual swearing, and as Salvor's and Geret's proficiency rose, they turned it into a drinking game: whoever created a lengthy and detailed insult in the fewest languages had to take a drink. The game caught on among the crowded harbor men, and it also managed to get Geret and Salvor laughing at the same time, which was no small accomplishment.

One day Geret and several other divers were attaching ropes to sunken wreckage that lay at the two-mile-long foot of Salience Harbor's stone pier. Kemsil and Salvor stood ready to haul the wreckage to the surface, using a cantilevered pulley system. A woman in silvery silk directed the divers to the pieces of wreckage, and the local men all seemed to assume she knew exactly what she was doing.

As the signal came to raise the piece of wreckage, Salvor and Kemsil leaned into their work, along with the ten other men on the line with them. They raised part of a small ship's keel, with a few accompanying struts, up into the air, and carefully kept tension while other men rotated the cantilever around. As the broken mass of wood was lowered to the dock, and the disassembly team began breaking it down into usable wooden sections for the harbor rebuild, Kemsil relaxed his hold on the rope and shrugged his shoulders to release the tension. Workers replaced the rope that threaded through the pulley, giving the thick end to Salvor and Kemsil and their team, and letting the multi-rope end down to the water, where the divers all swam over and took a section apiece.

"You worry for Geret, in the water?" Kemsil asked in Versal, hefting the new rope.

"Not much. He's a good swimmer, and he's not alone." Salvor responded, his eyes drifting toward where Geret treaded water. The prince kept his eyes on the woman in silk, as she searched the harbor with a gaze that seemed to pierce its depths. When she pointed to a spot in the water, all the divers swam over and, as one, disappeared beneath the dark water.

"You are his bodyguard, though. That must be a bit of work, with such an...adventurous young man," Kemsil commented with a wry smile.

"You have no idea. I spend more time saving him from himself than from anything else."

Kemsil barked a jovial laugh, and Salvor raised his eyebrows wearily.

"Gryme, you laugh like you think I'm joking."

"I'm sorry, my friend. I meant no disrespect to your position. I am sure it is rather all-consuming."

"It has to be," Salvor said heavily. "Out here, it is just us. There is no guard, no army, no diplomatic arrangement."

Kemsil shifted his grip on the fat rope. "You could go topside, with the Count and the Archivist," he suggested. "I admit, I am puzzled as to why you did not."

Salvor closed his eyes, and a look of longing crossed his features. "What I would not give for a hot bath and a shirt that fits and smells reasonably clean," he murmured. Opening his eyes, he focused again on Kemsil. "But alas, I must stay with Geret and sacrifice my hygiene in favor of my duty. Runcan believes that letting the caliph know that a beggar prince has washed up on his shores will heavily influence him against trading with our country, should we ever manage to get home in one piece. Sanych, however, has no official government authority, and it lets Runcan feel out the situation, using her as a focal point for possible future relations with the Hyndi. Since Anjoya was clever enough to think of hiding you here, it seemed best to hide us with you."

"Ah, more is made clear. Runcan is an astute advisor. Are you sure he is not secretly your king?" Kemsil smiled, and Salvor laughed.

The command came to pull again, and the men put their backs into the effort of hoisting up yet another snag from the harbor floor, this time a tangled clump of wooden dock and thick metal framing. After it was safely lowered to another position on the wide stone dock, Salvor asked, "Why don't you visit Anjoya? It seemed you two were quite good friends when we first met her. Have I misunderstood something?"

"It's not that I don't wish to, Salvor," Kemsil said, his face clouding. "It is a matter of accepting what is."

"Come now, Gryme, you can give me a bit more than that. I've confessed my love of hygiene to you: my dirty little secret!" Salvor grinned as Kemsil chuckled. "What is it you're accepting? Or is it she who is accepting?"

"Both, really," Kemsil said. "We might have had a future together, someday. She is a lovely, capable, accomplished woman, and we have met many times over the last several years. I think the Versal term is that 'we have an understanding'. But now that understanding cannot be allowed to grow further." The flat denial in his voice did not fully mask his frustration.

Salvor watched him thoughtfully for a moment. "It's to do with why you're hiding," he deduced.

Kemsil nodded slowly.

"I won't pry," Salvor said. "I do have a pair of working ears, though."

Kemsil did not speak again until they had pulled up two more masses of sunken wood and twisted metal, both sections of large ships.

"I am under the banns," he said quietly, as the team of men on the rope paused to catch their breath once more.

Salvor's frown indicated his ignorance of the term.

"In my country, such a ward is used to bind a man to a woman, or vice versa, prior to marriage. It is only used by the nobility, when one House is dominant over the other, or when one of them is reluctant. It is...unkind...to use the banns."

"You had no choice?" Salvor asked, wiping sweat from his high brow.

"Oh, I did. I could choose either the banns, or dishonor for my entire House, and a slow, ignoble death for myself."

Salvor's grin held no amusement. "Her House controls yours, then."

"Nearly, yes. The banns cause extreme pain, followed eventually by death, if their host is...familiar...with someone who is not their betrothed. It is meant as a form of control."

Salvor's eyes widened. "It would kill you?"

Kemsil's mouth twisted. "No. It would kill Anjoya."

Salvor shuddered in spite of himself. "That is indeed unkind. Can these banns be lifted from you?"

"Only by the House that placed them. Since I missed my own wedding, though, I doubt very much that the House of Aldib will be interested in anything other than killing me on sight."

