Acknowledgments

Thanks to Tamara Meatzie, Rebecca Mintz, and Patricia Rice for their generous help in proofing and smoothing, and to Pati Nagle for the cover art.

Table of Contents

Other YA Books by Sherwood Smith..............................Ü1

Acknowledgments.............................................................iv

One........................................................................................1

Two......................................................................................13

Three....................................................................................28

Four.....................................................................................34

Five......................................................................................44

Six........................................................................................59

Seven...................................................................................69

Eight....................................................................................82

Nine.....................................................................................97

Ten.....................................................................................107

Eleven................................................................................120

Twelve...............................................................................142

Thirteen.............................................................................159

Fourteen............................................................................175

Fifteen...............................................................................190

Sixteen...............................................................................202

Seventeen..........................................................................220

Eighteen............................................................................232

Nineteen...........................................................................243

Twenty..............................................................................254

Twenty-One.....................................................................273

Twenty-Two.....................................................................284

Twenty-Three...................................................................296

Twenty-Four....................................................................308

Twenty-Five.....................................................................323

Twenty-Six.......................................................................339

T wenty-Seven..................................................................351

Twenty-Eight...................................................................367

Twenty-Nine....................................................................381

Chapter Thirty.................................................................398

Book View Cafe eBooks..................................................400

More books by Sherwood Smith...................................401

One

Wren peered out the open window of her room at Cantirmoor's Magic School. The sun shone on tree branches sprouting fuzzy green buds. Birdsong carried on the breeze that smelled like new grass and turned soil . . . so what was wrong?

Of course! She was too warm. _

Laughing, she pulled off the heavy woolen winter tunic she'd just put on out of habit, and reached in her storage chest for her light cotton summer tunic, folded away so many long months ago.

But where were her sandals? Ah. Hiding behind a pile of books of historical plays that she'd been meaning to take back to the palace archive, but it had always been too snowy, too sleety, too cold.

She sighed, and began to pick up the books. May as well haul them all back now, and get it done. She'd have to clean her room out anyway, for this spring she was expected to write up her journeymage project, petition the Magic Council through Master Halfrid, and then get to work. In addition to her other studies. And helping at the School. And sometime, in the next year or two or three, she'd complete the project, present it to the Magic Council, and hope to be awarded the white tunic and blue sash of a true mage. A mage. Mistress Wren.

She laughed again, this time at the idea of herself in a white tunic presiding pompously over a lot of anxious boys and girls. It felt too much like play acting. Well, that day lay somewhere in the hazy future.

Maybe by then she'd be used to the idea.

She scouted under the bed and the desk, behind her storage chest, on her shelf. Sure enough, three small books turned up.

Now the pile nearly reached her chin. You borrow two, then three, then one, then another two, and suddenly you find you have almost twenty books that don't belong to you, and have to be lugged back.

"Sooner done, sooner over with," she muttered, backing out her door.

"What?"

She whirled around, almost dropping the books onto the toes of a tall foxy faced fellow with long, unruly brown hair. "Tyron!"

"You were expecting maybe Andreus?"

"If I were expecting a social call from a wicked king, I would have worn my silk gown." Wren simpered. "With armor over it," she added, pretending to curtsey. Though she nearly dropped the books.

Tyron smiled, turning a thumb to her stack. "What've you got there? Magic texts for your journeymage project?"

"Is that a hint for me to get busy? Actually they are plays. Going back to the palace, since I'm due to visit Tess anyway."

A couple of magic students passing by gave Wren covert glances. She pretended not to notice. Nobody but she called the new young queen 'Tess.' Wren, having spent years with Teressa in an orphanage when the then-princess was in hiding, couldn't think of her as anything else.

Tyron waved a hand. "Go visit Teressa. Get rid of your books. I wasn't dropping any hints. You told me as soon as the first fine spring weather came you'd get started researching for your petition. I'm here to find out if you mean it, or if I can get you to teach the basic illusions class."

"Of course I'll help," Wren said, hiding an inward sigh. It was beginning to look like this year would be like last, but how could she complain?

The Magic School was mostly repaired from the destruction caused by Lirwani warriors the winter before last. Masters had been either promoted, like Tyron, or else hired from a distant school to replace the ones killed during the war. But the Magic School was still short two positions — and Master Halfrid, who was the head of the school as well as the Queen's Mage, had been going off on extended trips to see to some sort of Magic Council business. Everyone therefore had extra duties to keep the school running more or less smoothly.

Tyron gave Wren a rueful look. "Just today and tomorrow. Fliss was the only person we had to send north on an errand, and she'll be gone two days." He shook his head. "You've been great at helping out with the beginners, but Halfrid really wants you to have some time to think about your journeymage project. Now, get to the palace before your arms fall off."

Wren was glad to comply. Her arms already ached.

Before she'd gotten ten steps outside the vine-covered archway leading to the palace road, one of the younger students popped round the corner, almost ran into her, and backed hastily away.

"Oh, sorry, Mistress Wren."

"Just Wren. Out here." Mistress Wren. She knew it was just an honorary sort of title—given by the younger students to senior mage students who helped teach classes — but it made her feel uncomfortable, like she was pretending to be something she wasn't.

Especially as the boy's round brown eyes looked so, well, respectful. Wren felt . . . old. She'd always been the youngest, but now she wasn't any more. The school was full of boys and girls much younger. How had that happened without her noticing?

"Do you want some help with those?" the boy asked shyly. Tam, that was his name.

"I'm going to the palace."

Tam smiled. "I know. Your weekly meeting with the queen. Everyone knows that. It's on my way. More or less." He reached for the top four or five books, and her burden eased just a bit.

"So, how do you like Basics?" she asked, feeling obliged to say something to her helper as they walked along the sunlit road toward the city gates.

Tam wrinkled his nose. "Boring. But I sure do like illusions class. Especially when you teach it," he added in a rush. "We all think so."

Wren laughed. "Flattery will not get you through your Basics Test. I'm not a Master Mage!"

"But you are a good teacher," Tam said earnestly. "You're funny. You make us laugh, so it's never boring, but somehow we learn a lot."

"Tam!"

Two more brown-clad students ran up, both wearing spring sandals. The tall one, a boy, greeted them, then said, "Aren't you going to the pastry-shop, Tam?"

"Stopping at the palace first. Just to help Mistress Wren with these books," Tam explained, brandishing his share of the burden.

"Just Wren outside the class," Wren muttered.

"We'll help too," the girl said, digging an elbow into her companion's side.

The two each took a few books off Wren's stack, leaving her with only four.

The girl said, "We were going to get pastries, to celebrate the nice weather. We would invite you along, Mistress Wren, but—"

"You have to meet the queen," the tall boy put in. "We all know that.''

Wren began to say "Just Wren!" but then she shrugged. They were too used to classroom politeness, that was all.

As they passed up the Royal Road and through the city gates, the younger students began chattering happily about the prospects of spring, and who was taking their Basics test soon, and wondering what kinds of questions might be asked. Wren was reminded of her own classmates, when she first came to the school.

Spring bloomed delightfully everywhere, filling the air with the scents of new growth. Windows in the living areas above the shops were unshuttered, letting in fresh air for the first time in months. Some people put newly-washed quilts over the sills to dry in the sun, others were busy setting out flower boxes carefully nurtured through the snowy season.

They passed a bakery. Tam veered a couple of steps, as though drawn in by magic spell toward the

compelling aroma of baking cinnamon buns. Wren smothered a laugh, just as horns sounded, faint but clear, from somewhere beyond the buildings: horns!

Those were the horns of outriders playing a fast, challenging chord. Moments later, the palace bells rang the quick Alert at your station signal. People stopped, listened, then some scurried inside their houses and slammed doors and windows. Others hastened on, ducking inside shops.

Tam whirled around and peered anxiously down the cobbled Royal Road toward the city gates, where sentries' outlines could be made out against the clear morning sky. They too had gone still.

"Those are not Lirwanis," Wren said, trying to sound calm. "They didn't blow their horns quite like that. Their horns blatted more. Like this." She put up her free hand, held her nose, and squawked a parody of the war horns blown by the invaders two winters before.

"That's right, you were in the middle of the war," the tall boy said. "Did you really—"

"I don't want to hear any horrible war stories," the girl interrupted, her voice sharp. "I heard enough from my mother."

"But those of us who got hidden away safely, well, we have to remember, we have to be ready, that's what I keep hearing," Tam retorted.

The girl paled, then she glared at Tam, her lips parting—

To prevent an argument from starting, Wren said, "How about a funny war story?" And when three faces turned her way, she resumed her brisk pace, heading up an alleyway that was a shortcut to the palace. "Would you like to hear how I managed to get myself kicked by my own shoes?"

"It was the protection spells," the tall boy exclaimed. "Wasn't it? That Master Tyron laid over the school, before the Lirwanis came and tried to destroy it?"

"Tyron and Laris," Wren said, her chest hurting. Never forget Laris. "Well, Tyron had gotten most of the spells undone before I arrived back at Cantirmoor, and don't think it wasn't a whole lot more work than it had been to place the spells!"

The girl nodded soberly. "If you didn't note down where you laid the spells, you have to find them."

"And if they overlap — "

"And if you get attacked — "

Wren nodded at each speaker, then said, "So Tyron and Laris didn't get to all the dormitory rooms. At that time Fliss and I were sharing, you see. Tyron was so busy he tried to check the rooms of his friends when they arrived. So I arrived back, tired. All I wanted was to fall into bed and sleep for a year, so I didn't stop at Tyron's rooms first. So I open the door. Tyron yells

Wait! But it's too late. Shoe attack! Not just my shoes but Fliss's hurled themselves at my head, and began thumping me good!"

All three laughed, though the girl looked back with a quick, tense movement when the horns sounded again, this time much closer.

"I was howling and dancing around, and Tyron couldn't release the spell because he was laughing too hard. When he finally managed, and it seemed to take forever, did I smart! When people count up war wounds, I have to admit the worst of mine came from my own shoes."

Wren and her companions rounded a corner, reaching the Royal Road again. They were very close to the palace now, walking swiftly past the fine stone homes with tall windows, trees and small gardens in front, that belonged to wealthy citizens. The thundering clatter of horse hooves could just be made out above the thinning of city traffic, and a pall of yellow-tan dust hung in the air over the city gates. All the pie-sellers and carters and children and dogs dashed madly right and left to get out of the way lest they be trampled.

"If we hurry, we can get through the palace gates first," Wren said. "I wonder who that is? How arrogant, galloping smack through the city, right when market-traffic is the worst."

Even Garian Rhismordith, Teressa's cousin and now the foremost noble of court, no longer did that kind of thing. Already Wren hated the newcomer. She and her companions sped up until they were skipping, the books jiggling in their arms; Wren might be short and round, but she was a fast walker when she was determined.

Still, the fastest walker in the world is not going to outrun a galloping horse. The drum of hooves on flagstones and the newcomers' horns blasting sent Wren's group scrambling onto the grassy verge just before they reached the palace's arched gateway.

Wren whirled around, glaring up at the leading rider. Then her jaw dropped. She recognized that tall young man, the broad shoulders, the long gleaming black hair falling loose to blend into the shadows of a fine black woolen riding cloak.

"That's Hawk!"

She wasn't aware that she'd spoken until he raised a gloved hand and the entire cavalcade came to a spectacularly dashing halt, horses shuddering and tossing heads, hooves striking sparks on the cobblestones, outriders with their banners snapping in the breeze.

Hawk slung his cloak back over one shoulder, revealing a splendid riding tunic of gold-embroidered black, and narrow black trousers instead of the loose ones she was used to seeing on the fellows around her. His riding boots were black and glossy.

He leaned back against the saddle cantle, looking down at Wren with lazy eyes and a mocking smile. "Ah, it's the stripe-haired magic prentice. With a trail of goslings." He flicked his fingers dismissively at the students.

"These geese can bite," Wren stated. "If you don't believe me, climb down and watch."

Hawk's mocking smile deepened at the corners, his followers laughed, and Tam flushed, but he looked too afraid to speak. The girl's lips were moving. Practicing spells, Wren thought in approval.

Hawk ignored them. "From what I hear, Cantirmoor's been boring this past year," he went on. "Aren't you glad to see me? You know things are never dull when I show up."

Wren scowled. "If you're here to make trouble for Tess, you'll wish things were dull," she stated.

Hawk laughed. "Still hot at hand, I see." Surprisingly, his tone was not at all cruel, it was more teasing. His slanted brows quirked even more at the ends, and he said, now laying his gauntleted hand over his heart, "But I am not here to make trouble. Far from it! I am here on a mission of peace, good will, and maybe even romance."

Wren pruned her mouth. "Romance? Euw! What do you mean—" Then she realized, and gasped. "You can't! You wouldn't!''

Hawk's laughter was as mocking as his smile. "But yes, my unromantic young mage. I am here in my legitimate position as heir to the Rhiscarlan coronet, to court your Queen Teressa."

Two

Hawk raised his fist. He and his honor guard galloped through the gate, leaving Wren to wave uselessly at their choking dust. She sent a glare after them, then thrust her books at Tam. "Would you take these to the archive for me? I've got to warn the queen."

"Sure, but—" Tam began.

"Thanks!"

She bustled through the gates, cutting sideways through the garden to a secret entrance.

Wren knew that Teressa would be waiting in her private parlor. The girls had long ago explored the many passages in the palace. So even though Hawk was on horseback, he had several layers of servants to get through whereas Wren could go straight in, and take a shortcut to the parlor.

She burst out of the secret passage, dashed down the hallway in the royal residence wing, and flung open the door to Teressa's private sitting room, which overlooked a garden full of blue and white and yellow spring blossoms.

"Phew!" Wren exclaimed. "You're here!"

"Wren." Teressa smiled a welcome. "I just arrived." Teressa came forward, the light from the window accentuating her strong features dominated by a cleft chin, her elbow-length brown hair gleaming with red and gold highlights. "You did not have to hurry. The bells haven't even rung yet."

"Oh yes I did," Wren stated grimly, flinging herself into the old-fashioned cushioned chair nearest Teressa. "You're about to get hit with a real stinker of a visitor

— unless, of course, you'd like me to send him right home again. I'd be glad to do it, too."

"I take it I have a visitor you don't approve of?" Teressa sank down, and smoothed her yellow polished-cotton skirts. Her gown was bare of embellishments except for bodice laces made of green silk.

"It's not one of your annoying relatives." Wren pinched her nose. "Well, on the other hand, I guess he is, if you go far enough back. Anyway it's that disgusting pickle-nose Hawk Rhiscarlan."

To Wren's surprise, Teressa just laughed. "Pickle-nose! Did he really turn that ugly?"

"He was always ugly," Wren retorted, even if it wasn't exactly true. "And as far as I'm concerned, he can go on being ugly somewhere else."

"But if I send him away without finding out what he wants, won't it just make him into an angry pickle-nose?" Teressa responded, pulling the long silken cord hanging by the door. Downstairs the servants would know Wren had arrived, and soon there'd be good, creamy hot chocolate to drink. "Angry pickle-noses prowling my southern border might not be good for the kingdom."

"I can tell you what he wants." Wren made a sick face. "Now, get ready to laugh! Either that, or a nasty stomach ache. That is, if he wasn't just lying. He says he's here to court you."

Wren paused, expecting laughter—at least disbelief.

Teressa just smiled and shook her head.

Wren gasped. "Teressa. You knew."

"He wrote me just after New Year's. A letter full of impertinence, of course, in his usual style, and at first I was quite ready to pitch it in the fire," Teressa admitted, as a servant opened the door and carried in a fine-carved tray with all the chocolate things on it. "Thanks, Mira."

When she and Wren were alone again, Teressa poured out two cups of gently steaming chocolate.

"But I got to thinking. What would happen if I could make friends with him? Maybe even win him to an alliance? Surely that would be far better than having him angry and possibly scheming behind my back."

"He'll be doing that anyway, whether he's here or somewhere else," Wren stated. "You know you can't trust him. He even hinted as much himself, at the end

of the war, there. He'll do what he wants when he wants, and too bad for the rest of us."

Teressa lifted her cup but did not sip. Instead, she gazed out the window at the fluffy clouds drifting across the sky. Presently she said, "I'm not so sure about that."

Wren gave a big gusty sigh. "Tess. This is Hawk. Who tried to kill Connor and me. Who nearly killed Tyron. Who tried to capture you, and hold you for ransom against the highest bidder—which could have been Angleworm Andreus, for all he cared!"

"But that was before he really met any of us," Teressa said. "You have to admit he could have done any or all of those things during the war, and didn't."

"That's because he'd squabbled with his former pal Andreus, and it wouldn't have gained him anything." Wren crossed her arms. "Tess, he's nasty, mean, untrustworthy, and the thought of you even pretending to let him court you makes my stomach feel like a thousand snails are rumbling around in there."

Teressa shuddered, then drank some her chocolate, as if to get rid of Wren's too-vivid image. Then she bent toward Wren, smiling a little. "Don't tell me you can't look at him and admit he's quite attractive."

Wren snapped upright, nearly spilling her still full cup. She crashed it down onto its saucer. "Ugh! You can't mean to say you find that nasty toadwart handsome?''

Teressa put her cup down. "But he is."

Wren got up and stomped around the room, trying to find words to express her disgust. "Handsome!" She waved her arms. "And so's the scarlet snake whose bite is so poisonous you're dead before you drop to the ground, or those dragons of old, who were supposed to be very handsome indeed, and I'll bet everyone admired their pretty scales ever so much before they got blasted into ash." She wiggled her fingers to pantomime ash falling to the ground.

"Wren," Teressa said in a quiet voice. "Do you really believe that just because I like someone's looks I'd lose my brains over him?"

"Why not?" Wren exclaimed, thumping a hand on the back of her chair. "You and I laughed over so many of those court geese doing just that, before the war. Male or female, they take one look at a pretty face, and their wits flap right out the window."

"But we're not talking about court, Wren." Teressa's smile was gone, though her voice stayed gentle. "Do you really believe that I, Teressa, with the responsibilities I have now, and my parents not two years dead, would really lose my head at the first sight of a handsome face?"

Wren felt danger tingling in her palms. She stood at the window and looked back at Teressa, and saw for the first time that her old friend really wasn't a girl any more. Her once-rounded cheeks had flattened, her cleft chin jutted, reminding Wren of King Verne, her brow was high and her eyes direct. She was a young woman, not a girl, and though they'd been friends for all these years, Wren had somehow managed not to notice the change.

She didn't tell me, Wren thought. She knew about Hawk months ago and didn't tell me.

And now they were on the verge of their very first argument. Ever.

So Wren said, "Of course I don't. It's just that I don't trust Hawk Rhiscarlan. Annnnd . . . I guess maybe sometimes I exaggerate, just a little, when I worry." She held up her forefinger and thumb with about a hair's breadth space between them.

Teressa's smile returned, but it was pensive, rather than genuine. "He's likely to only stay a season, and I plan to find out a lot more from him than he does from me," she said.

He's probably down there in the stable bragging the same thing to his cronies, Wren thought, but she didn't say it.

For the first time she couldn't say what she wanted to her old friend. She no longer felt like one girl with another girl, but like a girl with a young woman—a queen.

Wren tried to smile. "You'll be getting a summons that he's here any moment. And Tyron asked if I'd teach the basic illusions class while Fliss is gone. I guess I'd better get back and prepare for it." And after

that, get busy with my journeymage project. Better to shiver underground translating old glyphs than ...

She slipped out the door, leaving Teressa staring down at Wren's untouched cup of chocolate.

oOo

Tyron saw a flicker of movement outside the window of the classroom. He moved closer. There was a familiar short, round figure in a brown tunic toiling up the pathway, long yellow-streaked brown braids swinging, her brow furrowed, her blue eyes narrowed in a way he hadn't seen for at least a year.

Tyron frowned. Wren, angry? Good-natured, ever-joking Wren, who was supposed to be up at the palace now?

Uh oh.

"Did I say it wrong?"

Tyron blinked at his four staring students, their practice books open, pens sharp, ink ready for dipping.

"Let's have that spell again," he said.

The four chanted obediently, "The spell for cleaning

water binds to the container. We begin with the

summons-spell for all particles hidden and unhidden . . //

Tyron waited impatiently until they were done with the long process for making cleaning-buckets for dishes and clothing, then said quickly, "Your assignment now is to look in the archives and find three different spells

for cleaning the water in streams, perform them, and next class report on which is most effective, which is least effective, and why."

He resisted the impulse to dash out the door ahead of them, and made himself wait until they were gone. He wore the white tunic of a master, and masters didn't dash around yelling wildly, not without good cause. Especially these days, when so many still woke up having nightmares about the Lirwani attack.

When the last student vanished around the corner he dashed off in the other direction, straight to the dormitories for the senior students.

Wren's door was closed. She almost always left it open whether she was there or not. Tyron hesitated, then knocked lightly.

After a long moment the door cracked opened and one light blue eye peered out.

Then Wren sighed and opened the door the rest of the way. "You may's well come on in, though how you nosed it out so fast—"

"Nosed what out?" he interrupted.

"Teressa didn't send you some kind of message?"

Tyron didn't miss that rare use of Teressa's full name. "I saw you running past my window. You're supposed to be at the palace."

Wren flopped down on her bed, leaving the chair for Tyron.

He lifted a couple books and papers from it and sat down. "What happened?"

Wren groaned. "It's that disgusting skunk of a Hawk."

"Oh. He's here, is he?"

Wren sat up, her eyes wide. "You knew, too? Nobody told me!" She added grimly, "I suppose everyone in the entire city knows?"

"They probably will by tonight. Anyone who cares to." Tyron lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "But until today, only Teressa and Halfrid and I knew. She showed us a letter from Hawk right after New Year's. We talked about it. What happened to upset you?"

"I tried to talk her into letting me send him right back to whatever stenchiferous lair he lurks in," Wren said. "I brought up good reasons — like him having tried to kill three of us, and kidnap her—but all she said was, 'He's handsome.'" Wren grimaced, then rubbed her eyes. "Well, no, that's not quite fair. But she had all these stupid reasons to let him court her. And she did say he's handsome. When people say that, it just means trouble."

Tyron scratched his head and looked out Wren's window to where a couple of skylarks chased across the sky as he considered his own response.

"What is it?" Wren eyed him suspiciously. "You're holding something back."

"Am I?"

Wren's grin was lopsided. "When we were younger you used to turn into a big old knot of arms and legs when you knew something awful and couldn't tell anyone. Now you just do that with your hair until it sticks out like a fright wig for the theatre player clowns." She mimed running her hands through her hair.

Tyron put his hands down. "I think Teressa and Hawk are playing high politics now. Testing one another."

"That means they aren't going to follow the same rules regular people do?" Wren asked. "And why not? Things like honesty and trust work well enough for those of us not wearing crowns. Maybe if more kings tried these same rules, there wouldn't be so many wars."

"You would accuse King Verne of dishonesty and untrustworthiness?"

Wren's face was always a good mirror to her thoughts. Tyron could see her thinking back to the days when Teressa's father had ruled. He'd been regarded as a wise, compassionate, and honest king.

And in one night the Lirwanis had smashed everything he'd worked so hard to achieve.

"No, I guess sometimes that's not enough," Wren said reluctantly. Then she scowled. "But that's no excuse to open the doors to a slithering serpent like

Hawk Rhiscarlan and expect him to act like . . . like . . . a petunia!"

Tyron spluttered a laugh. He suspected that Wren and Teressa had either argued, or come very close. Tyron could sympathize with how Wren was feeling now; he and Teressa argued often. His future job as Queen's Magician was more than just mastering magic and protecting the kingdom from inimical sorcery. He also had to become what Halfrid had warned him would be, in essence, the royal conscience.

"Look, Wren, Teressa is a young queen, and that means she's going to be courted by every power-seeker of whatever degree on this side of the continent. She might as well test her abilities against someone she knows a little."

Wren's angry frown turned perplexed. "But—all that talk about looks — what happens if—" Wren stopped, her hands waving in a circle, her nose wrinkling. "Ugh. The thought of them dancing together, flirting, it's just disgusting." She looked down at her hands. Her lower lip trembled as she added with an attempt at lightness, "And Teressa knows how I feel, and so she never told me he was coming. We talked about her cousins, and we wondered where Connor is and what he's doing, and if he's learning magic — if he's happy. We gossiped about her crabby Aunt Carlas, and about the new garden and about all

the new plays as well as the old plays, but she never mentioned Hawk."

Tyron tried to think of something comforting to say, and failed.

Wren sighed. "Maybe it's time for me to just stay away from court parties. I never liked them anyway." She didn't say she'd stay away from the palace, but Tyron wondered if that was what Wren was thinking.

And Tyron reached a decision. "Tell you what. Those glyphs have sat underground for a thousand years. They can wait a year or two longer. How about this. You said you were going to follow Connor to the Summer Islands after your journeymage project, and have some adventures. Test your skills. Well, why not go adventuring now? Maybe you'll find a journeymage project on your travels. Or even meet up with your father. You know you always wanted to search for him."

Wren looked up. She'd spent her early life thinking she was an orphan, until she and Connor had traced her family. She had an aunt, uncle, and cousin, and had found out that her father was an illusions-mage for traveling players. Tyron suspected her father still did not even know his daughter was alive; Wren had wanted to try to find him, but the war had smashed her plans.

He urged, "Go look for your father. Or for Connor. Or both. And if no suitable journeymage project

happens along the way, the glyphs will still be here waiting when you get back."

Wren's eyes widened with longing. Tyron knew how much she missed Connor. He missed Connor as well, the only person besides Halfrid he could talk to about everything.

But Connor was on a quest to discover something about his ancestry, and thus make his place in the world. It was a journeymage quest that would not be judged by any Mage Council. It was Connor's personal quest.

Wren smiled at Connor's name. But the smile faded. "No, I'm being selfish. I mean, what about the illusions class, and all the things that need doing here?"

"They're being done, and the illusions class can double up with the second year's. It'll be good for both classes, one to teach, the other to learn. Fliss is going to bring back two new mages who want to see if they like it here enough to stay and teach. The Magic School will be all right, and as for Teressa, one thing you know that crabby Aunt Carlas can be trusted for is to give Hawk—or any suitors not up to her standards — the Rhismordith fish-eye. And just in case, I'm here too," he added, buffing his nails on his tunic.

"Shouldn't we wait until either Master Halfrid or Mistress Leila return? I don't want to bother Mistress Leila with anything less than an emergency, at least not until we know that Queen Nerith will live."

"Quite right," Tyron said, shaking his head. His own private opinion was that Queen Nerith Shaltar of Siradayel should not have been racing sleds down frozen river ice at night, especially after she'd been drinking far too much mulled wine. Having overturned her sled and broken several bones, she'd not only endangered herself, she'd brought Siradayel's affairs to a standstill.

But she was mother to both Mistress Leila and Prince Connor, and was Teressa's grandmother and ally. She was also in considerable pain even after four months. Healers could bind wounds — with painstaking effort—but the body had to heal itself; Mistress Leila had gone home for the first time since she gave up her title and was supervising both the mage-Healers and the court magicians, until her mother could recover.

"As for Master Halfrid, should I not speak with him first?" Wren asked, looking doubtful. "I mean, since I might be changing my journeymage project."

"I think I can safely authorize it," Tyron said.

He and the senior mages were the only ones who knew that Master Halfrid was not just visiting in the north, he was so deeply disguised no one was to contact him except in dire emergency—and that via Summons Ring, which couldn't be traced.

"You're already an experienced traveler, and I'll tell you what. You can practice your transfer magic and cut

some of your journey short by shifting down to Falin— Mistress Falin, now—at Hroth Falls. From there it's just a few days' travel to the harbor."

Wren nodded slowly. Tyron was glad to see the unhappy pucker in her forehead starting to smooth out.

"You'll really like Falin," he added. "I don't think you met her. She went away to do her journeymage project when you first came as a student, and as soon as she returned last winter, Halfrid sent her to be the new mage at Hroth Falls."

Wren shook her head. "We never met." Tyron could see Wren hesitating. "So Mistress Falin is really young, then?"

"About my age," Tyron said. "In the old days before the war, she would have had to wait at least ten years, probably longer, for such an important job, but you know how shorthanded we are for mages."

Wren looked determined. "And so I really ought to get busy myself."

"Well, I wasn't trying to drop any hints, but why not? You want to anyway, and you'll have fun with Falin. She's a bit odd-looking, but good company, and she'll send you off in royal style."

"That sounds like a good idea," Wren said at last. "I'll go get ready." Her forehead puckered again. She said in a low voice, "But first I guess I'd better write a note to Tess."

Three

Teressa looked from the paper in her hand to Tyron's face. Despite their having been friends for several years, his foxy features had gotten harder to read.

"Why didn't Wren come say her farewells in person?" Teressa asked at last. She never would have asked anyone else, even Halfrid, but she'd gotten so used to discussing everything with Tyron that it just came out.

"I sent her off while the good weather holds," Tyron replied with the ease of the previously thought-out answer. It might even be true.

Teressa glanced down at the letter again, as if new words would appear there, giving insight into Wren's real state of mind.

But the letter remained the same.

Tess: Tyron thinks I should go find Connor now, before the season advances. I've always wanted adventure, and my turn to seek it seems to have come at last, so I'm off to Hroth Harbor and then to take ship. I will scry home regularly, to make sure you are safe and happy. Wren

Teressa folded the note slowly, and slipped it into a hidden pocket in the fine velvet gown she wore, all embroidered with tiny pearls and tiny golden leaves.

At least she called me Tess, the young queen thought.

Tyron said, in that same easy tone—as if he'd prepared a speech beforehand — "She had to pack her travel gear, speak to all the students she'd been working with, and she sent a message to her aunt up in Allat Los to let them know she was going. Then I had her transfer straight down to Hroth Falls before the day got too old. Mages don't consider it polite to do night transfers unless it's an emergency."

