"Only that the delegation could come, nothing more," Galmyn i Nemius reminded her tersely. No doubt his thoughts echoed Ulan's: "Went against you," she'd said, not "us." What is the woman doing here?

"Just fifty years ago the Skalans would have been given a flat refusal," Elos observed. "Now we agree to parley with them—and at Sarikali! That most certainly means something."

"Perhaps that the western clans are gaining influence," Ulan said. "Their interests are not necessarily compatible with our own."

"One might say the same of Lhapnos and Viresse," Galmyn i Nemius put in dryly. "Yet here I am."

"Lhapnos stands with the Haman, and the Haman stand against Bokthersa and the other border clans. There's no mystery there," Lhaar a Iriel stated bluntly.

Ulan smiled. "I enjoy plain speech among friends. Perhaps you would explain where Khatme stands?"

"In the mind of Aura, as always. The Khatme have no love for Tirfaie of any sort, but the Skalans honor Aura, under the name of Illior. Although they blaspheme by placing the Lightbearer with other gods, their wizards are descendants of our own Oreska and continue to thrive. It presents us with a great quandary, one which neither the Lightbearer nor the dragons have yet clarified to our priests."

Galmyn i Nemius arched one greying brow. "In other words, you still have a leg on either side of the stile."

The clan marks on Lhaar a Iriel's face seemed to subtly rearrange themselves as she turned to him. "That is not at all what I said, Khirnari."

The Lhapnosan's self-important smile died on his lips. For a long moment the others found it more comfortable to return their attention to the moon.

"Who can we be sure of, then?" asked Elos.

"Besides ourselves and Haman, with due respect to you, Lhaar, I think we may also depend on the Ra'basi," replied Ulan. "The Akhendi remain uncertain, but have more to gain from supporting open borders. A few others must be swayed."

"Indeed," the Lhapnosan murmured. "And who better than you to sway them?"

6 LEAVING HOME, GOING HOME

The following day was filled with final preparations for Klia's voyage. A steady stream of baggage carts and dispatch riders raised clouds of dust along the vineyard road all morning.

Alec went with Seregil and Klia down to the shipyard to inspect the three vessels anchored there. Dressed in plain riding clothes and mounted on scrub horses, they passed unnoticed through the waterfront crowds and onto a long quay where a high-prowed carrack was moored. Sailors swarmed over her like ants on a sweetmeat, wielding ropes and tools.

"This is the Zyria. She's a beauty, isn't she?" Klia said, leading them aboard. "And those two out there are our escorts, the Wolf and the Courser?

"They're huge!" Alec exclaimed.

Over a hundred feet long, each ship was easily twice as large as any he'd been on. Their aft castles rose like houses in the stern. The rudders behind were as high as an inn. Square-rigged with two masts and a bowsprit to carry the red sails, their bulwarks were lined with shields bearing the flame and crescent moon crest of Skala. These shields were bright with new paint and gilt work that did not quite hide the scars of recent battles.

The captain, a tall, white-haired man

named Farren, met them on deck wearing a naval tunic stained with pitch and salt.

"How goes the loading?" Klia asked, looking around with approval.

"Right on schedule, Commander," he replied, consulting a tally board at his belt. "The hold ramp for the horses needs a bit of work, but we'll have her ready for you by midnight."

"Each ship will carry a decuria of cavalry and their horses," Klia explained to Alec. "The soldiers will double as ship's archers if the need arises."

"Looks like you're prepared for the worst," Seregil remarked, peering into a large crate.

"What are those?" asked Alec. Inside were what looked like large pickle crocks sealed with wax.

"Benshal Fire," the captain told him. "As the name implies, it was the Plenimarans who discovered how to make it years ago. It's a nasty mix: black oil, pitch, sulfur, nitre, and the like. Launched from a ballista, it ignites on impact and sticks to whatever it hits. It burns even in water."

"I've seen it," Seregil said. "You have to use sand or vinegar to douse it."

"Or piss," added Farren. "Which is what those barrels under the aft platform are for. Nothing goes to waste in the Skalan navy. But we won't be looking for battle this time out, will we, Commander?"

Klia grinned. "We won't, but I can't vouch for the Plenimarans."

Excitement left a hollow void in Alec's belly as he and Seregil joined the others for a final supper in Skala that night. They were dressed once more as Skalan nobility and Klia arched an appreciative eyebrow. "You two look better than I do."

Seregil made her a courtly bow and sat down beside Thero. "Runcer's shown his usual foresight."

Opening their trunks the night before, they'd found the best of the garments they'd worn in Rhiminee: fine wool and velvet coats, soft linen, gleaming boots, doeskin breeches smooth as a maid's throat. Alec's coats were a bit tight through the shoulders now, but there was no time for tailoring.

"Will you be meeting the 'faie as Princess Klia or Commander Klia when we arrive in Gedre?" asked Alec, seeing that Klia was still in uniform.

"It's gowns and gloves for me once we get there, I'm afraid."

"Any news from Lord Torsin?" asked Beka, noting a stack of dispatches at Klia's elbow.

"Nothing new. Khatme and Lhapnos are as insular as ever, although he thinks he senses a hint of interest among the Haman. Silmai support is still strong. Datsia seems to be turning in our favor."

"What about the Viresse?" asked Thero.

Klia spread her hands. "Ulan i Sathil continues to hint that they and their allies in the east would just as soon trade with Plenimar as Skala."

"With the Plenimaran Overlord openly supporting the resurgence of necromancy?" Seregil shook his head. "They suffered more at the hands of the Plenimarans during the Great War than any other clan."

"The Viresse are pragmatists at heart, I fear." Klia turned to Alec. "How does it feel, knowing we set sail at dawn for the land of your ancestors?"

Alec toyed with a bit of bread. "It's hard to describe, my lady. Growing up, I didn't know I had any 'faie in me at all. It's still hard to comprehend. Besides, my mother was Hazadrielfaie. Any Aurenfaie I meet in the south will be distant relatives at best. I don't even know what clans my people came from."

"Perhaps the rhui'auros could divine something of your lineage," suggested Thero. "Couldn't they, Seregil?"

"It's worth looking into," Seregil replied with no great enthusiasm.

"Who are they?" asked Alec.

Thero shot Seregil a look of pure disbelief. "You never told him of, the rhui'auros?"

"Apparently not. I was only a child when I left, so I hadn't had much to do with them."

Alec tensed, wondering if anyone else noticed the edge of anger in his friend's voice. Here were more secrets.

"By the Light, they're the—the—" Thero waved a hand, at a loss for words and too caught up in his own enthusiasm to notice the cool reception he was getting from the one person among them who might have direct knowledge. "They stand at the very source of magic! Nysander and Magyana both spoke of them with reverence, Alec, a sect of wizard priests who live at Sarikali. The rhui'auros are similar to the oracles of Illior, aren't they, Seregil?"

"Mad, you mean?" Seregil looked down at the food he was not eating. "I'd say that's a fair assessment."

"What if they tell me I'm related to one of the unfriendly clans?" Alec asked, trying to draw Thero's attention.