"So you can't ever be with Anjoya," Salvor murmured. "You have my sympathy."

Kemsil nodded his thanks. "It is why I have chosen to stay away, lest I cause us both unnecessary pain. On top of the necessary pain; she is, as I said, a lovely woman, and I do find her enchanting. But I dare not risk her life for my pleasure." Kemsil bit his lips, then exhaled wearily through them, shaking his head.

Salvor blinked. "Wisdom," he murmured, after a long moment. "It's come to that, hasn't it?"

Kemsil raised his eyebrows, not privy to Salvor's train of thought. "Sorry?"

"Gryme, you're absolutely right, and I realize," Salvor looked over at Geret, again treading water, waiting for the silver-clad woman's direction, "that there is something I need to do." His eyes glimmered in the hazy yellow light of the enormous harbor cavern. "Do you think Anjoya might let me borrow a tub?"

##  Chapter Thirty-six

"Archivist Sanych?" Cheriya folded her hands together, excitement tensing her arms.

Sanych, standing by one of the library's bookshelves, looked up from her reading. "Yes?"

"You have a visitor this evening," the woman said. "He is quite handsome."

Sanych placed a bookmark in the book and returned it to the shelf. "And does this handsome man have any identifying characteristics?"

"His Hyndi is terrible–he speaks as if he were taught by a toothless whore–but he is clean and uses a respectful volume in the library," Cheriya teased.

Sanych stepped over to the tall, dark woman. "Fine, be that way. Just tell me where he is."

Cheriya gestured to the wide door. "He is waiting in the rotunda. From what he asked me, if I understood his terrible accent, he wishes to speak to you in a more private place."

More private than an enormous, sparsely-visited library? Sanych wondered. "Thank you, Shashei Cheriya." She nodded in farewell, then turned and strode out as fast as her short legs could carry her.

It was Salvor who awaited her, looking clean and groomed in a black tunic and trousers that put Sanych in mind of the Hyndi Shadow Stalkers. Where did he find such attire? she wondered. His family sword hung at his hip; he would appear incomplete to her without it.

She smiled happily to see him, but his return smile was muted, and he looked tired.

"Walk with me," he said quietly, lifting her long, wide silk scarf from her shoulders to cover her head against the cooler night air.

They strolled and chatted, and Sanych idly tracked their progress through the city on the map in her head, until the city walls came to a rounded point a few dozen paces ahead of them, with only one structure between them and the wall.

Far overhead, the Night Beacon burned with a deep, thrumming hiss, warning any ships in range that the massive cliff jutted into the sea below.

"Oh, that's impressive," Sanych murmured.

Salvor led her to the raised stone viewing platform, which had been built high enough so those upon it could see over the city wall. It stretched a dozen paces in all directions from the massive fire tower, which dominated the entire end of the city with its two hundred foot height. As they ascended the stairs to the raised level, Sanych realized they were not alone here; several couples talked quietly or giggled to themselves, while others, so close as to form one silhouette, were engaged in less verbal forms of communication. She found herself blushing, unable to help imagining what they were doing, and why Salvor had brought her here.

Salvor seemed irritated by their presence. "Silly woman. Told me this would be private."

He led her to a curved wooden bench that gave a glorious view of the seascape. No one else was sitting on it; they were busy viewing much closer things. Sanych sat and snuggled next to Salvor for warmth against the cool evening breeze. He idly placed an arm around her shoulders and looked down at her, cuddled next to him.

She gazed up at him. It had been wonderful, Sanych remembered, being with Salvor by the freshwater spring. He had been so sweet, his kisses so warm, and his voice had softened to a low rumble, very different from his usual tone. So much had happened since then, and so abruptly, that she hadn't had time to think about her feelings for him.

"I've missed you, Salvor," she said, turning toward him and pushing her long silk scarf down to her shoulders. He grinned, and she cupped his face in her slender fingers and kissed him.

I'm a better teacher than I thought, Salvor realized, smiling beneath her kiss. He slid both arms around her and pulled her into his lap as the kiss continued, and she twined her arms around his neck, playing with his thick black braid.

"Sanych," he murmured a few minutes later, "I think it's time I trusted you with something."

"What's that?" she asked, smiling.

He shifted her a bit, fingering one of the many long blonde braids that tumbled from the top of her turban. After a moment of introspection, he lifted his chin and met her gaze. "When we first left Highnave," he began, "I sought you out, to give you a yellow prairie rose."

"I remember," she said, fondling his ear.

"I waited for half an hour, trailing you, searching for just the right moment. I needed to make sure that, when I gave it to you, it would make the best possible impression."

"Your timing was perfect," Sanych said, recalling how off-balance she had been after exiting Geret's tent, and how appreciated she felt after Salvor had spoken to her for those brief moments.

"I needed it to be. I needed to persuade you to be my ally on the quest. I thought that pretending to be attracted to you would be my best bet. And you know how I like wagers."

"Pretending?" she said, stiffening under his hands.

"Surely you can understand why I had to do it," Salvor said, his tone urging her to see his side.

Sanych couldn't help it; her mind leaped to analyze. Her eyes flicked back and forth for a few moments, and she looked at him, a layer of hurt dawning in her eyes. "I was your way of staying with the quest, if Geret ever got too angry at you," she said faintly. "You knew that if you got the prince's Temple advisor to care for you, she'd stand up for you, even to the prince himself."