Teressa fingered the pearls embroidered on her pocket. It was useless to say that she knew she was being humored, that if Wren had really wanted to see Teressa she would have found the time despite all those busy chores, but the truth was, Wren hadn't come because her feelings had been hurt. And Teressa knew why. It wasn't jealousy, as some might assume. Wren had never been jealous in her life. I always told Wren to ignore the differences in rank, to be honest, to say what she thought. That was fine when we both thought alike. But the very first time our opinions were not the same, I acted like a sniff-nosed queen. Not like a friend.

A gentle tap at the door interrupted this unpleasant thought.

"Court's waiting for me," she said. She thought, Hawk waits below. The thought was partly frightening

— and a little thrilling. Like a challenge. A duel, but with wits instead of swords. "It's time for the reception. Do you wish to attend?"

Tyron shook his head. "I really should be at the School. There might be a message from Master Halfrid. And as for Hawk, you already know what I think: I said it all last winter."

Yes, he'd said pretty much what Wren had said, only more diplomatically.

Teressa stiffened her spine and led the way out. Tyron slipped down the servants' stairs, leaving Teressa to walk alone down the broad sweep of the grand stairway leading to the biggest, most formal of the court reception chambers.

There, lit by the last golden slants of the fading sunlight, she found a diminished number of courtiers, as few nobles had arrived yet for the season. Curious eyes in polite faces gathered round the perimeter of the room, everybody in strict order of precedence, dressed in embroidered silks and rich velvets. All except Hawk, who stood out, tall and powerful, dressed entirely in black.

She walked down the carpet in the center of the room. Her court bowed and curtseyed. Hawk bowed as well, making a flourish with his right hand that just escaped being mocking.

The Herald struck his staff on the polished marble floor and announced, in slow, sonorous tones that the Duke of Rhiscarlan requested the honor to present himself to Queen Teressa of Meldrith, blah, blah, blah.

Teressa ignored from the force of habit all the titles and honorifics that trailed after, and instead wished she hadn't chosen to make a grand gesture, in effect opening the court season with this reception. It would have been just as easy to have done the formal welcome in her private audience chamber, but she'd told herself that receiving a Rhiscarlan was a first, and it did honor to both families to make welcome him before court.

In other words, to make a grand gesture. And impress Hawk.

She should have known he wouldn't be impressed, and as for grand gestures —

She forced herself to meet Hawk's dark gaze, to surprise a narrow-eyed appraisal. Did she look as unhappy as she felt? She made a determined effort to smooth her face, and as the echoes of the Herald's voice died away, she spoke the formal words of welcome, suitable for a visiting duke who had not sworn allegiance to either Meldrith or Senna Lirwan— who ruled his land as a king in all but name.

Hawk, at least, had good company manners when he chose to assume them. He bowed, this time with perfect correctness, and then stepped forward and took Teressa's hand. And before she could respond, he kissed it.

"I thank your majesty for the welcome," he said, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard. But his smile was oddly intimate as he added, "And I look forward to furthering our acquaintance."

She disengaged her fingers lest he try to kiss them again. Her skin felt the imprint of that first kiss, and her face heated up.

He murmured, again in that soft voice, "Where's your fierce defender? I don't see her among your guests. But neither do I see your former hound — nor Master Halfrid. Do you not invite your mages?"

He dared to refer to that horrible time, when he'd forced Tyron into the form of a dog! Teressa's cheeks burned, though she hated showing any reaction. "Tyron and Wren are always invited," she uttered in so sharp an undertone her voice trembled. She drew in a breath and continued more evenly, "But Tyron is busy while Master Halfrid is away, and Wren is on the road to Hroth Harbor."

Hawk's brows rose. "Ah! I wish her good adventures — far from here. I have to confess I felt extreme trepidation at the prospect of treading your ballroom floor under her ferocious eye."

"Tread without fear," Teressa said rather tartly.

Hawk laughed. "So where is the formidable Master Halfrid?"

"Ask Tyron about magic business." And before he could ask more questions, she lifted her voice. "I invite you all to a masquerade ball, to be held in the duke's honor, four days hence."

As whispers ran through the younger courtiers — for there had been no elaborate balls the year before— Hawk smiled down into her eyes. "A masquerade, eh?"

She immediately recalled a masquerade ball what seemed a thousand years ago, when he'd been plotting with her own relatives. Judging by that sardonic smile, he was remembering it as well.

"Shall I take that as a challenge?" he added. He had long dimples in his lean cheeks when he smiled that way. "What, dare I ask, ought I to mask myself as?"

"What else?" she retorted, lightly. Ever so lightly, and with the same smile: feint, disengage, lunge. "As a hound."

Four

The sunset bells were just ringing when Wren transferred to Hroth Falls. The Destination tiles at her feet shimmered unpleasantly as she fought against the dizziness that transfers always caused.

She closed her eyes, breathed deeply—

And was startled by a sharp female voice, "Who are you?"

"Mistress Falin?" Wren opened her eyes, rubbing them even though she knew it wouldn't clear the haze any faster. "Tyron sent me. I know I'm not dressed in my student tunic, but I can explain. My name is Wren."

The room was unlit. Wren squinted at the mage but all she saw were shadows shifting in the face before her. She knuckled her eyes again, feeling a spark of alarm.

The alarm vanished when Mistress Falin spoke, this time in a cheerful, friendly voice.

"I am so sorry, hoo hoo! Tyron, woo hoo! Wren! From Cantirmoor Magic School, of course, hee hee! Well, I confess you startled me," and again the mage giggled. "I don't expect anyone this late, you see."

Wren's face burned. "Sunset bells haven't rung in Cantirmoor yet," she hastened to say. "We were in a hurry. Didn't know it was so late—"

"Never mind, never mind, hee hee!" Mistress Falin giggled again. "Come inside, do. No mage tunic!

Here's a mystery! Tell me all the Magic School news, and the Cantirmoor news as well, hee hoo!"

Wren followed the mage into a room lit by glowglobes. "I don't want to take up your time. I really only transferred here to save myself a lot of walking. I can set out on the road tonight. Weather seems to be fine, and I have plenty to eat." She hefted her knapsack.

Mistress Falin was tall and thin in her scribe's green gown, with wide-set eyes much the same color as Wren's own, and a big grin. She tittered again, as though Wren had been joking, and clapped her hands. "Set out at night! Ha ha! Oh, how Halfrid would scorch my ears if I were to let you go out, and us expecting rain before morning!" Another titter, and Mistress Falin added, "For that matter, I'd scorch my own ears, were I to let so famous a student go without hearing your tales! Here. You just sit down, nice and snug in my reading chair, and I'll whisk to the back and ask Cook to stretch supper for two." On a gale of giggles Mistress Falin departed.

Wren sighed as the sound died away in the back of the house. She set her knapsack down and moved to

the window. The little square panes opened onto the cobble-stoned street that she remembered from her very first adventure. How long ago that seemed!

Her gaze traveled over the ironwork banisters and the new sign depicting a book. Below that, beautifully lettered, Copyist—illuminations. Wren's gaze traveled past the window boxes with their nodding blossoms, all red and orange and yellow, and up the street. Warm golden glows slanted down from windows as people lit lamps; softer bluish white glows revealed windows behind which glowglobes had been clapped on.

Wren leaned out and sniffed. Yes. The slow breeze, still warm, smelled of wet soil: rain was coming.

A sudden giggle behind Wren made her jump. "Supper on the way!"

Mistress Falin seated herself at a worktable across from Wren. Pots of ink in all colors stood neatly arranged, and scrolls of paper lay piled in a basket. Mistress Falin leaned her elbows on the desk and rubbed her hands as she tittered again. "What a treasure! I have heard so many tales of you!" And once more she laughed.

Wren looked at the window, and forced herself to smile. Mistress Falin was obviously trying her very hardest to be welcoming, but as she chattered on, asking questions about the war that Wren forced herself to answer, and tittering as though something was funny when nothing was, Wren's head began to

ache. She couldn't help wishing she were on the road now, rain or no rain.

And so, after a restless, headachy night of bad sleep, she welcomed the faint blue light of dawn. Time to go.

Wren pulled on her favorite traveling outfit, which was a long light green tunic with a plain brown sash. It was comfortable, anonymous — any young prentice might wear such clothes in summer—and she liked the sash, which was extra wide, so she could tuck things into it.

She shoved her feet into her sandals, straightened out the little guest bed in the cozy alcove under the roof, and tiptoed noiselessly to the stairs.

Mistress Falin's chamber door was still closed.

Wren slipped down the narrow stairs and entered the parlor where they'd sat so long last night.

Wren knew it was rude to leave without thanks. If I hear that giggle once more I'll jump out the window, she thought, and looked on the desk for a scrap of paper. It was odd that the mage had sat there with her ink and pens and paper all ready, but she hadn't done one bit of actual work. Of course she might have thought it impolite to work while listening.

Shrugging, Wren found a little scrap of paper, blew the dust off, and dipped a pen in a waiting inkpot to write: Thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Falin. I did not want to waken you, but I must get an early start.

Wren signed it, slipped out the door, ran down the brick steps, and bustled down the street to the main road, now slowly until she was safely out of range of that giggle.

There she met a trade caravan just setting out. Wagon after wagon rolled by as she walked at the roadside to let the patient horses and oxen pass; at length someone called, "Ho, there, you in green! Prentice? Traveling? Want a ride?"

Two girls with bristly bright red braids drove a laden wagon drawn by a pair of sturdy oxen. Up behind in back sat an old woman.

One of the redheads spoke. "We could use someone to spell us driving. There being only three of us for two wagons," and she indicated the wagon behind them, equally laden, with a tall, sturdy redheaded boy on the box.

This boy had darker red hair, worn in a neat ponytail. Wren thought of Connor, and felt that familiar, sharp inward pang. How she missed him!

"I think I can handle oxen. Unless they get too frisky," she said, and the girls laughed, one scooting over to make space.

o0o

Three days later, just about the time that Hawk entered Teressa's ballroom wearing a fabulously made,

sinister black and silver mask of a wolf, Wren stepped down from the wagon.

"Have a good trip," she called, waving as the caravan turned down southward into Fil Gaen.

"You too!" cried the girls together.

Wren stood at the sign post while the last of the caravan rolled by, dust rising from the wheels and blowing inland. The sign post had an arrow pointing down the road, next to the words Hroth Harbor.

Wren set out at a brisk pace, thinking back over the trip, which had been uneventful—even riding past the border of Hawk Rhiscarlan's land.

She'd always intended to find someone to travel with past Rhiscarlan territory, but to her surprise the girls had said cheerfully, "No trouble any more. The Duke has riders out patrolling. They chase off anyone who even looks like a brigand."

And their Granny, who spoke seldom, had cackled, then said, "Takes a brigand to know one."

The girls and their brother had laughed as they set about making up their campsite on a hill, the rest of the caravan's camps dotting the slope. "Brigand or no, this road has never been so safe as it is now," the oldest girl had said.

Safe is good, Wren thought as she rounded the last fold in the hills above the harbor and looked down at the roofs crowded together in a jigsaw crescent just below her. Beyond them the wide bay was forested with hundreds of masts, some with sails hanging slack, drying in the fresh breeze and sunlight.

And beyond them, the sea! It stretched out to the edge of the world, gleaming and glittering, a deeper blue than the cloudless sky above.

Aromas of fried cheese-breads and pepper-braised meat drifted on lazy breezes as Wren walked faster.

The buildings were very unlike those in Meldrith, or even those in Siradayel or Allat Los, the other kingdoms she'd seen so far. Here they were built close together, with sturdy fronts facing the steady cold winds from the sea. Most were weather-worn, though the signs swinging from iron posts that arched over the narrow street were gaudy with colors and images.

Brine and fish smells intensified as she followed a group of sailors down between taverns, from which came the sounds of brisk music and laughing voices.

She slipped into a narrow alley between two low buildings, and suddenly there she was, standing on a low bluff overlooking one end of the harbor. Great ocean-going trade ships rolled gently next to piers, sails furled, busy people going up and down ramps that rose and fell with the moving waters.

The many masts were clearer now—not just sticks but with caps and mastheads and rigging complicating them. Ships were anchored farther out in the waters; between them and the shore plied countless small

boats, with oars rising and falling in practiced rhythm, a few with single triangular sails.

Wren set down her knapsack on a tuft of grass and sat beside it. She'd promised to scry Tyron as soon as she reached the harbor, and this seemed the best time, when she was alone.

So she dug out her scry stone, focused her inward eye, and—

Tiny pinpoints of light coalesced into Tyron's face.

He grimaced. "The best scry stone in Cantirmoor and I still hate this," he said. Wren knew he was talking out loud. He had a terrible time scrying, though he far surpassed her in most other forms of magic knowledge.

"Well, I'm keeping my promise." She spoke aloud, too, making it easier for him to 'hear' at his end.

"Hroth Harbor lies just below me. Easy trip. Though how could you think Mistress Falin funny looking? Or were you just being polite about that—"

Presence.

Wren snapped her focus away. Then she shut her eyes and gripped the stone. She'd detected someone listening. She did not know if the listener was an idle scryer, or someone had put a tracer-ward on her stone.

She pressed the stone against her leg, trying to recover that fleeting moment of awareness. A trace of intense focus, too quick to catch, but almost familiar—

"Exciting, isn't it?"

Wren glanced up in surprise at an older woman who stood next to her, having come off the road just behind Wren. She spoke the language of Meldrith, but with an accent that Wren couldn't place.

"It's my first sight of the sea," Wren said, sliding her scrying stone into her knapsack and standing up.

The woman smiled, her brown, weather-worn face seamed with laughter-lines. "Thinking of setting sail, or are you just here to see the sights?"

"Both!" Wren said.

The woman chuckled, a soft, pleasant sound. "Well, if you don't have the money for a luxury berth, and I'm guessing you don't—"

"Good guess," Wren said, grinning down at her dusty green tunic and dirt-caked mocs.

"You'll want to go to the Harbormaster and see who's hiring extra hands."

"Harbormaster?" Wren repeated. "So you don't just go around to the ships?"

The woman's smile deepened at the corners. "Good ones hire at the Harbormaster, all right and proper. I was about your age when I first signed on. A coast trawler it was, but it gave me a taste for the sea I've never lost. Have a fair voyage!" She hefted her knapsack over her shoulders and headed down toward the docks.

"You too! And thanks for the advice," Wren called.

As the woman disappeared around an outcropping of rock, Wren glanced up behind her, where she could hear the voices of someone new coming down the trail. This spot was not as private as she'd thought.

She picked up her knapsack. "Harbormaster," She repeated under her breath, "Then somewhere to stay, and afterward I can always try Tyron again."

Five

The Harbormaster's building lay on the other side of the bay. It had a big wooden tower, topped by a long flagpole up and down which flags of various colors were run during the time it took Wren to finish walking down the main thoroughfare behind the docks, and then start again up winding, narrow streets. Those had to be signal flags.

The houses were old, built largely of the red-streaked stone that she'd seen so much of in the rocky mountains northward. The street was paved with dark flat stone, quite worn. Two carts could not have passed one another on most of those streets, but over the many years tradition seemed to have worked patterns of traffic, so some streets were for folk going this way, and some the other direction.

When the sun sank beyond the mountains, some shops closed, shutters pulled tight, the windows above lighting up with the golden glow of lanterns or the whitish-blue of glowglobes, for those who could afford them; other shops stayed open, lamps and glowglobes inside sending out a welcome radiance to make golden or silvery pools of light on the streets. Wren peered

into tiny shops, glimpsing goods from all over the world: fabrics, foods, woods, metal implements, books.

Books! She paused, fingering the small pouch of money Tyron had given her to last until she got herself a job: six heavy eight-sided silver pieces, and a handful of the thin little copper pieces called clipits. The idea was to work her way along, and only keep the silver for emergencies. Spending them her first day in the harbor seemed a bad idea. You didn't get books for coppers.

But! If she could get a berth on a ship, then she could come back and buy a single book for the journey.

If, of course, she could remember how to get back, she thought a while later, as the old road twisted and turned its way toward the steep bluff on which sat the Harbormaster's building.

At last she reached it—and found a vast crowd waiting outside, mostly men and boys. Everyone seemingly talking at once.

She squeezed between two boys with bulging sacks over their shoulders as she looked for someone in charge. A bell clanged from somewhere, and the noise dropped to a hissing sea of whispers and mutters.

"Sun's gone!" a big voice bellowed. "Clear out! Doors open at sunup!"

The crowd began to surge out, everyone talking in at least a dozen languages. Wren was pressed back against the wall. For an endless time she couldn't move

as a solid wall of people shoved past. Then two girls neared, each carrying a heavy sack. They were speaking Siradi.

" . . . longest I've ever gone 'tween cruises," one was

^sayⁱⁿg.

The other shook her head. "Hroth is the worst harbor to get stuck in, come spring. M'uncle always told me, you stay outa Hroth during the spring. Everyone in the world is there, lookin' to hire for the summer ocean-cruises, and boomers everywhere."

Boomers? Wren sighed to herself. Of course it wouldn't be easy. She'd been a fool to think she'd just walk right in and they'd have a ship all ready to take her aboard.

She followed the two girls, partly to listen, and partly to see where they stayed. Maybe she'd learn some more.

They walked down one of the twisty streets as the crowd thinned, and stopped at an inn built where two streets branched, one going up, the other down. It was an odd building, three-cornered, the front narrow where it nestled right up to the road-branch.

Through open windows Wren heard female voices. The two girls went in, and as Wren followed, a big, friendly woman with an untidy nest of gray hair said, "Yer new. Lookin' fer a night-berth, are ye?"

Wren nodded, and for five clipits got a hammock in a corner. Most of the girls and women in the

hammocks and bunks crammed in that room spoke languages Wren had never heard before.

No chance of scrying Tyron there. At least she'd told Tyron she was safe. If he wanted to know anything more, he could always scry her.

So she stretched out. Hammocks actually felt pretty good, once you got inside, and odd as it was to lie with your head and feet up, instead of flat. She fell asleep to the sounds of female voices, and woke up to the same. The sun had not come up yet, but someone had lit candles, and everyone was busy getting dressed and packing together their gear. Sailors rose early, it seemed. Even earlier than mages.

The innkeeper set out hot biscuits slathered with honey-butter, and steamed milk with cinnamon, and Wren was glad she'd paid extra for the breakfast.

She made a hearty meal, listening to the chatter about ships, berths, storms, bad and good captains, then once again she hefted her pack and set out for the Harbormaster's building, though the sun had not yet risen. This time she meant to be in first, if she could.

The purple sky of dawn silhouetted the rooftops as she and a bunch of the girls and women reached the line already formed at the Harbormaster's doors. Wren got in line behind a pair of brothers busy shoving one another and snickering. The doors way up front opened and the line fell silent.

"New hires here, ratings over there," a huge man bawled, pointing to his left and right. "Newbies here! Ratings there!" That time he shouted it in the language of Fil Gaen. He shouted again, in languages Wren did not know, and she stood uncertainly, not sure what a 'rating' was — then decided since she didn't know, she couldn't possibly be one. Whereas 'newbies,' she understood.

The newbie line was, at least so far, the shortest. Wren found herself standing with a varied group of mostly young people around her own age. The other line, much longer, seemed to be made up of older, tough-looking sailors, all carrying big bags. Men and women looked equally weather-beaten and fit. Many were barefoot.

"Here, move up." Someone behind Wren nudged her forward.

Wren's turn came soon; a bored-looking youth with a long face looked her over without a vestige of interest and said in the language of Fil Gaen, "Name and place of origin first. Any experience on board?"

"Wren Porscan, Allat Los."

The young man gave Wren a sharp look, then he sniffed and muttered, "More landrats. Why don't they stay on land?" as he wrote her name out.

Wren didn't like that look. But the clerk was just being rude—he couldn't possibly know Wren was a mage student. She'd changed her real last name, which

was Poth. Mages were supposed to keep their calling secret, unless hired to act as mages.

"Now, what's your experience? Hand, reef, steer?"

Fil Gaen's language was close to Meldrithi, but required concentration. Wren didn't admit that she had no idea what he meant by 'hand, reef, steer.' "No experience on ships."

"Got your gear?"

"What gear?"

The fellow pointed a skinny finger at a sign across the room, barely visible; a group of young people stood around it. "You'll find the recommended list there. What skills have you?"

"I learned baking and some cooking at an inn. And if needed, I can throw pots, but not very good ones."

"Cook's mate," he said, writing it next to her name. "Always needed. Get your gear, report back. We'll have today's hires by noon, and we'll see where we can fit you. Next?"

"Wait! Don't you want to know where I'd like to go?"

The fellow's long face creased with not-very-pleasant laughter. "Next!"

Wren turned away, making a sour face over her shoulder.

"Aw, don't give him a second thought. Them clerks is all like that," came a high voice at her shoulder.

The girl was a little shorter than Wren, with curly black hair and a pair of wide set brown eyes. Her grin was merry as she asked something in a quick tongue with one or two vaguely familiar words. When Wren shook her head, she said, "They all tell you t' hire your own yacht, or wait until someone wants you, but my sister says you can always find your way to your favorite ports. Especially cooks," she added, smacking her chest. "Good cooks is almost as wanted as good top-hands."

"What's a top-hand?" Wren asked.

The girl looked surprised, then nodded. "You don't know Dock Talk, an' y'don't know the work, so you must be a landrat. Well, top-hands is the ones't go for the topsails. Anyone can learn to hand, reef, steer, on the deck, but them topsails is tricksy bizness," she said. "I'm Patka. You? What I hear, Robin?"

"Wren."

"Knew it was a land bird," Patka said cheerily.

"What is this gear he was talking about?"

"Your hammock," Patka said. "Rain gear, mess kid, spoon, winter and summer wear. Sewing kit. Tools, if ye need 'em. Like that."

"Ships don't have dishes and tools?"

"Only the big war ships, or maybe a royal yacht or a big, rich merch," Patka said, laughing. "But you won't get no first hire on them. You hire on with your own. Outside waitin' is the skimmers," she added. "Ones't'll

stop the newbies and promise everything at an easy price. Easy." She snorted. "Four times the going rate, but newbies don't know that, and gumpy stuff— hammock breaks first storm, knife that shatters. Like that. Steer alongside me and me brothers. We show you where to get gear."

Patka pointed at the boys Wren had seen earlier, now standing at the doorway, still nudging one another and chortling with laughter. They had the same dark curly hair as did Patka. With them stood a tall, skinny redhead with a worn tiranthe slung at his back, and a pale-haired boy whose dusty embroidered velvet looked quite out of place here.

"Let's go," Patka said.

Sure enough, outside the door several people addressed the emerging newbies with big, friendly smiles and exhortations of, "Want the fastest way to get equipped? Over here—across the way!" "Norta's Shop — all gear, good prices!"

The boy in velvet pulled out a hefty coin purse and followed one of the sellers, who clapped him on the back, acting friendly and confiding as they walked away.

It occurred to Wren that Patka, for all her friendliness, might be another one of these, but that feeling faded as the morning wore on; Patka and her brothers and the red-haired boy with the tiranthe roamed up the streets and down, poking into small

shops here and there, sometimes comparing prices. Patka and her family didn't have gear either, but they knew what to get, and had been given coins by their family in order to get it.

By lunch they were all friends, and Wren realized that Patka, who had just turned fourteen, had hoped to begin her career on the sea with another friendly girl to ship out with. Patka insisted that Wren had to learn Dock Talk as soon as possible, or she'd never get along in the world's harbors.

"Dock Talk is Charas, see? Empire lingo, only easy," Patka explained.

Wren soon figured that meant regularizing verbs, getting rid of plurals and articles and other bits of grammar not needed, and borrowing colorful terms from a lot of other languages.

Switching back and forth between languages, Patka told Wren they came from a family of sailors, their home base being a village on the coast of Fil Gaen south of Hroth Harbor.

Just after noon, they lugged their new gear up the hill, Wren's old knapsack so stuffed the seams were ready to pop. Once again they joined the newbie line.

A young clerk came out from the back and moved to the portion of the counter where the newbies stood in line. Before she could speak, she was pushed aside by that same long-faced clerk with the sour expression.

He seemed to be looking right at Wren when he said in a loud voice, "No lists today for newbies."

"What?" said the other clerk, her surprise echoed all the way down the line.

"Orders from the Harbormaster," the scowler said. "You, prentice, go help keep track of guild inspections. The rest of you." He glared at the line. "Come back on the morrow. Noon." He retreated behind the counter, leaving them standing there.

The newbies looked at each other, but no one had any answers. Still, they asked variations on No ships, none at all?

Patka said with a shrug, "Kind of strange, but season's just opened. Not much traffic in the harbor yet."

Wren, glancing out at that forest of masts, wondered what 'busy' would be like.

"That's it for today," yelled Patka's older brother Thad, who had already been on a cruise, but chose to line up with the newbies so he could stay with his siblings. "Let's have some fun!"

"We don't have any coin, except enough for a bed and sup tonight," their younger brother, Danal, pointed out. He was thirteen. "We won't be shippin' out tonight. And look up, it's cloudin' up, gonna come on rain."

"No fun, sleepin' in rain, if we spend everything we got," Thad muttered.

The group stood in a circle, looking dejected.

Then the tall redhead smacked his tiranthe. The steel strings rang sweetly. "Shall I try to earn a few coins? Maybe there's some inn with no singer already hired."

"Aw, Lambin, there's singers everywhere." Thad sighed.

"I happen to know a few storytelling spells," Wren offered.

Everyone looked her way. Patka frowned, and her brothers looked askance.

"Is something wrong?" Wren asked.

Patka shrugged. "Sorry. Doin' spells for players isn't being a mage, after all. I hate mages."

Wren's mouth dropped open. "What's wrong with mages? Did one do something nasty to you?" She thought of Andreus of Senna Lirwan.

"No." All three shook their heads. "It's what they don't do, see?" Thad said.

"Like, if they know so much magic, why not make everybody rich and comfortable, not just themselves?" Patka declared.

"Our dad says, there's nothing worse than nobles and mages. We do all the work and they get all the fun." Danal grinned, and Wren wondered if Danal liked the idea of getting all the fun.

He didn't seem too bothered, but Patka flushed with anger, and declared, "Me, I don't blame nobles as

much. They can't help being born what they are, same as us being born into a sailing family. But mages, they're said to come from everywhere, but you don't hear of 'em going off to learn, then coming back home and using their magical spells to put everyone at home into a fancy castle, all nice and rich."

Wren let her breath out in a slow trickle. There were so many wrong things here she didn't even know where to begin. Or even if she should.

So save it for later, she thought. Just solve the problem we're facing right now. "I do player spells at my auntie's inn," Wren said. "On rainy nights."

All three faces cleared in relief. "Entertaining,"

Thad said. "Oh, well, that's different."

"That's an honest living, doin' spells for players," Patka said.

Danal smacked his hands and rubbed them. "And I know just the place we can go and use music and spells to earn some coin." He nudged Thad. "You remember. We saw it yesterday?"

His brother jerked his thumb behind them, and they ran off in a pack.

No wonder mages don't reveal themselves unless they have to, Wren thought as she toiled behind with her knapsack bumping on her back.

o0o

Not long after dusk a gentle rain began to fall. Wren and her new friends sat snug in a big tavern that usually boasted entertainment, but whose minstrel group had shipped out the day before. The innkeeper said they could play just until his new group arrived, which would be at the dinner hour, but until then he had no objection to their giving their skills a try. "I won't pay you, but if you get any coins thrown, you can keep 'em," he said.

"He hopes we'll bring in custom, not chase it away," Patka muttered as the innkeeper walked away, shouting orders to his servers.

The red-haired boy, Lambin, had a wonderful singing voice and he played well. Wren added just enough illusory stars and shimmers to enhance the songs.

The big common room was sparse enough at first, and the few customers paid them little heed. But gradually they gained more attention, until new customers coming in who sat near them turned their way expectantly instead of trying to talk over the music. Those who wanted to chatter sat at other tables farther away.

Gradually the room got more crowded. Thad had found a little hand drum somewhere and he tapped out the beat in time to the tapping of Lambin's foot. Patka circulated through the listeners with her winter cap held out open, into which a gratifying rain of coins was tossed.

They played and sang, Wren adding more and more images, to the oohs and ahs of the audience, until the professional group came in. Wren and her friends picked up their knapsacks, to shouts of appreciation and thumpings of spoons on the tables. At the other end of the common room they crowded around to count out their coins.

"Fifty clipits, twenty-one coppers, and one silver," Danal proclaimed with satisfaction. "How shall we spend it?"

"Games!" Thad proclaimed.

"A really good dinner," Patka said. "Better than I can cook."

"Good music, up at the Redfern Inn," Lambin said somewhat wistfully.

"We can do it all," Thad stated. "And have enough left over for a snug bed somewhere down near the docks. Let's get started!"

They slipped out the back. The boys chattered happily, nearly masking the hiss of footsteps on the cobblestones, and whispered voices.

Wren began to turn—but a rough sack was thrown over her head. Someone else shoved her off-balance, and while she struggled, her knapsack was yanked out of her hands, and someone else wrapped rope around her, binding her arms to her sides.

"Hey!" "Ow!" "What's this?" " You can have the coppers!" the others shouted and wailed.

Wren was thrown into a wagon, and then something that smelled like heavy canvas was thrown atop her. She could hear her companions protesting. Wren stayed silent; she was sure that just before she was attacked, one of those whispering voices had said, "There. The one with the stripey hair, that's the one."

Six

Teressa sat alone on a dais decorated with flowers and cloth bunting, the warm breeze carrying scents of blossoms and crushed grass. On either side, seated decorously on benches brought out that morning by laboring servants and stable hands, her courtiers watched the horse races. They wore their newest riding clothes, short tunics over voluminous trousers instead of robes or gowns. Both men and women sported bunches of ribbons tying up their slashed sleeves, showing contrasting color beneath, the ribbons dancing bravely in the breezes as they clapped, waved, and took turns racing horses from one end of the grassy sward to the other.

Everyone dressed in their best, but Teressa's attention was drawn by how flattering a simple brown walking tunic could be when worn by someone slim and graceful as a bird, her only adornment long silver hair.

