She gripped the rail, willing those thoughts away. She had work to do, work that for at least a little while was sending her back to those she loved best.

Two Gulls was barely large enough to merit the title of village. One poor inn, a ramshackle temple, and a dicer's throw of shacks clustered around a little dent of a harbor. Micum Cavish had spent a lifetime passing through such places, wandering on his own or on Watcher business with Seregil.

These past few years he'd stuck close to home, nursing his bad leg and watching his children grow. He'd enjoyed it, too, much to his wife's delight, but this journey had reminded him just how much he missed the open road. It was good to find out that he still knew instinctively where to show gold and where to guard his purse.

Five days earlier a mud-spattered messenger had ridden into the courtyard at Watermead, bearing news that the queen required his service and that of Seregil and Alec. It fell to him to talk his friends out of their self-imposed exile. The best news, however, had been that his eldest girl, Beka, was alive, whole, and on her way home from the war to act as his escort.

Within the hour, he was on the road with a sword at his side and pack on his back, heading for a village he'd never heard of until that day.

Just like old times.

Sitting here now on a bench in front of the nameless inn, hat brim

pulled down over his eyes, he considered the task ahead. Alec would listen to reason, but a whole troop of soldiers wouldn't be enough if Seregil dug his heels in.

"Sir, sir!" a reedy voice called. "Wake up, sir. Your ship's coming in!"

Micum pushed his hat back and watched with amusement as his excitable lookout, a lad of ten, came scampering up the muddy street. It was the third such announcement of the day.

"Are you sure it's the right one this time?" he asked, then winced as he stood. Even after a day's rest, the scarred muscles behind his right thigh ached more than he cared to admit. The wounds left on a man by a dyrmagnos went deep, even after the flesh healed.

"Look, sir. You can see the banner," the boy insisted. "Crossed swords under a crown on a green field, just like you said. There's Queen's Horse Guard aboard, all right."

Micum squinted out across the cove. A few years back, he wouldn't have had to.

Damn, I'm getting old!

The boy was right this time, though. Taking up his walking stick, Micum followed him down to the shore.

The ship dropped anchor in deep water and longboats were lowered. A small crowd had gathered already, chatting excitedly as they watched the soldiers row in.

Micum grinned again as he caught sight of a redheaded officer standing in the prow of the lead boat. Old eyes or not, he knew his Beka when he saw her. She spotted him, too, and let out a happy whoop that echoed across the water.

At a distance, it was easy to see the girl she'd been when she'd left home to join the regiment, all long legs and enthusiasm. From here, she looked too slight to bear the weight of chain mail and weapons, but he knew better. Beka had never been frail.

As the longboat drew closer, however, the illusion dissolved. A mix of authority and ease emanated from her as she shared some joke with a tall rider standing just behind her.

She has what she always wanted, he thought with a rush of bittersweet pride. Just shy of twenty-two, she was a battle-scarred officer in one of Skala's finest regiments, and one of the queen's most daring raiders.

It hadn't given her airs, it seemed. She was out of the boat before it ground up on the shingle.

"By the Flame, it's good to see you again!" she cried, throwing her arms around him, and for a moment it seemed that she wasn't going to let go. When she did finally step back, her eyes were bright

with unshed tears. "How are Mother and the children? Is Watermead just the same?»

"We're all just as you left us. I have letters for you. Illia's is four pages long," he said, noting new scars on her hands and arms. Freckles still peppered her face, but two years of hard fighting had sharpened her features, stripping away the last vestiges of childhood. "Captain is it?" he said, pointing at the new gorget.

"In name, at least. They gave me Wolf Squadron, then sent me and my turma home. You remember Sergeant Rhylin, don't you?"

"I always remember people who save my life," Micum said, shaking hands with the tall man.

"As I recall, it was as much the other way 'round," Rhylin replied. "You took on that dyrmagnos creature after Alec shot her. I don't think any of us would be standing here if you hadn't."

The comments drew curious stares from the bystanders and Micum quickly changed the subject.

"I only count one decuria here. Where are the other two?" he asked, waving a hand at the ten riders who'd come ashore with them. He recognized Corporal Nikides and a few of the other men and women, but most were strangers, and young.

"The rest sailed with Klia. We'll meet up with them later on," Beka told him. "This lot should be enough to get us safely where we need to go."

She glanced up at the afternoon sky, frowning slightly. "It'll take a while to ferry our horses in but I'd like to cover some ground before nightfall. Can we get a hot meal in this place before we go? One that doesn't include salted pork or dried cod?"

"I've had a word with the innkeeper," he replied, giving her a wink. "I think he can come up with dried pork or salted cod."

"So long as it's a change," Beka said, grinning. "How long will it take us to reach them?"

"Four days. Maybe three if this good weather holds."

Another look of impatience creased Beka's brow. "Three would be better." With a last restless glance at the ship, she followed him up to the inn.

"Whatever happened to that young man you wrote us of last year?" Micum asked. "That lieutenant what's-his-name? Your mother's beginning to get notions about him."

"Markis?" Beka shrugged, not looking at him. "He died."

Just like that? Micum thought sadly, sensing there was more to the story. Ah, well, war was a harsh business.

The weather held fair, but the roads grew worse the further north they went. By the second day, their horses were sinking to the fetlocks as they plodded along what passed for roads in this stretch of wilderness.

Easing his bad leg against the mud-caked stirrup, Micum scanned the jagged peaks in the distance and thought wistfully of home. Little Illia, just turned nine, had been picking daffodils in the pasture below the house the day Micum left. Here, in the shadow of the Nimra mountains, snow still lingered in dirty drifts beneath the pines.

Beka still hadn't explained the exact reason for their journey, and Micum respected her silence. They rode hard, making use of the lengthening days. At night, she and the others recounted battles, raids, and comrades lost. Lieutenant Markis was not mentioned around the campfire, so Micum made it his business to get Sergeant Rhylin aside one morning when they'd halted to water the horses.

"Ah, Markis." Rhylin glanced around, making certain Beka was out of earshot. "They were lovers all right, when they found the time. Cut from the same cloth, too, but his luck ran out last autumn. His turma ran into an ambush. Those who weren't killed in the fight were tortured to death." Rhylin's eyes got a pinched, distant look, as if he were squinting into harsh light. "A lot's made of what they do to our woman soldiers, but I tell you, Sir Micum, the men fare just as badly. We found the remains—Markis hadn't been among the lucky, if you take my meaning. The captain didn't speak for two days after that, didn't eat or sleep. It was Sergeant Mercalle who finally brought her out of it. Mercalle's buried more than her share of kin over the years, so I guess she knew what to say. Beka's been fine since, but she never speaks of him."