Salvor nodded, silent.

"So you pursued me, and you were successful." Her tone became detached, as if reporting; only a hint of sadness flavored her words. "I was furious at Geret for how he treated you, on more than one occasion. One word from you and I would have spoken my mind to him, and angrily so. But," she frowned, "when your hand was forced and you revealed your allegiance to Geret in Ha'Lakkon, why didn't you simply stop your games with me?"

Salvor shrugged a shoulder. "Just habit. A spy can't suddenly change his routine without risk of drawing unwanted attention. Plus, the quest was still on. I didn't want to jeopardize it in any way. Easier to just go with the flow."

"I...see."

"Look, Sanych, I don't want to have secrets from you," he said. "I know it must seem strange that I pursued you without being interested in you. It was all part of my duty to Geret. Keeping him alive and unharmed is, sadly, paramount in that duty." He shook his head as if to say, What can you do about such things?

"Well..." she paused and licked her lips. "Well, I don't want to distract you from your duties. I know how seriously you take them."

"Oh, no, Sanych," he replied, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "I'm not saying that I don't want to see you anymore. I'd be more than happy to keep visiting you up here. I bet you could even swing me a bath at the Navel of the World, and maybe a clean shirt every week? Real food, too. That would be superb." He grinned and added, "And I certainly won't say no to more of your attentions. Nothing focuses the mind like a bit of that sort of stress relief. What do you say? Shall we make it a business arrangement?"

Sanych's eyes sparked with blue fire. She slid off his lap and stepped back from him a pace, breathing through flared nostrils. "I'm sorry; I won't ever be available for that sort of arrangement, Salvor. If you don't love me, then don't see me." The murmuring conversations closest to them stilled.

He unfolded himself from the bench, towering over her, and she lifted her trembling chin and looked him in the eyes. A long moment passed. Finally he rested his hand on his sword hilt in resignation and sighed.

"All right, Sanych, we'll do it your way," he said, shrugging. "If you change your mind, though, let me know. You're a quick study." He raised an eyebrow at her and grinned.

"Folly," Sanych cursed, breathing rapidly. "Geret was right about you all along."

"It's not impossible; he does have his moments. I'm here now, aren't I?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, gritting her teeth. Tears threatened to spill over her cheeks; her hyperventilation was beginning to make her feel lightheaded.

"As my prince commands, so I must do," Salvor replied, holding his arms out helplessly.

"He wouldn't—"

"Not in so many words. But the boy doesn't think very far ahead sometimes. Keep that in mind when next you see our beloved prince."

Tears began to spill down Sanych's cheeks, and she squeezed her eyes shut, making them all fall at once, as her beloved's callousness stabbed deep into her undefended heart. "You can go now, Salvor," Sanych gritted, beginning to shake. She bit her lower lip, trying to hold onto her composure, her dignity. The last thing she needed was him mocking her weeping.

Salvor watched her tears fall and checked his next statement. After a moment, he gave her a courtly bow and said, "As the Archivist commands. Good night, Sanych." He turned and stalked away, his black hair and clothing quickly blending into the warm, humid night.