A burst of clapping caught her attention. Her cousin Garian had won another race. He smiled her way, fist in the air, and she hastily clapped, but as soon as he turned away to change mounts, Teressa's attention

snapped back to the far end of the observers' halfcircle, where Tyron and Orin, his oldest beginner magic student, stood at the very edge, in earnest converse.

Or rather Orin talked earnestly, her long silver hair blowing like a flag in the wind, as Tyron gazed at the horses, his profile pensive.

"Problem with your faithful hound?"

Teressa started, then frowned up into Hawk's face. The wind blew a long strand of his dark hair across his brow as he laughed softly. He stood just out of reach, one booted foot on the edge of the dais a pace from her chair, one hand leaning carelessly on his knee, the other on his hip.

"No," she said, and added deliberately, "All the dogs are in the kennel so they don't get under the horses' feet during the races."

"You know who I mean."

"If you want to refer to any friend of mine," she said in her most polite, daunting voice, "then please say his name. Or hers." And when Hawk just smiled, she added in a lot more normal tone, "I don't understand why you keep referring back to your disgusting past actions. The time you turned Tyron into a dog is no pleasant memory."

Hawk did not show any evidence of being wounded. "That was a ruse of war, but the war is over. I'm here as your ally, if you'll have me." He smiled.

She felt that smile in the heat of her skin, and shifted her gaze away. Orin was gone at last, and Tyron turned toward her. She beckoned.

As Tyron started across the grassy expanse, Teressa could not resist a quick glance, and met Hawk's steady, dark gaze. His amusement increased, narrowing his black eyes, and deepening the corners of his mouth.

He was so unsettling! "I want to talk to Tyron alone." She tried to sound calm and authoritative, but to her own ears her voice was merely petulant.

Hawk raised his hand in a duelist's salute. "For lack of a worthy foe I quit the field."

He sauntered down the steps of the dais just as Tyron mounted them.

Neither Tyron or Hawk acknowledged the other by so much as a glance, though they passed within arm's length; if Tyron heard Hawk's words, he gave no sign.

"Question?" he asked.

Teressa was about to ask him what Orin was talking about for so long, and scolded herself inwardly. She really was acting petulant! "Has Wren scryed you?" she asked, as once again clapping broke out from the seated courtiers.

Teressa's namesake, Teressa Kaledd of Tamsal, had won. The queen waved at the young courtier enjoying her first season, who grinned and waved triumphantly back.

"Wren scryed me the night of your masquerade." Tyron's brows contracted. "It was a little strange. Cut short. But she said she was safe, and I was monitoring the ballroom, if you remember. So I didn't scry her back."

Teressa suppressed the impulse to scowl, and kept her face smooth, her smile steady. "Has she scryed you since?"

Tyron looked surprised. "What for? She said she was safe."

Teressa's lips parted, and though she still kept her social smile in place, she gave a tiny sigh. "But if it was cut short—"

"Probably means someone came up behind her.

You know we don't travel as mages. Scrying is not a common sight among ordinary folk."

Teressa rubbed her forehead, wishing she didn't feel so tense. The sun seemed too bright, the wind too strong, and the noise intolerable, but she had to sit there and smile and pretend to have fun. The court season had begun, and she was its center. Everybody looked her way, she could feel it. "I'm worried. That's all." She moved her lips as little as possible.

Tyron said, "Wren is a journeymage. Part of their project is to take care of themselves while they accomplish it. She scryed that night because I'd asked her to, not because it was necessary."

Teressa snapped, "Oh. So when Orin finally goes on her journeymage trip, and finds reason to scry you every night, will you remind her it's not necessary?"

Tyron's eyes widened in blank surprise. "What's this discussion really about? If you think the Magic School is not adequately preparing our students, maybe you should talk to Master Halfrid."

"It's not about anything." Petulant again! "I have a headache." Her jaw ached from the effort it took to keep that smile in place.

Tyron's brow cleared into instant concern. "Do you? Shall I get you some listerblossom tea?"

Teressa clenched her hands in her lap. "Please."

He ran lightly down the steps and strode away toward the cook tent, his white mage robe tunic flapping around his long legs, but somehow he did not look the least ridiculous.

She watched him go, fighting tears of anger and remorse. Hawk was here because she had willed it so, despite everyone's advice; Wren was gone because she couldn't keep her temper; and for the first time, ever, she couldn't discuss any of it with Tyron, who was supposed to be her chief counselor.

o0o

At about the same time that Tyron was bringing the tea back, Wren, Patka, and the boys lay miserably in the dark, stuffy space where they had been dumped.

For the longest time all Wren heard were distant shouts, clangs, bangs, groaning and creakings of ship timbers, and the whoosh and splash of water against the hull somewhere near her feet. They'd been dropped in a pile; as the ship rolled, they worked their way apart, mostly squirming like worms, for whoever had nabbed them had wrapped them thoroughly in canvas and rope.

"We've been boomed!" Lambin said mournfully.

"Boomed?" Wren asked, though it was hard to speak, what with the folds of mildewed canvas on her face, bound tightly by rope. Her voice sounded muffled even in her own ears.

Patka also sounded muffled. "Booms are how you get things up and down. I guess you'll be finding out soon. Too soon."

And Lambin added, sadly, "Boomed means you've been grabbed, not hired. All you'll get is hard work, the rope's end, and more work."

"But we never signed on! Surely we can report that as soon as we reach land."

"Won't reach land any time soon," Thad muttered.

Lambin added, "And if we do, and say we came from Fil Gaen, they won't do anything because everyone knows Fil Gaen has the press."

"Press?" Wren repeated, thinking of grape presses.

"Im-press-ment," Patka said slowly. "When the harbor guard sweep the streets after the midnight bells, and anyone out drunk can be caught up, thrown in the cart, and handed off to any captain wanting hands enough to pay the fee. Some hard captains never get enough crew. Or keep 'em. They like the press."

Lambin added, "Harbor likes the press because it keeps order."

They fell silent, listening to the creak of masts under a press of sail, and the rumble of feet overhead.

"But we weren't out after midnight. Nor were we drunk." Wren hesitated, unsure about reporting to the others what she'd overheard.

"Try telling the Harbormaster that," Lambin said. "Even if we could get back. Who's to say different?"

Thad muttered, "Whoever grabbed us probably has a deal going with someone. Maybe the Harbormaster's office even knows about it, if they get their share."

Patka spoke up. "So much for Dad's advice, stick together."

"At least it's not pirates," Danal said.

"You think," Thad said sourly, and no one had an answer to that.

Wren slept fitfully—hungry, hot, thirsty, worried as she was.

She woke when someone bumped against her.

A hatch banged, then a deep, hoarse female voice said something cheerily in Dock Talk. The only word Wren recognized was "slubs," which was a general

term for sailors at the very lowest rank, and an insult, Patka and the boys had assured her.

A strong hand flipped Wren over, and presently the tight bonds eased. She fought her way out of the canvas. Cold air met her face, smelling of old wood, fish, and brine, but after the suffocating canvas it was welcome.

A male voice repeated something in Dock Talk, as someone yanked her upright. By the light of a lantern swinging in a stout middle-aged woman's hand, Wren could see they had been stuffed into what she'd learn was a smuggler's hole under the forepeak of a brig. She couldn't stand upright, for the bowsprit slanted directly overhead, making the narrow compartment even smaller. No surface was flat, not even the decking under her feet, which slanted down toward the hatch.

"Here's our dunnage, mates," Patka translated as a tall, scrawny man finished cutting the boys free.

The man's long, gnarled hand indicated the point of the forepeak, where someone had thrown all their knapsacks. Wren grabbed hers.

"We're to follow 'em to crew berthing," Patka said. "And I guess we're on watch now. They'll want to see what we can do."

Wren snorted. I'll show you what I can do, all right.

But she remembered she was supposed to solve her problems without magic, if possible.

Magic.

She sneaked a glance at Patka, who was tying up her short, curly hair into a brightly embroidered kerchief. When she saw Wren's gaze, she said, "I wager anything I'll be put to work under the cook. My kerchiefs keep my hair out of my eyes, and out of the food."

"Stop that gabble and come on," the sailor ordered.

They were taken down a narrow gangway lined with neatly stacked barrels and other cargo or supplies, and then to another hatchway with a ladder leading down below the waterline.

They stepped into a hot, stuffy space lined with hammocks. Most sailors sleeping in them, their belongings neatly stowed along the curve of the hull below the swinging forms.

Wren and her friends were led all the way forward, to what was obviously the worst place in the crew berth, as it was small, stuffy, and farthest from the hatch. Here the woman gestured with her lantern.

Wren followed the motions of the others and secured her hammock to a pair of hooks, despite the flickering lighting and the suffocating air.

She had just a moment to fling her knapsack on her hammock before it was time to go topside. The woman barked questions at Patka, who answered in Dock Talk, her tone flat.

They climbed up the ladder to the deck above, but before Wren could follow the boys, Patka caught her

arm and jerked her head in another direction. They picked their way over stacks of supplies to a small room that was far hotter than the stuffy berth below, smelling of cabbage, garlic, and leeks.

"Galley." Patka pointed at a cook and a helper standing over big cauldrons, stirring. Great clouds of steam rose from the cauldrons. "Let's see if I can get ye in with me."

"Sure. But I don't know anything about cookery," Wren said, and Patka grinned.

"Oh, you won't be cooking. But still, it's better than being forced up into the topsails when you're still a landhugger."

The cook, a big, tough older man, scowled at them and snapped an order in Dock Talk.

Sure enough, Wren soon stood at the cauldron, stirring a huge pot of oatmeal.

"Welcome to adventure," she muttered.

Seven

Her first watch seemed interminable.

The second was worse.

'Watches' turned out to be exactly half a day. That meant at dawn the mate of the day watch began by turning them all out of their hammocks if they weren't already awake. 'Turning out' as in tipping the hammock so Wren thumped onto the deck, to the sound of laughter from crew members wrestling into their clothes nearby.

"Up and out or you'll get the rope's end to wake

y^a!"

That much she understood by the third day.

By the fourth she understood that a brig was a type of trading ship, and that this one was called the

Sandskeet.

Wren slept in her clothes, too tired to undress in the dark, so she was first out the of the stuffy, hot crew berth and into the hot, steamy galley.

There she chopped, peeled, kneaded, stirred, and baked all day, broken only by the "All hands on deck!" cry, which meant racing up to the deck, no matter what the weather was, and pulling hard on various ropes.

Her watch was supposed to be over at sunset, which would have been bearable—except for that "All hands!" cry. When the captain wanted all hands that meant everyone, not just the sailors on the deck. And so far it had happened at least once a night, always after she'd fallen into exhausted sleep.

By the end of her fifth watch, she was learning the names for the various cooking utensils and foods in Dock Talk. She whispered them to herself over and over, because every time the cook had to repeat himself, he thumped her on the skull with whatever utensil he had gripped in his mighty fist. So far, that had been various spoons and mixers. Wren did not want to find out what would happen if he happened to be holding one of the big carving knives.

By the sixth day, the constant scurry of tasks started to fall into patterns, divided always by the crew's mealtimes. She not only knew most of the names of the things in the galley, she was beginning to understand some of the commands and threats the cook barked out.

At the end of her first week, she no longer fell into her hammock and into sleep, she stayed awake at least long enough to jump through the single cleaning frame the crew shared, self and clothes restored to freshness. She found enough energy to repair tears in her tunic left over from the day they were boom-roped, and to follow Patka to the deck and stand in the fresh wind

blowing over the sea, practicing the names of the jumble of ropes-that-were-not-ropes crossing the ship in all directions.

Amazing. Shrouds, sheets, stays, braces, halyards — all these were specific ropes, but she learned fast what each one did. Thus, when she was required to stumble to the deck with the other half-asleep crew members, often in driving rain, with seawater washing over the rail, if she was sent to the 'weather brace' she knew to run to whichever side the wind was coming from.

At the end of the next week's watch Wren waited impatiently for the ship's bell to ring the changeover. She'd gotten all the supper cook pots dry and hung on their hooks, oversaw the refilling of the water barrel with the cleaning spell on it after all the crew members had dunked their dishes and spoons in. Watching the magic spark faintly over the square dishes called mess kids, with their raised lip — you didn't want bowls on a ship, which was never still, or plates for the same reason—gave her one of the few pleasures she had during the long, tiring day.

The bell rang at last and she raced down to the crew berthing, hardly touching the ladder any more, though at first she'd clung tightly to it. This was the only time of day the crew berthing might be empty—and that only if the weather was good, for the night crew would have just reported for duty, and the day crew

sometimes stayed on deck to enjoy space, air, and the last of the daylight.

The weather was fine on deck, so nearly everyone in the day watch was up there, mending ropes and gear, talking, and through the open hatchways — every hatch and scuttle open to get air down into the ship — drifted the faint strains of someone singing a ballad.

She wedged herself into between Thad's and Lambin's packs, partially curtained by the empty swinging hammocks. The light of the lantern aft was just enough for her to find her own pack and plunge her hand in, searching for her scry stone.

She was finally awake and strong enough to manage a spell to remove that tracer-ward and then to scry Tyron, though she didn't know how long before the day watch tramped below to their hammocks. She needed to think out her message, get it ordered in her mind for quick communication.

"First: how is Teressa?" she whispered as she dug through her bag. She felt a pang of regret and hurt when she thought of Teressa. I just hope that Hawk doesn't hurt her, she thought. "Second: I got boomed onto a ship by somebody who pointed out my stripey hair. Third: I don't know where we're going. Last: someone started listening in last time I scryed, which was why I cut it off." There. That was a good, quick report, she thought as she dug deeper into her bag.

Voices approaching! She groaned with impatience.

If anyone else came below she'd lose another entire day unless she were fast, so she upended her bag, and stared at the pile of belongings glowing, then in shadow, then glowing again in the light of the swinging lantern. She already knew her money had been filched — she noticed it that first day.

Far worse: her scry stone was gone.

More sounds of laughter floated from the top hatch. She was very good at scrying—she didn't have to use a stone. Water, glass, or even fire were almost as good, if she concentrated hard enough.

She jumped up, leaving her belongings strewn under her hammock, and stood before the single lantern the captain permitted the crew, gazing into the flame . . . gazing . . . picturing in her mind Tyron's face, the scry stone in Master Halfrid's office—

And got nothing but a black wall.

She couldn't scry.

She'd been warded.

o0o

Tyron leaned against his desk, staring at the neat stacks of papers as though he'd never seen any of them before.

"Tyron?"

He looked up. Orin stood in the doorway, the lamplight picking out highlights in her silver hair. But her face was in shadow.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

He raised his hands, about to rub them through his hair, thought of Wren's laughing about that habit of his, and lowered them to the table. "Yes. No. I don't know." Up came the hands again and he scratched his scalp vigorously, not caring if it made his hair into a bird nest. It looked like a bird nest anyway, no matter what he did. Not that he cared. If scratching would just make his brain work better . . . "Wren scryed me a week ago. Said everything was fine, but something she started to say has bothered me since."

Orin opened her hand. "Yet you say she's safe?"

"That's what she said. She added something about Falin, our mage in Hroth Falls, but she didn't finish it."

Orin was always patient and careful and listened with all her attention. "What do you fear?" she asked.

"I wish I knew! She seemed to be accusing me of making a remark about Falin's looks — but even Falin used to joke about all the ink stains on her hands and on her cheeks and ears and even in her hair when she'd accidentally put her pens or brushes behind her ear. I thought of that when I did my weekly check with the mages a couple nights ago, and there was Falin, just like usual. Ink-stains and all. And she told me just what

I expected to hear, that Wren had been there, feasted

right royally, next morning set off on her way to the harbor, just as she was supposed to."

"So the problem isn't there?"

Tyron sighed. "I wish I knew. Maybe it's just—" He scratched his head again, almost defiantly. "Maybe it's just left over from other worries."

"Master Halfrid?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. I guess I'm not worried about Master Halfrid, though I admit I don't like not hearing from him. But he can take care of himself far better than I can take care of myself. I guess I am worried about why he's gone so long."

Tyron sighed, remembering Halfrid saying as he packed his books, One missing ally could be an accident, but two is suspicious, and three is a disaster. Tyron had asked, Why go? Why can't the Council send someone else? And Master Halfrid replied, There is no one else, don't you see? We are spread far too thin, thanks to the troubles down in the south. These mages were our allies in the war, and we did promise return aid if they had problems. Their kings have called us, and I have to go.

But none of this matter could be spoken aloud, except to other masters. So Tyron said, "Halfrid is not my main concern. Just one of them."

Orin pursed her lips, then said in a soft voice, "The queen?"

Tyron sighed. "She won't talk to me. For the first time. We always used to talk. Yes, and we argued.

Yelled, even. But we talked. Now she just gives me that court laugh and invites me, ever so politely, to every court function. Every one, but as a challenge, more than because she wants to see me." He added in a rush, "You're a female, and her age. You couldn't talk to her, could you?"

Orin looked down at her work-roughened hands. "I fear she doesn't like me."

Tyron stared. "What?"

"Maybe it's my Lirwani village, our independent attitudes. We're not like the Meldrithi. Or maybe it's my lowly background—"

"No, no. Never think that. Teressa has never cared about rank. She will be the first to tell you she spent a lot of her childhood in an orphanage, learning to sweep rooms and sew her own clothes. That's where she and Wren first met, and Wren hasn't any noble blood, it turns out, but that never made the least bit of difference to Teressa."

"Then maybe I remind her of someone else, but I really think the only person she would talk to would be Wren," Orin said.

Tyron picked up his pen then threw it down again. "Yes. You're right. And Wren's gone—and I sent her away. I wonder if that's going to be yet another mistake of mine?"

Orin said quickly, "You have not made mistakes."

"Oh, haven't I? I sure did about this Hawk business.

I am beginning to feel that I should have pressured Teressa to invite him, just so she'd turn me down!" Tyron picked up his pen and tossed it down again. "Never mind. I shouldn't talk on like this, except you've been there. You've seen it all."

Orin bowed her head, hiding her expression. "The queen is very kind about inviting us students to the picnics and parties." Then she looked up, her tone shifting to everyday practicality. "That reminds me. Master Kalig sent me up to tell you the second year students are ready to try their first shape-changes. Will you come, or should he postpone? It is quite late in the day, but he promised them."

Tyron swung around and peered through his window at the twilit garden. The trees hid the grassy circle where the mage students would be gathered, with plenty of space and air. Halfrid had been very definite about the fact that Tyron must attend those first attempts. Transformation magic of any kind was complicated and dangerous. Orin's own background made shape-changing easier than usual, which was why she was assisting in that class, but she was not advanced enough to help oversee the students' first spells.

"I'll come—"

"Master Tyron!" A first year student flung himself inside the door, gasping, his eyes round. "Master Kial.

Sent me. Special visitor in the parlor. Wants to see you at once. It's a duke," the boy added.

Tyron sighed, glancing up at Orin, who gave him a slight smile. "I know. Postpone," she said.

"First thing in the morning. Promise. And a free evening from studies tonight," Tyron said.

Orin vanished in one direction, and Tyron followed the first year student back down the hall to the front of the school. The boy flung open the door to the parlor where they received the rare non-magical visitors that came to the School.

There Kial stood uneasily, rolling his eyes in relief when Tyron stepped inside. "His grace insisted on an interview now," Kial said, his voice carefully even.

"Go ahead and return to your class, Kial," Tyron said. "Thanks."

Kial signaled to the watching boy, who followed reluctantly, with many backward glances.

As soon as they were gone Tyron shut the door. He set his back against it and turned to his visitor, who had taken the single good chair in the room.

Garian Rhismordith had been Duke since the death of his father at the end of the war. He stood up, his long gold embroidered velvet court tunic glowing richly in the fading light from the window. He was taller than Tyron, thin but strong, his narrow features tight not with anger but some more complex expression.

"I know it's an interruption," he said without any polite preamble. "But I've got to talk to one of you. Halfrid is away, so you're it."

Once they'd been enemies, during childhood when they'd had the luxury of disliking people on their own side. Garian had been changed by his experiences in the war; Teressa relied on him now, having made him head of the Scarlet Guard in his father's place. Not just because of his rank, but because he'd earned it.

"Teressa," Garian said, "has seen fit to propose a midnight picnic on the lake, next Two Moons Night."

"What?"

"Boats. Music across the water. Mage fireworks — I'm sure you'll hear about that part soon enough."

"And?" Tyron said.

"And Hawk Rhiscarlan is her partner in her boat. Alone. Just the two of them. He tricked her into it. Wager. Said she was afraid. She rose to the bait like a flying fish."

Tyron sank down into the wooden chair with a sigh that was more like a groan.

"That's about how I feel." Garian gave him a bleak smile. "She won't listen to me, so I thought I'd better come to you."

Tyron grimaced.

Garian's thin cheeks reddened. "Look," Garian protested. "I know we've had our differences in the past—"

Tyron raised a hand. "Save it, Garian." He spoke without thinking, and Garian, to his credit, did not bridle or even frown at the lack of courtesy title, as once he would have done. Tyron said, "Never mind the past. Here's the truth—she won't talk to me either. Not about him."

"Do you trust him?"

Tyron pointed at the window, streaming with rain. "Not as far as I can spit into that wind," he said, using one of Wren's old orphanage phrases. How he wished she were here now!

Garian crossed his arms. "Then we'll have to prepare for trouble, is all." He snorted. "Yes, you're probably thinking of my disasters in the past, but I've learned a few things since then. And Hawk might not be aware of it. At least we've got plenty of time to get ready. I'll place some of the best scouts in the Scarlet Guard around the lake, and have them patrol it beforehand so they really know the terrain. That night I'll have a host in place. Horses, boats, swords, everything, so if he's of a mind to make off with her he won't get far."

Tyron said, "But he's also a mage."

"That's your end," Garian said, rising.

"True. We'll use our free time between now and Two Moons Night to ward the lake, and maybe plant a few little surprises of our own." Our free time. What free

time? "Thanks for the warning, your grace." This time he remembered the title.

Garian raised a hand in the duelist's acknowledgement of a hit. Tyron moved away from the door, and Garian laid his hand on the latch, then he paused and said over his shoulder, "If there's anything you think I should know, send a runner, either to my rooms in the palace or at the Scarlet Guard barracks. I promise they'll have immediate access."

Tyron nodded. "Same with us here. I'll be sure to tell Halfrid on his return."

Garian left, his long cloak billowing behind him.

Eight

So I'm on my own, then, Wren thought as she looked down at the strewn contents of her knapsack.

At least her magic book hadn't been stolen. Master Falstan had told the students her first year that traveling mages always disguised their magic books, and the most successful disguises were carefully constructed illusions of really boring subjects.

Was Connor's note still in it? Her heart thumped as she opened the book, and there was the note. Then she sat back on her heels in relief.

She still felt a little silly bringing that old, much-unfolded-and-refolded note he'd written so long ago, the morning of her Basics test. There was Connor's handwriting, slanty, hasty in lettering, just a funny poem about mages and turtles. But it had made her laugh then, and it made her smile now, as she brushed her fingers slowly over the letters his own hand had formed.

Wren had three other treasures besides the note: an embroidered sash Queen Astren had given her during her first stay in Cantirmoor; a crumpled sketch Wren's mother had made of Wren as a baby before she was

killed as a caravan guard; a hair ornament from Tess. Teressa had given her lots of beautiful things since then, but that plain clip, with its straggling, inexpertly painted flowers, she'd made herself, not long after Wren and the boys had rescued Teressa from that horrible Andreus, then King of Senna Lirwan.

She'd only brought Connor's poem, which could be tucked into the book.

She looked at the closely written pages, filled with abbreviations and symbols that only she understood. Some of the other magic students had scoffed at Master Falstan, saying that a single illusion over the cover should be enough, and anyone without the wit to talk themselves out of a bad situation deserved any trouble they met. But Wren had had enough adventures to know that you couldn't always talk your way out of danger.

And so she'd spent many tedious evenings casting a permanent illusion over each page, so that any hand that touched without her permission would spark the magic. What the nosey person would see would be pages and pages of notes and drawings about wild herbs and the properties of weeds. There really was such a botany book, written many years ago by a wanderer who had made books of lists of everything— trees, animals, rocks, weeds, even cloud formations. She'd used it as a model for her illusions.

Smiling, she fitted Connor's poem into the middle of the book, replaced it in her pack, tossed her pens, ink, and scraps of paper in on top of it, then folded in her extra clothes. Master Falstan had been right. Whoever had taken her scry stone had left the supposed weed book behind. She just hoped that the thief wasn't able to break the surprise spell she'd cast over the scrying stone if anyone used it without her permission.

Wren stowed her knapsack again, and leaned against the bulkhead while the water whooshed and thumped the wood on the other side. She comforted herself with the image of someone trying to use her stone to contact another thief, or villain, and getting nothing but images of pigwort, stinkweed, and popeyed toads for their pains.

Thumps and creaks broke into her thoughts. Some day watch sailors entered, yawning and exchanging quick comments in Dock Talk. Wren picked out words here and there: mostly about sleep, work, and always the weather. One of the first things she learned was how everyone was always aware of the wind.

She climbed into her hammock. So I can't talk to Tyron. But I am a journeymage, and I can still figure out the right thing to do. First thing is, not tell them I'm a mage.

I'm just going to have to find out some other way who wanted me grabbed, and why.

Until then . . . how about a few tiny spells she could perform in the galley to make her job easier? Most of them were probably things that bigger, richer ships had as a matter of course. This captain was far too parsimonious.

Wren fell asleep in the middle of concocting an unlikely string of spells that could cause the vegetables to peel themselves.

o0o

"Two weeks' run then west to sun," the sailors sang out in cadence as they hauled on their ropes.

Wren and Patka, summoned on deck at midday for this change of all the sails, peeked at the captain, who stood by the wheel behind the second mast, narrowly watching the crew.

"Two weeks east but 'ware the beast!" The sailor in front of Wren had a loud, unmusical voice, but to make up for it she bellowed the word beast.

Wren turned to Patka. "Beast?"

"Djurans," Patka said.

Of course. Far to the east and somewhat to the south of Wren's home continent lay the giant island empires of Sveran Djur and Shinja respectively. The Djuran emperor was known worldwide for his use of dangerous magic. Nobody sailed there if they could help it, though the west winds blew steadily in that direction. The Djurans had a terrible reputation, after

centuries of attempts to conquer lands on the continents to either side, attempts that were not more frequent only because they were constantly at war with the Shinjans, who were just as ferocious.

At least we're now going more or less in the right direction, Wren thought as the captain called out more orders for the changing of sails from square to fore-and-aft in order to better catch the tricky wind.

Wren knew she needed to go south and then west, far west, to get to the Summer Islands, which lay on the belt of the world. She'd worried the past few nights about just how far east this captain would travel. Wren had her magic, of course, but the only Destination she dared use from so very far away would be the one she knew so well at the Magic School. It was good to have that in case of dire emergency—but using it would also mean she'd been unsuccessful as a journeymage.

"Brace up! Brace up!" the captain bawled.

At last they were done changing the sails. Wren wiped her aching hands down her sides, and followed Patka to the hatchway. "What I can't understand is, why go east at all, and risk running into Djuran slavers, if she wanted to go south all along?"

Patka shrugged. "Wind and currents make it faster and easier," she replied. "Just as the shortest distance on land might wind through a river valley because a straight line would make you go over high mountains, taking ten times longer." Patka's brow furrowed.

Wren scrambled down the ladder after her, and dropped by her side. "Are you angry?" she asked. Has she guessed about my magic? "Something I said?"

Patka sidles furtive looks in both directions. "Not at you. Her. The captain." She jerked her thumb up toward the deck, then whispered against Wren's ear, "Danal saw the real cargo."

Sailors tramped around them, lugging thick rolls of heavier sail. Wren waited until they were gone, then put her head close to Patka's. "What? Not something dangerous, I hope."

"Not itself," Patka whispered back. They stood just outside the galley; if anyone appeared they'd have to go right in to work. "Silk! Rainbow Lake silk," she added meaningfully.

Wren pursed her lips in a soundless whistle. The silk from the Brennic Marshes was supposed to be famous all over the world. Wren knew that it was extremely expensive, so expensive only the richest courtiers could afford it. No one knew what was special about the mulberry trees around Rainbow Lake, causing the worms to spin silk that shimmered with subtle rainbow colors, just like the air above the cataracts falling into the Lake.

Wren looked at Patka. "That stuff is beautiful. Why is having it as cargo a bad thing?"

Patka groaned. "Stolen!"

The galley door opened, and Cook stood there scowling. "What took ye so long? Stop to buy a horse?"

This was an example of Cook's humor. Wren was not surprised that no one laughed at these 'jokes' except Cook.

"Get busy!" Cook pointed a ladle at the dough board.

Wren moved to the flour bag to measure out what was needed for the supper biscuits. Patka poured the dried peas in a bucket to start soaking. Cook scowled at them both, then returned to his task of rolling layers of cooked meat, garlic-simmered pepper-beans, and cheese between thin strips of corn meal. The captain and the mates would get to eat that. Everyone else got pea-and-cabbage soup and biscuits with nothing to put on them, unless you had your own pot of jelly.

Wren watched Cook out of the corners of her eyes as she pounded and kneaded the biscuit dough.

Presently Cook was done with the pepper-rolls, and got out his clashing keys to unlock the tiny supply room next to the galley, where the captain's food was kept. Wren and Patka exchanged glances, both knowing that the Cook would soon be making pastry for the captain. Ordinarily the smell of cinnamon and honey and other good spices that they wouldn't get the tiniest taste of made their stomachs growl. Cook often chased them out, giving them vegetables to peel or beans to snap while squatting on the deck outside the galley so they wouldn't pinch anything.

When Cook ordered them out, Wren scarcely waited for the door to slam before she sat on a flour bag, beans in a bowl on her lap. She whispered, "How does he know it's stolen? Are the guild seals missing?"

"He said the seals are on the trunks. Danal thinks they're fake."

"How's he know?"

Wood creaked nearby. Patka and Wren both looked around quickly, then realized it was the ship. The sound of the masts, the wind in the rigging, even the water on the hull had changed.

