Traitor's Moon

7 STRIPED SAILS AND FIRE

By dawn, the Zyria and her escorts were already well out to sea. Much to Alec's disappointment, Beka had sailed aboard the Wolf with Mercalle's decuria. He could see her striding around the deck, red hair shining in the sun. They exchanged shouted greetings, but the distance and rushing sea made conversation difficult.

Thero accompanied Klia on their ship, and although Alec was happy to renew their acquaintance, he soon began to suspect that the wizard had changed less than he'd originally thought. Thero was less abrupt, to be sure, but still a bit distant—a cold fish, as Seregil liked to say. Forced together in close quarters, he and Seregil were soon sparring again, if not quite so bitterly as before.

When Alec remarked on this, Seregil merely shrugged. "What did you expect, for him to somehow turn into Nysander? We are who we are."

They followed the coastline all day, sailing a few miles outside the scattered islands that edged the western shore.

Standing at the rail, Alec scanned the distant sea cliffs and thought of his first journey here aboard the Grampus, when Seregil

lay dying in the hold. The steep land between cliff and mountains showed the first green of spring, and from here it all looked peaceful—except for the red sails like their own that began to appear with greater frequency the further south they traveled.

Alec was at the rail again when they passed the mouth of Rhiminee harbor later that day. Gazing longingly at the distant city, he could make out scores of vessels at anchor on both sides of the moles. Beyond them, atop her towering grey cliffs, the upper city glowed like gold in the slanting afternoon light. The glass domes of the Oreska House and its four towers gave back a burning glare like points of flame, leaving black spots in front of his eyes when he looked away. Blinking, he searched the deck for Seregil and found him leaning against the aft castle wall, arms folded across his chest as he gazed up at the city he'd forsaken. Alec took a hesitant step in his direction, but Seregil walked away.

As Rhiminee slowly slipped from sight behind them, the three ships struck south east across the Osiat with a fresh following wind. A growing air of tension hung over the three vessels as sailors and soldiers alike kept watch for striped Plenimaran sails. As darkness fell, however, conversation grew freer. A waning moon rose above them, spangling the waves with silver.

Seregil and Torsin retired to the bow with Klia to discuss negotiation tactics. Left to their own devices, Alec and Thero paced the deck. They could make out the dark shapes of the escort ships sailing abreast of the Zyria a few hundred feet to either side. It was a calm night, and voices carried easily across the water. Some unseen musician aboard the Courser struck up a tune on a lute.

Braknil and his riders had gathered around the hatchway lantern on the foredeck. Spying Alec and the wizard, the old sergeant waved them over.

"That'll be young Urien strumming away," he said, listening to the distant music.

When the song ended, someone aboard the Wolf answered with the first verse of a popular ballad.

A pretty young maid strolled down the shore, with naught but her

shadow beside her. Over in the bushes hid the farmer's lad and lustfully he eyed her.

One-eyed Steb produced a wooden flute, and his comrades bawled the melody across the water.

Steb's lover, Mini, gave Alec a playful jab with his elbow. "You too good to sing with us tonight? You're the closest thing to a bard here."

Alec made him an exaggerated bow and took up the next verse:

"Oh, come with me, my sweet pretty maid," the farmer's lad

said he. "I'll make you my wife and keep you for life if only you'll lie

with me."

Mirn and young Minal hoisted Alec onto a hatch cover and helped lead the interminable randy verses. Thero hung back by the rail, but Alec could see the wizard's lips moving. When the song was done, cheers and catcalls echoed from the other ships.

"Well now, isn't this a hard life?" Sergeant Braknil chuckled, lighting his pipe. "We're like a bunch of nobles off on a pleasure voyage."

"I don't suppose it'll be much harder once we get to Aurenen," a veteran named Ariani agreed. "As honor guard, we're just along for show."

"You've got that right, girl. After a few weeks of standing about on guard duty, we'll be happy enough to get back to the fighting. Still, it's something to be the first to see Aurenen after all these years. Lord Seregil must've told you something of it, Alec?"