His sudden absence was the trigger that broke Sanych's emotional dam, and she sank into a crouch by the rail, her long scarf puddling around her. Behind the braided curtain of her hair, she began to sob.

~~~

Sanych steeled her spine as the enormous, gilded open-air elevator carried her down from Greater Salience, into the dimness of the shaft. The first lurch was always unpleasant, but the queasiness in her stomach had more to do with her emotions than with the descent. It had been four painful days now, and she was beginning to regain her equilibrium in regard to Salvor's callous treatment of her. She knew she didn't have to head down to Anjoya's today, but the hostess had information that might prove helpful in her search for Meena. To Sanych, learning what the long-time Salience resident knew was worth the risk of encountering Salvor.

The elevator cage jolted slightly at the lower end of its transit, and the operator, a tall young man in a spotless dark blue uniform, tipped his cap to her as he opened the safety cage and let her exit.

She took a deep breath, letting her eyes adjust to the yellow dimness for a minute. If she could just see Anjoya and return to the library, to the room they had offered her for collation and charting, she would be perfectly happy. She squared her shoulders, wrapped her long scarf more tightly around her neck for warmth, and started toward Anjoya's residence.

The hostess was pleased to see her. "Come in, Archivist, and please forgive the mess. My ladies are redoing the walls in a few of my rooms today."

Sanych followed her to a smaller room in the back of the house, where, instead of lamplight, the yellow light of the main street ceilings was softly glowing from the edges of the floor and in artful swirls on the walls.

"What is this, anyway?" Sanych asked, wandering over to a wall.

Anjoya smiled. "It is a fungus. It grows on the rock, and can be propagated easily, if one knows the technique."

"As you do," Sanych deduced with a smile. "You seem to know many people, Anjoya. I'm hoping you can help me."

"I will be most pleased to assist you in any small way," Anjoya replied. "What do you require?"

Sanych framed her project in a few sentences and made her request. Anjoya raised her chin in thought, letting her dark eyes play over the light patterns on the opposite wall. "I believe I know a few individuals that you may seek out. I'll make you a list...but forgive me. You don't need a list, do you?" Anjoya smiled and gave her five names and where they lived and worked in Greater Salience.

"Thank you very much," Sanych said, nodding and smiling.

"Your friends have told me of Meena, a bit. I do not know how you became separated from her, but I hope you are successful in your search."

"She was a friend, and much more. I know she's out there, and I intend to find her. I did it once before."

Anjoya read the determination on the young girl's face and nodded. "Then if anyone can, it will be you."

Anjoya walked Sanych back to her front door, and they bade each other a good day. At the corner of her street, Sanych ran smack into Geret and staggered back, breathing quickly.

"Hi, Sanych," he greeted her. "How's the party life treating you these days? Come for beauty tips from Anjoya?" He grinned.

Sanych struggled to keep her expression polite. "What did you say to him, Geret?" she finally managed.

He drew his brows down in confusion. "To whom?"

"Salvor. What did you say to him? He said he never loved me, that it was all a ploy! What did you say?" she demanded, clenching her fists and glaring up at him. An angry tear began to spill down her cheek.

"I..." Geret quickly thought back over the last few days. "I don't remember anything that would have made him do that, Sanych. I'm sorry," he said slowly.

She exhaled furiously through her nose. "I see you were both right about each other, then. You're an air-headed fool, and he's a two-faced liar. I can't wait to get out of here and go back home, where I never have to see either of you again!" She bulled past him and stalked down the street.

Geret remained behind for a moment, absorbing the deeper impact of her words. Then he jogged ahead of her and turned to face her, walking backwards and holding his hands out in a placating gesture. "Hold on a minute. You're going to need to start from the beginning. This sounds way more important than my Hyndi lessons."

Sanych stopped. "I don't want to talk about it," she clipped.

Stung, Geret paused. "What did Salvor do to you?"

Sanych pursed her lips in annoyance. "I'm sorry," she said, her eyes not meeting his, "but I'm far too busy. You may have given up on Meena and the quest, but I haven't, and I have two, possibly three, seas to search. Now, if you'll excuse me." She brushed past him again.

"Sanych," he pleaded, "I care about you."

She turned around, glared at him and hissed, "Not a point in your favor right now, Geret." She stalked off and didn't turn back, and Geret trekked on to Anjoya's, not wanting to remain in the street like a fool.

Halfway through the lesson, Salvor jogged in, his face stormy. After a polite greeting to their teacher, he hissed in Versal, "You could have told me you were leaving the harbor early."

"I could've," Geret allowed. "Then you would have been with me when I ran into your lovely girlfriend. Except...I think she might have mentioned something about you being a two-faced liar."

"Gentlemen," Anjoya interrupted, speaking Hyndi. "Let us converse in Hyndi only, please. This is the best way to learn, and so far you have been doing very well."

"Fine," Geret growled, using Hyndi as he looked at Anjoya. "Salvor's a lying bastard who lost his heart years ago in some inane bet on the outcome of a snail race. Clearly, he hasn't missed it since."

Salvor's expression slowly hardened, and he looked away and replied, "This from the same mouth that kissed Sanych in full view of the man she loved."

Anjoya raised a delicate eyebrow at Geret.

"At least I actually care about her," Geret shot back.

"You little fool of a pretender prince," Salvor seethed, spinning to glare at him. "How long are you going to be a step behind me? I hope to Wisdom you never take the High Seat of Wisdom, because I guarantee you, I'll have a hard time pretending that I respect someone who can't follow the simplest of ploys to its logical conclusion!"

"That's funny; after all the other lies you've lived, why should that one be so difficult?"

"Even I have limits, Geret," Salvor warned, his hazel eyes cold.

"You're not the only one. You're fired. Get out." Geret stood, crossed his arms and glared down at Salvor.

He stood up as well, and sneered at the taller, younger man. "You can't fire me. I don't work for you."

"My lords," Anjoya's voice interrupted sharply. "While your argumentative Hyndi seems nearly flawless, I must point out that today's lesson is about court Hyndi. Polite Hyndi."