"Danal always said he could 'feel' magic on things like cleaning buckets. Bridges. Fire Sticks." Patka snorted as she expertly sent a long, spiraling peel flicking into the discard bowl, and picked up another yam. "Typical mage sort o' snobbery. We never figured where Danal got such notions. Our big brother used to thump him good for making that up and bragging. But now, well, I dunno. Maybe there is something to it."

Wren said carefully, "Well, some people do claim there is a kind of tingly sense to magic."

Patka grinned. "That's why they said I should tell you. You did those play-acting tricks when we sang, that day, before we got boomed. They figure someone who can do play-acting tricks might know a little. About. You know. Magic." Her voice roughened, as if

she were afraid of accusing Wren of something nasty. "Enough to see if Danal's right."

Wren sat back, relieved. "Oh, well, I might try," she said as carelessly as she could.

Patka whispered, "Danal or Thad will take you down into the hold. But if we get caught—" Her peeler gestured backward.

Over the side. Wren grimaced. "What can we do?"

Patka hunched over her vegetables, looked around furtively again, then whispered even lower, "Find out. If the seals are fake, the silk has to be stolen. The Silk Guild always puts magic on their seals. That means the Sandskeet is practically a pirate ship — "

Wren did not want to be working for pirates. "I think we should check. Then figure out what to do."

Patka ducked her head in a quick nod. "Us, too."

The door behind them opened. Cook thumped them both on the head with his ladle and snarled, "Are you going to sit out here dreaming all day?"

o0o

A series of squalls prevented them from exploring. Three days they fought their way southward against crashing green waves and cloudbursts that veered between warm deluges and sharp, short hail-storms in winds so strong that it took the entire crew to keep a single sail under control lest it rip free of its bolt-holes and even endanger its mast.

But on the fourth night the last of the squalls passed eastward in an angry purple band across the sky, leaving a cold, clean wind—what the captain, with great satisfaction, called a topsail breeze—driving them southward at so fast a pace the seawater raced down the sides of the Sandskeet in two white-foamed arches.

Lambin took his tiranthe up onto the deck and began singing the ballads that the crew liked best. Soon others joined in; almost all the day crew was on deck, mending ropes and nets and sails, or just enjoying not being cooped up below for the first time in half a week.

Wren climbed slowly to the deck, her hands wrinkly from being plunged in water for far too long before Cook finally dismissed her. She sniffed the warm twilight air and looked about the deck for a nice place to sit down, but then Thad sidled up and nudged her with his elbow.

Patka wasn't anywhere in sight, nor Danal. Wren slipped behind Thad, they drifted toward the hatch, and when everybody was singing the chorus to a rousing song the two scrambled down the hatch to the lower deck. Thad looked around, then waved Wren to the next hatchway; one more, and they were down in the hold, which smelled of rotting canvas, old cabbage, fish, and wet wood—air, Wren, thought, that probably hadn't been outside of the ship since before she was born.

It was quite dark below. Danal was waiting for them. He whispered, "All clear. This way." His fingers gripped her wrist and drew her carefully between shadow-shrouded stacks of barrels and trunks and boxes. As she passed, Wren checked the few with seals. The barrels and boxes in front all had proper seals with the magical tingle. Deeper into the hold, things were different.

Canvas covered some trunks under barrels marked "Flour" and "Peas." Each of the uncovered trunks had a big waxen seal over the lock.

Patka and the boys turned expectantly to Wren, their faces underlit by the candle. She bent to examine the seal. In pressed lettering it said Silk: Rainbow Lake, and below that a was a guild mark. It certainly looked authentic. Wren ran her fingers over the wax, and a second time. There was no tingle of magic—just the hard nubs of the wax. She straightened up, and shook her head. "Nothing," she whispered.

Danal put his finger to his lips, then the boys replaced the canvas and the barrels exactly as they'd found them.

Patka blew out her candle and stuck it in her tunic pocket, then they scrambled up the hatchway. The crew berthing forward was clear, and the gangways leading to the tiny cabins of the mates, the cook, the bosun, and the sail-maker aft. They slipped into the crew berth—to find three older sailors crouched on a low hammock at the back, passing a bottle back and forth.

Danal paid them no attention. He bent down to a coil of rope and pitched a section of it at each of them. "Now," he said in Dock Talk. "We can hear ourselves. Here's how we repair rope. You take your darner, and your yarn, see, like this."

His voice was slow, and loud. Wren noticed out of the corner of her eyes that the sailors had hidden their forbidden bottle. Patka had already explained that the captain confiscated any liquor discovered on the ship.

Wren said in an equally slow voice, "Darner? How do you hold it?"

"Like this," Thad said.

"You mean that way?" Wren asked, holding it upside down.

"No, no. Not like a peeler," Thad explained in that slow, boring voice. "See, you put your thumb there, and your fingers on this part—"

"Let's get out of here," muttered one of the sailors.

The second one shoved the bottle under his shirt, and they sloped out—probably to go down to the hold.

Danal tipped his chin toward the entry, and Thad skipped over to stand guard. Danal swiftly demonstrated the way to weave yarn in between the coils of the rope, thus strengthening it, and as soon as the girls mastered it, they began working away.

Wren said in a whisper, "How did you find it?"

Danal and Thad exchanged glances, their faces wry. Danal said, "Our dad once said, if ye get boomed, don't let 'em know ye can read."

Thad and Patka nodded.

"So they put me on t' shiftin' the cargo once we turned south. Captain wanting the cargo restowed by the stern, y'see." He demonstrated with his hand how the back of the ship would be slightly lower in the water, thus increasing the angle of the masts back into the wind. "Sail takes more wind. More speed, see," he said. "Anyhow, I wasn't really paying attention, except the way they acted when we got aft, there. We shifted everything else except those trunks, all covered up by canvas and rope. When we got near, one of the mates acted like it was a king's ransom a-lyin' right out in plain sight. So I went back to scout."

Thad nodded from the entryway. "Just like he said."

Wren and her companions worked hard, each thinking as their darning hooks wove in and out of the coils of rough rope. Water thumped against the hull, and the masts creaked overhead.

Then Wren said, "Can we report them when we land?"

Thad snorted. "Land? She'll have us locked up tight a day before we get anywhere near land."

Danal shrugged one bony shoulder up under his ear. "She don't want us runnin'. Got that much from some o' the others. See, once you've been on board long enough, she pays — but it's always pay from suspicious cargo. Tells you. So you know. If you take the pay, you're crew. If you don't, you're locked up in the hold again."

Wren wrinkled her nose. "Got it. So if you report her, you get in trouble, too?"

"'sright," Patka said. "An' it's harder to get a job, I hear tell, since you get no character chit from this kind o'captain. But if we run, we'll just go to another port. Change our names. Start as newbies. We know enough now. We'll rise fast."

"Newbie pay bein' better than no pay," Thad said.

Wren sighed. "What I want to know is, how are we almost pirates? We may as well be a pirate ship, if you ask me."

"Free trader. Corsair. Different names, not quite pirates," Danal said. "Pirates stop you on the water. Take the ship or burn it. Take you prisoner. Cap'n doesn't pirate. Buys stolen cargo, sells it to someone who doesn't mind gettin' stolen goods."

"Someone is going to figure it out," Wren said. "And I wager anything if the captain gets caught, then the laws about piracy will extend to everyone."

"How can they catch her at it? She buys the cargo from the thief, no questions. She carries it to somewhere, and sells it for a lot of money, but cheaper than Guild prices, to someone who asks no questions."

"But. When that seal is broken, there will be no magic note appearing at the guild house, so they can't track their silk. And because Rainbow silk is so rare, whoever was expecting it will contact the guild. Who will trace its route. And find their way to the thieves, especially if there is another spell put on the silk itself."

Patka scratched her head with the darner. "Wonderin' about that meself."

Danal said, "Me too. So we're caught between, don't you see?" Danal said, his whisper almost a squeak. "She might try to stay clear of good ports, with all their military guard ships, and customs cruisers, but that means pirates might be on the watch. Or, we foul the hawses of some customs cruiser, and before you know it we're all in jail, on account of that cargo."

Patka groaned. "That stinks!"

Danal leaned in. "So what do we do?"

Voices echoed down from the gangway.

Thad muttered in a quick jumble of words, "I dunno. But at least we do know. Watch. Listen. And first sight o' land, over the side we go, even if it means a swim. An' leavin' our dunnage behind. Start over."

Wren frowned at the rope in her hands, wondering what—if anything—she ought to do. One thing for certain, it would be unfair to transfer away and leave her friends behind.

Even if they hated magicians.

Nine

"Fire!"

Gasps of fear, curses, shouts of "What?" "Where?" rose from the sleeping crew all around Wren.

She flipped out of her hammock and landed on her feet, still half asleep. Like everyone else, she thought only of the hatchway up to the deck, and safety.

But the bigger crew members shoved their way to the front, and Wren and her friends were thrust back again and again.

A hard hand smacked into Wren's nose, causing stars to flicker across her vision. She tumbled to the deck, shocked into wakefulness. She could smell a faint tinge of burning wood, but saw no fire. Nor was there smoke. She thought immediately of her knapsack, and as the scramble at the hatchway was still going on (slowed by everyone pulling on one another's backs in order to get up first) she crawled back to the forepeak on hands and knees, and plunged her hands into her knapsack. She could bear to lose everything in it but her magic book and her Connor note.

So she pulled the book out and shoved it down the front of her tunic, then retied her rope-sash to keep it in

place. Next she yanked her winter tunic over everything to hide the contours of the book.

The last of the grownups clambered up the ladder. Patka glanced back, her face white and strained in the changing light from the swinging lamp. "Hurry, Wren. What are you doing!"

"Put on my extra tunic," Wren said.

Patka shook her head, and Wren scrambled up after her.

Wren glimpsed tall masts and rigging from another ship hauling up on the weather side just before a fist in her back knocked her flat to the deck. Feet thundered by, one stepping a hand's breadth from her nose. Somewhere the captain was bawling orders, a stream of words mixed with curses from which Wren understood only "The pumps! The pumps!"

Wren rolled, got to her hands and knees, squinting up against billows of smoke. Tiny arcs of yellow light flew overhead: arrows. Fire-arrows, all landing in the sails.

The deck erupted in noise—yells, shouts, the sudden clash and clang of arms — as a pirate ship angled toward the bow of the Sandskeet. The mainsail yard on the pirate's foremast tangled into the Sandskeet's rigging.

The entire ship lurched, masts creaking. Everyone staggered, and some fell down.

"Gotta do something." Wren's voice was lost in the noise of groaning timbers, shouting pirates, and the cries and yells of the defenders. She looked around wildly. Arrows! Aiming at us!

How to defend against pirates? Illusion? What kind? Arrows. Wood—feathers. Yes, feathers —

Wren gabbled, her voice trembling. Images, magic, and ideas skittered like frightened mice in her mind as she tried to race through two spells, one for wood, and one for feathers, anything to distract those pirates who were putting arrows to real bows, and pulling them back—

Wrong, wrong, her mind squeaked, but she gabbled faster, forced all her flailing energy into the messy spell, then gasped "Nafat!" just as someone thumped her in the back. Once again she went sprawling.

This time she heard the cackle and squawk of angry chickens, and then harsh laughter.

Chickens?

She got to her hands and knees, peering up past pain-blurred eyes, to see both pirates and crew members recoil, some of them guffawing, as feathers flew around fat, cackling chickens.

But the chickens were not real, they were badly made illusion, and they popped out of existence again, sending feathers drifting downward before they too winkled into oblivion.

"How did I manage that?" Wren moaned, stumbling to her feet.

The pirates began shooting again.

Arrows hissed and zipped. A few struck crew members in arms and legs, some clattered over the deck, and one thunked into the main mast not far from Wren.

"Do something, do something," she keened, as a new crop of pirates picked up burning arrows and took careful aim.

First Crisis Rule! A calm and clear mind hears what must be heard—

"Sails! Sails!" the first mate roared.

— determines the immediate need—

Fire. On arrows.

I know this spell. I've done it over and over, my very first year.

A calm and clear mind—

Forcing herself to speak slowly and steadily, to focus eyes and mind, she picked the worst fire, eating its way into the mainsail. She murmured the spell for enclosure, held it . . . muttered the spell for transfer . . . and "Nafat!"

The fire flared white then sparked from the sail to the pirate's yardarm, leaving behind a smoldering hole.

One by one she transferred the fires from the Sandskeet to the pirate ship, until her vision swam from smoke and magical after-effects. One more spell . . .

yes! A barrier that would convert the incoming fire arrows to what? To leaves!

Again she started gabbling, and she felt the magic leaching away. Despair. I know this spell, I know it.

A calm and clear mind!

Calm and clear? Who am I fooling?

No, don't give in, don't give up.

Wood. Focus. Alter the wood. You know that. It's a second year spell— a calm and clear mind—

Deep breath. Speaking steadily now, her gaze focused on the arrows being pulled back overhead, she intoned the well-known string of spells, and—

"Nafat." Snap! An instant of sparkle in the air—and the spell held. Pirates howled as the arrows in their hands shifted into leafy twigs. Some shot the arrows anyway, just to see them spin and tumble through the air to clatter harmlessly on the deck, or sploosh into the water. Others flung the arrow-leaves down into the ocean between the ships, wiping their hands in a desperate attempt to avoid the spell somehow transforming them.

Dizziness threatened to overwhelm Wren. She staggered to one of the barrels holding rainwater, and dipped her head in. The coldness shocked her mind back into alertness. She lifted her head, gasping, and flung her soggy braids back to thump against her shoulder blades.

What now?

At the bow, pirates still tried to board despite the crew's desperate attempts to stop them. On the pirate ship, a slew of pirates balanced on a lower boom, gripping ropes running up to one of the topsail yards. They were going to swing over, swords and knives at the ready.

"Rope," Wren said. Twisted hemp — back to its plant shape!

A calm and clear mind—focus, focus —

One ... two .. .three ... She muttered the spells, and watched in relief as horrified pirates, halfway over on their ropes, felt their hands sliding down the slick stems of green plants. They fell into the sea between the two ships, yowling in rage and surprise. Then came a series of mighty splashes.

One more transfer spell. She knew exactly where everything was in the galley.

Easy, you know this one. Focus. A calm and clear mind

She could picture the big corked jug of ground red pepper on its shelf, clear as a Destination. She transferred it up, and then, with a quick mutter and a wave of her hand, let the wind blow it in the pirates' faces. A cacophony of coughs, chokes, curses, and wails of dismay rose.

"Boom 'em off!" the captain bawled, running down the length of her vessel. "Set sail!"

Wren looked up at the pirates' mainsail and rigging. Her little fires burned nicely. She muttered the wind spell again, putting the last of her effort into it, and a gust of wind caught at her flames, scattering them up into the topsails and top-gallants, as horrified pirates watched in dismay.

"Magic," someone said.

"They've got a mage!" a pirate yelled.

Everyone on both ships looked around. Though her head swam dizzily from reaction, Wren also looked, though turning her head that made her head ache worse.

The firelight on both ships revealed the pirates packing on sail as fast as they could in order to get away. Wren stumbled the few steps to the hatch, and eased herself down, as clumsy as her very first day.

Not to the crew cabin, she thought hazily. Even though it was still night, and her sleep shift, she did not want anyone talking to her.

Down, down, until she reached the hold. She felt her way back to the illegal cargo, and lay down on one of trunks with its extra layers of canvas.

And then despair smacked over her spirit like an old, moldy wet blanket. How close they came to total defeat while she stood there making stupid mistakes! Three spells. Three stupid, elementary spells in the time Mistress Leila, or Tyron, would have done a dozen—twenty—all correct the first time. Tyron would

not have produced squawking chickens as his first effort in an emergency.

Journeymage . . .

Who am I trying to fool?

A calm and clear mind.

She could almost heard Mistress Leila's precise, unemotional voice. All right, so you made a lot of mistakes. What did you learn, besides the reminder that you need to get back into practicing every day?

I need to . . . Wren's exhausted mind drifted into a jumble of images and what-ifs. Her eyes closed gratefully for what seemed like just a few breaths, but flew open when she heard thumping and then a distant wail.

She sat up. Her mouth was dry, her body sticky with sweat. She must have slept, though it didn't feel like very long. Something was going on topside. Probably nothing good, and here she was with—

She ran her hand over the canvas shrouding one of the silk trunks. An idea made her forget the noises above. During her second year as a magic student, she and her classmates had learned how to make these seals, as many magic students went on to work for guilds and scribes. It was boring, exacting sort of magic, but necessary. Wren frowned, wishing she could pull out her book and review the lesson.

Step by step, Mistress Leila had said from the first lesson. The most difficult spells were accomplished the

same way as the simple ones, step by step. You just had more steps for this sort of work, but if you knew your Basics, and thought about how each must lead to the next, you could usually remember the right way.

She dug under the layers of canvas, feeling about until her fingers encountered the false seal. With the edge of one nail she pried just a bit of the waxen seal away from the wood. Working it with her fingers to make it pliable, she started whispering the spells: the identification spell, the encapsulation of words, then planting the spell into the wax . . . After that, the spell that would release the word-spell . . .The transfer spell. All easy because she was working with such a tiny corner of the seal. Isolate, encapsulate, press the wax down—and seal it all together into an enchantment—

"Nafat!" she whispered, and felt that inward flash, like sunlight on water, that indicated the enchantment had held.

The fake seal was now real—but the magic when the seal broke would send the trunks right back to their makers. And wouldn't the Sandskeet's captain be surprised!

Wren worked her way to the back of the pile and uncovered another trunk. This time the process was much faster. She did a third, just to test her speed, but at the end felt that warning buzz again, the lightheaded tiredness that meant too much magic done.

She sank down with her back to the trunk, then stiffened when she heard more stamping, and a high wail that sounded a lot like someone young. Someone like Danal, in fact.

Ten

Wren fumbled her way forward, barking her shins, sides, and forearms against more corners then it seemed possible the entire world could contain, much less one small cargo area. She climbed up to the next deck. In the light of a single swaying lamp, a great many crew-members stood on the ladder, faces lit by slivers of golden lamplight, all straining upward. Listening. Their shadows rippled back and forth against the bulkheads.

"She is not!" Danal's voice carried down into the hot, stuffy deck. "We hate mages!"

Uh oh. Wren ducked back down, and held onto the ladder as she envisioned her hammock. There it hung on the crew deck. She kept its image firmly in mind and then leaned sideways, one leg outstretched. Whatever posture you transferred in you appeared in, and she didn't want to transfer into a hammock standing upright.

Hold the image—and transfer! Thump. Right onto the hammock, but half in and half out. She felt herself swinging dangerously. She flattened herself hastily, and when the hammock stopped its swing, she peeped

over the edge. Another crowd of crew members pressed up against the ladder, listening.

Danal's voice was louder now. "She isn't! I tell you. No one in our family—no one in our village knows any mage. If we did, would we be here? No! We'd be livin' like princes — " The voice abruptly stopped, and was followed by an enraged, "Ow! It's the truth!"

"That's right," someone muttered. "Beat it out of the brat. We all oughta be livin' like princes."

Wren had heard enough. No one suspected her. It was Patka! Why her?

The pepper. Wren grimaced. Once again, she hadn't thought ahead to the results of her actions. The cook probably found the jug empty, and everyone must have smelled the pepper on the air when Wren used it against the pirates. Patka was the Cook's mate. Wren was only the stupid helper who couldn't speak Dock Talk. They thought Patka was a secret mage.

Wren sighed. Now what?

Think ahead. With a calm, clear mind.

Wren checked her tunic. The magic book lay securely there. She hefted her pack onto her hammock, which made a kind of rough Destination, just in case. Then she flipped out and joined the crowd at the ladder. "Let me by."

The sailors laughed, and one waved Wren back.

Wren's heart began to race. "If you don't, I'll turn you all into tree stumps."

One or two sailors reacted as if she'd stuck pins into them, but the rest scoffed, or pretended to be afraid. She whispered, snapped her fingers — and a cold bit of mage-light appeared.

They jumped away as if a snake had bit them. She pushed past, leaving the mage-light to burn there in midair, and climbed up the ladder. Whispering broke out behind her.

"The cook's helper?"

"I thought she was smart as a rock!"

"Maybe a wizard in disguise?"

She ignored them and walked down the companionway, where she heard the captain clearly. "Well, then, boy, we'll just have to hang her from the main yard by her heels, and see if she suddenly finds magic and will do the simple things I asked for. If she don't, well, guess we were wrong, eh?"

Wren paused. Think! Clear mind—

Two spells. Get them ready, yes. That's right. Two good spells, ready to use.

She shut her eyes and concentrated, whispering steadily, and entered the cabin, interrupting the cruel laughter and taunts of the mates. In the middle of the crowded cabin, Patka sat on a stool with her hands tied behind her, a dirty rag binding her mouth, and a knife held at her neck by the first mate. He was a big, strong, grizzled man who strongly resembled the captain.

Two others held Danal, one at each arm. His face was red, and tears of helpless rage dripped down his face.

"Let him go," Wren said.

Attention snapped her way.

The first mate snorted. "It's the land-clod."

The captain said, "You make up some story to cover your pal here?" She jerked a thumb toward Patka.

Wren said, "I'm the mage. You have two heartbeats to free Patka. Or you're all . . ." She sorted desperately for a good word in Dock Talk, then grinned. "Barnacles."

One of the mates holding Danal dropped his arm and lunged at her, but she'd prepared for that. She pointed at him, finishing the illusion spell she'd set up, and as fake green fire whooshed out of her finger, she muttered the heat spell. It only lasted the space of a breath—heat was very hard to sustain—but the quick sense of burn and the bright, poison green illusion of fire were enough to send the captain and mates backing away in haste, leaving Danal to drop to the deck, and Patka sitting alone on her stool, her eyes wide with incredulity.

"I got rid of those pirates. Then went to take a nap," Wren said, knowing that she had to sound really, really strong, or they would rush her again. "What's all this noise?"

The captain said, slow and wary, "If you're a mage, why'd you let yourself get boomed?"

Why indeed? Wren could tell the truth, but she sensed that she only had a little time before they would act. Above all she wanted Patka to understand what magery really was.

So she said, "None of your nosing. Got my own cruise.'' Cruise being the closest she could come to affairs. "Needed to learn to hand, reef, steer. Learned it." She pointed at Patka. "If you thought she got you safe from pirates, why treat her bad?"

"Didn't kill her outright, did I?" the captain retorted, her face sullen, but her eyes afraid. A vein beat in her temple.

Wren said, "Can you get a new sail by wishing it?"

They stared, looking confused, until the first mate said, "Of course not. But you can."

"No," Wren said. "Magic makes things same way as hands do. Gather the flax, work it, spin it. One thread, two threads, three. Weave it. It's the same work. Just a different way."

They all showed various expressions of disbelief.

"Magic is like . . . like food. You eat food, you can work. If you work and don't eat, you get weak and can't work. If you eat too much and don't work, you get sick. Magic has . . ." She turned to Danal. "How do you say balance in Dock Talk?"

He whispered it, his expression so unhappy, so betrayed, she felt her insides wring.

"Balance," she repeated the new word. "Use too much magic, and the entire world gets sick. Good mages don't have silk. No palaces. No gold. They make bridges. They make spells to keep the streets clean."

She was going to add something about guild seals, but remembered her surprise down in the hold, and hastily said, "Water cleaning spells. Protections. Things making life for everyone better. Not just kings. Unless you are a bad sorcerer. Like Sveran Djur. And they aren't as safe as they think. They make the world sick, and the Mage Council will come after them."

The captain and first mate stirred impatiently, and Wren realized they were getting over their fear. She knew if they acted, it would not be to her benefit.

So she finished the second spell she'd prepared, a partial stone spell, just enough to keep them all in place. She made mysterious signs while whispering the last two words, and felt the heavy pull of magic within her that meant the spells held. But the cost was a return of that lightheaded buzzing.

The captain and the mates stilled, their eyes looking wide and scared. The knife clattered to the deck.

Wren knew the spell would not last long, so she had to be quick. She could rest later.

Because the spell was only partial they were able to talk, though with difficulty. "Why. Do. That." The captain spoke as though under water, slurry and slow.

"Because I know what was coming next," Wren said, picking up the knife. "From the threats you made to Danal, you were going to force Patka to do bad spells, weren't you? You'd like to do that to me."

The captain's eyes flickered and her mouth opened as if to deny, then shut. Once again Wren felt that inward prickle of alarm, just like the night they got boomed, and she remembered that whisper in the alleyway, "That's the one."

Wren stared at the captain, sensing that there was some other plan here, but she decided not to waste time and effort trying to find it out. The captain would just lie. Better to get away, then any nasty plans wouldn't matter.

Meanwhile, Patka finally got the gag loose. "Not you," she cried.

Wren sighed. "It's true. Come on. Outside."

Danal had picked himself up from the deck. He and Patka followed Wren outside into bleak morning light under a gray-streaked sky. Faces peered from the rim of the main hatchway, and once again Wren sent out her fake green fire. The faces dropped hastily away, and she ran forward and kicked the hatch cover over, then sat on it.

Other than the lookout up on the mainmast and the young crew man at the wheel, everyone had gone below to nose out what was going on in the cabin. Only one sail had been set, just enough to keep the ship from wallowing. The mate of the watch had been one of the ones holding Danal.

Wren looked at the boy at the helm, who stayed where he was, his mouth round with shock.

"I have to leave," Wren said to Danal and Patka, in their home language. "Otherwise she'll be trying to make me do bad magic, or whatever else she's got planned."

They just stood side by side, staring at her.

Wren tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.

"I just don't know what to do about you. If you don't want to come with me, I don't know how I can make sure she won't do anything bad to you."

Patka muttered, "You can make one of your spells to really turn her into a barnacle."

Wren said, "Didn't you listen? I can't do that. It wastes magic, and it isn't right."

"Leaving a pirate is right?" Patka asked, crossing her arms.

"That's for harbor masters to decide, or governors. It's a matter of law, see? We don't go around turning people into things."

Danal gave her a wistful smile. "You could just pretend to. Tell her if she hurts us, she'll turn into a barnacle overnight."

Wren sighed. "You don't want to come with me, do you." It wasn't quite a question.

"You could turn me into a princess," Patka replied. "But you won't."

Wren's eyes stung. "There's so much wrong in that,

I guess I could talk for a year but you'd never listen."

But they were listening. So stop feeling sorry for yourself, and talk. "Magic doesn't change the world. Not magic in balance. Magic only makes the world a little easier to live in, for all living things. Not just people. I can't turn you into a princess. I can't turn myself into a princess." Wren thought of Teressa, and the responsibilities that had come too soon, too many, and far too hard. "Besides, being a princess isn't as fun as you think."

Patka said rudely, "You would know, of course."

Wren shook her head, her throat tightening. She'd lost a friend over magic, of all things.

It was time to go.

She turned to Danal. "Will you help me boom down the gig? I think I can sail it myself." Wren pointed at the cabin. "They'll come out of that stone spell soon, and I want to be gone. She won't threaten you anymore. I'm the target, now that they know what I am."

Danal moved aft, to where the captain's gig was suspended on davits over the stern. Two could control the ropes to lower the little boat to the water.

Patka suddenly joined them, and without a word the three worked, until the gig splashed safely in the water. Wren climbed down one of the ropes and dropped into the stern sheets next to the tiller, then peered back up at the two at the rail, sad, frustrated, and angry all at once.

"The real reason we never tell anyone we are mages," she called, "is because the first thing people do is think of themselves. It's their greed, not our power, that keeps us silent. Just think of that next time Cook raps your skull, Patka. Remember he rapped mine, too."

Danal cut in, after one last anguished glance at his sister, "I'm coming with you. And I think we ought to let Thaddy have a choice. And Lambin, seeing he came on board with us."

"Where is he, anyway?" Wren asked.

"Cook is holding him in the pantry," Patka spoke, less angrily now. "Lamb is probably stuck at the back of the crowd below decks. I'm sure nobody would let him by."

Danal peered over the stern rail at Wren. "How long are we safe?"

"Not much longer. That spell is very hard, even a partial one, and once it starts to fade off, it'll fade fast.

But tell the others if they touch you, they'll turn into barnacles. It's not true, but it might keep them off you for a little bit."

Both heads vanished. Wren closed her eyes, pictured her knapsack, and transferred it, though the cost was a worsening of the headache throb. She had done far too much magic, after too long without practice. She needed rest, and soon. But if she remained alone, she would have to find the strength to step the mast on this gig, and then handle both sail and tiller.

A clatter at the stern rail above—one, two, three, then four heads popped over the rail above—the last one being red-haired Lambin.

"I ain't stayin' with no pirate." Lambin slung his tiranthe over his back, next to his gear. "Even if she calls herself a free trader."

The four scrambled down the ropes, each holding bundles and rolled items. Patka had hooked over her elbow one of the water-cleaning buckets from the galley. Thad struggled with an enormous basket that Wren recognized from having to carry special food to the captain's cabin.

"They believed that bit about barnacles." Danal flicked a grin Wren's way. "So we got us some stores." He pointed to the neatly packed trunk along the bottom of the gig.

"Good." Wren sighed. "Listen, there's something you should know before you go with me. You

remember when we were first boomed, in Hroth Harbor?"

Four heads nodded.

"Well, when those people attacked, I heard one of them say something about my stripey hair." Wren flicked one of her streaky braids. "It means they were looking for me. I, um, I do have enemies. Though I can't imagine who knew about my trip, or would be after me. But I thought you should know."

They looked at one another.

Lambin was the first to speak. "So some enemy paid to have you boomed. That's no reason to stay with someone next thing to a pirate."

Danal nodded violently, and Thad sighed with relief, then crouched down at the bottom of the gig to grip the mast stored next to the trunk. Patka just stood, scowling down at the water, arms crossed.

Wren said, "My last question is, will they chase us once we sail away?"

"Not with all that pirate damage still to be fixed," Thad said, as he, Lambin, and Danal pulled up the mast, and worked to step it.