"He says it's a green place, warmer than Skala. There was a song he sang—"

Alec couldn't recall the tune, but some of the words had stayed with him. " 'My love is wrapped in a cloak of flowing green, and wears the moon for a crown. And all around has chains of flowing silver. Her mirrors reflect the sky. There's more to it, all very sad."

"Magic is more common there, as well," Thero added with mock severity. "You'd all better mind your manners; the 'pretty young maids' might answer an insult with more than clever words."

A few of the riders exchanged worried looks at this.

"A strange land with strange folk in it," Braknil mused around his pipe stem. "As I hear it, they're handy with their swords and bows, too. But you only have to look at Lord Seregil to see the truth in that. Or did, anyway. And perhaps it's what makes you such a fine archer, eh, Alec?"

"More like having an empty belly if I didn't shoot true."

Someone brought out dice, and Alec joined in a friendly game. The

soldiers were a gregarious lot and even managed to pull Thero into the circle despite his initial reticence. There was much joking about the wisdom of dicing with a wizard, but Thero managed to allay their worries by losing every toss. Eventually people began to wander off to find their beds for the night—some alone, some in pairs.

Alec felt a pang of envy as Steb slipped an arm around Mirn on their way below. Seregil had been distracted by other concerns lately, and the lack of privacy here hadn't helped matters. Stretching out on the hatch cover, he resigned himself to a few more days of abstinence.

To his surprise, Thero joined him. Crossing his arms behind his head, the wizard hummed a few bars of the song, then said, "I've been watching Seregil. He seems apprehensive about returning to Aurenen."

"There are plenty of folks who won't welcome him."

"I felt the same, going back to the Oreska House that day we all returned from Plenimar," Thero said softly. "Nysander saw to it that my name was cleared before he left that last time, but there'll always be doubts in some people's minds as to how much my—" He paused, as if the words were as distasteful as the memory. "How much my affair with Ylinestra had to do with the attack on the Oreska House that night. Even I'll never be certain."

"Better to look forward than back, I guess."

"I suppose so."

They fell silent again, two young men gazing into the infinite mystery of the night sky.

The next few days passed quietly enough. Too quietly, in fact. Bored and at loose ends, Alec found himself missing their lost solitude, just as Seregil had predicted.

Quarters belowdecks were too close for Seregil's taste, the air too pungent with the smell of oil and horses. Curtained alcoves had been hastily knocked together for the passengers of rank, but these afforded little more than the illusion of privacy. Taking advantage of the fair weather, he and Alec claimed a sheltered section of deck beneath the overhang of the forward castle. It was comfortable enough there—for sleeping.

Not one to stand on rank, Klia lolled about with the rest of them, sharing tales of the war.

"I don't suppose you two would consider joining the Horse Guard?" she asked, giving Seregil and Alec a pointed look as they

sat in the shade of the sail with There and Braknil. "Men with your talents are in short supply these days. I could use you."

"I never expected it to last this long," Alec said.

"Something's changed since the new Overlord took over," Klia said, shaking her head. "His father kept the treaties."

"This one's been fed on tales of lost glories," Braknil said around the stem of his pipe.

"By his uncle Mardus, no doubt," Seregil agreed. "Still, it was bound to happen."

"What makes you say that?" asked Thero.

He shrugged. "Peace follows war. War follows peace. Necromancy is suppressed, only to grow in secret, until it bursts like a boil. Some things are eternal, like the pattern of the tides."

"Then you don't think a lasting peace can ever be achieved?"

"It depends on your point of view. This war will end, and maybe there'll be peace through Klia's lifetime, perhaps even that of her children. But wizards and Aurenfaie live long enough to see that sooner or later it all starts again—the same old pull and haul of greed, need, power, and pride."

"It's like a great wheel, always turning, or the changes of the moon," mused Braknil. "No matter what things look like today, change is always coming, for good or ill. When I was a lad, new to the regiment, my old sergeant used to ask us if we'd rather live a short time in peace or a long time in war."

"What did you say?" asked Seregil.

