But Wynn was caught up by Osha's words. "How could the ship be alive?" she asked.

"In… grow in…," Osha fumbled in frustration and slipped into Elvish. "Thovaret'nach."

"Enough!" Sgaile snapped at him.

Their dialect was older than the Elvish Wynn spoke, and she often struggled to comprehend it, particularly names, titles, and other rare noun-declinations from archaic root words.

"Born…," she muttered to herself. "A birth…"

The Birth-Water Deep, Chap supplied.

"Alive…," Magiere whispered. "This damned thing is alive!"

"Let's just get below," Leesil urged.

"No," she snarled. "I'm not going down into the belly of this… ship."

Leesil half-stumbled as he grabbed for Magiere's arm and pulled her toward the steps.

"Yes, it is best you all retire," Sgaile said, though he watched Magiere with guarded puzzlement. "And remain away from the stern… as you were told."

He cast a meaningful glance at Wynn.

"Chap, come on," Wynn said, heading after her companions. "Osha… I am sorry for the trouble."

A few of the crew stood about, grumbling as Wynn headed down the steps. The hkomas hissed something sharp at Sgaile, but Wynn's thoughts were elsewhere. She was worried about Magiere's reaction.

If this ship were alive-like the trees of an elven forest-and Magiere touched it with her bare skin…

Muted musical tones broke into Wynn's thoughts as her feet hit the main deck. Chap raced by, heading after Magiere and Leesil, but Wynn paused, peering at one aft stairway hatch left open.

Blurred deep notes rose out of it from somewhere below the aftcastle. They did not come from an instrument, though reedy in quality. The sound was more like a baritone voice uttering a wordless refrain. The song's cadence rolled in time to the thrum beneath Wynn's feet-or perhaps it was the song which led the rhythm.

Welstiel felt dusk approach, but his overall sense of passing time had grown hazy. He had lost count of the days and nights. He sat in the upper floor's passage throughout each day with his mind fixed upon the guttural sounds rising within the cells on the left side.

He had taken a great gamble in creating minions without carefully selecting candidates from a large population-and gambled that he might willfully dominate any who rose onto the Feral Path.

His success in both endeavors was a good sign.

He no longer needed the misguidance of the patron of his dreams.

Welcome imaginings filled his thoughts. Once he possessed the orb, something in its ancient nature would relieve him of the need to feed on the living. He could retire to Belaski's remote peninsula and never be soiled again by blood. With Bela and the shipyards of Gueshk just to the south, he would order fine clothes and possessions and spend his time in arcane study. All that remained was to relocate Magiere and drive her onward. Sooner or later, she would lead him to where the orb was hidden.

Welstiel gazed along the three iron-barred doors. His new servants stirred within, restless with aching hunger, but they no longer clawed at the doors or tore at each other. Soon they would be ready for the journey. He looked down at his pack resting between the stool and passage wall.

He had scried for Magiere's location several times since coming to this place. Her position had remained roughly the same, except for once when it had shifted a long distance, north by northeast. By his estimation, she was still within the Elven Territories. But tonight, so close to completion of his tasks here…

Sliding from the stool and kneeling, he removed the brass dish from his pack and placed it facedown on the passage floor, domed back upward. Murmuring a low chant, he drew his dagger and sliced a shallow cut in what remained of his left hand's little finger.

Magiere was still unaware of the true purpose of the bone amulet she wore around her neck. That ivory-colored piece set in a tin backing was the missing bone of Welstiel's own little finger. He was not scrying for her as much as for the piece of himself that she carried. He watched his black fluids drip once, twice, three times from the stump of his finger to collect in a tiny bulge at the center of the plate's back. A moment's focus of will would close the slight wound, but he lost that focus before he could finish.

The dark bulge of his fluids quivered upon the brass plate's dome.

It leaned, as if the plate tilted, and ran in a line away from the center, stopping short of the plate's edge.

Welstiel had learned over many years to judge Magiere's position by the length and angle the droplet traveled. She was on the move again, and traveling east too quickly to be on foot. It seemed she might now head beyond the bounds of the Elven Territories. But how? He knew of nothing in that direction and distance but the far ocean on the continent's eastern side.

Welstiel stiffened-Magiere might be traveling by sea.

He could not imagine how. To his own knowledge, no human ship had ever rounded the continent's northeast end into elven waters. He had hoped to hold out a few more nights here to drive his new creations into deeper hunger, until they were mad to feed. That time was lost. An entire range of mountains stood between him and the eastern coastline.

He had preparations to make-and he must feed his ferals one last morsel.

Welstiel cleaned the plate and dagger and tucked both away, but when he stood, he braced a hand against the wall. Lack of rest wore upon him since he had renewed his use of potions to stave off dormancy. He turned his attention upon the cell doors to the right, those of the living.

He'd been too focused on starving the others into a frenzy and driving them further over the edge. How many monks still lived? He would need more life to carry with him for the journey.

When he descended into the entry room, Chane was nowhere in sight. Welstiel wondered where his unstable companion had slept all day. Or was Chane already awake, skulking about?

Welstiel headed into the back passage, stopping to glance around the archway frame into the workroom.

"Chane?" he called out, but no answer came.

Since the first night in the monastery, when Welstiel had to cow Chane into obedience, the young undead had changed. He grew more sulking, more guarded and resentful. Sooner or later, this behavior would reach a peak.

Welstiel believed a moment would come when Chane's assistance might be more trouble than it was worth. But for now…

He had no time to go looking for the young undead, so he kept to the near wall, watching all around as he headed for a large chest. With one backward glance, he flipped it open and rummaged for two more empty bottles with tight stoppers before he returned to the upper passage. He paused long enough at his pack to retrieve the box that held his brass feeding cup and then turned to the first door on the right and pulled the wood shard from its handle.

In the cell, three monks huddled together upon the narrow bed. Welstiel stepped inside, jamming the door shut behind him.

He needed more life to carry on his journey.