The two men continued to glare at each other.

"If you're unable to continue the lesson today," she said archly, "then I suggest you come back next time, and in a frame of mind more suited to study." She gestured to the hallway. "And please tell your friend Gryme that I am thinking of him today."

Geret and Salvor both stalked out, remembering only belatedly to bow their thanks to their teacher. Outside in the quiet street, with only the glowing rock ceiling above them, Geret growled and put his hands on his temples.

"How about we try discussing things this time, like grownups, rather than breaking out into a brawl?" Salvor asked, reverting to Versal and leaning on a carved pillar in front of the residence opposite Anjoya's.

"I don't know; are you mature enough for that, after your little stunt?"

"That 'little stunt', my less-than-observant prince, was for Sanych's benefit, though I doubt I'll be able to convince you of that."

"Did you actually tell her to her face that you were just using her? That seems pretty cruel, even coming from you."

"It was necessary, and as I said, I don't expect you to understand." Salvor crossed his arms.

"Folly's bastard get," Geret swore, throwing his hands in the air. "Why don't you try explaining it to me, and see if you can keep from lying about it?"

"Fine. Here's the part I think you can handle: I let Sanych shake me off her sandals because it keeps her safer, away from you and me both, and helps me focus on keeping you alive. Having Meena around made me lazy. You attract trouble like no one I've ever known, and since we're headed back to Vint, I thought I could get in a confession and let her adjust to living without us all in one move. She'll get over her tears soon enough."

Geret, for once, kept his mouth shut and mulled that over. Finally he said, "She was distracting you. You actually care for her."

"Not the point. If you—"

"You let her shake you off. You didn't have to."

"It was a ploy, Geret," Salvor gritted, striding over and glaring at Geret.

"It started as one, but it ended as something else, didn't it? You fell for your mark."

Salvor's fist slammed into Geret's eye socket, and he staggered, seeing blinding showers of red and white stars.

"That's for kissing her," Salvor said, rubbing his knuckles.

Geret swiped tears from his throbbing eye and looked blearily at Salvor. "Fair enough," he gasped. "I had a weak moment. That's why you told her that it was my idea to separate you two."

"Probably," Salvor admitted reluctantly. "It's a long journey home. I didn't like the prospect of watching you woo her all the way across the sea." He glared at Geret. "And don't tell me you wouldn't have tried."

Geret was silent a moment. Finally he nodded. "Probably," he echoed. "But what's to stop–"

"Hopefully your good sense," Salvor interrupted. "In case you hadn't quite caught on, it's us against everyone else out here. We're a long way from Vint, and anyone who even knows where it is. We'll get no mercy out here. The burden of preserving the Magister's heir is landing squarely on my shoulders. If you drag Sanych into your schemes–and I know you'll have a few–and endanger her as well as yourself, I reserve the right to pummel your arse the second I've saved it. If she comes to harm because of you, be assured I'll visit it on you tenfold, prince of the realm or no."

Geret stepped forward, saying, "You make me sound like I don't care for anyone but myself. Do you truly think so little of me?"

"It's not about you, Geret. Not nearly so much as you think it is."

The way Salvor cut his eyes from Geret made the prince squint in interest. "Enlighten me, then," he said in a mild tone.

Salvor glanced at him, the momentary bitterness in his eyes startled Geret. "I failed, back in Ha'Lakkon. I knew, when I took that blade to the heart, that it was all for nothing. There were still three more men in the alley, and you were wounded. If it weren't for Meena, we'd both be rotting by now. Your uncle charged me with a duty, and I failed him!" He stalked around Geret in a half-circle.

"I failed him too," Geret added quietly. Salvor turned and faced him. "He gave me this glorious quest to lead, on a simple retrieval mission. We're only halfway there, and there are only four of us left. We can't even consider going forward. At the end of the day, that's on me. So I guess I can relate." He raised his eyes from the ground and met Salvor's gaze. "At least Meena gave you a second chance."

"I'm not sure I should thank her. Guilt is not a kind companion." He grinned briefly. "If Sanych can find her a second time–if she's alive–Meena will give you a second chance also."

Geret snorted and scratched his nose. "I guess so. Hadn't really thought of it like that."

They looked at one another for a long moment.

"How's your eye?" Salvor asked.

"Hurts like folly. How's yours?"

"My eye's fine–ow!" He clapped a hand over his eye after Geret struck him, and glared with his good eye.

"That's for making her cry," Geret said coolly, shaking out his fist.

"Folly," Salvor swore, wincing. "I suppose I deserve that."

"You do. But neither of us want her hurt, so I'll keep her out of any harebrained schemes I cook up. Whether I stay away from her entirely, well...I'll leave that up to her."

"I probably deserve that too. Don't forget, though, your heart isn't yours to give away anymore. Once the Magister declared you a Prince of Vint, he effectively took control of your choice of partners."

"Wasn't really thinking that far ahead," Geret commented, raising an eyebrow.

Salvor shook his head. "You should. Always. That's what a true prince would do."

Geret winced at the comment, even though Salvor's tone was barely acerbic. "Maybe you should be the prince, and I'll be your bodyguard," he said.

Salvor guffawed, and gingerly touched his swelling eye. "No, Geret," he said, with a few last chuckles, "I'd not be prince of anything if you gave me the deepest desire of my heart. It doesn't suit me. It doesn't suit you either, much, but you've time to grow into it. If you choose," he clarified, with a direct look.

Geret nodded. Even this far from home, he couldn't completely forget his obligations to his homeland.

Salvor blinked his swelling eye gently. "You want to go back in for the rest of our lesson?"

"No, it's a wash. Let's come up with a good story to tell Kemsil instead."

"About what?"

"About how I saved you from seventeen Shadow Stalkers, and only got this one black eye," he grinned, raising his eyebrows.

Salvor snorted. "Don't forget to tell him the part where you had one hand tied behind your back."

"Right. And it happened in a dark alley."

"Geret," Salvor said, as they slowly made their way across Lesser Salience to their common hall, "we're underground. They're all dark alleys."

He tsked, looking around. "So they are."