"Well now, as I recall I always wanted more choices than that. Thank the Flame, I think I got 'em. But it's true what you said, though I often forget it. You and these two young fellows will see more turns of that wheel than any of us. Someday when you look in the mirror and see as much grey in your hair as I've got, drink a pint to my dusty bones, won't you?"

"I forget sometimes, too," Klia murmured, and Alec saw her study Seregil's face, and then his own, an indefinable expression in her eyes that was neither sadness nor envy. "I'll do well to keep it in mind once we get to Aurenen, won't I? I understand negotiating with them is something of a challenge."

Seregil laughed softly to himself. "Well, their concept of hurrying will certainly be different than ours."

Alec was pacing the deck their third afternoon out when a lookout suddenly shouted down, "Plenimaran ship to the southeast, Captain!

Seregil was up on the aft castle with Klia and Captain Farren, and Alec hurried up to join them. Everyone was scanning the horizon. Shading his eyes, Alec squinted across the water and found an ominous shape against the late-afternoon glare.

"I see her," Captain Farren said. "She's too far off yet to tell if she's spotted us."

"Is it the Plenimarans?" Thero asked, joining them at the rail.

"Time to earn your keep," Klia told him. "Can you keep them from seeing us?"

Thero thought a moment, then plucked a loose thread from his sleeve and held it up. Alec recognized the trick; he was testing the wind's direction.

Satisfied, Thero raised both hands in the direction of the enemy vessel and chanted in a high, faint voice. Drawing a wand of polished crystal from the folds of his coat, he flung it toward the distant ship. Glittering like an icicle, it spun end over end and disappeared below the grey-green waves. Tendrils of mist immediately curled up where it fell.

Thero snapped his fingers; the wand sprang out of the water and into his hands like a live thing, trailing a thick rope of mist in its wake. Pulled by the wizard's spell, heavy fog spread with supernatural speed into a thick bank that shielded their vessel from sight.

"Unless they have a wizard of their own aboard, they'll think we're just a bit of weather," he said, drying the wand with the edge of his cloak.

"But we can't see them, either," said the captain.

"I can," Thero replied. "I'll keep watch."

The ruse worked. Within half an hour Thero reported that the Plenimaran ship had disappeared over the horizon. He ended the spell and the fog bank fell behind them like a hank of wool torn from a distaff.

The sailors on deck let out a cheer, and Klia gave Thero an approving salute that brought a flush to the young wizard's cheeks.

"That's as nice a bit of magic as I've ever seen," Farren called from the stern.

From across the deck, Alec saw Seregil stroll over to the wizard. He was too far away to hear what passed between them, but Thero was smiling when they parted.

Shouts of landfall woke Alec at dawn the next day.

"Aurenen already?" he said, scrambling from beneath the blankets. Seregil sat up and rubbed his eyes, then rose to join the crowd already gathered at the port rail. They could just make out a distant line of low islands on the western horizon.

"Those are the Ea'malies, the 'Old Turtlebacks, " Seregil said, stifling a yawn.

Klia eyed the close-lying islands distrustfully. "A likely place for an ambush."

"I've sent up extra lookouts," Farren assured her. "We should reach Big Turtle by this afternoon. We'll put in there for fresh water, then it's just another day to Gedre."

This day seemed longer to Alec than all the rest put together. Bows slung ready over their shoulders, he and Seregil took their turn on watch, scanning the surrounding water. In spite of Klia's concerns, however, they reached the outlying islands without incident and set a course toward the largest.

Sitting atop the forecastle with Thero and Seregil, Alec studied the islands for signs of life. But they were arid, little more than domed masses of pale, sun-baked stone scattered over with patches of sparse vegetation.

"I thought you said Aurenen was green," said Thero, clearly less than impressed.

"This isn't Aurenen," Seregil explained. "No one claims them, really, except sailors and smugglers. Gedre is dry, too, as you'll soon see. The winds sweep up from the southwest across the Gathwayd Ocean and drop their rain as they go over the mountains. Across the Asheks the green will hurt your eyes."

"Sarikali," Thero murmured. "What do you remember of it?"

Seregil leaned his arms on the rail. Though his gaze was on the passing islands, Alec could tell that his friend was seeing another place and time.