Patka opened the trunk and pulled out the two sails that were laid atop a rolled tent. Wren joined her, now so used to bending sail that she didn't have to think about it. As they unfolded the main sail, Patka looked across at Wren, cheeks flushed. "Danal says I'm being a snob. Not about princesses and like that. About magic. That so?"

"Snobs are never willing to listen." Wren smiled, not hiding her relief. "You were."

Eleven

Teressa paused on the landing above the ballroom and looked down.

Duchess Carlas Rhismordith stood fanning herself in the center of the vast marble-floored chamber as she scowled at the servants putting the finishing touches to the decorations, then at the door, where she was expecting her son Garian.

The hot, breathless air had felt thundery for the past three days. Clear, bright sky and hot winds were not the weather for a ball, yet the Duchess had insisted on holding one in honor of the birth of Queen Rhis's first child, Mordith—the ancestor of the Rhismordith family. Teressa leaned on a cool marble balustrade, lifting her face to the weak breeze ruffling up the stairway. It was too hot for a ball, and everyone seemed out of sorts.

Teressa knew that she was. The others could blame their bad moods on the weather if they wanted, but she knew the real cause for her own: everyone was far too busy minding Teressa's business, unasked, and she didn't want to listen to any of them.

She glanced at herself in the long framed mirror in the wall. The mirror was an old one, its glass dark and blurry. Her features were just discernable above the severe gown of sheer pale blue layers trimmed only with silver leaves along the neck and sleeves; unexpectedly Teressa was reminded of her mother.

How that hurt! Grief never seems to go away. Teressa glowered at her own image in the mirror. It just hides, and leaps out to claw at your heart when you least expect it.

But feeling sorry for herself would not bring her mother back. She forced herself away from the mirror, and down the last of the broad marble steps.

Duchess Carlas waited, her posture stiff. Her sharp nose, already elevated, now twitched. Teressa hated it when her aunt did that, as if she smelled something disgusting.

"Good evening, Aunt Carlas."

The Duchess looked Teressa over from top to toe, then her thin lips creased in the condescending smile that Teressa also hated. "A fine gown. You can wear blue, unfashionable color though it is."

Anger burned behind Teressa's ribs. As always, she clenched her jaw against a retort, because her mother had always said, Kindness never makes anything worse, and can often make things better.

Hawk's mocking smile flashed in memory. He'd said about Garian, Someone should tell him to avoid red.

Unless he wants to look like a skinny-legged, poke-nosed rooster.

Teressa had quoted her mother's line, to which Hawk retorted, If that was true, where is your mother now?

That made Teressa angry—everything made her angry, including this impossible heat. She gave in to impulse, just once. "Then I'll make it a fashion."

The Duchess's arched brows shot up toward her hairline, and her lips pressed into a line. Then she said in a measured voice, "I wish Mirlee could wear that color. Or that style. But she is formed like me.

Delicate."

Like a broomstick. Teressa could hear it in Hawk's sardonic tone, but she kept that thought to herself. She was not going to emulate Hawk's irritating habit of sarcasm, and she would certainly admit to no one that she'd chosen this gown because Wren had admired it. How she missed Wren!

The Duchess snapped her fan open and fluttered it. "Well, never mind. Mirlee isn't here. And isn't likely to be, not until our Rhismordith land recovers. She's as well where she is." She glared as her son Garian hastened in, his crimson brocade over-robe floating out behind him.

Like a rooster tail, Teressa thought. No, she wouldn't say that, either.

"Sorry, mother." Garian gave the Duchess a respectful nod and Teressa a proper bow. "Things to see to."

"You ought to remember to be on time," the Duchess scolded. "Your father always was. Always. He said it was part of a duke's responsibility to set the standard, and others will follow."

"M'father had about fifty more servants than I do," Garian retorted, shrugging. "Some things this duke has to see to himself."

His mother gave a delicate sniff. "Go on up to the gallery, and see that the musicians are ready. Teressa and I must stay here by the entry, as the guests are due any moment."

As if waiting for her signal the steward entered, thumped his staff on the ground, and began announcing the arrivals.

A flurry of conversation and laughter preceded the first guests. The women dressed in filmy layers, some in many colors, some only one. The men wore long, loose embroidered robes over tunic-shirts made of silk, or lawn, or very fine linen—all except Hawk, who arrived alone, dressed as always in flawlessly fitted black and gold.

Duchess Carlas gasped. "I did not invite him," she whispered. "I deliberately did not invite him. He'll not rule here, and so I meant to show—"

Anger burned even hotter through Teressa. So that was why her aunt had insisted on having this stupid ball, and then pretended all that nonsense about Teressa sharing the hostess duties to show family unity.

Hawk strolled through the middle of the guests, apparently unaware of the whispers behind fluttering fans as they parted to let him pass.

He stopped before Teressa and the Duchess. After the faintest of smiles he executed a perfect bow, equal to equal. Then he held out his hand to the Duchess, as if daring her to put hers into his.

Every guest was watching.

The Duchess stiffened. But manners won; she laid her thin, wrinkled hand on his strong, callused palm.

He bent his glossy black head and kissed her hand.

Well, after that, it would have been too awkward to demand why he was there. He knew it, the Duchess knew it, and he knew they knew; Teressa was almost dizzy with bitter laughter.

He stepped back to make way for the guests standing behind him, cut a brief, sardonic smile in Teressa's direction, then sauntered away to the cooled drinks.

All the ladies appeared to be watching him over fans, or cups, or in groups. Some of the lords as well, with various expressions of disgust. There was no doubt that Hawk stood out in a room. And further, he didn't care. So far he had never flirted with any of them, he just danced with Teressa a few times, then left.

He's here for me. She felt that shivery lightning in her bones.

A step and a rustle close by broke her reverie. The newcomer was Garian's old friend Perd, who had gotten quite tall and broad. Perd was escorting his cousin Merelda. Teressa forced herself to bow, smile, greet, murmur polite nothings, and turn to the next.

As soon as the last guest had arrived and the enormous carved doors were closed, Teressa walked away to get something cool to drink.

Hawk fell in step beside her. She was aware of him before she saw him — something about the leisurely ring of his heels on the floor, somehow an arrogant sound. Characteristic. She met his dark, appreciative gaze. Tingling flame sparked through her nerves.

"Why did you come?" she asked abruptly. "It's so hot, and everyone is cross."

"I came because I wasn't asked." He grinned when she couldn't prevent a tiny gasp. "Or did you expect me to say something gallant about not being able to keep away from you?" He laughed. "But you already know that, and I never repeat myself."

She snapped her fan open. "You knew my aunt would never commit a breach of manners."

He snorted. "Someone has to stand up to that old woman. It's past time." At her frown he said, "Don't try to tell me you don't hate her."

"I never liked her when I was younger. But we get along all right now. And you would have looked pretty stupid if she'd summoned the guard to have you thrown out."

"They would have looked stupid if they'd tried.

And you would not have liked their blood spilled all over your nice marble floor." Hawk gave a soft, derisive laugh. "You hated Carlas Rhismordith when you were younger, and you hate her now."

"You do not know what I think."

He shrugged. "If I'd given in to her little ploy and stayed away—so very polite—all the rest of these fools would have followed right behind her, having breakfasts and games and gambling parties and balls and masquerades — and not an invitation for the wicked Duke of Rhiscarlan. Don't tell me it isn't true."

Teressa shook her head. "If you were more polite to them, maybe that would change."

Hawk glanced across the ballroom at Garian.

Teressa followed his look. Garian was tall and thin. The red he loved made his gold-tinged skin look sallow. He had his mother's sharp nose and his father's spade chin. His partner, Darla Kilyan, was short and charmingly round, which called attention to his worst attributes so that he did resemble a rooster. He would never be handsome, but Teressa had come to like him. His smile was shy as Darla laughed teasingly up into his face.

"You mean to pretend Rhismordith isn't a twit?" Hawk looked around. "Speaking of twits, I notice your hound isn't here. Not high-born enough for an invite?"

"Tyron was invited, but had other things to do." Teressa resolutely kept her voice even.

Tyron had written: I made my excuses to your aunt, but you know the truth: until you can hear me again, there's no use wasting time in sitting around your palace talking to the air. I'm needed here for far too many tasks.

Teressa let some of her mounting irritation slip. "And that's the last time I'll listen to you calling him 'the hound.' I hate that. His name is Tyron. Use it."

"Or what?" Hawk retorted, still smiling. "Challenge me to a duel here on the ballroom floor? Or out behind the barracks at dawn, where Garian and Nyl and Marit used to play at swords a few years ago? He's always going to be 'the hound' to me."

Teressa turned her back and walked away. She felt hot and cold at the same time, her ears pricking as she listened for his step, but she reached the refreshment table alone. With trembling fingers she poured a cup of the fruit punch, her attention assiduously on the magic-made ice floating like an island in the center of the punch bowl. She sipped, keeping her gaze on her cup as if her future lay written in the pleasant reddish liquid. Inwardly she braced for Hawk's derisive voice, and mentally considered several possible retorts.

But when she finished the cup without hearing his voice she set it down and turned around, her fan languidly stirring the hot, stale air. Hawk had remained on the other side of the room, and not alone, either. He was talking to little Teressa Kaledd, the newest and prettiest girl in court—the one everyone was starting to call Robin, because she reminded them of a little red bird. Robin stood stiff and outraged, her face half-turned away. But she didn't move.

Several other courtiers drifted near, obviously listening, even though they pretended not to — both male and female.

Teressa, for once alone, for once not the center of attention, watched how, without expending any effort whatsoever, Hawk commanded the attention of the entire room.

He said something. Robin shook her bright red ringlets. He spoke again—and suddenly she laughed.

And when the musicians began a brannel, and Hawk held out his hand, Robin—the most popular girl in court—placed the tips of her fingers daintily on his palm and stepped out, still laughing, to join the forming dance.

Teressa found her cousin Garian at her side, his flushed face clashing horribly with his beloved crimson.

"Shall we dance?" she asked brightly.

He bowed and held out his hand.

o0o

Tyron slipped out of the magic school before dawn. As he walked up the road toward the royal palace a hot, humid wind whipped at his tunic. Rain on the way. Good for the crops. He gave the low gray clouds a sour grin. And good if it settled in for the next three weeks and spoiled Teressa's planned lake party.

Except she'd just hold it another day.

He hurried his steps as the first spatters of rain began to chuff on the dusty road. The rain was beginning in earnest when he reached the guard barracks behind the palace.

Early as it was, Garian awaited him, with fresh-baked rolls, buttered eggs, and pan-fried potatoes on a side table, along with a frosty-sided jug of berry punch. Garian was dressed in a deep blue velvet tunic studded with rubies and embroidered in gold, clothing entirely appropriate for a formal court affair, but inappropriate for a hot summer morning.

Unless it was meant to intimidate.

Tyron realized his own expression must have changed when Garian's thin face reddened slightly. "This ridiculous getup is for a party later today, and I won't have time to go back and change. Far too much to do." He fought a sudden yawn, looking tired. "Sit down. Have some breakfast. If you're as busy as I am, this might be the last chance to eat until tonight."

Tyron sat down gratefully. "Thanks."

As Tyron helped himself to the food, Garian said, "I wanted to report my plans, but maybe they won't be needed."

Tyron paused. "Why do you say that?"

"You weren't there at my mother's ball last night. You didn't see Teressa ignore Hawk Rhiscarlan the entire evening. He spent the whole time dancing with everyone else—especially Robin, um, Teressa's namesake."

"I know who she is," Tyron reminded him.

Garian's brow puckered. "Maybe Teressa's gotten sick of him?"

"Did she watch him?"

"Huh?"

Tyron smothered a sigh. Garian was Teressa's own cousin. How could he not know her? "Did she spend the whole evening watching him?"

"I don't know." Garian frowned. "Well, yes, she did. At least when we were dancing. But she was glaring at him the whole time."

Tyron shook his head. "Let's not count on her being sick of him, then."

Garian sighed, then leaned forward, more sure of himself. "All right. Then here's what I've been doing. I have someone assigned to every one of Hawk's so-

called honor guard. Three of whom have been strolling around court asking friendly questions about garrisons in other cities, and how many warriors, and who trains them, and what sort of defensive plans they have in place. Most of the nobles don't know those things." Garian raised a cup in his ringed fingers and gave Tyron a sour smile. "I instructed the three who do know to lie like rugs. They all distrust Hawk, so I foresee no problem with their cooperation. He won't get any information that we don't want to give him."

"And on two-moons' night you'll have the lake under guard in addition to your people watching Hawk's men?"

"Yes. I have every single possible angle of attack covered. Mistress Bentla will have a band of archers in the trees before any of the servants even arrive to set up Teressa's party. I'll have people on watch in all the stables, and on the roads and paths in and out."

Tyron nodded. "Good. As for the magic end, I'm going to pace the entire lake with four of our best and quietest third year students. We'll have several wards laid before Hawk so much as sets foot in a boat. I'll also have two mages and several trusted mage students in the trees with your archers, on the watch for magic trickery. And of course I and a couple of the mages will be on hand, supposedly just to provide the fireworks."

Garian laughed. "We'll have more defenders lurking in the trees than Teressa will have guests."

"If that's what it takes to keep her safe," Tyron said.

"Yes, if that's what it takes to keep her safe," Garian repeated. Then he added, his smile gone, "If she hasn't quarreled with him, just how long are we going to have to keep half the city on watch to guard her safety?"

"Until he leaves," Tyron said.

Garian glared out the window. "It feels sneaky, I have to admit. This going behind Teressa's back. You know she could have kept her grudge against us — my family, that is. Against me. But she never did."

"She never liked your father, and seldom agreed with his views, but she trusted him to do exactly what he said he would," Tyron said. "Trust and friendship don't always go together."

Garian looked uncertain again. "Oh, I think we've become fairly good friends."

Tyron nodded. "Yes, you have. But I meant that comment about Hawk. I don't trust him, but I don't like him, either. So knowing how to treat with him is easy for me—I don't want to trust him, I just want him out of my life. Easy. For Teressa, it's not so simple. I hope she will begin to see that liking someone doesn't make them worthy of trust."

Garian grimaced. "You think she likes him?"

"I think she and half the court find him attractive. Why, I can't tell you."

"Mirlee used to go on about that," Garian said. "I can sort of see it. She said it's like trying to tame a wild horse, or an eagle."

Tyron muttered, "Wren would say it's like trying to tame a poisonous snake."

He hadn't meant to say it, but Garian burst out with a high crow of laughter, and then sobered instantly.

"So you think it's impossible that he can be trusted?"

"I don't know," Tyron admitted. "Teressa did point out once that I don't trust him because I dislike him — that my argument cuts both ways. I'll grant that much. But I want him to prove he can be trusted, as once he proved, right here in this palace, he could not be trusted."

"But during the war he did aid our side."

"He did it to score off King Andreus of Senna Lirwan. Told us so himself. Then later . . ." Tyron looked at the rain beating against the window. "Later he took an interest in Teressa. I think he took an interest in Princess Teressa — who was just about to become queen at a very young age, with no inconvenient father or mother around. When I dropped a hint about that, well, you can see how insulting Teressa would find it. Nobody wants to be liked just for their title. They want to be liked for themselves."

"Oh, yes." Garian rubbed his chin. "You're right there, and don't I know it! However, I'm not the one

who needs convincing, and Teressa inherited King Verne's stubbornness."

Tyron was thinking, I never would have believed I'd trust Garian Rhismordith. So maybe things can change after all. Out loud he said, "The question becomes, what does he want from her?"

"The crown? But he seems to like her," Garian said. "He was watching her last night, I dare swear as much as she watched him. I know because she danced with me three times, and every one of those times, I couldn't look up without seeing him sneering at me."

Tyron made an effort to keep his hands from ripping out his hair. "Maybe he wants a crown and Teressa."

Garian's brow furrowed, as if he was working his way through all the arguments Tyron had stayed up far too late wrestling with. "So . . . if he does want to marry her. And she wants to marry him. Then . . . should we be trying to stop them?"

"Yes," Tyron said. "He's courting her, but he doesn't give a fig for the rest of us. And that includes the kingdom. I don't think she sees that, because for her, caring for the kingdom is such an important thing . . . I think she assumes he cares, under all that sarcasm."

Garian's frown tightened his face, making him look a lot like his sour mother for a moment. But he did not scoff, or dismiss Tyron's words. "In a way that's a whole lot worse."

"Yes," Tyron agreed. "Teressa has been his champion all along while everyone stands against him. She might even see him as some kind of hero, because she's always stood up for those she sees as powerless."

Garian rolled his eyes. "Great. Just great.

Meanwhile my mother is at the palace right now, helpfully making everything worse."

o0o

"I must Speak, Teressa," the Duchess said.

Teressa could hear that capital letter, and braced for yet another attack.

"No one else dares to. You've grown so very like your father, and we all knew that once he made up his mind, you might as well talk to the wall. He wouldn't hear you any more than the marble carvings could."

Teressa bit her lower lip firmly, and gazed out over the garden from the terrace where she usually had her breakfast. With its view of the hills and the distant Rhis Garden, the terrace was one of her favorite places in the entire palace. It was so peaceful, especially with the rain dashing down while she sat under the guest suite balcony.

That peace was gone now.

"Teressa." Aunt Carlas's voice sharpened. "It was also your father's habit to sit in silence and not even answer a person with a single courteous word. One

accepted that in a king of his prestige, but at your age, it is quite unbecoming."

"My father always told me to stay true to my heart," Teressa said, and when her aunt's thin cheeks reddened in anger blotches, she added, "He always looked for the best in people. He would have understood Hawk Rhiscarlan's coming here as an act of good will, in spite of everyone's all-too-evident dislike."

Aunt Carlas rose, her fingers pleating folds in her skirt. "Well. I can see that you have made up your mind, even if people with far more experience might see things differently. Just remember what I said. And remember those who are really loyal to you will be here even if—if there are consequences to unfortunate choices." Aunt Carlas's voice trembled at the end.

She stalked away before Teressa could frame a response. As the door onto the breakfast room shut with a decisive snick, Teressa turned her gaze to the garden. Despite the beauty of rain falling on grateful blossoms no peace lay there.

Teressa knew where the real conflict lay: in her own heart. She hated remembering that long, horrible evening, watching Hawk flirt with little Robin, and then with her friends. By the end of the evening they were all coming to ask him to dance. Even if it was only out of curiosity, or daring.

Teressa had danced with every single fellow at the ball, even the old, married ones. She'd laughed and flirted and pretended to be having a good time, but she suspected she'd fooled no one.

Oh Wren, how I wish you were here. I can't talk to anybody else. You would at least listen. But you're gone, and it was I who chased you off. Teressa's eyelids burned with threatening tears as she wondered where in the world Wren was now, what she was doing—and if she ever thought of home.

"Problem?"

Hawk stood within arm's length. Loud and commanding his step might be on the ball room floor, but he could move quietly when it suited him.

She wiped her eyes, saying hastily, "I've been yawning so much my eyes water. I was bored to death last night, and I'm tired now."

"You were not bored." He dropped carelessly into the other chair without any invitation. "You were angry. With me."

She sat up straight. "Yes I was. And I will continue to be until you do Tyron the courtesy of using his name."

He sat back, his black brows raised, then put up his hand in a duelist's salute.

"I don't know why you are so nasty about him. He never was to you during the war, and of all people, he could have been forgiven for being so."

To her surprise, it was Hawk's turn to look out over the garden. "Let us say . . . out of all the helpful defenders against my wicked self with whom you are surrounded, he is the one with the most influence."

"Next to Halfrid, he has the well-being of the kingdom most to heart."

Hawk made no response to that. He jerked his chin at the garden, where Aunt Carlas had just stalked out to address the head gardener, umbrella in hand. Her sharp voice rose, but the hiss of rain blurred her words.

Hawk said, "I saw her marching to the attack earlier, or I would have joined you before. The irony of her being the one with your best interests to heart has to make you laugh."

"I only wish she made me laugh," Teressa said. "Why do you say that about irony?"

Hawk looked surprised. "Don't tell me they have managed to hide all the good parts of your family history?"

Teressa shrugged. "What good bits? Except for my father's adventures, there weren't any that I ever knew of."

Hawk gave a snort of amusement. "So you really don't know why your father ran off rescuing fair ladies, staying away for a couple of years when he should have been here learning to point his toes and bow during the brannel?"

"I know that he talked your cousin Idres Rhiscarlan out of staying with Andreus of Senna Lirwan." Teressa shrugged. "That seems to have been fairly important."

Hawk grinned. "So it never occurred to you to ask why he was there in the first place? No, he was always the perfect prince, I'm sure, and your mother the perfect princess." Teressa started to rise, and he waved a hand in half-apology. "Never mind, I'll take that back, if you like. As to his motivation, Idres herself told me." Hawk chuckled. "He ran off to get away from Carlas, who everyone expected him to marry."

"What?" Teressa exclaimed, and stared down at her aunt, who gestured imperiously toward the Queen's Rose garden while rain fell around her and the gardener. "Aunt Carlas?''

"Went after him like a runaway team of horses,

Idres said. And she was rich enough to get everyone pressuring him to take her. So he ran off to Siradayel. Too bad he met your mother first, or Idres might have caught him after all, and your hair would be as black as mine."

Hawk laughed again, and Teressa also laughed, enjoying the mental image of herself with black hair, with Idres's features, so like Hawks.

He rose. "Are we at peace, then, you and I?" He laid his hand over his heart. "From now on, your Tyron will be referred to with princely courtesy."

Teressa pretended she did not hear his mockery, and agreed with what she hoped was a stately nod. At least she'd gained her point.

He walked away. She was relieved, but was she happy? No. It was triumph, not happiness that she felt.

Why not? He'd come as close to an apology as he probably ever had. But happiness meant she was in charity with everybody. And she wanted to be in charity with everybody, even her aunt. How could she be, when she jolted between her own and Hawk's views?

Hawk thought Aunt Carlas's crush on Teressa's father was funny. Teressa gazed down into the garden, as Aunt Carlas continued scolding the gardener. Father never laughed at her. He didn't like her, but he respected her for whatever good points she had.

Teressa had never forgotten her private talk with her father when she was just a girl. He'd addressed her like a grownup. She often thought about that talk, and each time she did, she discovered new meanings in the well-remembered words.

Like how he not only saw everyone's good and bad points, but he saw them as . . . as . . . people. With their own wishes, goals. And feelings.

Teressa gazed at her aunt, who was pointing at the rose beds and talking on, as the gardener stood dripping in the rain. Teressa didn't see a silly old

woman with a supercilious nose and a sharp voice. She saw a young woman not unlike Cousin Mirlee, aware she wasn't beautiful, aware of her squawky voice, aware that she hadn't many talents, but who'd had an ardent heart to give. A heart her first choice had not wanted.

There was nothing funny about that.

Twelve

The first day Wren and her companions spent in the captain's gig, far from the sight of their former ship, Thad kept wondering aloud where they were and trying to figure ways to determine their location that would be faster than watching the path of the sun. Nothing else worked.

When the sun reached its zenith, having provided a path giving them their general bearings, he said, "So now we know that way is north, that south, and there's the west. Here's what I think. We need to run south in order to reach Okidai Island. That's our best chance of avoiding trouble. They have a government and laws there."

Lambin paused in tuning his tiranthe. "But aren't there a lot of little islands around it?"

"Pirate islands, Dad said." Patka looked worried. "Maybe we're small enough to get by them without being seen."

Lambin said, "Good thing about a small gig is, even if pirates do see us, why would they bother? We've got nothing they'd want."

Wren peered back along their small wake. So far, no sign of the Sandskeet. "Where was the captain intending to go, anyone know?"

Danal said, "I overheard the captain one day when I was on the mainsail yard. She was at the binnacle, talking to the first mate about cutting west to avoid the pirates, so she could off-load her special cargo in Purba."

Thad looked around uneasily, as if the restless sea hid something important. "Dad told me Purba has some harbors where they don't ask many questions. Special cargo. Must have been the silk, then."

Danal shrugged. "That's what I thought, but she muttered something about 'If they miss the rendezvous.'"

Everyone exchanged puzzled looks.

"That's all?" Lambin asked as he carefully wrapped his instrument and stowed it in his knapsack.

"All I heard."

Thad squinted skyward, then sighed. "Must have been the silk. What else would there be?"

Lambin held out a hand, palm up. "Do you think those pirates might have been the rendezvous? That might explain why she let them get that close, instead of running, like usual."

"And they cheated." Patka thumped her fists on her hips. "Being pirates, of course they'd cheat!

Decided to take the whole ship, and not just the cargo. Who's to stop 'em?"

"Special cargo," Danal muttered, frowning at the ocean.

"Which may or may not be the silk," Thad finished. "So we're right back to where we were. One thing I do know. That captain wouldn't like Okidai. Too law-abiding. Here's another thing, and it's for you, Wren. Okidai is the gateway to the west for most people wanting to find their way to the Summer Islands."

"That's right," Danal exclaimed, and Lambin gave the tiranthe a triumphant strum.

Patka said, "I vote south, though I'm a little worried about our food lasting, if it's a real long way."

Everyone turned to Wren. "If the Sandskeet is going west, then let's go south, even if it's a little longer, and there are other islands in the way. Like you say, the pirates will probably ignore us if they even see us," Wren said.

"That's settled, then. We'll divide into watches." Thad held up his fingers, and bent one down. "With an extra for overlap. Night watch can sleep now."

Thad had brought a third sail, which they did not need so far. Lambin and Danal rigged it into a kind of tent so that the crew at liberty could sleep out of the sun and wind, though it didn't do much to keep out the rain, they discovered during their first squall.

On their second night Wren quietly put spells on it, making it water-resistant. If the others had suspicions about why they stayed dry during bad weather, at least no one complained.

o0o

And so, for two weeks they sailed south. By mutual agreement they'd appointed Thad captain. He was restless about watching sea and sky, and trimming the sails.

Once Thad pointed out a pair of birds drifting high overhead from time to time. "That's a good sign," he said.

Means land is within flying distance. Birds don't nest on water. So I don't think we're being carried out to sea on the current."

Wren was the only one who felt uneasy at the sight of those birds, but she knew it was just memory of Lirwani spy birds during the war that caused her to feel she was being watched. These had to be just birds — who would be crazy enough to send spy birds over the sea? So they wheeled round and round overhead. Birds did that sort of thing, probably looking for fish.

At least she and her companions would not starve.

If the gig ended up sailing far out to sea and they ran out of food, she would risk a multiple transfer. But she did not mention magic after Patka said, in a half-joking, half-goading voice on the first day, "So, can you magic us up a nice hot meal?"

"From where?" Wren asked. "I have to see the food,

I have to bind it into a transfer boundary, and then transfer it. I don't see any hot meals. I wish I did!"

They laughed — Patka included — but the subject of magic dropped.

Their watches went from noon to midnight, so no one had to be up all night long. The day watch, the easiest, was in charge of food.

At first the two girls had the midnight to noon watch, and Danal and Lambin the noon to midnight, leaving Thad awake all day. Wren hid regret. She liked Patka, and their conversations were fun, but Wren couldn't practice magic, at least until Patka's attitude changed. If it did.

Those first two or three days, the girls talked about everything but magic. On the third day, things changed. There was nothing to look at but sky and sea and the occasional birds overhead, yet Patka stayed silent a long time, her fingers playing with the multicolored fringe of her kerchief. When she did talk, she'd ask Wren abrupt questions. Nosy questions, never outright about magic, but skirting the subject: Where were you born ? Who raised you ? Why did you object to honest livings?

It was that last question that caused the longest silence, after Wren said, "I never objected to any honest living. I chose the honest living I like best."

The sky gradually covered that third day with the cotton-batting clouds that meant not just a small squall, but a real summer storm. No birds in sight any more. The storm hit just as the sun set. They took down their big sail, leaving the small one tightly reefed, with enough sail for them to run before the wind.

And a fierce wind it was, forcing all five to stay up most of the night, two at the tiller and three tending the juddering sail. They scudded up frighteningly huge waves and down again, waves so large the wind actually died in the troughs between, the sail falling dangerously slack. Then up again, where the wind would catch, almost jolting the sail from the bolt holes.

They fought against that storm until the eastern sky began to lighten. When at last the punishing winds died to a brisk breeze, all five fell asleep, Thad lying half across the tiller.

When they woke, Patka made up a hasty meal. While they ate, Thad said, "I think we should split the watches again. Wren and Patka, you're good sailors but you are both so small I think it's better if we have one tall and one small person on each watch, especially if we come into more bad weather. So, Patka, why don't you stay with Lambin and me. Wren, you and Danal take the next watch."

Wren agreed, without pointing out that Danal wasn't much taller than she was, whereas lanky, redhaired Lambin was as tall as Thad.

Wren had her suspicions about the real reason behind the change. The way Danal kept watching her with this peculiar expression—kind of confused and hungry at the same time—reminded her of what she must have looked like a long time ago, when she first met Tyron. Surely his big brother had noticed.

Sure enough, not long into their first watch Danal began with, "Can I ask just one question about magic?" After that, another. And when Wren answered without getting mad, or saying "That's secret!" the flood came.

"How does a spell work? How do you know it's working? How d'you learn magic? If you make a mistake, d'you turn into a rock? If you sneeze on your brother accident-on-purpose, will he vanish?"

Finally Wren said, "Danal. You want me to teach you, right?"

He nodded so violently he nearly fell overboard. Then he sent a guilty look at the little tent, where Patka lay asleep inside.

Wren sighed. "Listen. A couple of things first."

Danal's brow puckered. "I'm listening."

"One, I will only go over the beginning Basics. And that means you won't be learning any spell like turning this boat into a horse, so don't get grand ideas. Magic's first lessons are a lot like learning to read, where you

have to drill the letters and sounds before you can put them together into words, and then at last into sentences."

Danal chewed his lip as he thought that over, then he said, "All right."

"Next, well, I'm still learning. I'm just a journeymage, and to be honest, I don't know how good

I am. Back at the magic school, I thought I was so ready, but, well, during that attack, I learned a few hard truths about myself."

Danal smiled. "You mean the chickens weren't on purpose?"

"The chickens," Wren said, "were a mistake. I made plenty. You only saw that one."

