They had not been running long when Guerrand noticed he was closing the gap with Lyim. He pushed himself harder, as if it were a game, until he was nearly abreast with the other apprentice. Abruptly the incredible feeling of energy drained away, and he was seized with the very pain in his right side he'd been surprised not to feel before. His feet slowed to the last kicking, dragging steps of a marathon runner and he stopped, clutching his side. Guerrand bent over double, and the breath rushed from his lungs in great heaving gulps. Sweat popped out in beads on his forehead and between his shoulder blades. He couldn't seem to catch his breath for long minutes.

Finally, Guerrand stood, red-faced, and gave Lyim, who was similarly distressed, a questioning glance. "That's it?" he gasped. "That's all the longer the spell lasts?"

Lyim looked rueful. "I believe so, yes." Wincing, he rubbed the stitch in his own side.

"By the gods, I feel awful!" Guerrand dropped to the ground in a heap and put his head between his knees to keep from fainting.

"Urn," muttered Lyim awkwardly, "that would be because you've aged a year."

Guerrand's sweat-drenched head snapped up. "What did you say?"

Lyim scratched his temple. "The haste spell ages you by a year… because of sped-up maturation processes," he explained stiffly.

Eyes dark with anger, Guerrand looked over his shoulder to Windkeep, still visible behind them, then back to his fellow apprentice mage. "You took away a year of my life for half a league?"

"I'd never cast the haste spell before and wasn't really sure how far we'd get," Lyim explained sheepishly.

"So you thought you'd just try it out on me?"

"At least I did something," he said with a sidelong look at Guerrand. "I still think it was a good idea. I could see in your face you thought so, too, until we stopped running."

"That was before I knew the price!" Guerrand poked Lyim in the shoulder. "Don't ever cast a spell on me again without asking me first." They fell into an awkward silence, catching their breath.

After a time, Lyim withdrew a waterskin from his pack, took a pull, then handed it to Guerrand in a conciliatory gesture. "Now what?" he asked, wiping his mouth while Guerrand took a swallow.

"Now we walk to Pensdale," said Guerrand, standing. "With a little luck, we'll be there by Highmoon." He dusted off his robe. "I have no desire to make camp out here in the grasslands. There's scarcely even a tree to be seen." With that, Guerrand eased the cramps from his calves, then set off down the road again.

"Am I supposed to tell people I'm now twenty years old?" he called over his shoulder, presuming that Lyim was following.

"Tell them what you like," the other apprentice called back, following at his own pace. "Your date of birth hasn't changed. You simply feel a year older."

The muscles in Guerrand's legs throbbed. "Boy, do I ever."

As luck would have it, before long the two apprentices met up with a farmer from Hamlet who was driving his wagonload of potatoes to the port of Alsip. Stopping in Pensdale for the night, they agreed to stand guard atop his lumpy produce while he slept at an inn, in exchange for a ride to the coast in the morning.

Trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable, Lyim raked a mound of the tubers as flat as possible. "A bed of potatoes! Somehow I expected life as a mage to be a bit more luxurious." Lyim jabbed his shoulder into the mound, then frowned and sat back up.

"At least it's not dung."

Lyim tossed Guerrand a grudging glare, then gave up on the potatoes in favor of the narrow buckboard.

In the morning, the farmer and the mages continued on toward the coast. The pace atop the swaying wagon seemed agonizingly slow, yet was still faster and less tiring than walking. Lyim occupied his time sleeping, or staring vacantly over the side of the crude wagon at the passing grasslands.

Guerrand studied his meager spellbook, making notes in it with a small quill pen and clay inkpot he'd brought from Castle DiThon. He was anxious to begin addressing the deficiencies in his magical education. His penmanship was poor under the best of circumstances, so Guerrand took his time forming the letters in the teetering wagon. The naturally laborious process was slowed even further by the need to recap the inkpot after each dip of the quill to prevent ink from sloshing out.

Guerrand noted down his reflections on Lyim's haste spell. In spite of its poor performance yesterday, J can see how useful it might be in the right circumstances, he wrote. I will still ask Lyim to teach it to me, after he's had a few days to forget my angry reaction.

I think of Kirah constantly. I trust she's found my note by now, and I pray that she forgives me. It may be years before I can return to Thonvil. I wonder, did Quinn experience the same kind of homesickness when he left on crusade?

It was dusk when the landscape beyond the horses' heads sloped gently down to the blue Sirrion Sea. The small fishing port of Alsip came into view, cradled between green, grassy hills and sun-streaked azure water. The sun, sitting on the line between sea and sky, sent orange-red rays toward the heavens.

Guerrand shielded his eyes against the glare. He'd been so intent on reaching the tower at Wayreth, he hadn't spent a second looking at Alsip. Heading downhill, they rolled by the first row of houses and passed a noisy inn. Being a port town, Alsip was perhaps twice as large as his own village of Thonvil. Like the outlying buildings in Thonvil, most of the homes and shops here were built primarily of wattle and daub supported by pitch-stained beams. Flower boxes adorned every window on every level. The night was warm, and little smoke rose from the sea of chimneys surrounded by thatch. It was well past suppertime, and cookfires had likely been reduced to a minimum until the breaking of fast in the morning.

Guerrand turned his eyes toward the harbor. Numerous skiffs, small fishing boats, and even a midsized coaster bobbed in the gentle waves there. Pointing, Guerrand directed Lyim's attention to a masted ship as the wagon rattled into the unwalled village. "Looks like we may be in luck, Lyim. There's a merchant ship docked."

The farmer turned his head. "That's the one I've been hurrying to meet. Ingrid, on the Berwick line. Looks like I've made it just in time, too. I'll take you all the way down to the wharf if you like, since that's where I'm headed. I could even introduce you to the mate."

Guerrand shrank at the name of the ship. It was obvious Anton Berwick had christened it after his daughter. "We'd appreciate that," he managed to say. "Let's just hope it's headed north and looking for hands. A merchant is far more likely to be traveling as far as Palanthas. It would really slow us down to have to hop from coaster to coaster, waiting in port."

"You seem to know a lot about traveling on ships," remarked Lyim. "Were you a sailor?"

"No!" Guerrand laughed. "Let me assure you, it's newly acquired knowledge. I spent nearly two weeks on a ship getting to the tower. Before that, I was, uh, well, let's just say I nearly married into a shipping family."

Guerrand left it at that, having divulged more than he'd intended. He thought it likely that either Cormac or the Berwicks were looking for him; if they'd put up a wanted poster, he might be recognized on one of their ships. It was better that Lyim knew nothing of it and couldn't accidentally betray his identity. He thought about that for a moment.

"Perhaps you should call me Rand from now on," he said, aware that the request sounded incongruous. He needed it settled before their voices reached the ears of villagers. "My friends do."