"It's a strange, beautiful place. I used to hear music there, just coming out of the air. When it was over I couldn't remember the tunes. Sometimes people hear voices, too."

"Ghosts?" asked Alec.

Seregil shrugged. "We call them Bash 'wax, the Ancients. Those who claim to have seen them always describe them as tall, with black hair and eyes, and skin the color of strong tea."

"I've heard there are dragons there, too," said Thero.

"Just fingerlings, mostly, but they're common as lizards. The

larger ones keep to the mountains. A lucky thing, too. They can be dangerous."

"Is it true that they're magical from the start, but that they don't develop speech and intelligence until they're quite large?"

"That's right, which means you're more likely to be killed by one the size of a hound than those bigger than houses. Only a few of the fingerlings survive and they move up into the mountains as they grow. If you do happen to meet one of any size, always treat it with respect."

"Then there's the khtir'bai —" Alec began, but was interrupted by another warning cry from the lookout.

"Enemy vessels off the port bow!"

Jumping to their feet, they spotted two sets of striped sails rounding a point of land no more than a mile ahead. Alec's hands tightened around his bow; the sight of those sails brought back ugly memories.

"Something tells me they knew we were coming," Seregil muttered.

"Are they showing the battle flag?" Farren called up to the lookout.

"No, Captain, but they've got fires lit."

"Run up the battle standards!"

Sleek and fast as lion hounds, the great ships cleared the point and wheeled in their direction. Plumes of black smoke trailed in their wakes.

"Too late for tricks," said Thero, halfway to the castle ladder already.

"At least we outnumber them," said Alec.

Seregil shook his head. "They're bigger, faster, and more heavily armed than our ships. And probably crawling with marines."

"Marines?" Alec's mouth set in a hard line. Dodging through the throng of sailors and soldiers scrambling to their posts, he led the way to the port rail and joined the line of archers already positioned.

Sailors struck the mizzen, slowing the Zyria to allow the other ships to engage the enemy first. As the Wolf sailed past, Alec saw Beka among those hurrying around the deck with weapons and jars of Benshal Fire. Busy shouting orders, she didn't see the luck sign he made in her direction.

The Wolf was the first to attack, striking one of the enemy vessels amidships with canisters of Benshal Fire. Oily smoke billowed up, but the ship held its course and sent a volley of arrows in return as it swept past to bear down on the Zyria.

On Alec's left, Minal shifted nervously. "We're in for it now."

"Archers at the ready!" Klia shouted from the forecastle deck. "Shoot at will!"

Alec chose a man on the foredeck of the enemy vessel, drew the Black Radly's bowstring to his ear, and released the first shaft. Not pausing to see if it struck home, he drew one arrow after another and sent them speeding across the water. Beside him, Seregil and the archers of Urgazhi Turma did the same, each setting their own grim rhythm as the great ship closed in on them.

Enemy shafts were flying around their ears now, thudding into the deck and the wooden shields mounted on the rail. The hissing song of string and shaft was soon joined by the first cries of the wounded.

As the ship loomed ever closer, Alec spotted what appeared to be the bronze heads of some sort of monster mounted below her forecastle rail. The placement seemed too strategic to be mere decoration, but he couldn't imagine what they could be.

He was about to point them out to the others when Seregil let out a startled curse and staggered back, struck in the right shoulder by a blue-fletched Plenimaran arrow.

"How bad?" Alec demanded, pulling him to shelter against the rail.

"Not so bad," Seregil hissed through gritted teeth, yanking the shaft out with surprising ease. The thick leather strap of his quiver and the mail beneath his coat had prevented the head from piercing his shoulder, but the arrow had struck hard enough to drive the metal rings of the mail through the shirt below, leaving a bloody dent in his shoulder mere inches from his throat.

He handed the enemy shaft to Alec with a wry grimace. "Send this back to its owner for me, will you?»

Standing up, Alec nocked the shaft and raised his bow to take aim at the vessel looming over them now. Before he could draw, however, the bronze heads on the Plenimaran's port side suddenly spewed streams of liquid fire. It struck the rigging overhead and fresh screams burst out. A sailor fell to the deck, neck snapped like an oat stalk. Another hung tangled and screaming in the yards, sheathed in flame. Fire crews clambered up with buckets of sand and urine to douse smoking holes in the sails.