~~~

The next day, Geret visited Sanych at the library for a few minutes and apologized. "Salvor's behavior was based on a misunderstanding between him and me. I'm sorry he hurt you." She thanked him stiffly, and he headed back down to the docks.

His next visit, several days later, went more smoothly. He coaxed her into detailing her work on the large map she had tacked onto a wooden wall, and she gave him an hour's worth of details.

"What do you think," he asked, watching her face, "about staying in Salience until you're ready to hunt for Meena?"

Sanych paused in mid-gesture. "By myself?" She blinked in thought. "I would love to. I've gotten to know several of the Citizens here; I'm sure they'd–"

"No, there's no way I'm leaving you by yourself. We'll all stay. Well, Runcan will still sail home. But Gryme's willing to stick with us: some Jualan honor code thing."

"I thought you didn't believe Meena lived through the attack," Sanych said, frowning.

Geret sighed and met her eyes. "I don't. But...maybe it's enough for me that you do. Who knows the Shanallar better than you–oof!"

Sanych slammed into Geret and squeezed him tight. "Thank you," she whispered.

Geret put his arms around her small frame. "You're welcome," he said, smiling.

"Even the Silver Hands haven't been able to learn anything," she murmured, drawing back from him. "Their sensors and telepaths just can't reach far enough from Salience to find her. But I know she's out there. I feel it," she said, tapping her chest.