Danal said, "If that's all you're worried about, I don't care. Learnin' something is better'n than learnin' nothing. And I liked learning to read!"

"All right, then let's begin right at the very beginning, the Crisis Rules. Which, of course, I promptly forgot as soon as crisis started up on our bow with the fire arrows and booms. And that's why we have to drill them a few million times."

"Crisis Rules," Danal repeated. "Drill. Got it."

o0o

And so, they sailed ever southward, always out of sight of land but not of birds. In the night sky the moons slowly worked their arcs, chasing one another a

little closer each night toward Two Moons Night. The days blended one into the other as Wren drilled Danal on the basics, practicing steadily herself.

Each day Wren woke ready for Danal to get bored and give up. She knew how many students showed up at Cantirmoor's Magic School every season, and how few of them stayed with it.

But when he showed no signs of losing interest, she finally brought out her magic book and showed it to him. Danal crouched over it for a long time, his strong, sailor-rough hands propped on his skinny knees, as he pored over Wren's early writings.

"I wish I had a book," he muttered one morning. "I'm gonna get me one. Soon's we land."

Wren remembered saying exactly the same thing when Tyron showed her his own magic book. More and more Danal reminded Wren of herself, enjoying learning magic just for the sake of learning it.

After a couple weeks of just Basics, she taught him his first illusion spell. That night he performed his first spell, the two of them sneaking anxious peeks at Patka asleep in the makeshift tent.

When his spell worked Danal was so delighted he could not talk for a long time. He just kept repeating the spell, making a little toad hop round and round the gig's rail.

When the others woke up, Danal chortled, "Watch!"

Wren backed into the prow, hiding a sigh of regret.

But Danal knew his sister best. Patka watched his illusory frog dance along the rail, her mouth open. When the little image vanished with a soft pop, she pointed at where it had been. "You did that, Dan?"

Danal crossed his arms, his grin wide and proud. "Wren's been teachin' me."

Patka turned to Wren, her mouth still open. Then she looked back at the rail. At last she said, her expression no longer hostile, just puzzled, "You can learn magic?"

"Why not?" Danal asked. "Anyone can, it turns out. You just have to work at it. And, if you go to the school Wren talked about, you won't be learning magic that hurts anybody, which is all right with me."

Patka said, softly, "Danal. Mage. Huh!" Then she laughed. "Let's have that frog again! Only give it the captain's face, can you?"

"I'll try," Danal said. "But I dunno if I can hold the two images . . ."

He tried, failed, laughed, and tried again.

When he finally gave up, claiming he felt a little dizzy from all that expended effort, Patka shook her head. "I can't get over it. I thought you had to be noble. Or the like. Not just anyone. Like us."

Danal pointed at Wren. "She's not noble."

Wren said, "Some people do have talents for magic. And others have talents that work against the rules of magic," she added. "Like my friend Connor. When he

first was sent to the mage school, he ended up turning a master into a turtle, and no one knew how! They didn't know about his talents."

"How do you get those?" Patka asked.

"Well, that's what he set out to discover. It seems that the talents run in families descended from the Hrethans, or the Snow Folk. Or maybe the Iyon Daiyin. But the wild talents can be dangerous," she added, remembering Connor lying for two weeks under a tree during the winter of the war. Anyone else would have quietly frozen to death. Even so, it had taken him a long time to recover.

And yet he had — somehow—learned enough to cause an entire mountain range to crumble.

"Very wild," she repeated softly, holding her book against herself with Connor's note inside. Where are you, Connor?

"I've heard of those Iyon Daiyin. They used to live in caves," Lambin said. "I've learned songs about them. Really old songs. It's said they came from somewhere beyond the stars."

"Iyon Daiyin," Thad repeated, then he shrugged. "That's for later. Here's what's botherin' me now, where we might be in relation to land. I wish we had a chart. Seems to me we've come enough south that we might begin looking for Okidai Island."

Lambin leaned forward. "Okidai, Oki-Dai, Okan Daiyin. That's where the Iyon Daiyin first settled when

they came through the world gate! It's called Okan Daiyin Island in the oldest songs."

Thad sighed, rolling his eyes.

Wren grinned. "We don't know if the Iyon Daiyin were the forebears of the Hrethan, or different people from a different world. Anyway, my friend Connor was heading to the Summer Islands to find out, and I aim to join him."

"Maybe he's there. Maybe not." Thad stood up to stretch. "I heard the first mate say that the biggest harbor for east-west ships as well as north-south is at Okidai Island."

"Then that's the place for us." Wren put her book away.

Patka threw her hands wide. "But if—"

"What's that?" Thad's sharp voice broke in.

Everyone stood up as Thad pointed to three . . . four . . . five . . . six sails nicked the sky. As they watched, the ships split into groups of three, one hauling tightly to the west, the other moving southward in the gig's wake.

"If we were aboard our old ship," Thad murmured, one hand shading his eyes. "I'd say they were chasing us."

"A gig with five young slubs on it who haven't so much as a copper between them?" Danal scoffed.

"I don't think they see us yet," Lambin said, his hand shading his eyes as well. "Sit down again! Thad,

you saw their masts first. Just nicking the sky, hulls down below the horizon. That has to mean what you saw were top gallants and topsails."

Thad nodded. "They're hull down still, which means we might not be visible to their lookouts yet. Let's make sure of that." He looked skyward then seaward, the wind blowing back his short dark hair. "With the wind sitting where it is, we can angle our sail so they won't see it. Lean on the tiller. Run southwest."

Lambin added, pointing to Danal and Wren, "You two better catch some shut-eye, just in case there might be trouble, and I don't mean from them. Look at the eastern sky."

They all peered at the horizon against the glare of sun on sea, where they discovered the flat gray line of an approaching storm.

"At least if we get rain, my scalp won't itch so much from this salt," Thad said, scratching his head.

Patka and Lambin moved to the sail, and Thad to the tiller. Wren and Danal crawled into the little tent, where they helped themselves to their ration of the biscuits, now hard and stale, and the nuts and raisins that were all that remained of the food Patka had raided when they left their former ship.

A good drink of rainwater, kept pure by magic, and they spread out on the clothes they'd piled at the bottom of the gig to make the bare planks easier to sleep on.

Wren was tired from being up all night watching and magic-making. She dropped right into sleep. Her dreams slowly turned uneasy; she kept trying to climb a wall, only the wall tipped, and she was left hanging over a great precipice. Every time she got her feet under her the world would tip again, until she finally woke and discovered the gig leaning at such a sharp angle she'd rolled against their piled knapsacks. She was alone in the tent.

Wren crawled out, to be hit in the face with flying spray. She gasped, her eyes stinging, and stood up, wiping her sleeve across her face.

"Thought you'd be out right after me," Danal said, laughing.

"What's wrong?" Wren asked, trying to blink away the salt sting. The world seemed to be gray—sky, sea, air. Rain slanted sideways, thudding into the trembling sail. Thad and Lambin both held the tiller, which strained against their arms. The gig lay at a slant, speeding over the water fast enough to send spray feathering high into the air on the high side, and foaming to the railing on the low.

"They're chasing us," Patka shouted from her place at the sail, both hands on the sheet-ropes.

Danal scrambled to her aid.

"Us?" Wren asked. "Why?"

"Good question," Patka yelled back with some of her old hostility. "You said you had enemies. Would

those include some customer you tricked, or did some bad magic spell on?"

Wren was tired and her eyes hurt, and she was still hungry after the scanty meal. Before she could stop herself she retorted, "No, my enemies would include a very wicked sorcerer king who happened to get deposed after nearly destroying Meldrith. And I was there to see it happen."

As soon as the words were out she regretted them, but they, like the wind, had sped away, leaving the other four staring at her.

"Andreus of Senna Lirwan?" Lambin asked, his eyes wide.

"That's the one," Wren said, and was going to scoff at the very idea of Andreus coming after her. But then she remembered those words the kidnappers had said that day in Hroth Harbor, and she shook her head. Stranger things were possible.

Lambin was whispering to Thad and the others. When Wren realized they were all looking at her, she sighed. "What now?"

Lambin said, tentatively, "King Andreus was the one who stole Princess Teressa Rhisadel of Meldrith. There was a Wren who got her back. In the form of a dog. I know two songs about it, in two different languages."

Wren looked away, her face and neck prickling with heat.

Thad said, in a careful voice, "You wouldn't be that Wren, would you?"

Wren opened her hands. "I wasn't the only one who rescued Te—ah, the princess. I had two friends with me."

Patka said slowly, "So you know that princess. That must explain—"

Wren groaned. "Never mind about princesses!

What should we do about them?" She pointed at the ships out there on the ocean.

"The wind is on our side," Thad said, sure of himself again. "That will help the gig. As long as the wind stays strong we'll be faster than they are."

They faced the ships bearing down from the north, masts aslant, and three racing southward to box them.

"What if the wind dies?" Patka said, tugging on her kerchief fringes.

"What can we do?" Thad spread his hands. "The question really is, what will they do to us?"

Wren squared her shoulders. Well, so they were being chased, six to one. Six to one-half.

But that one-half had magic, and a lot of imagination.

And —

Remember the chickens, Wren!

With a grim smile, she ducked back inside the tent, pulled her pack from the pile, and yanked her book out from the center of her clothes.

Danal poked his head in. "What are you going to do?"

"If they catch up," Wren said, "I plan to be ready for them."

Thirteen

From the harbormaster's rambling house atop a ridge in the northernmost harbor on Okidai Island, there came a loud bellow. "Where's that blasted Eye-Reader?"

The sound carried to the long, low building below, where aides, runners, and assistants from the military, naval, guild, and harbor branches of the government were housed. In the big central room their usual custom was to while away the time playing a complicated local game with tiles, colored pebbles, and coins.

Prince Connor Dareneth Shaltar gambled along with the rest. He had little interest in gambling, but his friends always had a game going. He liked being able to talk and laugh with the others as they played — and he'd discovered that the never-ending game was the best place to hear all the local news.

"Uh-oh, they must have caught themselves a bad one," the stable-master's assistant observed, chuckling deep in his chest.

"Last night," said a spotlessly uniformed naval third mate. She yawned. "Admiral himself got involved."

"Who? What?" several voices rose.

The new stable hand shifted his massive body so he could study Connor from under a truly impressive brow ridge. "Aren't you the Eye-Reader?"

"Noon to evening shift," Connor said. "And evening meant late last night. Every thief and fraud on Okidai Island must have been asleep yesterday, they caught so many. But none of 'em were anything important."

Faces turned toward the young naval mate, who self-consciously smoothed her already-smooth green tunic. "We had a brush with pirates, a few days to the north. We took a single prisoner and came straight here. The flagship docked at midnight last night."

Hoots and cackles of derision sounded around the table. "Throw a coin out into the water and you hit fifty pirates," said one of the off-duty guards. "You ship wights bring 'em in by the boatload every day."

"But most of 'em don't catch the Admiral's eye," the mate retorted, tossing a black braid back over her shoulder. "Hey. I see three and ten. I get two blues."

"Four greens here—my four tops your three," one of the other guards put in, leaning a long arm down to move markers on the table.

Several others started to speak as the betting began on the next round of play, only to be drowned out by the Harbor Commander's angry roar, "I don't care whose shift it is, I want Red! Someone roust out that stumblebum oaf! Now!"

Connor's friends among the players assumed the wooden faces of people pretending they hadn't heard the boss yelling. Connor was very popular—he was friendly, generous with his pay, and he was also quite handsome, the girls all agreed when he wasn't around to hear it. They liked his tall, broad-shouldered form, and his pleasant, open face framed by waving red hair.

"Looks like you're the one wanted, Red." A scrawny little courier nudged Connor.

"So it seems." Connor gathered up his markers. "Think it means extra pay?"

"Extra trouble's more like it," the naval mate said sourly, "from all the running around I saw on the Admiral's flagship last night." She quirked a wry smile. "If you're an oaf, why's the Harbor Jaw want you?"

"Because he's your good-at-his-job oaf, as opposed to the rest of us stupid, lazy, rotten, thieving, and so on types of oaf," the tall guard retorted, and everyone who was used to the Harbor Commander's insults, which were both plentiful and equally spread about, nodded in agreement. "But Red, here, is your rarity: your real oaf, of the sort that trips over his own feet."

Connor left on the others' good-natured laughter, smiling and shaking his head.

You're seen just once stumbling on the cobblestones, and everyone calls you an oaf. That was all right. He was used to it. People had been calling him an absent-minded oaf, a fool, a stumbling fumbler, all his life, because only a very few knew the truth: that when his gaze was turned upward in seeming vacancy, he was listening to the speech of birds. Or when he was standing in the stable looking as if he'd lost his wits, he was listening to the rumbles and whuffs of the horses, and what they had to say about their riders. Most of which he would never repeat.

He'd understood the speech of animals and birds all his life, and only within the past couple of years had he come to perceive the long, slow rhythms of thought shared by trees, plains-connected grasses, and other silent, living things.

But to his fellow humans he was absent-minded, maybe a little slow, who could fight well with a quarterstaff but refused to carry a sword. He also had a knack for using artifacts of the very old, very mysterious magic left behind by the Iyon Daiyin.

And so he had an easy life here, with good pay. All he had to do was sit with the magical object called the Eye, and determine through its changing colors if those the Commander had cause to question spoke the truth

as they knew it. It turned out Connor was the very best at that.

He reached for the staff leaning against the door and hurried out into the court. The day was hot. Sun glared off the stones. In the distance, sea birds squabbled over food. He looked about for the pair of jackdaws that had so unaccountably appeared on his travels the summer before, and several times since, usually when his life was about to change.

Uh oh. There, and there. One perched on the roof of the Commander's headquarters, the other on the roof of the thick stone building used as a holding cell for prisoners. Their black jackdaw heads twitched from side to side, first one eye, then the other, but the birds did not cry out.

Extra guards had been posted at every pathway leading up or down, as well as around the building. As he passed, they nodded or flicked hands in greeting, and Connor nodded back.

Connor reached the doorway just as a tall older woman emerged, the other Eye-Reader. "There you are. Commander wants you for this one." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "This is a stinker, everyone's sayin'."

Connor lowered his voice. "One of the Skull Pirates?"

"Near as bad. Some say worse. One of the rowers told us they think they caught one a' Black Hood o' Tomad's fleet."

Connor whistled softly as the woman gave him a grateful smile and retreated to the scribes' chamber, which had been her first job until the Commander discovered that sometimes she could "read" the Eye. But it always gave her a terrible headache. Connor was the only one who could read it all the time.

Connor slipped past the waiting room where all the first-year runners waited to be sent on errands. He ducked past the extra guards, and the sea captains in the green of the Okidai Navy.

As soon as Connor reached the doorway, the Commander, a short, squat man with a long gray beard, sat back in his chair. "There you are!"

Connor rested his staff just inside the door.

The tall, thin Fleet Admiral was also there, his lined, sour face impatient. His fine green coat was freshly brushed, and his scarlet sash of office meant he was going up the mountain to the royal castle for an interview. The Admiral, everyone knew, hated being on land, and he also hated dressing up, so his appearance meant not just urgent but royal business.

Connor bowed to both, then moved to the carved wooden chest on the other side of the room. No one liked to touch the strange object called the Eye, though

everyone who came looking for a job was tried out on it as a matter of course.

Connor lifted it out, careful to grasp it by the twisted brass supporting rods that were made in the form of vines. He avoided touching the sphere set within it.

The Admiral stared at it in distrust, scooting his chair away from where Connor was expected to sit.

Connor set the Eye carefully on the little table that was his station during his work day. The Eye was not glass, or crystal, or metal, but some strange combination of them all. Not only did the room reflect from its surface in brilliantly colored distortion, but it glittered with colors whose source no one could guess. Satisfied that it was stable, Connor dropped onto the waiting stool.

"You ready?" the Admiral snapped.

"Yes," Connor said.

The Admiral turned to the Commander, who spoke to the guard messenger standing at the door: "Bring in the prisoner." As the boy vanished in the direction of the stone holding cell, the Commander said to Connor, "There was a sea battle just beyond Purba. Most of the pirates had some kind of magical device that cloaked their longboats and helped them escape under the cover of rain."

Magic — and pirates. That sounded bad.

"Someone thinks these pirates might be part of the Black Hood of Tomad's fleet. You know how many rumors we've been hearing that they have magical devices to cloak their ships."

Tomad was the name of the island cluster farthest east of the archipelago. Pirates had taken it some years ago, that much Connor had heard in local gossip. The rumors now insisted someone new had command, someone far worse than the former pirate commander. He was only known by the nickname 'Black Hood.'

"So you're looking for proof of the magic from this prisoner?" Connor asked.

The Commander nodded. "Most of 'em got away in the boats, but this fellow was drunk, fell overboard, and no one wanted to come back and get him, so the Admiral put out a boat and plucked him out of the water."

A pair of strong guards entered with a tousled, glum pirate between them, a scarred man of about forty. He looked as if had spent most of those forty years doing violent things against his fellow humans.

The guards thrust him onto a stool facing the Eye.

"You know what that is, don't you?" the Commander said. "In case you don't, it's the Eye of Truth. If you lie, the stone shows it."

"So?" the pirate snarled, crossing his arms. "What's it to me? You Okidaino fools don't hang or burn pirates, I know that much."

"No one ever escapes the work parties," the Harbor Commander said, smiling. "You get a nice magical bracelet that keeps you right in your place, all orderly and law-abiding. And if you decide to stray, well, you fall down like a sack of stones until your keepers decide to haul you up again and put you to work."

Connor hid a grin. The Commander was both loud and rude to his subordinates, but when it came to questioning prisoners he was more polite than a courtier.

"And while it is true that on this island the death penalty is forbidden by law, you will not escape discomfort. For every lie you tell us, you will spend time in the stocks, before your sentence for whatever acts of piracy you've committed even begins. Do you know how much people around here hate pirates?" the Commander asked with great cheer. "Do you know the favorite game of the children in the harbor? Most of them are sons and daughters of those who have been victims of pirates. They like to play target practice with the garbage and droppings they pick up off the streets.

I assure you, they never tire of target practice if they have a pirate to pelt."

The pirate spat on the floor.

"Ready?" the Commander asked Connor.

The Admiral watched, his brow furious.

Connor carefully laid his hand on the sphere, and as always, felt the magic settle around him like a mantle

made of cloud. The others quickly looked away from the Eye. Connor had learned that they thought the magical object somehow read their minds and showed their thoughts in those ever-winking and spinning colors. It was useless to explain that that wasn't how it worked. He'd discovered that most people were afraid of powerful magical objects that they didn't understand.

"Who was your prey?"

"No one. I come off of merchants out o' Denlieff," the pirate growled.

The Admiral and the Commander turned to Connor, who watched colors coalescing around their reflections in the Eye: the deep red of anger in the Admiral, the green of intent mixed with the orange of enjoyment in the Commander—and the darkness of the deliberate lie around the pirate. He never told them about their own revealing colors.

"He's lying," Connor said.

"No I ain't!"

The Admiral snorted. "Stocks. I saw several children down there with a bushel of rotted stenchpuff berries."

"Our friend here does seem to be volunteering for target practice," the Commander suggested, grinning. "I do so hate it when the breeze carries the smell all the way up our mountain. Strange, how the sloonge bugs just love that stuff, and crawl all over the pirates' skin, lapping it up."

"I ain't lyin'! That thing is just—" The pirate cursed, long and loud.

The Commander said, "One more chance. State your name, and where you were born."

"Lemoal Vebb—"

"That's true," Connor said, seeing the flicker of blue around the pirate's head.

" — of Arpalon."

The colors darkened again.

"Lie."

"All right, guards, take him out—"

The pirate grimaced. "I was born in Damatras."

"True."

The pirate shifted uneasily on his stool.

"Who was your prey?"

The pirate shifted again. "Free trader. Brig."

"A free trader!" The Admiral snorted. "Just another pirate." He frowned. "But there were three pirates in your fleet when we intercepted you. I saw all that fire damage, and no prize."

"We lost. Had to run," the pirate muttered.

"Lost? Against a single trader, a brig?" The Admiral hooted, looking Connor's way.

Connor shrugged — it was true.

"Damage," the pirate snarled. "Bad storm."

The Eye flowed with darker blues shot with red.

"We were in that storm as well, and there was not enough lightning for all the fire damage you took," the Admiral said.

Outside the window behind the Admiral, a shadow flickered — a winged shadow. One of the jackdaws.

"So you are part of this new pirate commander's fleet, then," the Admiral stated. "The new one infesting Tomad Islands."

The pirate shook his head. "Never heard o' him — "

"Lie."

"Only new hires," the pirate muttered. "Testing us first."

Both the Admiral and the Commander turned to Connor, who nodded.

"So you were hired to attack a free trader brig? Why?"

The pirate spat again, but the colors around him were the murky red-shot brown of fear.

The Admiral bunched up a fist, but the Harbor Commander raised a hand and said in a reasonable voice, "You are already in a lot of trouble, and I suspect your name has become known all over the main harbors of every southern island over a long, misspent career. Why not tell us why you were hired?"

"Because he will find out if I blab, that's why," the pirate snarled. "I'd rather sit in your stocks a year, or work in your mines ten years, for my own deeds, than tell you anything about him. He—he finds out. He

knows, when people blab. And then he does things to you."

"True," Connor murmured. "At least, he believes it to be true."

The pirate gave a grating laugh, one of those horrible laughs that has no humor in it. "Everyone says it's true. You don't want to cross Black Hood's hawse. He has ears everywhere."

The jackdaw drifted by the window again.

"That's all I'm sayin'," the pirate stated. "I'll sit in your stocks. I'll work in your mines. But if he finds out where I am, he will know I ain't blabbed."

And, on Connor's nod, the Commander sighed. "Take him out."

The guards tromped in, yanked up the pirate, and marched him away. The Admiral and the Commander looked at one another. "That's the third one we've captured in as many months," the Admiral said.

"We got two, last season. That pair didn't even know as much as this one did." The Commander sat back. "So you'll cancel your interview with the king?"

The Admiral shook his head. "I can't. I'll have to go, even with no real information, except the reflected evidence, you might say. We know that this Black Hood is building a fleet, that much our friend Vebb told us. And it corroborates what I've gleaned elsewhere. I think we're also seeing evidence that Black

Hood is some kind of mage. I wish we knew whose ship they attacked—and why they attacked it."

"What bothers me is his conviction that this Black Hood has spies everywhere. How? More important, who?"

Both men turned toward Connor, who watched their faces: question, doubt, then dismissal.

The Commander leaned forward, brows furrowed. "I know you've only been here a couple of months, boy, but I don't take you for a spy. However, one thing I do know after a long career is, least heard, less said. Take off. You can have the rest of the day, since we brought you in early."

Connor replaced the sphere in its case as the two moved away in low-voiced conversation. He retrieved his staff and walked to the other end of the court, away from the prison building. The jackdaws circled overhead, one high, one low.

Connor looked up, shading his hand against the sun, and said in his home language, "I wish you'd talk to me."

The daws wheeled overhead.

"I don't believe you're spies," Connor continued. "At least, not for this Black Hood, whoever he is. But I know you are watching me. I wish you'd tell me why."

Dive, swoop.

Then another idea occurred to Connor, and he whispered to himself, "Even if you aren't spies, how about some of the other birds?"

He whirled around. Sure enough, seabirds flew around the prison, wheeling and darting, but the mess building was just beyond, and the scrapings were always put out for the birds. He had to determine if they were ordinary birds, or ones being enchanted to serve as magical spies.

Connor drifted back in that direction, head down, careful to move slowly and aimlessly. The birds made constant noise, mostly about food. They also warned one another away. He sorted through their cries with the expertise of long habit, chilled when he sensed among them a single strangely monotone bird-voice from what should have been a raucous gull.

He felt the internal tickle of magic when he focused on that voice. And when he heard the gull cry, over and over and over, in no natural tone for any bird,

Vebb, Vebb, Vebb, listen to Vebb, alarm burned through him.

Connor gripped his staff. This bird was a spy.

Connor had worked his entire life to keep his talents hidden. Should he expose them now? Even if the Commander believed him, he was not sure what could be done. He could hear the gull but he couldn't point out which one it was. And the pirate was going nowhere.

He had been given the day off, but any thought of joining his friends or taking a solitary hike in the mountains had vanished.

He sat down to wait.

Fourteen

"Halfrid!" Tyron exclaimed.

Night had fallen, bringing a soft rain shower. Tyron had worked far later in Halfrid's office than he'd intended, but the work was piling up. "I'm so glad you're back," he said, getting up from Halfrid's chair and moving to sit in the window seat.

The senior mage smiled ruefully as he sank heavily into his chair. "I'm not back. That is, I am only back for a couple of very old texts on tracers. I have some ideas

— oh, that can wait. First, give me a report on things here."

Tyron rubbed his head, though he knew his hair was already a wild tangle. Not that he cared. "Mistress Leila is still gone."

"I know. I spoke with her just before I transferred here. Queen Nerith is healing, but there is trouble in the court, something having to do with Prince Rollan."

Tyron was surprised. "Prince Rollan?" He was the only one of Connor's half-siblings that anyone liked, outside of Teressa's deceased mother and Mistress Leila. "He can't be causing problems. Though I wouldn't say that for the rest of 'em."

"Oh, he's not. That princess in Allat Los seems to want to marry him, and only him. One of the results of the war." Halfrid chuckled, hands folded comfortably over his plump middle. "But the problem is his principality, there in the mountains. A strange place, I'm told. It's out of the way, but strategically important for a number of reasons that I'm glad to say I don't have to concern myself with as it is not our kingdom. Apparently the brothers and sisters of our friend Connor all want to be duke or duchess of this holding

— but without doing any of the work."

"Some things," Tyron said grimly, remembering some of the stories he'd heard when Connor was first sent to Meldrith, "don't change."

"I do not envy Mistress Leila having to deal with her greedy royal siblings. Anyway, she won't be coming back any time soon. So I thought I'd better see you before I return."

"Well, we're holding our own, in spite of our shortage of teachers," Tyron said. "Classes sometimes double up, or get cancelled, but we just demand more practice time, and set the students to writing out of old spells in the ancient magic books, with glosses on historical context. This will be a well-educated set of mages, if we keep going this way."

Halfrid chuckled again.

"All our border mages report in regularly, with no problems so far. Fliss found us a good mage for the

farmland spells classes, who is now doubling with the beginners as I had to send Fliss out again, to meet our responsibilities along the southern border and at Hroth Harbor."

"You could have sent Wren," Halfrid said. "She would do well with all those renewal spells. And she speaks the language, so she'd get along with the Guild Council at Hroth Harbor."

"She's gone." At the quick contraction of Halfrid's brows, Tyron explained what had happened, ending with, "I know you didn't want anyone going north, but she went south, and the only one who saw her was Mistress Falin. I just wish I'd known we'd still be short, as I would have had her do those renewal spells first."

Halfrid sat back stroking his chin with his thumb. "Is young Hawk still here?"

Tyron was tempted to unload all his complaints. He took a deep breath instead. Halfrid was facing far more serious problems than an obnoxious suitor who hadn't really done anything besides be insulting. "He noses around, but hasn't interfered with anything," Tyron said slowly. "He did tease Teressa into proposing a midnight party on the lake, come Two Moons Night. But Garian Rhismordith and I have made plans for that."

"Good." Halfrid neatened the stack of waiting papers with a decisive tap of his fingers. Outside the rain had stopped, leaving the occasional musical drip from the roof. As Tyron opened the window to let in the fresh, cool air, laden with wet garden scents,

Halfrid went on, "I hoped that young Garian would prove to be steady. I don't like Hawk being here, I confess. But if he has made no trouble, I'll leave him to you. At the first sign of anything alarming, promise me you'll use that summons ring."

"Oh, I promise."

Halfrid's gaze dropped to the waiting reports. He looked old and tired. "Much to do, I see. Well, I shall help with some of these matters, and then return to our searches. All three mages summoned away on regular business, and all three vanished. And none of us, even the most experienced, can find a single trace."

"Could they be dead?" Tyron made a face.

"Either that, or living in another form. That's the trail I want to follow now. Fouling tracers by transformations is complicated, but not new. Except who would do it? And why? These three hardly knew one another, so we know they were not together. That's for tomorrow. For tonight, let's get these school matters caught up."

Tyron and Halfrid bent over the lists, talking and writing by turns, until Tyron's eyes burned and Halfrid blinked, hesitating longer and longer between his words.

Finally Tyron said, "I still have the fire class just after dawn."

Halfrid pursed his lips. "The third year students are already there? You definitely need to be rested to teach that class." No mention of how very complicated and dangerous stored fire spells were, and how important it was to be exact in one's spells. "Go. Sleep. I'll finish here and then return to my tasks in the northlands."

Tyron got to his feet, glad to be heading toward bed at last.

He reached his room and clapped on the light, still feeling that sinking sensation of something undone. He hated that.

It could be just tiredness, but he didn't think so. He sat on his bed and forced himself to run through the list of things they'd discussed. School, each year's students, Orin's special status, the mages' reports from the border, Hawk, Teressa, trade and treaty spells, travel—

Travel. Wren! Tyron sat up straight. Yes, he'd wanted to ask Halfrid about Wren's promise to scry and her failure to do so. Then he sank back. No, in the face of real problems, this one seemed like borrowing trouble. What could be wrong? Students went out on journeymage trips every year. Wren was an experienced traveler, and one of the best students.

"I'm just being fussy. Wren would hate that," Tyron said to the ceiling, and clapped out the light. "If she were in trouble, she'd just transfer home."

He was asleep before he'd drawn a second breath.

Sherwood Smith | Wren Journeymage

o0o

"And you can't just, um, magic us away, somehow?" Thad asked, peering at the twinkling lights aboard the six ships chasing their gig, near enough now to make out the swing of lanterns as the ships rolled on the seas. During the day the shifting wind had given the pirates the advantage, bringing them close enough to see their hulls and sails. They had spread out along the northern and eastern horizon by sunset, and now each was distinct by the pattern of lanterns hung on the masts.