Aboard the Plenimaran ship, marines jeered and waved.

"What's that?" cried Alec, ducking down in alarm again.

"Bilairy's Balls!" gasped Seregil, grey eyes wide with astonish-ment. "The Fire. They've learned to pump it, the clever bastards!"

The two ships were nearly parallel now, and Alec felt a jolt go

through the deck boards as the Zyria's aft ballistas launched their loads of canister. One struck the enemy's mast; another exploded near her far rail, engulfing men in a spreading sheet of flame. Alec quickly looked away, but as the huge ship swept past he saw more men burning in her wake. Taking careful aim, he put three out of their misery before the ship carried him out of range. Taking advantage of the momentary lull in battle, he joined the other archers gathering enemy arrows to refill their quivers.

"Down, Alec!" Steb yelled, jerking him sideways just in time to avoid a strip of burning canvas. The headsail was in flames and coming to pieces as it burned. Overhead, sailors worked frantically to cut it free before the mast caught fire, while others on deck slapped flames out with wet sacking. The mingled stinks of oil, piss, and burning flesh settled over the vessel in a pall of stinging smoke.

Coughing, Alec gave the one-eyed soldier a quick nod of thanks. "You know, I believe I'd rather fight on land."

"So would I," Steb agreed.

Aboard the Wolf, Beka and the ship's captain, Yala, were having similar misgivings. The first Plenimaran ship had slipped past too easily and was heading for Klia's vessel. The Courser turned in pursuit, leaving Wolf to block the second man-of-war alone.

Standing atop the aft castle, they watched as the Plenimaran's striped sails filled the sky and heard the sharp groan of her forward catapults. A sack of quicklime struck the forward castle, bursting to engulf a knot of riders in a choking grey cloud; a second struck the mainsail, blinding several sailors and archers perched in the yards.

The screams of the maimed were terrible. Some of the archers positioned in the waist started in their direction, but Beka barked out, "Tell your riders to hold their positions, Sergeant Mercalle. Stand and shoot!"

"Stand and shoot!" Mercalle yelled, pushing men and women back into place.

But the Plenimaran ship was still coming at them bow on, presenting a limited target. The Wolfs ballistas sent jars of fire into her rigging and prow, but she still came on.

"She's got a ramming prow!" someone yelled from the shrouds.

"Hard about!" shouted Captain Yala.

The helmsmen threw themselves against the tiller, and the ship yawed, sending archers tumbling across the deck.

The enemy catapults sang again, and spiked iron balls splintered

the Wolfs forward mast and tore a gaping hole in the headsail. The ship shuddered and slowed, her fallen mast dragging over the side.

The man-of-war swept past, close enough for Beka to see the fierce, grinning faces of the black-clad marines sighting down their arrows. Mercalle's riders howled out their war cries and returned a hail of arrows, aiming skyward to arch their shafts onto the higher deck. The forward ballista crews launched more fire jars, but these missed their mark.

As the crew of the Wolf watched in horrified wonder, bronze lion heads mounted under the Plenimaran vessel's rail vomited streams of liquid fire that streaked the Wolfs torn sails with flames. From belowdecks came the screams of panicked horses and the cries of the wounded.

"By the Four!" Beka gasped. "What the hell was that, Captain?"

Before Yala could answer, a shaft buzzed past Beka's cheek and struck the woman in the eye. Clutching at it, Yala sank to the deck with an agonized groan.

"She's rounding on us, Captain," a lookout warned. "And she's running up fresh canvas!"

"Prepare—" Yala slumped slowly forward, blood flowing down her cheek. "Prepare to repel—"

Trailing smoke from one smoldering sail, the man-of-war closed on them again with a thick volley of arrows. Pinned down in the shelter of the rail shields, the remaining Skalan defenders shot back as best they could. A dozen or more bodies littered the deck, and Beka's heart sank as she counted three green tabards among them. Spotting Mercalle and Zir near the aft castle, Beka raced across the deck to them.