Geret nodded, seeing the belief radiating from her eyes. "How can I help?"

~~~

Sanych always had a small task for Geret when he made one of his after-work visits, and she warmed to his friendship again. It put her in mind of the first days of the quest, when he and she would talk for hours and never run out of topics, except this time most of the topics involved the search for Meena. She knew Salvor waited for Geret down the hall and accompanied him on her errands, and she was glad Geret was so unlike her former favorite.

She caught herself wondering if Geret still cared for her as strongly as he had when he'd kissed her, and decided he didn't. Just as well, she admitted. Having a prince interested in her would put her in a bit of trouble once they returned to Vint. She knew the rules regarding the Vinten succession better than most of the nobility. Archivists weren't eligible.

The days stretched into weeks, and the hot summer slid down toward autumn. Each clear evening, a massive fiery sunset blazed across nearly half the horizon. The vivid oranges, bright reds and luminescent pinks caught everyone's attention. The ash of Heren Garil Sa had made itself known in the atmosphere, and it was changing the sky.

Count Runcan and the Caliph of Hynd reached several trade agreements, which pleased them both and gave Geret a feeling of relief: at least some good was coming out of the disaster.

Sanych added pins and marks to her map, detailing Deep Ones' movements and migrations, according to ship sightings. She kept a special pin with a paper streamer marked with the word Shanallar stuck in the side of the corkwood, waiting for the day when she could place it. Cheriya often had to remind her to eat. The Shashei declared herself the Archivist's personal assistant, working tirelessly beside her in the library.

Salvor began spending much of his free time sparring or studying others' fighting styles, and Geret shook his head at his bodyguard's single-minded dedication.

Kemsil passed notes to Anjoya through Geret, and told her of his new plan to sail out with the Vintens to find Meena if the opportunity arose. She was furious with him for taking on this new and dangerous quest instead of sailing safely to Vint, and refused to accept any further notes from him. Salvor empathized with the Jualan refugee.

Geret focused on bringing the harbor rebuild project to fruition. He found it fascinating, watching the loading cranes go up and the wooden docks maze their way out from the stone dock at the harbor's inner wall. The newly-constructed flotilla of small craft that worked in unison, despite the incoming waves, were a tribute to the skill and dedication of the denizens of Salience.

For weeks, the blacksmiths of Lesser Salience had been reconstructing the harbor's artificial reefs and the mechanisms that adjusted them. The first few sections were due to be placed under the water within the week, and Geret was eager to see how well they worked.

"I wonder if the controls are above the water or if divers make the adjustments," he mused to Kemsil and Salvor, as they hammered planks across dock struts, far into the center of the harbor.

Kemsil passed him another salvaged plank. "Perhaps they will not let anyone see," he said. "Perhaps it is secret even from the general public. It is the harbor's main defense against pirates, after all."

"You're probably–" Geret broke off as cannon fire echoed from outside the harbor. Everyone's gaze was riveted on the harbor mouth. Through the gap in the rock, Geret could see several fast ships sailing past the sentries. Both sides were firing their cannons, and the sentries raised sails and anchors and gave chase.

"Were those pirates?" Geret asked, eyes locked on the now-empty sea.

"Folly. Let's not wait around to find out," Salvor said. "Geret, I'm getting you out of here."

"They're gone, Salvor," Geret protested. "Won't that look a little odd?"

"The Clans are very clever," Kemsil warned. "Were I Clan, I might attack now. The final defenses are not up yet, and after ten weeks of waiting, surely there must be tons of trade goods ready for the first available ships. Or the first available sticky hands."

"Let's go, Geret," Salvor insisted. "Don't make me drag you."

Geret sighed. "Fine."

"Look out!" Kemsil shouted, pointing.

Everyone in earshot stopped their discussions and looked up. Sleek and fast, a triple-masted caravel slipped in as effortlessly as a pearl rolling on silk. Its triangular sails strained to hold the wind. As they watched, her gun ports slammed shut all along her sides.

"Run!" Salvor called. "It's going to ram the dock!" The three of them pelted toward the nearest connecting dock, a hundred breathless paces away, and the other workers nearby fled with them.

The ship's sails emptied upon entering the harbor proper, yet its incredible momentum carried it directly toward the unfinished dock.

Geret, Salvor, Kemsil and the others made it to the connecting dock and risked a glance back at the oncoming Clan ship. What they saw made everyone stop to watch. Salvor stepped in front of Geret.

Female voices shouted and an anchor splashed down, its chain cutting through the water. After a few seconds, it caught, and the ship clubhauled around in a veering slide. Another splash, another anchor, and the caravel jerked to a stop mere feet from the dock's unfinished end. The ship rocked wildly, and the crew on board gave a cheer. A single female figure in a polished brass breastplate and a green headscarf gripped a rope and flung herself into the air from the ship's rigging, arcing wide with the last of the ship's momentum. The woman slid down and landed heavily on sturdy boots, causing the dock to buck under the sudden weight, and drew a short sword from a well-used scabbard.

Geret's jaw dropped.

"It's the Clans all right," murmured Kemsil, seeing a bright sigil on the side of the ship's prow. "But not Swordfish. A small mercy, at best."

Another woman in a matching breastplate leaned over the ship's rail and called down to the first. The copper-bright braids that framed her face were distinct even at this distance.

"Wisdom's tits," Salvor swore, stunned. The woman on the dock stalked toward them, and the other workers fled.

"Shouldn't we flee also, like the other sane men?" Kemsil whispered, shifting his feet.

"No," Geret said, eyes on the approaching figure. "That won't be necessary."

The woman in the gleaming breastplate drew close. A tip of her head indicated amusement, or possibly consideration of the best way to kill them.

Salvor eyed her blade, while Geret stared at her face in wonder. Kemsil gulped audibly.

She stopped before them. "I have just one question for you," the woman said, twitching her sword. Her eyes were hard as emeralds. "And I'm only going to ask it once. If I get the answer I want, I'll let you live."

##  Epilogue

Onix Oolat, Hand of Power and mighty leader of the Dzur i'Oth, studied his dawn-lit reflection in the magical mirror he had willed into existence. His own haughty gaze looked back at him as he stood among the breezes, in one of the topless white marble towers of the ruined Dragon Temple. Gone were any traces of the humble fisherman's son he had once been. His eyes had even given up their deep earthen color in his pursuit of his glorious destiny. Behind him steamed the volcano known as the Green Dragon, its near-perfect cone visible in the mirror's reflection. Before him stretched the green hills and plains of his homeland. He could see several places across the landscape where hot springs steamed in the cool morning air.

So close, for so long, he thought. And yet, so completely incapable of retrieving what is ours by right! Shanal is the world's strongest font of magic, the birthplace of wizards, the land of miracles! The Great and Dire Tome of Ages deserves a place of honor here, not a shameful prison! When I get my hands on that thief, she will feel the scourges of my wrath for years, before I strip her of her immortality and let her die by the power of the very book she tried to destroy!

Oolat realized he had clenched his fists in rage when he heard the silvered gauntlet squeak against itself in protest. He relaxed once more, letting his gaze drift across the land again, and amused himself by fantasizing about torturing the woman who had stolen the rightful destiny of her own people. Then a new option for dealing with her rose in his mind, and he smiled at the perfect karmic circle it formed. His high laugh echoed across the slopes of the volcano, and he raised his arms and let his head fall back in sheer bliss.

A shuffle of feet across the ruined floor of the marble tower caught his ear, and he turned to see his second-in-command approach. The bald man's body posture spoke of excitement.

"What is it, Bailik?" Oolat asked, lidding his eyes in apathy.

"Master," the man replied, meeting Oolat's eyes with confidence, "The latest resonance spells confirm that the recent motions of the key are part of a definite pattern."

Oolat turned to look out toward the sea, gleaming golden in the sunrise. A smile rested on his lips. "The thief approaches. Our reckoning will soon be at hand."