Wren shook her head without taking her eyes away from those winking lights. She and her four shipmates only had Wren's small glowglobe, which they kept in their tent. Its light was probably visible through a spyglass from the closest pirate ships, but they couldn't help that. "I told you, transfers are dangerous, which is why we build Destinations. And I don't know of a single one close by. Distance transfers are dangerous for different reasons." She tried to smile. "That's why we prefer to travel around like anyone else."

"I still think you should give 'em a storm," Danal said. "I know you can. I saw a spell in your book that causes rain. Why not just say it five times?"

Wren suppressed a groan. "What happens when you dam a stream?" she asked.

All four stared at her.

She clapped the hull. "You make a wall, and the water is pushed up behind, and it gets heavier and fuller and builds up. If you keep doing it, the water is stronger than the dam, and it breaks, and then what happens?"

"Whoosh!" Danal said, making swimming motions with his hands.

"Exactly. If you mess around with the weather, it's like damming the air and the water and the sun's warmth, and when they push back, you get monster storms that can last a very long time—and cause damage."

"But we're at sea," Patka said. "No damage to farms here."

"When you talk about weather," Wren said, "you're not talking about here this spot in the water, you're talking about here all the way to the next continent.

And maybe farther."

Thad was at the tiller, a silhouette against the night sky. "That's enough jawing at her about what she's not doing. She knows what she can or can't do, and why."

Danal said, "I agree."

Lambin rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Wren, you were doing magic all morning. If those spells weren't for getting us ready to sail through the air to safety, then what were they for?"

"I made wards," Wren said. "The smaller the area, the easier it is to ward. The bigger the area, the

tougher. A boat like ours is not as difficult as a ship to ward, but it takes time. The result is, the pirates can't shoot arrows at us, or rather they can, but the arrows will turn back into twigs and floop smack into the water. As for rock-hurling, the stones will slide right over us. Sploosh! That last one took the longest," she added. "But it should protect us."

"What if they reach us?" Patka crouched down on one of the benches. "They can still ram the gig, or just drop over the sides if they want us as prisoners. We got no weapons."

"That's next." Wren turned to Thad. "How long do you think we might have before they catch up?"

Thad's profile lifted toward the night sky, then turned slowly from side to side. "Say the winds stay the way they have been—strong during the day, dying at night—then we might get two or three days. That's at best. Those ships're bigger and heavier than us, so they're faster in this wind. If the wind veers more that way, they'll be on us real soon. If it veers back this way

— " He waved his arm to the right. "Then we can get ahead again. But it doesn't seem to want to."

"Then I better bustle." Wren sighed. "Get me all those stale biscuits. I'm going to layer fire spells onto them. It's tricky, and dangerous, and it's going to take me a long time to set up the spells, but tossing one at their sails and rigging and releasing the magic is like setting off a whole winter's blaze all at once."

The others gave a shout of approval.

"I've a few other tricks, but that's the worst one. The rest, well, there are sticky-spells, and stone-spells like I put on the captain. As well as a few other tricks. Won't last long, but should help. Our last defense will be illusions." And our last resort will be transforming us to fish.

"If they see monsters and so forth, they'll know it's all fake," Patka declared.

Wren rubbed her hands. "That's not the kind of illusion I had in mind."

o0o

Connor got teased by his friends among the guards and runners and stable-hands for not having the wits, or the winnings, to go down the mountain into the town and live it up.

Connor just sat on a bench in the mellow sun, saying, "I'm far too lazy. And you have won all my pay." He hooked his thumbs in his tunic pockets, wiggled his fingers, and made a comical face.

They laughed and left him alone.

He spent the rest of the day trying to distinguish that one gull from all the others. By mid-afternoon he was forced to give up. The gull had obviously flown away before he could isolate it.

He considered what he should do. He knew that the bird had been sent to spy, but by whom? It wasn't

worth telling the Commander or the Admiral until he could answer at least some of the questions that would come next.

So while the pirate Vebb waited in the jail for the Admiral to get his audience with the king, and the Admiral waited in the royal audience chamber on the high mountain behind the harbor, Connor waited on his bench in the courtyard, hoping the spy gull would return.

When the first drops of the usual evening thunderstorm spattered on his face, he wondered if Vebb was just too unimportant to be bothered with. It was time to give up.

He retreated to his bunk in the barracks, which overlooked the jail. He opened the window then lay down to rest.

It seemed he'd just fallen asleep when a strange sound roused him, a brushing, whooshing sound. He sat up, groggy and bewildered, to see an ominous black shape flit across his window, back again, and yet again.

Jackdaw!

He ripped out of bed. A short time later he set his staff down carefully just inside the doorway to the court. He was about to step outside when a huge raptor shape drifted down from the sky.

This was not his mysterious jackdaw. Raptors did not behave like that; he ducked back into the shadows of the door as the enormous bird—half the size of a northlands gryph—sailed down to the flagged stones. Its outline blurred, shrinking briefly and then altering into the form of a thin, short man who immediately swept a night-black cloak about him. Just before he was shrouded in its folds a deep ruby gleam at his breast caught Connor's attention. It looked like some kind of gemstone hanging around the man's neck.

Then the man was shrouded by the enveloping cloak. He blended with the night-shadows and made his way noiselessly to the jail.

Connor couldn't stop a mage, so he dashed to the Commander's headquarters. The time was obviously past midnight, as the building was empty. Connor eased the door open and faded inside, moving swiftly as he retrieved the Eye of Truth.

He knew he wouldn't be able to overhear any conversation in the jail, not without alerting the man in the black cloak, but he could do the next best thing.

He waited for the night patrol to walk by, and as soon as they vanished beyond the jail he eased out in their wake. He walked slowly below the tiny windows

— no more than air holes — of the jail, the sphere in his hand. Colors glinted faintly in the Eye, magical reflections from those inside. Connor kept moving until the colors rippled, forming the pattern belonging to the pirate. That pattern was as pale as a lick of candle flame next to the mage's powerful glow, which

was shot through with fire-bright crimson, orange, and yellow, formed around a sharp, malevolent green of intent.

Connor stilled, keeping the Eye between him and the jail wall. Then he let his mind sink into the endless, brilliant ripple of colors . . . and images began to flicker behind his eyes, quick and vivid as dreams.

A ship. Ah—a small brig. There, then gone again. Three burning ships. A man wearing a dark, hooded cloak. A wall, with gargoyles atop it, between huge, iron spikes . . . the little brig again, from the stern—

The ship, much clearer, from the pirates' view.

Dizziness rippled across Connor's vision, making him sway. He placed his feet apart, closed his eyes, and gripped the sphere. Again he concentrated.

Ship . . . Closer. Glimpse . . . . Yes! Across the back, in weatherworn letters, Sandskeet.

Fast images. Arrows falling, impossibly limp and green, into the water. Burning sails, burning rigging. Ropes turning into broken reeds of hemp.

And on the deck of the brig, glimpsed for a single heartbeat, a short, round brown-faced girl with wide blue eyes, her long, unruly braids streaked with yellow and brown.

Wren! Connor fell out of the vision so fast he swayed, the Eye dropping to the ground as he clutched with both hands at his head. The world swayed sickeningly, but he managed to recover his balance,

and just in time. The cadenced tramp of boots on gravel announced the return of the patrol.

He scooped up the sphere and slipped back inside the Commander's building as the patrol rounded the jail corner into the main court, one yawning, the other giving a cursory look around.

Connor replaced the Eye, then crossed the empty courtyard to the barracks door. He reached for his staff, but his fingers only brushed the stone wall. He frowned, remembering clearly how he'd set the staff right here.

A sharp, wailing cry rose from the air holes in the jail. "No! I didn't talk! I didn't— ahhhh!"

Connor dashed inside, feeling for his staff, and ran squarely into a chair he couldn't see. He and the chair crashed to the stone floor, sparks shooting across his vision when his elbow smacked into the chair leg.

The sounds of running footsteps and the jingle and clank of gear filled the courtyard as the guards converged on the jail. Connor disentangled himself from the chair and felt around desperately for his staff.

He found it just as the weird, hot tingle of strong magic seared along his bones. Greenish light flickered in the courtyard. The patrol guards lay frozen on the ground. The sullen ember-glow of crimson snapped Connor's gaze up as the mage raised his hands to make the transfer signs.

Connor and the mage gazed into one another's astonished eyes, then the mage vanished.

The courtyard filled with swinging lanterns, and more guards arrived , some wearing odd combinations of day clothes and night shirts. Everyone talked and exclaimed when they found the stone-frozen guards.

The Commander arrived, his fingers impatiently buttoning his official coat. "Here, here, what's all this?"

"The pirate is dead," someone reported.

"And the night guard has been turned into stone!"

Connor squeezed between guards, and the Commander caught sight of his staff, and turned his way. "You awake too, Red? You're the closest thing we've got to a mage—can you tell me what's going on?"

"No," Connor said, sick to the heart. "But I can tell you who is responsible. He was once a king. His name is Andreus, formerly of Senna Lirwan."

"How do you know that?" the Commander demanded, raising his voice above the comments and questions of the growing crowd.

Connor gestured with the staff, impatient to be gone. "Because I recognized him just before he vanished by magic." And to prevent a lot of useless questions about how a lowly clerk could possibly know a king well enough to recognize him, he stated, "I am Connor Dareneth Shaltar, Prince of Siradayel."

The Commander rubbed his grizzled chin. "I'm not arguin', though everything you've said raises ten fresh questions. But if this mage just killed a pirate, what business is that of yours, prince or no?"

Connor smiled at the Commander, having no idea just how frightening that smile was from someone everyone had previously shrugged off as a big, strong, amiable dreamer. "It isn't. But he's after a friend of mine, and I intend to get there first."

Fifteen

" . . . now that the wind's dropped, as it usually does when the sun sets."

Wren woke out of a soggy sleep. The gray, choppy, nervous sea reminded her somehow of a horse that smells trouble. The sky was a uniform gray that hid the sun. The others were all awake, looking tousled, as no one had had either a bath (other than head-plunges into the bucket of fresh water) or a cleaning frame for days.

Thad rapped his knuckles against the mast, a helpless, angry gesture. "We can't be but a day or two from land," he exclaimed. "That's what's so maddening."

Lambin hunched over his tiranthe, strumming it softly. Two of its strings were missing now, but he had no replacements. "They have to know how close we are to land, but are risking it anyway. This chase just doesn't make sense, even if that sorcerer-king is really after you, Wren. Would he really send all these ships just for a grudge?"

Wren sighed. "It doesn't make sense to me either, but then nothing Andreus ever did made any sense.

Unfortunately I can't scry home to find out if there's any news about him, so here we are."

"Here we are," Danal echoed, rubbing his hands.

Wren said, "Are you sure we're near land?"

Patka was crouched over their tiny cooking pot, under which Wren had made a mage-fire. "I think Thaddy's right. There are far too many birds over that way, besides those two big black daws." She pointed high overhead.

Wren peered up. The birds they'd seen earlier on their journey had vanished days ago, but here were two of them back again, two great jackdaws circling and circling. She scowled. "I hope those aren't spy birds."

Wren bent over their water bucket, staring into its depths. If she could just scry the birds, at least enough to sense magic on them . . .

She watched the ripples bouncing back and forth across the bucket, like tiny slivers of scattered light, but she could not get anything at all from the birds.

"Shall I make a slingshot and chase them off?"

Thad asked.

"Do it," Patka exclaimed. "I hate being spied on."

"But we don't know that." Wren shook her head. "If you toss things at them you might hurt one. Even if they are ensorcelled spy birds, it's not the birds' fault."

Patka turned her back on the birds. "Then we won't pay them any attention. See here. I've stewed the last of

the fish we caught yesterday, flavoring it with all our remaining nuts."

The light faded rapidly as the big pirate ships bore down steadily on them. Using the last of the light, they ate their meal and drank rain water. Then Wren and Danal practiced their spells.

Lambin had pointed out that six ships couldn't surround you like horseback riders can. Not only did they have to deal with wind, but their yards and rigging could get tangled if they got too close together.

"And that's just what we want," Thad had said.

Wren and Danal looked over their fire-spelled biscuits, all lined up and ready, then rehearsed their other magical preparations

"Looks like three are leading," Thad said, breaking into her reverie. "The others are hanging back."

Lambin said, "An old sea-captain in our village told me once they almost always attack big ships in threes."

Patka snorted. "Now they're attacking a gig in threes."

"A gig with a mage aboard," Danal breathed.

The three pirates sailed steadily toward the gig, their sails — ghostly pale in the weak, swinging lantern-light— full and tight with the slow, steady wind right on their beam. The gig's two sails were just as tight. Lambin and Danal stood at the ropes to keep the sails taut. Thad remained at the tiller.

Shadows flitted overheard, black against the purpling clouds. Wren looked up as the two jackdaws soared low, banked, and wheeled to glide back.

She settled in the stern sheets next to Thad.

"Gonna let them pirates get up to us?" Lambin asked, the end of his rope under his bare feet, his callused fingers toying restlessly with the tiranthe. He sent sweet chords drifting into the warm, humid air.

Danal said confidently, "The closer the better, for spells. Best of all is touching, but we don't want that." He grinned at Wren, who grinned back.

"Especially since we don't have surprise on our side," Wren began. "Hey!"

Glowing orange with fire, arrows arced toward them from the foremost ship.

"Aimed high," Thad announced.

"Just as we guessed," Patka said with some satisfaction.

Wren was too scared to feel any satisfaction about Thad's guess proving right: he'd said that the pirates would not want to sink the gig, but to disable it so they could capture those on board. So they were aiming at the sails.

"Danal?" Wren wiped her sweaty hands down her tunic. A clear and calm mind . . . no chickens! "Net first."

Danal leaped to the prow of the gig. "Ready?"

Wren touched her seaweed net. This was a new idea, one she'd never tried before. "All right."

"Up it goes!" Patka, Danal, and Lambin pulled the ropes that raised the seaweed net up to the top of the sails. The net flew up just as the first arrows reached it, and the fires snuffed out with snaky hisses. Then the arrows clattered into the net.

The pirates stopped shooting before Wren and her friends gathered more than a couple dozen arrows.

"Net down," Wren said. "Danal, start the dunking."

"I'll help," Patka declared.

Danal handed her his pile of arrows. "You dunk, I'll say the words over each then hand the arrows to Lambin."

Lambin had stowed his tiranthe. He stood ready with the bow they had made with his last two extra tiranthe strings, and a piece of the gunwale.

Danal started his spells, but his excitement made him speak too quickly. He ran several words together, and reversed two key phrases.

"Again," Wren said, keeping her voice low, calm, but encouraging. "Clear and calm mind."

Danal gripped an arrow, bending over it. In a stiff, slow, wooden voice he began again. Wren held her breath, her lips framing the words —

"Nafat." And a tiny spurt of light. Danal looked up, joy lifting his round, smiling face. "Done!"

"One," Patka said, eyeing the pirate ships. "We're going to need more than one, little brother."

Danal's skinny shoulders hunched, and he gripped another arrow.

"One at a time and they get done," Wren said. "Go ahead, Danal. Make it two."

A volley of fire arrows shot over the intervening sea from all three ships.

Now it was Wren's turn. She muttered her spell . . . and felt the magic dissipate. "What?"

Arrows rained all around them, some sticking in the hull, and three pierced their sail. The sharp smell of burning oil and wood nearly made Wren sneeze.

Thad whacked them away before the canvas could catch fire. More arrows thudded into the rail just below Danal and Patka.

Wren forced herself to close her eyes and breathe slow and deep. Once. Twice.

You have the ward ready. Calm. Clear.

This time she sensed the building of the magic. And just as another volley began their lethal arc through the air—

"Nafat!"

And the ward snapped around them like an invisible wall.

The arrows parted as if by a sudden wind, falling into the sea to float there on the waves.

"They're just a distraction," Lambin yelled, pointing.

Wren whipped around. From the sterns of the outer two ships came the silhouettes of two longboats full of pirates, oars dipping and rising swiftly.

"Smoke?" Danal asked, as Patka used an oar to collect some of the nearest arrows floating by.

"Get it ready."

Wren shut her eyes against the terrifying sight of those longboats, and in a slow, deliberate voice began her illusion spell.

This one had to be exact, repeated over and over as she created a mirror of the gig, with each person on it.

When she gestured, Danal threw a tiny pinch of bread-crumbs on the fire below the cook pot, a pinch that had been laden with spells. A huge gout of smoke billowed up, drifting over the water to obscure the longboats.

By the time the wind had shredded the smoke cloud into drifts Wren finished her illusion spell, and a false gig drifted ahead while Thad hauled hard on the tiller, sending them sailing across the bow of one of the pirate ships.

"It's working, it's working," Patka whispered, peering into the murk.

"Now, Lambin," Wren muttered, breathing hard to dispel the faint buzz of magic-reaction. "We don't want them seeing our wake if they light lanterns."

But Lambin was already shooting arrows. He wasn't very good at aiming yet, as he'd never held a bow until he was taught on board the Sandskeet, but he didn't need to be good. He just had to get those arrows somewhere on board the pirate ships. One, two, three, four in a row arced up and vanished behind the pirates' sails.

The first two arrows sped between the masts to splash in the water on the other side of the pirate ship, but one clattered against the foremast, and the next smacked into the main sail and tumbled to the deck.

From both arrows rose the faint sparkle of magical itch powder, which spread on the wind.

"Next ship!" Patka whispered.

The two longboats converged on the illusory gig as Lambin shifted his aim to the next pirate ship.

Wren braced herself, gathering her fading strength, hold it, hold it, don't think of chickens -

And lost it.

"Wren?" Danal asked anxiously.

Wren gritted her teeth. Shut her eyes. Began the spell again, slow, slow, calm, calm, clear, clear, remember the Crisis Rules - chickens -

Lost it.

"They're coming . . ." Lambin breathed harshly on Wren's other side.

Wren shut it out. She shut out Danal's anxious eyes reflecting the distant torchlight, and Patka's wary scowl. Calm. Calm.

Don't whine about how difficult the new spell is, Mistress Leila instructed during a long-ago lesson. You broke it into pieces to learn it. Now break it into pieces to use it.

Wren shut out the pirates. She shut out her companions. She shut out the memory of her own mistakes. Chanting steadily—layer after layer—she sensed the building of magic —

Hold . . . hold . . . one more layer . . .

"Nafat!" The spell snapped into place, a snap so powerful Wren staggered back and plopped into the middle of the gig, sending it rocking.

The others gasped as a mirror of the pirate ship snapped into being on the other side of the second ship, which responded by hauling its wheel to avoid collision —

"Nafat!" The second pirate mirrored right beside the first pirate, and it too hauled its wheel over hard, the wind steady in the sails.

Sails rose and fell in jerky lunges, amid angry screeches.

"The itch powder is working," Danal chortled. "It works!"

Making a tremendous effort to escape the phantom ships, the two pirates drew closer and closer, seeing one another too late. As angry shouts rose from the decks and shrouds of the two, their yards neared . . . .

The crews yanked the wheels, the ships slowly turned away from one another.

Someone bellowed, "They're turnin' — they're phantoms!"

"Aw, they figured it out," Danal exclaimed.

Wren stood up in the gig. She focused on the closest halyards aboard each ship. Muttering fast, she gathered magic — animated the ropes — snapped the spell into place.

"Wow," Patka breathed.

"They're tying 'em together." Thad grinned as the animated halyards snaked through the air and tangled tightly around the mast of the other ship, in both directions.

The ships came together in a grinding crash, and hoots, curses, and cries of rage were her reward.

The longboats veered away and began sailing back toward the bigger ships.

"Discovered the phantom gig," Thad declared. "Next?"

Wren cast a look skyward. The jackdaws circled against the stars as the clouds parted.

"Well, they aren't interfering," she muttered.

"Signals going up," Patka reported.

Wren and her companions watched the lanterns hung from the upper yards on the first ship, soon echoed by all the other ships.

"Know any of those signals?" Wren asked Thad and Lambin.

"No," Thad said, and Lambin shook his head.

Sailors swarmed up onto the yards, slacking the sails. Around the still-tangled leaders the rest of the fleet slowed. Then changed direction—toward them.

"They found us," Patka said, slumping.

"Yes." Lambin sighed. "There's a lookout right in front of that big lantern. I saw a hand pointing at our wake."

"They're having a tough time seeing us," Patka said.

"Yes, tougher than we have seeing them." Lambin laughed.

There was no sound except the creaking of the mast, the faint, distant cries of the pirates dealing with the tangled ships, and the wash-wash-wash of water down the sides of the gig.

Then Thad said slowly, "They're going to wait for the sun to come up."

"And try to gang up on us," Lambin added, unstringing his bow.

Wren looked down at her waiting fire-spelled breads. "I was too slow," she said. "It took me too many tries."

When Patka and Danal looked up, their dark eyes round with worry, she squared her shoulders. I'm all

they've got, she thought. If I can't manage big, complicated

spells without making stupid mistakes, then I'll just do lots of easy spells.

It's up to me.

Sixteen

"It's just past noon," Garian said as soon as he walked into Tyron's office.

Tyron bit down hard against a sarcastic comment. He knew Garian wasn't stating the obvious to be obnoxious.

They glanced at the window, beyond which the garden was flooded with midday sunshine. Perfect weather.

Unfortunately, that promised perfect weather at night.

Tyron said, "No, I'm not yet ready. There's been too much to do here. Are you here to offer help, or is there a new problem?"

Garian lifted his hands, a ruby ring glowing in the fire-bright sparks reflecting from the pond outside the parlor windows. "I'm not ready, either, but I came with a question." He didn't seem ready to ask it yet, though; he stood uncertainly, fingers twitching at the window curtain as the ruby glittered, then he swung around. "I've so few of the best guards, what with having to send patrols here and there following those fools of Hawk's. Why did they take it into their heads to

explore the castle ruins in mountains this week, of all weeks?"

"To be annoying." Tyron sensed that this was not Garian's real question. "Hawk has to suspect we're getting ready for him."

Garian sat down at last, irony replacing his exasperated expression. It made him look unsettlingly like his father, the tough, cold, and calculating Duke Fortian—except Fortian had never had a sense of humor. "So, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"That Hawk is not going to try anything nefarious tonight at all? I've been worrying about that off and on all week, that all our effort is for nothing. But I am convinced if we didn't make the effort, he wouldn't be able to resist doing something we'd really hate."

Garian brooded over that, then looked up. "I guess we go through with it, then."

Tyron lifted his hand toward the window. "And try to make it look effortless, like we can snap our fingers and have all these people in place without any extra strain. At least, I've gone to every court function all week, striving to give the appearance of nothing special going on, even though he's probably seen our senior mage students pacing the lakeside and standing under the trees practicing protection spells."

"I wondered why you took a sudden interest in the parties this week. Couldn't be the dancing."

"While you nobles were twirling around with your fans and your flirting, I've been trying not to think about how far behind I am in my own work. But Hawk is not to know that."

Garian snorted a laugh. "Effortless. Yes. Well, I'd better get back to the palace and waft my archers into the trees, and my scouts into the woods."

He lifted a hand in salute and departed.

Tyron sent the waiting first year student to summon his chosen team of mage students. Orin arrived first, as though she had been waiting just outside. She was not a senior, but she had offered to help. Tyron spoke to each, going over the plans one more time, before he sent them off to get into place, preferably armed with food from the kitchen against a long day and evening. Orin departed last, with a thoughtful, concerned look back at him. Her long silvery hair rippled as she walked away.

A palace messenger dashed in and stumbled to a stop. "The queen would like to know if you still plan to attend this evening?" she asked.

Tyron knew what Teressa really meant: would he come early and speak to her first. He said, "Please tell the queen that I will be there."

Everyone else waiting for an interview with Tyron pressed back as the queen's messenger retreated on her errand, and then they crowded forward, elbowing ahead of a small, bucktoothed boy in a dark brown tunic. Tyron noticed the boy once or twice, but he was far too distracted to think about him except as yet another problem to be dealt with before he could leave for the palace and whatever awaited him there.

He was not looking forward to the evening.

Afternoon shafts of light slanted through the window before Tyron got through the last of the waiting students and messengers.

He looked wearily at the small boy. His dusty dark brown tunic had a wheel stitched on the front. The boy clutched a message bag in both arms.

Tyron tried to hide his impatience. "You have something for me?"

"Not a message," the boy said. "I was paid extra to come to you. And speak to you alone." He opened his bag and brought out an object folded in cloth. "I am from Fliss, I was to say," the boy explained. He grinned suddenly. "She sent me to the Guild Destination. It was my first time going by magic."

Tyron took the object, and smiled. "Did you like it?"

"No." The boy flashed that big, buck-toothed grin again. "But I'm the first o' us to have a magic transfer, so that's something."

A scrap of paper fell out of the cloth. Tyron held it up. It appeared to be a bill of sale for a used wagon. He whispered a common spell the traveling mages used to banish illusory words, and sure enough, the bill of sale vanished, revealing the real message:

I don't know if there's a problem or she just lost it. But I saw it in the window of a curio shop—I don't think they know what it is. F.

Tyron shook the object free of the cloth, and then stared in sick disbelief at the object in his hands, trying not to recognize it. But he did, because he had chosen it himself.

It was Wren's scry stone.

o0o

Teressa dismissed her maid and brushed out her own hair. She stared into the mirror, wondering why her eyes looked so tense—why they called her father so strongly to mind. Her memories of him were not of a tense person. Strange.

She turned away, her fingers braiding automatically. She'd just put her hair up in a coronet and fixed silken flowers in it. The party was outside, in the dark, after all. And it didn't matter what she looked like. She was the queen. They had to accept her as she was.

She glared into the mirror. It didn't matter? Then why had she ordered this new gown, the finest gown she'd ever worn? She studied the low neck, edged with pearls and tiny diamonds, of her parti-colored dress made up of midnight blue and pale rose silk, joined by golden embroidery in the shape of leaves. The gown was fitted, its style minimizing her boniness and

lending her (she'd thought) some of the rounded grace she admired in other females.

"Why?" she whispered, smoothing the gown.

But she knew why. It was not for her Court.

It was to impress Hawk.

And that was why she was in a bad mood. He didn't do anything to impress her. He just was. So why did she want to impress him? Was it because he'd begun paying attention to everyone else, making sarcastic comments that sent court ladies into peals of laughter? Was it because he danced with the others, teasing them all, especially that solemn, silver-haired mage student who trotted after Tyron all the time?

"I am the queen," she told her mirror. "He can take me as I am — or not." But the moment she said it she knew she wanted to be courted for being Teressa, and she was not entirely sure, despite his rare and flippant compliments, that he wasn't really courting a queen. That he wouldn't be courting Robin if she were queen, or that earnest and ever-present silver-haired Orin who Tyron seemed to admire so much.

There were two more things she had to face.

One. Though he might just be courting a queen, she was attracted to him. Hawk. She would find him fascinating even if he were the gardener who saw to her roses, or a Rider in the hills, or a brick-maker. Except . . . he'd be the best Rider, or the strongest and

fasted brick layer. Part of the attraction was his easy strength, the cool way he challenged the world.

Teressa kept wondering if her father had been that strong, that cool, would the kingdom have fallen?

But my father was wise and compassionate.

That brought her to the second thing she knew: if she asked Hawk straight out if he was courting Teressa the person or Teressa the queen, he'd make some remark and deflect her, and she would not get the truth. She might never get the truth, because she was not the least sure that she could trust him.

It was stupid to go alone on the lake with him, willfully stupid, and every single person in court, from low to high degree, had given her hints or looks. No one except Carlas had dared to say anything straight out, but she saw in their averted gazes, heard in their whispers and false laughter, that they were all thinking it.

And she was doing it anyway. Not just to be alone with him. If she really wanted to, she could command everyone to leave, go into her own rooms with him, and shut the doors, with guards posted outside to keep everyone away.

No, she was doing it as her own dare—daring him to be trustworthy.

She set the coronet of silken roses into her hair, jabbing the hairpins in so hard that tears stung her

eyes. Then without looking at the effect, she flung open the doors and stalked out.

Tyron waited in her personal parlor, where she used to meet Wren for their weekly talks. Before I chased her away.

Tyron rose courteously on her entrance, his white robe fresh and smooth, his usually wild hair neatly combed and gathered behind him in a sedate tail, tied with a narrow ribbon. It changed his entire face. With his hair tied back like that she could see how broad his brow was, and the subtle line from temple to cheek to jaw.

But he looked back unsmiling, and her anger rushed right up from the knotted ball of fire in her stomach to flood her face with heat. "If," she said, "you're about to lecture me on my stupidity, you can save your—"

"Wren's scry stone showed up," Tyron cut in. "Without Wren."

Rude. No apology. But now Teressa realized he wasn't angry, he was upset.

He lifted a hand toward that smoothly ordered hair as if to drive his fingers through it and stir it into its usual messy bird nest, but then he forced his hand down to his side, his fist clenched so hard she could see the whiteness of his knuckles.

"I cannot imagine how or why Wren would let her scry stone get separated from her, but Fliss, who is

doing our midsummer spell renewal in accordance with the Fil Gaen customs treaty, somehow found it in Hroth Harbor."

All Teressa's anger snuffed out like a candle.

"Wren! What does that mean? Did you try to scry her?"

Tyron half-raised a hand. "No time. The messenger just arrived today. This afternoon." He gave her a slightly sardonic look. "And I had this party to get ready for."

Teressa plumped down onto a chair, heedless of her fine gown. "Then scry her now. The party can wait."

"No it can't," Tyron said. "They are all gathered on the terrace, the servants with the torches, the musicians, the food, the boat-tenders, and your guests. All waiting for you."

"I don't care. Not if Wren's in trouble."

Tyron shook his head. "But you need to care. It won't do Wren any good at all if word gets out. This matter has to remain ours only. And Halfrid's, as soon as I can contact him. And I will, when this party is safely—that is, when it's over."

"Ours only," she repeated. "Who is it you don't want finding out?"

Tyron said, "Your guests await you, your majesty."

"Stop it." She took a quick step around the room, then halted directly before him, eye to eye. "You can't just scry really quick?"