"Yala's dead. Have you seen the mate?"

The sergeant jerked a thumb at the forecastle. "That first load of quicklime got him."

"They're fixing to ram!" the remaining lookout shouted down to them.

"To what?" called Beka in alarm.

Everyone on deck had heard the warning, but there was little that could be done about it now. Marten and Ileah hurried over, supporting Ileah's brother Orineus between them. The young rider's tabard was stained dark around the broken arrow shaft in his chest. Beka could tell by his color that he was dying. Kallien brought up the rear.

The enemy vessel was almost upon them now, aiming straight for the Wolfs waist. Another burst of fiery liquid shot from the bronze heads as she bore down on the doomed carrack.

"Sakor's Eyes, the horses!" gasped Zir, face pale beneath his thick beard.

"Come with me," ordered Beka, starting for the main hatch.

"No time, Captain!" Mercalle warned.

The last thing Beka remembered before the whole world heaved under her feet was the muffled screams of the horses.

Searching the deck for Seregil, Alec caught sight of Thero for the first time since the battle began. Standing calmly on the forecastle deck, he raised his hands palms outward at the oncoming enemy vessel. A bright corona of light flashed around him, obscuring him from sight for a moment. Alec was still blinking when a great shout went up from the crew.

The enemy ship was foundering crazily off course, her fallen sails sagging over her spars and deck. Fires broke out and quickly spread, driving men overboard into the sea. The Courser swooped down to finish her off.

Alec scaled the forecastle ladder and found Thero sitting on a crate surrounded by grinning sailors.

"What did you do?" Alec asked, elbowing his way in to him.

"Turned their ropes to water," Thero said hoarsely, looking quite pleased with himself. "And relieved them of this."

At his feet lay a heavy metal rod nearly six feet in length.

"Their rudder pin!" Farren exclaimed. "Even with their rigging, they wouldn't get far without that."

But their triumph was short-lived. The Wolf was sinking.

Clambering down the ladder again, Alec joined Seregil and Klia at the starboard rail. Ahead of them, the Wolf listed in the shadow of the second man-of-war. The Plenimarans were showering the vessel with arrows and liquid fire. The carrack's sails and masts were in flames, sending a great column of smoke slanting across the water. They could all make out figures falling or leaping into the sea from the tilting deck.

"They've broken her back," Klia gasped.

"Hoist what sails we've got," Farren shouted to the mate. "Prepare the attack!"

The battle call traveled the length of the ship as the Zyria headed for the embattled craft. The Wolf "was going down fast.

"Beka's there," Alec cried, staring helplessly across at the foundering vessel. "Thero, can't you do something?"

"Quiet. He is," said Seregil. "Give him time."

Thero stood a little apart from them, eyes squeezed shut. Sweat poured down the wizard's face as he clenched his hands together in front of him. Then his thin lips curved up in a smile and he let out a small grunt of satisfaction. Without opening his eyes, he chanted softly under his breath and wove a series of symbols on the air.

"Ah, good choice, that," Seregil murmured approvingly.

"What? What is it?" demanded Alec.

Seregil pointed across to the enemy vessel. "Watch. This should be impressive."

An instant later a huge ball of fire erupted from the belly of the Plenimaran ship. Flames far fiercer than those aboard the doomed Wolf burst from every hatch, quickly engulfing everything above the waterline.

"Beautiful!" Seregil crowed, thumping Thero on the back. "You've always had a way with fire. How did you do it?"

The wizard opened his eyes and expelled a pent-up breath. "Her hold was full of Benshal Fire. I merely concentrated on that until it exploded. The rest took care of itself."

Leaving the Courser to her work, the Zyria sailed on for the Wolf. The broken carrack was rolling slowly onto its side, wallowing in the swells. Sheets of oily flame spread out from her smashed hull.

"Come on, come on!" Seregil hissed, hanging over the rail to scan the debris surrounding the wreck. Beside him, Alec did the same, praying to find Beka among the living. All too quickly, dark forms resolved into bodies, some charred beyond recognition, others fighting to stay afloat and crying out for help. A few horses—too few—churned in circles, screaming in panic.