##  Excerpt from Chapter One of _Oathen_

(the sequel to The Wicked Heroine)

Anjoya Meseer glided through the busy afternoon crowds that thronged the Market Quarter of Greater Salience, and barely kept the tears that edged her dark eyes from falling. They might streak the kohl she'd lined them with, and no hostess, not even one forced to live and work in Lesser Salience, would let herself appear as anything less than poised and perfect at all times.

Her feet still remembered the path from her half-sister's residence to the elevator shaft nearest Anjoya's home. She let the sights and smells of the city that had introduced her to Kemsil soothe her anger.

But not for long. Kemsil, too, was being unreasonable, proclaiming that he owed his life to the four easterners who had rescued him from slavers, Clan Swordfish, and the destructive quake ripple that had washed out Salience Harbor a thousand feet below her sandals. He planned to leave with them to look for their lost companion, Meena, should the diminutive Archivist ever locate her again.

He'd accompany them back onto the sea, where not only the pirates of Clan Swordfish lurked, but his own Jualan people, who would likely kill him on sight for not showing up at his arranged marriage--because he had been kidnapped by pirates!

Anjoya found her fingernails digging into her long silk sleeves, and relaxed. At least Kemsil really cared about her. Her sister Ethari had nothing but hidden agendas and a decades-old pipe full of jealousy.

Please do me the honor of attending my luncheon in two days' time, her note had read. My guests will benefit from your presence, and I will be happy to share half of the hostess fee with you.

Despite her misgivings, Anjoya had ridden the elevator to the upper city and walked to Ethari's home. She'd dressed in her best silks, having spent hours braiding her long, dark hair and tucking it through an open-topped turban in order to blend in with the Citizens. It never hurt to accept a chance to demonstrate one's skills in her line of work, and her sister knew it, since she was a hostess as well. What Ethari didn't know was that Anjoya was hurting for money, having turned away several well-paying clients in order to clear time to instruct Kemsil's eastern friends in Hyndi.

Only after she arrived had she discovered that her sister was hosting six Byarran friars who had come to make use of the Great Library of Hynd. They had taken one look at her bare midriff and the books of poetry she carried, and quickly lowered their eyes.

Anjoya had not missed Ethari's smug expression before the Greater Salience hostess smoothed it away. The shorter, lighter-haired woman had chosen simple, conservative attire that made Anjoya look like a ruby mynah, ready to squawk forth horrible, progressive ideas that would lead to the downfall of civilization everywhere. Or so the Byarrans surely thought.

Most of the luncheon had been full of awkward pauses and shifting glances. Anjoya knew that the small coastal realm of Byar was not in favor of its women having formal education, so all her favorite topics, like philosophy, politics and poetry, were off the table. She did manage to engage the friars in conversation regarding gardening and cloth-dying, and counted it a major victory against Ethari's scheme to embarrass her.

But Ethari managed to have the last word, as usual.

"Thank you for your stimulating entertainment," Ethari said to her in the cool stone entryway, as the friars were putting their worn sandals back on. "You may go." As the men looked over, she tossed a money pouch to Anjoya, who caught it as it slammed against her chest.

Anjoya's eyes slid to the shocked friars, then pinned Ethari with a hot glare. "I am not a common whore," she hissed, "to be paid before the eyes of guests!"

"Then give it back." Ethari held out a smooth hand.

There it was: the trap. Perhaps Ethari knew more about her finances than she'd been aware of. Nostrils flaring, Anjoya took her sister's hand and slapped the little red pouch into it. Turning to leave, she wove her way through the friars, who drew back from her skirt, not wanting her clothing to touch them.

As she descended Ethari's pale, broad steps and passed between twin urns overflowing with flowering vines, she heard, "My apologies, gentlemen. Her mother was a thief with lax morals, and despite my decades of trying to show her a better path, as you see, my half-sister has done little better."

There went any chance of having a Byarran client, ever again. The gathering of hostesses in Greater Salience–not quite a guild, but more powerful than most of them–had already barred her from hosting in the upper city, and now Ethari was trying to drive her out of the business completely. And it was working. Between the stress of her job and her personal life, she had decided to leave Salience–leave the whole continent of Eirant, even--with Count Runcan as soon as the harbor below was repaired and ready to receive maritime traffic.

Anjoya reached the large, gilded elevator and entered with several others who wished to descend to the underground section of Salience. As the light faded in the narrow shaft, she felt tension leave her shoulders. She was glad she'd be leaving the city. Maybe she could manage a tan once she reached Vint. Sanych had warned her that it was cloudy there often, due to surrounding mountains, and Anjoya trusted the Archivist's perfect recall, but clouds were far better than rock in Anjoya's estimation.

She crossed a few streets, lit from above by the ever-present glowing fungus that provided public light to Lesser Salience, and entered her home, greeting her women as they went about their daily tasks. Two of them helped her unbraid her hair once more, and within the hour, she was dressed in a loose flowing gown, curly hair down to her waist, entertaining the assistants to an emissary from Kauna'kana, while their employer visited with the caliph.

Just as the cross-cultural joking was in full swing, a pounding at the door forced her to excuse herself from her illustrious company. The first assistant waved his heavy goblet and nodded politely, his dark braid of office gleaming across his forehead. It was times like these that made the Hyndi hostess regret that part of her job involved answering her own door.

She set her expression into interested politeness and pulled open the thick wooden door, hoping Ethari had not followed her, nor the friars either, trying to convince her to stop reading books. The man on the other side was panting, carrying a duffel over his shoulder, and grinning like a fool.

"Geret?" she queried of the tall, dark-eyed prince. "What has happened?"

"I don't have long, Anjoya," he puffed, catching his breath. "Please tell Runcan that Sanych, Salvor, Gryme and I will be parting ways with him here. He's to return to Vint and report to my uncle the Magister on the progress of our journey. You're still accompanying him on the next available ship?"

"I am...but I thought we were all going." She eyed his duffel. "What progress is he to report? Has Sanych located your missing friend?"

"Not yet," Geret said, chuckling.

Anjoya frowned in confusion. "I'm not following, Geret."

Geret met her eyes with a grin and explained his plan to her.

"What? You can't take Gryme west! The Jualans will kill him!" the hostess argued, cutting a fearful, angry arm toward Kemsil's homeland. Though the grimy nickname and Kemsil's hard labor with Geret and Salvor on rebuilding the harbor had served to hide him thus far, tossing that all away and running directly toward those who wanted him dead flew in the face of his love for her.

"That's the problem, Anjoya," Geret said, sobering. "I've begged him to reconsider, but he won't. He says he owes us his life and won't let us leave without him." He looked over his shoulder. "I need to hurry before they leave without me."

Anjoya made an exasperated noise. "What ship would dare take you to Shanal? That's Clan territory much of the way! And how can you go on, when you don't know the way?"

Geret stepped back a couple of paces, beginning to leave. "Because we have a guide again. Thank you for all the Hyndi lessons, Anjoya. Have a safe trip to Vint. Runcan will be a superb traveling companion." He gave her a deep nod of respect, then started jogging down the street, calling, "I'll see you in a year or two!"

###  About the Author

Jasmine Giacomo writes from Washington State, where she lives with her husband, two children, and a Bichon Frisé named Eddie. She graduated last millennium with a degree in English Literature from a college built atop a volcano.

Though she's been writing since the age of four, she also enjoys geocaching, history, science and games, and holds a black belt in Danzan Ryu Jujitsu. She particularly enjoys reading and writing fight scenes.

Her current writing project is _Prodigal Steelwielder_ , book three in the Seals of the Duelists series. Find her on Facebook, Twitter, G+, Amazon, and Worlds of Jasmine.

# Table of Contents

Maps

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Epilogue

Excerpt from Chapter One of Oathen

About the Author

## 
