A few moons past, Wynn would have been shocked at the prospect of sleeping in the belly of a living ship with an anmaglahk just beyond arm's reach. But she closed her eyes, feeling safe, and quickly drifted off.

Sgaile awoke the following dawn, dreading every step to come. He breathed in the fresh air, trying to center himself, but the name the ancestors had given Leshil was always in his thoughts.

Leshiarelaohk-Sorrow-Tear's Champion.

A half-blood had been recognized as a full an'Croan. But even such an honor from the ancestors did not justify what Brot'an'duive asked-no, insisted upon.

Only Anmaglahk and clan elders went to the hidden place of the Chein'as-the Burning Ones.

Sgaile's own grandfather, Gleanneohkan'thva, had once gone to them, but only in the company of Brot'an'duive.

Leshil stirred in the bedroll he shared with Magiere and gently gripped her shoulder. Chap remained curled up at their feet.

Sgaile got up and looked about, wandering a short distance from their camp. Years had passed since his last journey through the southern coastal region of his people, but he had always appreciated the terrain. Coarser than the inlands, this place held its own beauty.

Once beyond the shoreline trees, the granite shelves of the foothills climbed like behemoth steps toward the mountains. Their deep shade of blue-gray was dotted with stands of evergreens and patched dusky moss. The occasional firs or aspens grew at subtle angles from sea winds. The forest here was not as thick and varied as in the heart of his homeland. With a vast sky overhead, he could see for leagues, until he looked upslope to those stepped foothills. Thankfully, they would not go as far as the peaks. With his back to the camp, Sgaile fished into his tunic's front and pulled out what Brot'an'duive had forced on him.

A lump of basalt, worn smooth by river water.

He turned it in his palm, studying its hand-etched patterns and swirls, and not one mark repeated. Between the tangled lines were dots and independent strokes, but he had no idea what the markings meant, and the Greimasg'ah's instructions for its use did not yet make sense.

"Breakfast?" Leshil called from the dead campfire. "Or should we travel a ways first?"

Magiere was already reaching for her hauberk and sword. Chap stood up, yawned widely, and stretched all his limbs, one by one.

Sgaile sighed, tucked away the stone, and returned to his charges. Another unpleasant task awaited before they could move on.

"What's wrong?" Magiere asked.

Sgaile found her watching him suspiciously. He went to his pack and retrieved two long strips of black cloth and unbound the rope tied to the pack.

"Another requirement… one you will not like."

Magiere tensed, and Leshil's eyes fixed on the rope.

A direct approach, clean and quick, was best with Magiere. Sgaile held up the strips of cloth.

"We did not travel far before making camp. Our true journey begins today, but only if you adhere to what I require. The place we seek is a guarded secret, known only to some elders of the aruin'nas and the an'Croan… and those who have proven themselves among the Anmaglahk. I cannot allow you to know its location."

"What are you talking about?" Leshil asked.

"You must wear blindfolds," Sgaile answered. "All of the way, both in and out. You will swear on your honor not to remove them… or I will not take you another step."

Magiere snorted, black hair loose around her pale face and hard eyes.

"This just keeps getting better," she muttered. "You think we'd ever agree to this?"

Chap crept in without a sound.

As Sgaile looked into the eyes of this strange majay-hi from the outside world, he felt even more uncertain than when the dog had faced him down in the skiff. More than once, Chap had demonstrated ways to communicate his expectations. But would the majay-hi now support him in gaining what he needed from Magiere and Leshil?

Sgaile had no wish to defy one so deeply touched with the element of Spirit.

"You will have a guideline," Sgaile said to Leshil, holding up the rope. "The going will be slow, but it will be your loss if I am forced to turn back. So choose now if you will trust me once more, as you did outside my home enclave, when you relinquished your weapons."

"Yes, and that turned out so well!" Magiere snapped. "We were nearly attacked by your clan."

"I protected you then," Sgaile said calmly. "I will protect you now. This journey is for Leshil, and if he agrees, you will abide by it as well. Or we turn back."

Magiere faltered and glanced at Leshil.

Sgaile knew that on some level, in spite of her volatile fits, Magiere could bring herself to trust him. She had done so before.

Leshil had not donned his hauberk yet, and the wind rippled his over-worn shirt. He stood looking from Magiere to Sgaile in doubt, until Chap circled around behind Sgaile.

The majay-hi released a low rumble ending in a snort. He lifted his muzzle and huffed once at Leshil.

Leshil inhaled. "All right… but we'll need walking staves as well."

He reached out and took the blindfolds. Magiere turned away, hands on her hips, but offered no refusal.

Sgaile swallowed hard and glanced down at Chap. The majay-hi wrinkled his nose.

"I must speak to him as well… alone," Sgaile added.

"To Chap?" Leshil asked. "What about?"

"I understood his agreement," Sgaile answered. "I have learned that much in our time together, as well as how much he understands… and that he has his own reasons in all things."

Magiere looked over her shoulder, though she said nothing concerning this open admission that Sgaile was aware of Chap's unique nature. Leshil simply turned away to gather blankets and bedrolls.

Sgaile stepped off toward a cluster of pines and motioned Chap to follow. He dropped to one knee, his back to the camp, and waited as Chap circled around to face him.

"Hear me," Sgaile whispered. "Your kind… or those who at least share your form… have guarded my people as far back as any can remember. On their blood, you will swear.

"Reveal nothing of the path we take-or what you learn-to anyone. The place we seek must remain hidden and guarded. I take Leshil this way because I gave my word to do so, but I do not know why we are here. If you would have him continue, as you seem to wish, then do not hinder me in this. Swear to me."

Chap shifted his weight, glancing around Sgaile toward his companions. When his eyes turned back on Sgaile, his jowls quivered slightly-almost a snarl but not quite. Finally, he blinked and huffed once.

Sgaile had witnessed this enough times to know what it meant, and he sighed in relief.

"My thanks."

He stood up, looking upslope through the granite shelf foothills. He focused upon the shortest peak and barely made out its sheared and ragged top-the mouth of an old volcanic vent at its crest. From any farther distance, it looked no different from the others.

Chap had already returned to camp by the time Sgaile walked back.

Chane lost track of the passing nights. They trudged east through the Crown Range, into valleys and gorges, and up through saddles and passes between the high peaks, one after another. They paused only when the sky lightened ahead, quickly setting up camp and crawling into their protective tents to fall dormant. They rose each dusk to move on, over and over again.

The five remaining ferals were weakened with starvation. Chane fed them tea every few nights, and less often, Welstiel rationed out small spoonfuls of life force hoarded in his brown glass bottles. And then the terrain began to change.

The sight of dried, bent trees became more common, as well as open ground between the patches of snow. Clumps of grass and weeds and thickets soon filled the landscape, until the monotony of frozen earth and broken rock was almost forgotten.