"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.