"All boats away," the captain ordered. "Quick now, before the sharks get them."

Seregil and Alec ran for the nearest longboat being lowered over the side. When it smacked own in the water with a jolt, they took the prow seats, searching the waves while the sailors pulled the oars.

"There's someone, over there to the right," Alec called to the oarsmen, pointing the way. The boat leaped forward, closing the distance between them and a struggling Skalan sailor.

They were within ten feet of him when a huge shape broke the surface and dragged the man under. For one awful instant, Alec looked into the doomed man's wild eyes, and the shark's soulless black one. Then they were gone.

"Maker's Mercy!" he gasped, rocking back on his heels.

"Poor old Almin," someone said behind him, and the sailors rowed harder.

Leaving the dead to the sea, they rounded the Wolf's stern and found several people clinging to a broken spar.

"That's Mercalle!" Alec exclaimed.

The sergeant and two of her riders were supporting another between them. Alec recognized the sodden mass of red hair even before they had her all the way into the boat. Beka's face was white as milk except for a gash across her right temple.

"O Dalna, let her be alive," he muttered, feeling for a pulse at her throat.

"She is," Mercalle told him through chattering teeth. "She needs a healer, though, and soon."

The other riders looked only slightly better. Ileah was weeping silently, her face a mask of grief. Sitting close on either side of her in the bottom of the boat, Zir and Marten were chilled but apparently unhurt.

"It's her brother," Zir told him, putting an arm around Ileah. "He was dead before the bastards rammed us. How's the captain?" He looked anxiously at Beka.

Bent over Beka's still form, Seregil did not look up as he replied, "Too soon to tell."

Aboard the Zyria, they carried Beka below to one of the little cabins. Groans and screams came up from the hold, where the wounded sailors had been laid out. The stink of blood and Benshal Fire hung strong on the stale air.

While Alec went in search of the ship's drysian, Seregil stripped off Beka's sodden clothes. He'd done the same when she was a child, but she was a child no more. For once, he was glad of Alec's absence. Surprised at his own embarrassment, he finished as quickly as he could and wrapped her in blankets. It hadn't been only her brief nakedness that was discomforting but the number of battle scars marring her pale freckled body.

That sort of thing had never bothered him before, not even with Alec. Sitting on the floor beside Beka now, though, he rested his head in his hands, fighting down guilt and grief. He'd been the first after Micum to hold Beka in his arms at her birth; he'd carried her on his shoulders, carved toy swords and horses for her, helped teach her to ride and how to fight dirty.

And got her the commission that put her here, unconscious, scarred, and bloody, he thought dismally. Thank the Light I never had any children of my own.

The drysian arrived at last, Alec on his heels with a basin of steaming water.

"She was thrown when the enemy ship rammed hers," he said, watching as the healer set to work.

"Yes, yes, Alec's told me all about it," Lieus said impatiently, sponging blood from the ragged wound. "She took a bad knock, all right. Still, the cut didn't go deep, thank the Maker. She'll wake up in a while with quite a headache, and probably some sickness. There's nothing for it now but to clean her up, keep her warm, and let her sleep. You two clear out; you're just in my way here." He jerked a thumb at Seregil. "I'll see to your shoulder later. Arrow, was it?"

"It's nothing."

The drysian grunted, then tossed Alec a small jar. "Wash his wound and keep some of this on it until the scab dries. I've seen wounds like that go putrid a week later. You don't want to lose your sword arm, now, do you, my lord?"

On deck, they found Klia busy taking stock of the situation. The Courser had finished with the other Plenimaran vessel and now rode at anchor nearby.

"You heard him," Alec ordered, mimicking the drysian's gruff tone. "Let me see what that arrow did to you."

The cuts from the mail rings were still oozing, and the whole area was dark and swollen. Now that the excitement of the crisis was over, Seregil was surprised at how much it hurt. Alec helped him remove the mail shirt and set about dressing the wound, his touch as sure and gentle as any healer's.

Those same hands were drawing a bow not so long ago, Seregil reflected with another stab of guilt. Alec had never killed a man before they'd met, and probably never would have if he'd been left to his trapping and wandering., Life changes, he mused, and life changes us.

The soft afternoon breeze off the islands carried a sun-warmed mingling of scents he hadn't known for nearly forty years: wild mint and oregano, footcatch cedar, and fragrant powder vine. He'd last visited these islands a few months before his banishment. Looking across the water to Big Turtle, he could almost see his younger self jumping across the rocks, diving fish-naked in the coves with his friends—a silly, self-involved boy who'd had no idea what immensity of pain lay just over the horizon of his short life.

Life changes us all.

Klia climbed on a nearby hatch, still wearing her filthy green battle tabard. Braknil and Mercalle's riders gathered on the deck in front of her as she began to take stock.

"Who do you have left, Sergeant Mercalle?" Seregil heard her ask.

"Five riders and my corporal, Commander," the woman replied, betraying no emotion. Behind her, Zir and the other looked bedraggled and dispirited. Most appeared unhurt, although the lute player, Urien, was cradling a bandaged hand against his chest. "We've lost most of our weapons, though, and the horses."

"Those can be replaced. Riders can't," Klia replied brusquely. "And you, Braknil?"

"No deaths, Commander, but Orandin and Adis were badly burned by those damned fire streams."

Klia sighed. "We'll leave them in Gedre if the khirnari is agreeable."

Spotting Seregil, she waved him over. "What did you make of that?"

"That they were expecting us," he told her.

Klia scowled. "And I thought we'd been so careful."

The information didn't necessarily come from Skala, he thought, but kept the thought to himself for the time being.

"Can we make Gedre without stopping for water?" she asked the captain.

"Yes, Commander. But it will be dark by the time we've run up the new sail. Plenty of time to send landing crews over to fill some casks."

Klia rubbed the back of her neck wearily. "If those ships were waiting to ambush us, then they knew why we were going to the island. They could have ambushers waiting at the spring. I've had enough surprises for one day. I say we push on to Gedre."

No one slept that night, or spoke above a whisper as they sailed on under the dark new moon. Every lantern was extinguished, and Thero stood guard on the rear castle with the captain and Klia, ready to weave whatever magic they needed to evade notice.

The groans of the wounded came up from belowdecks like the voices of ghosts. Alec and Seregil ventured down every hour or so to check on Beka. When she woke at last, she was so ill that she ordered them to go away and leave her in peace.

"That's a good sign," Seregil noted as they made their way up to the bow. "She'll be well enough in a day or two."

Perched on a large coil of rope behind the bowsprit, they settled in to scan the starlit waters ahead for any sign of enemy lights or sails.

"She's lucky she wasn't burned," Alec said as another agonized cry floated up to them over the rush of the water.

Seregil said nothing, his face lost in shadow. At last he pointed up to the dark moon, just visible over the western horizon. "At least the moon's on our side tonight. Most 'faie call the dark moon Ebraha Rabds, the Traitor's Moon. Where we're headed, she's called Astha Noliena."

" 'Lucky black pearl, " Alec translated. "Why's that?" Seregil turned to give him a humorless grin. "Smuggling's a common sideline where I'm from, ever since the Edict closed Gedre as a legal port. Viresse is a long way off from landlocked Bokthersa; much simpler to head up to Gedre for the 'fishing. My uncle, Akaien i Solun, used to bring my sisters and me along with him sometimes. On nights like this we'd sail out in fishing boats with our goods hidden under the nets to meet Skalan trade ships." "I thought you told me he is a swordsmith?" "He is, but as he used to say, 'Bad laws make good rogues. " "So you're not the first nightrunner in your family after all." Seregil smiled. "I suppose not, though smuggling's practically an honorable trade here now. Gedre was a thriving trade port once, but when the Iia'sidra closed the borders she began to die. She's been slowly withering ever since—along with Akhendi—the fai'thast on the other side of the mountains. For centuries the northern trade routes were their life's blood. Klia's mission represents a great hope for them."

And for you, tali, Alec thought, sending up a silent prayer to the Four for their mutual success.