"I'm not good enough. I need Halfrid's big stone, with all its magical enhancements. You know my strengths lie elsewhere, not in scrying. But I thought you'd better know."

Teressa paced back and forth. "Can you summon Fliss?"

"No. She's got to do those spells, and promptly on time according to the guild schedule, or we'll get complaints from Fil Gaen that we're trifling with the treaty. You know the treasury cannot afford for us to have to start paying customs on all our shipping."

"We need our own harbor," Teressa muttered.

"But not right now," Tyron reminded her. "Anyway, if Fliss had known anything more, she would have let me know."

Teressa started toward the door, then whirled around. "Why did you tell me now?"

"Because I just found out. Because I thought you ought to know. Because . . . because if there is any possible connection with anything anyone might say tonight—and I'm being as general as I can in order to prevent an argument neither of us has time for—you might learn a clue."

Teressa compressed her lips against a retort.

Tyron lifted his hands toward his head, then yanked them down. "Like I said before, I don't know where Wren is. The last she was seen was at our mage's place in Hroth Falls, and she scryed me the night she reached the harbor. The night someone else arrived here. The two events might—I'm going to repeat might—not be coincidental."

Teressa let her breath out in a sharp sigh. "All right. Fair enough. Let's go."

They descended the last staircase. Tyron left her without another word—no Have fun! Or I hope this will be a great party —and abruptly dashed through a side exit to the terrace. She had to face the truth, that he not only hated the idea of this party, but he'd been put to a great deal of work to prepare for it, even though he knew he wouldn't have any fun. He and everybody else. But nobody said a word to her—though they probably did, in plenty, to one another—because she was the queen.

I wanted this party, so I'd better get it started.

She squared her shoulders, smoothed her damp palms down her gown, and marched alone toward the glass window-doors.

The waiting trumpeters sprang to attention and blew the royal fanfare. Beyond, in the light of the torches held by tall, impassive servants, her guests stopped talking and performed their courtly bows.

Teressa looked past them. Hawk stood at the back next to a slim, silver-haired figure in a mage student's robe.

Teressa forced her gaze away. The torch bearers all seemed curiously tall; she realized she recognized

some of those faces. They were not servants, though they wore the servant livery. They were guards.

No one had told her about that! Anger surged through her again, but she dismissed it. Too late now.

She forced a smile onto her lips, though it felt as false as her words when she made a brief speech welcoming everyone. Very brief, and then she nodded to the waiting musicians, who began playing the old melodies associated with double-moon nights.

The guests parted to the left and right and she walked across the terrace, down the steps, and onto the grassy sward leading down to the lakeside. The air was still warm, but the faintest trace of a breeze stirred whispering through the trees, and brushed against her hot cheeks.

Little flags had been set up on the boats to indicate which belonged to whom; some were decorated with flowers and ribbons, others were plain. Servants brought out the food in baskets and placed them in the boats.

Hawk appeared at her side. An echo of anger, and resentment, kept her silent. Though she might be testing him this was, in a sense, his party, too. She'd made it happen partly as a challenge, but also to please him.

Tyron didn't want me to tell Hawk that Wren is missing.

"What's wrong?" Hawk's voice was low, and completely without its customary mocking edge. She almost didn't recognize it as his voice.

She threw back her head—and her restless gaze caught sight of Orin at the inlet near the palace. She was talking earnestly to Tyron, his head bent to catch whatever it was she was saying.

Why did Orin have to wear that hair of hers hanging down, when all the other mage students wore braids or tails? Because she wants Tyron to see it.

Teressa turned her back on them. "Nothing."

Hawk held out his hand toward the waiting boat.

She climbed in, skirts carefully bunched at either side and sat all the way forward. He stepped in after, sat on the rowing bench and he picked up the oars.

Not for Hawk the silent servant sitting in the back to do all the work; he rowed easily, well, as if he'd done it before, many times. They sped through the water, which rilled away in a quiet wake, gleaming with silvery-blue highlights reflecting light from the two moons riding in the sky, one low in the north, one higher in the south. Hawk reached the middle before anyone else did, though they were hardly alone; over the black, smooth water drifted talk and laughter and music.

Laughter and music. At least the courtiers seemed to be having a good time. Some of her tension faded.

Hawk lifted the oars at last, and the boat drifted to a stop. "Would you like anything to eat or drink?" he asked, still in that rare, ordinary voice. He sounded so strange, like any other young man, and not at all like the mocking Hawk with his quick, knife-edged cracks that everyone was so used to.

"No," she said. "But if you want to occupy the time with food or wine or whatever else is in that basket, feel free."

He leaned his forearms on his knees, his hands loose. He made no effort to touch her. "Regrets?" She could see twin gleams of reflected torchlight in his black eyes.

"Yes. No. Yes. You tell me," she finally said. "Do I have anything to regret?"

"It's almost—almost, I say, but not quite— irresistible to make a gesture to your guardians by whisking you away. Just for a time, to set them all in a bustle."

"Guardians?"

He grinned, his even white teeth flashing in the reflected light of all those torches along the shoreline. "Did you really not know the trees are full of archers, the grounds of mages, and there's so much protective magic in the air I can smell it?" His mocking voice was back. "Not to mention there must be a hundred guards and horses stationed around the perimeter of your garden, probably cursing me, if not us both, for condemning them to a thoroughly boring night when they could be in town celebrating with everyone else in Cantirmoor."

"Cursing? Even the horses?" she asked, to hide the flush of anger she felt.

"Even the horses," he stated. "If one could understand their whinnies and whuffs."

A sudden image of Connor's wide gray-blue eyes flickered in Teressa's mind. "Would you want to understand horses if you could?"

"No." Hawk draped a careless arm along the edge of the railing, his hand resting a palm's breadth from her shoulder. She could hear his breathing. "I don't care what horses think. I just want them to bear me to wherever I am going, and then they are free to do whatever it is horses like to do. People, now, are different."

She said nothing.

"Did you know about the guardians?"

His other hand lifted lazily, taking in the trees surrounding the lake. The closest ones, Teressa noted, had been hung with tiny lanterns that twinkled prettily, adding to the soft glow of diffuse light. She hadn't ordered that, though she liked the effect. A military purpose as well?

She turned her back to them and studied Hawk, whose sardonic profile was etched against that peaceful background.

"Do you," she asked, "know why they are there?"

He mimed surprise at her question. "Of course.

They don't trust me. We already established that they are waiting for me to try to wrest you away, without seeming to realize that I never make the same mistake twice."

"You'd win yourself a broken nose if you did," she replied, doubling a fist and then dropping it into her lap.

He laughed. "So you've kept up your warlike training, then, I take it?"

"It seemed the right thing to do."

"I wish I could see you at it." He flashed a grin.

"Why? To laugh?"

He waved his free hand lazily; the one still lay along the boat's rail. His breathing was slow and steady. Not quick, like hers. "When I first came here several years ago, you were merely a target, meek and solemn and boring as you were. When you pulled that knife on me that very last day, it took me by surprise. Few ever take me by surprise. My early survival, you might say, depended on my not being taken by surprise. During the war, when I saw you with your dirty hair short and tangled, that chin of yours jutting out, and a sword in your hands, you became interesting."

His voice was low, soft. Reflective. The mockery was not gone, but it was faint, enticingly faint.

She shook her head, not wanting banter, or even compliments. They were too easy. "What I want to know is whether or not you can be trusted. And please don't mouth out any easy lies."

"But I never lie."

"Which could be a lie."

He laughed, his teeth flashing again, and this time the nearer hand flicked up in acknowledgement of a hit. "Lying is easy. I did it all the time when I was small. Part of the survival I mentioned. It was easy, and

I never regretted it. But at length it became too easy. The battle of wits is the sweeter when both sides tell the truth—though sometimes they do not tell all of it."

"So that's it? We are at war, you and I?"

"War?" He laughed softly, and moved at last.

She heard his breathing change, and knew what would come next, for the heat of promise kindled inside her, the same flare of heat she felt when he touched her, when his smile was sudden and genuine, but now the heat was a steady flame and she sat very still as his hand came up to caress her cheek, trailing along the edge of her jaw to her chin, that big square chin that would have been so handsome on a prince, but on a princess she scorned as merely awkward.

From there his hand drifted around the back of her neck, and she gazed steadily into his dark eyes, until his face was close, and she could feel his breath on her forehead. She made a tiny sound and put her hands on

his shoulders, pulling him close, closer, until their lips met, warm and sweet, and the flame ignited into a glory that burned the lake, the kingdom, the world and its worries all away.

Seventeen

"They're lulling us," Lambin said. "Putting out those lanterns one by one."

Patka leaned out of the boat so far that she was in danger of falling over the side.

Thad hooked her fingers in the crook of her elbow and yanked her back. "You really can't see any better that way."

Patka let out a loud sigh. "I don't think they're going to wait until morning to attack."

No one disagreed.

A faint patch of light behind a thin band of clouds showed Little Moon rising slowly on the northern horizon and another glowing patch high in the southern sky marked where Big Moon was.

Wren tucked her book back inside her tunic.

She'd done a long session of spell-practice, watched anxiously by Danal and warily by Patka. That ended when the pirates began dousing their lights.

Patka and Danal sat at the sails, tense and still. Thad waited at the tiller, Lambin with his bow. They had furled their sail so they wouldn't catch any reflected

glow, no matter how faint, as the wind was still dormant.

Wash-wash, wash-wash. The water lapped against the hull, and here and there fish splooshed up from the water and back down again, vanishing beneath the ripples.

Patka asked sarcastically, "Do those rockheads really think we're stupid enough to believe six attacking ships are just settling down for the night?"

"Doesn't matter," Thad replied shortly. "Since they aren't."

Everyone fell silent, watching, waiting. Wren's stomach growled from time to time. She drank more water. So did the others.

"They're still lulling us," Patka said a long time later, when the light patches behind the clouds were balanced in the sky, one low in the north, the bigger one low in the south.

"Keep your voice down," Thad whispered. "Remember. Voices carry a long way over water when there is no wind."

Not long after, Danal gasped. "Look!" He whispered.

"Where? Where?" everyone muttered at once, looking around.

"There. Just now. A dark thing. I dunno, it was just on the edge of my sight, and when I turned, it was like,

I don't know—"

"Like a mast passing in front of the moonglow?" Thad leaned forward, talking in a low, urgent voice as he squinted sternward.

"That's what it was," Danal whispered. "It was thin. Hard to see. I thought it was just my eyes."

"The big ships must be rowing," Lambin murmured. "Should we row, too?"

"No," Thad whispered. "Remember those longboats they put down at sunset? We don't want to row right into 'em."

"What do we do?" Patka turned to Wren, her face a pale round shape in the darkness.

Wren frowned. "I wish I knew how well they can see us. Right now our best chance is to be as invisible as we can."

"Our hull is dark, our mast small. How about another of your illusion spells?" Thad asked.

Wren shook her head. "I daren't hold it long. It makes me too tired, and I want all my strength for the real fight."

Thad said, "Now that I think of it, maybe we'd better lie flat. If they're peering through their spyglasses, our faces might be visible."

They hunkered down, leaning their elbows on the benches and peering over the rail. "Now we really can't see anything," Danal muttered.

Thad said, "How about this? If we spot anything the least bit suspicious, Lambin, you send up a fire arrow. It'll show us where everyone is."

"Including us." Patka sighed softly.

"Can't be helped," Lambin put in. "And if they're slowly closing in, they pretty much already know where we are."

They fell silent once more.

Wren peered down the length of the boat. It was difficult to see where Thad was, except as a vague shape, dark against an even darker background. "You have the most experience on the sea of any of us. What would you do if you were in charge of those pirates?"

"I've been thinkin' on that," Thad said. "I've only been on the one cruise, and there weren't no pirates. I don't know their tricks, except what I've been told. I think them longboats are circling around to come at us from the other direction. So all of 'em can attack us at once."

Silence once again.

Wren crossed her arms on the bench and laid her head on them. The wood smelled dank, salt mixing with mold. She could feel as well as hear the steady wash-wash of the water on the hull. She knew the others would keep watch. She would soon need every bit of her strength. She closed her eyes, drifting into a light doze, for she was hungry as well as tired from the

magic making of the morning, and her preparations during the long afternoon.

So when a hand grabbed her shoulder in an urgent, tight grip, she jerked upright, trying not to yell.

"I heard something," Thad whispered into her ear. "Oar splash. Close." The boat rocked a little as he clambered his way back again.

Fear and tension snapped through Wren as she reached for the first of the arrows she'd worked on that afternoon. There was the tiny notch she'd made to distinguish it from the others.

"This one." She barely breathed the words as she handed it to Lambin.

Everyone took their positions. Thad was at the tiller, Patka and Danal scrambled to one of the rowing benches in the middle, oars to hand, and Wren and Lambin scooted as far forward as they could get, to give the rowers room.

Lambin pulled the arrow back. Wren whispered the fire spell, and Lambin shot. The tiranthe string he'd sacrificed to make the bow hummed softly in the still air as the smoldering arrow arced up, and up, then burst into a small fireball.

Wren had warned everyone to shade their eyes against it or the fireball would keep them from seeing anything. They flattened their palms over their eyes until after the flash. For a heartbeat they could see clearly all around them. There were nearly twenty

longboats grouped to the west of them, one just within arrow shot. The longboats were closing in on some sort of debris in the water, not on the gig, but they were still horribly close.

Somebody on the closest pirate longboat gave a yell, pointing violently toward the gig as the burning arrow fell into the sea.

Darkness promptly closed in, but they could hear the excited splash of oars.

Simple spells, one at a time, Wren reminded herself.

A clear mind.

"Crawlies first," Wren said.

"Don't waste any," Patka muttered.

"I won't," Lambin promised, groping for the arrow Wren was handing him. Without taking his gaze away from a long dark shape just slightly darker than everything around it, he fitted the arrow to his bow, raised it, took careful aim — and shot.

Wren held her breath. No splash—

"Auuuuugh!" The pirates in the closest boat started howling.

"Crawlies away," Patka gloated.

The others uttered muffled, nervous snickers.

Wren grinned, imagining the pirates feeling every single hair on their bodies start worming around as if alive. In the dark, it would be easy to imagine a sudden onslaught of really nasty insects — and judging from the

howls, yells, and curses rising from that direction, that was just what the pirates thought.

"Row," Thad commanded. "No splashes, remember."

Patka and Danal began plying their oars, Thad whispering a count under his breath so they stayed in rhythm. They began to glide slowly away from the longboat—very slowly, for the gig was long and heavy for only two rowers. Lambin shot seven more crawly-arrows, and Wren leaned forward, peering ahead for her next target.

Four distinct yells and howls sounded across the water from the direction of the longboats.

"Four hits," Patka whispered, grunting as she pulled her oars. "Not bad for shooting in the dark."

Lambin whispered back, "There are so many I'm sure to hit one."

That grim thought silenced everyone, and the rowers worked even harder.

In the distance, two pirate ships lit lamps, alerted by the yells carrying over the water.

Wren drew in a breath, another idea forming—this one risky, but irresistible. With twenty enemy longboats hunting them, what did she have to lose?

She picked up one of her fire-breads, focusing on the twinkle of a light on the foremast of the nearest pirate ship.

Then, muttering the transfer spell, she tossed the bread into the air, finished—

And it vanished with a soft pop!

Half a heartbeat later a huge fireball whooshed up the pirate foremast. Now another great cry went up, sounding like birds from that distance.

The second ship hastily began putting its lights out, but not before she sent a second fire-bread high into its foremast. The sails of two pirates lit the sky with flames, as black shapes crawled about in the rigging, trying to put the fires out.

Zzzip! Zzzzip! A hissing of arrows sped directly overhead, followed shortly after by slingshot stones. The pirates were now trying to sink them, and worry about capture later.

The missiles skimmed harmlessly overhead, but each one that was diverted lessened the protective ward. Wren whispered softly, strengthening the ward. It was the biggest she'd ever had to make and sustain; it had taken all afternoon to establish it, and now it was wearing away much too quickly.

Lambin grabbed an arrow at random. Twang! Zang! Another arrow flew over the water, and then shouts rose.

One had hit a longboat, releasing a fine powder of dried breadcrumbs loaded with itch spells. Triple strength itch spells.

The shouts turned into howls of anger and disgust as pirates began scratching furiously.

One arrow had obviously missed, but Lambin shot again, and this time connected, releasing a fresh load of itch weed.

"They're going to ram us," Thad said sharply.

Wren swung around. A row of longboats ranged directly behind them, rowing fast.

"Time for the net?" Danal asked.

"Time for the net." Wren settled back against the rail, drawing in a deep breath.

This was a complicated spell. She whispered the Crisis Rules, but images kept skittering through her mind: seaweed, nets, pirates. Ships. Fire.

Chickens.

She shook her head. She'd gotten no use whatever out of repeating the Crisis Rules. She wasn't even listening to herself.

Concentrate!

This was more sustained magic, much tougher than wards because it involved physical objects. She touched the first seaweed. One at time, you can do it . . . She began the first spell. The bundled seaweed net on the gig's prow slowly began to unfold its length, rising into the air. It was working! Patka gave a gasp of joy.

— And that broke Wren's concentration.

The net promptly fell with a squelching plerp sound, like a bubble popping in mud.

Again. She turned her back so she wouldn't see the others watching her. She brought her hands up, just like a beginner, as she enunciated her spells. She used her hands to keep her focus steady, for this sort of magic — used for lifting huge beams and stones in building—required not only focus to keep the object steady, but precision in moving it through space. Her net wasn't all that heavy, but it was quite large, big enough to drape over a big three master—or else along a row of attacking boats.

Like the ones coming on fast, the oars splashing ^hig^h.

Concentrate!

The net bobbled. She shut her eyes and whispered. The magic strengthened the net's flow up, up . . .it trembled . . . the ends wobbled . . . Wren tensed her fingers, using them as guides. When the net was hovering over the foremost longboat, she finished her spell—

"Danal," she gasped.

— and began the next spell.

The net began to drop. Danal blurted his string of magic words, and with a loud splorch! the net dissolved into a rain of slime.

"Yearrrgh!"

Stinky slime. It had been Patka's idea to add the aroma of rotting fish to the net. Even at this distance, the stench was eye-watering.

The effect on the pirates was quite spectacular. The crunch of rending wood smote the air as two, then three longboats crashed together. After that, others collided with the three already tangled up. The remainder veered wildly — or attempted to, but their beslimed oars slipped out of their hands and squirted out onto the water.

As the pirates in the longboats tried to get away as fast as they could, Wren turned to the ships silhouetted by the flames. With the help of Lambin and Danal, she loaded the pirates with spells: their weapons flew up into the rigging and masts, sticking there. Then, with a mental salute to Laris, Wren used the same spell that had caused her own shoes to attack her on her return to her room after the war. Buckets and blocks started chasing any pirate within arm's reach, thumping them vigorously while the pirates ran about trying to escape, an impossibility unless they dove overboard into the water.

Wren's eyes prickled with tears. Dear Laris! So much fun, such an excellent mage. Another victim of Andreus's war. You would have done far better today than I'm doing, Laris.

Then she forced herself back to work.

Ghost images of other ships drove the ships into one another, spreading the fire—and the chaos. Wren clung to the gig's mast, intent on magic-making on a scale she'd never before attempted. Exhilaration kept her going until exhaustion and then singing dizziness threatened to overwhelm her.

In the east, a faint smear of light had gone unnoticed, but now it began to spread. Sky and sea began to take on color, revealing the pirates, and . . .

Patka uttered a cry of woe.

Lambin whispered, "We're done for."

Wren turned her head, ignoring the pangs running down from her neck to her left hand clinging so tightly to the mast. She gazed in blank-minded dismay at the sight of ten huge ships sailing straight toward them, sails and studdingsails billowing in a faintly rising breeze, jib sails along the bowsprit curved to catch every breath of wind.

Overhead the jackdaws wheeled and dived.

Eighteen

"What's with Red? I've never seen him like this, and we shipped together through the islands all last autumn."

Connor was aware of the voices behind him, but he kept the spyglass pressed to his eye as he leaned against the rail of his friend's schooner, the Piper, and scanned the horizon.

The high, scratchy voice of his friend, Captain Tebet, went on. "Is it this some kind of prince foolery? I didn't know he was any prince. Six weeks together on board last fall, twice fighting off river pirates, and I didn't know that."

"Nobody knew," came the deeper voice of Connor's friend Marpan, known to everyone as Longface because of his predilection for jokes told in a deadpan voice and expression. "Six weeks, nothing. Six months we were caravan guards together, through the Purba Hills. Brigands, robbers, thieves, you name it, we fought it. Sharing drink, flirting with village and harbor girls. No hint of any crowns or thrones."

Of course not, Connor thought. I don't own a crown, and I've never sat on a throne.

He didn't say that either, as he swept the dark skyline once more, impatient for the sun to rise higher. He never talked about his family at all, or he might have pointed out that when you're the last of eight children in a land where the royal budget is always on the brink of trouble, there aren't a whole lot of crowns to be had.

Longface continued in his even-toned rumble of a voice, "Said something about an old friend. Mage."

A snap of the fingers, followed by Captain Tebet's squawk, "More mages! What is it with Black Hood and mages? Rumors flyin' all over every harbor from here to Beshair. He's chasing mages. If he is one, why's he want more?"

Longface gave a low chuckle. "Well, seems to me that's what we're on the way to find out."

"And that's another thing. Why's Red even with us, and not ridin' high with the Admiral over there on the flagship?"

Connor's spyglass took in the silhouette of the huge four-masted flagship, sailing at the head of the arrowshaped formation of eight Okidaino naval frigates. The rising sun painted the edges of the masts with golden color and the sails with the pale blue of dawn.

The Piper and another small schooner stayed well back, as ordered.

"We can ask. He's standin' right there," Longface observed. "But if it were me offered a choice, I'd be right here, too, where a body can actually talk, and not trip over one of them everlasting military rules and regs."

Captain Tebet's laugh sounded like a fight between angry parrots. She was small and scrawny and so sun-browned she looked a lot older than her sixty years, but she was full of stories about the sea — stories that occasionally included the Iyon Daiyin.

Connor had asked more one night. Captain Tebet had shaken her grizzled head. Truth is? I don't like talkin' about 'em much. I told me children that there was a rumor we were descended from 'em. My daughter went t'find out, and hasn't been seen since.

She came forward, thumping Connor in the arm with a hand made strong with years of pulling ropes and tending the wheel during storms. "Red, now that we're a long way from the harbor busybodies, and no one can hear us but us, what's the inside word?"

Connor kept his glass sweeping. The light was getting stronger. Was that something way out there? "What word? I told you everything I knew in that council session yesterday. Black Hood is Andreus, former king of Senna Lirwan. Killed the pirate brought in. Sent ships to chase the Sandskeet, which seems to be carrying my friend Wren. Admiral wants to catch the pirates in the act. I hired you to carry me out."

"Yes, it's that part, me boy, I want to ask about. I assumed there was some treasure in it, or reward o' some kind. Now, spill."

Connor laughed. Captain Tebet was never subtle about the prospect of gold, but she was so fair-minded and good-hearted she somehow had never ended up rich. "If there was any treasure, the Admiral would have gotten sniff of it first thing. And I wouldn't have to hire you, would I? Seems to me treasure would be its own hire."

"So why did you hire us?"

"Us?" Longface added in. "I came along o' my own free will. Like a nice fight with a pirate now and then. Keeps my hand in."

Connor said, "Now that we're well away from the good Admiral, I'll tell you. I'm pretty sure that the mage those pirates is after is a friend of mine. If we are in time, if we do rescue her, and she doesn't want to be swept inside the naval net the Admiral is laying for the good of his kingdom, I wanted an out. We could just sail off, and no fuss."

Tebet squawked. "Red! And you're hiring me for that? What an insult! Of course I'd sail anywhere to keep a mate, or a mate's mate, outa the sticky hands o' them land lubbers. Sail they might, those naval fellows are really landrats. Or at least, their commanders are."

"How you figure that?" Longface asked. His voice was exactly as flat and growly as ever, but Connor

knew he was getting ready for a punchline of some sort.

"Well, ain't it obvious? They take you up into their castles, and months go by with questions, and forms, and this and that. Rules and regs, like you said, until there's no turning around without some scribe tellin' you this or that law keeps you right in place. No, give me the sea and freedom."

"And that's why I hired you," Connor said.

Captain Tebet said shrewdly, "And where does your gold come from? My guess is, prince or not (and I'm not sayin' I don't believe it, but if I could get those fools in charge o' that harbor to move faster than a stone, I'd be queen o' the universe) you ain't exactly sleepin' on gold. Else why was you crewin' for me last fall?"

"I saved all my earnings from the caravan last summer," Connor said. "And they pay me really well to tend the Eye, there in the harbor. . . Say. Is that a fire out on the sea, or is it only my eyes playing tricks?"

The other two joined him at the rail, one to either side, the captain snapping out her more powerful spyglass, and Longface just squinting.

"Fire," Captain Tebet said. "Ship on fire. At least one."

A cacophony of whistles and shouts rose aboard the naval vessels.

"Lookouts spotted it, too," Longface offered.

Captain Tebet sniffed. "Steady wind risin' out of the west. We better get the topgallants up," and she turned to squawk orders.

The Piper resounded with stamps and shouts and creaks as crew got sails higher on the mast, in order to make use of every bit of wind.

Connor kept his spyglass trained steadily on that smeary orange glow, his neck tight with tension.

Longface said, "Why's this mage so important?"

Connor leaned his elbows on the rail, smiling up at the sky. "When I was a dashing young prince of twelve or thirteen, I thought I'd impress this short round girl in shabby clothes, with wild striped hair, who'd had the effrontery to make friends with my old friend Tyron. So I waved my sword around as I made heroic declarations."

Longface almost smiled. "Did she laugh?"

"No. She was never mean." Unlike half my siblings.

"Did she make her own heroic declaration?"

"Not her!"

"Well, what did she do?"

"She said, 'Watch the curtains.'"

Longface waited, and when nothing more was offered, his dark eyes widened. "That's it? Watch the curtains? And you even bothered to remember that?"

Connor sighed. "I guess it was the way she said it."

"Something's sure missing."

"How much fun we had, the three of us. How brave she was, while making jokes. How smart. How . . . heroic, though she'd hate being called a hero."

Longface's incredulity faded, and he gazed at Connor with a speculative expression unlike his usual deadpan. "I know what's missing," he said in a wondering voice.

Connor flushed, remembering the many flirtations he and Longface had shared along the road. Always fun, and never remembered afterward.

"She didn't like romance," he said.

"Seems to me there's a lot she doesn't like," Longface commented skeptically.

"The last time we saw one another, we'd been fighting Andreus of Senna Lirwan. It was not a romantic time," Connor said.

Longface sobered back to his usual deadpan. "And now this Andreus is chasing her on that smuggler? Yeah, I guess she must be good at whatever it is she does."

"She's a mage student," Connor said. Her real gift is not just seeing you as you really are, but accepting you, too.

If she was on that burning ship . . .

Even if Andreus was not there on the unseen pirate ships, it was his malice behind the orders, his hand raised in threat over his underlings. Connor's grip tightened on his spyglass.

The added sail caused the ships to plunge and rise, their speed increasing on the strengthening wind. But it was not fast enough for him.

"They're moving into attack formation," Captain Tebet observed. "I wonder what the navy sees from those higher masts o' theirs."

Connor shifted his eyes away from the spyglass, blinking against the blur caused by staring through the lens for so long. Archers climbed into the mastheads. Boom crews stood in the waist, ready to swing out the big booms attached to the central mast to sweep an enemy's rigging in a close encounter.

"What ho?" Captain Tebet squawked, as the lookout above the flag ship gave a cry. She ran up the shrouds holding her mainmast, crowding in beside her own lookout, until she yelled down, "There's someone out there!"

"What?" Longface and Connor spoke at the same time.

"There's — I can't make sense of it . . ." She peered through her powerful glass, and then gave her parrot screech of a laugh. "I must be dreamin', or seein' wrong, but it looks to me like there's a single gig, floatin' all alone right here, and all the big ships behind it burnin', life boats swarmin' around . . ."

"A gig?" Longface asked. "A gig? Has to be a life boat full o' pirates."

"I don't know, they look like mighty small pirates, if you ask me. Yes, they're standin' on the rails. I think they see the flags on the foremast of the navy—"

"Who's in that gig?" Connor rapped out, his heart beating hard.

"Boy with hair color o' yourn, Red. Passel o' darkhaired ones, and a little round one, with hair that looks like someone took a paintbrush to it. A bad painter—"

"Wren," Connor breathed, and he leaped up onto the bowsprit, holding onto the jib-sail with one hand. Now he could see the gig, and that short person right in the middle, clinging to the mast and staring up —

"WREN!" he bellowed.

Captain Tebet rapped out orders, and the schooner, fast and light, slid ahead of the navy ships, though it was strictly against orders. Connor gripped the rail, scarcely breathing, until the gig was alongside, and ropes thrown over.

And next thing he knew a small, solid body hurtled into his arms, smelling of sweat and seaweed and smoke.

"Connor!"

He crushed Wren against him, and when she whooped for breath, and started laughing, he let go and stepped back. "Andreus — Sandskeet—what happened?"

"Oh, we had to leave the Sandskeet, and then the pirates chased us. Caught up with us today," Wren

replied in a quick, breathless voice. "But how did you get here?"

"Got a job in a local harbor. Rest of my time I sit, play cards, and listen to ocean-going news, especially about pirates. Then one day I saw Andreus. This was right after a navy ship brought in a pirate who'd attacked your ship some weeks back. That is, I thought it might be your ship. Now we're hearing about the mysterious disappearances of mages, and all I could think of was rescuing you. I should have known that you would take care of them yourself."

Captain Tebet gave a loud laugh, then clapped Wren on the shoulder so heartily she staggered. "A girl after me own heart!"

"Well, we would have welcomed you earlier, truth to say," Wren said, surreptitiously massaging her shoulder, and Connor could see from her troubled expression that something had gone wrong. "But what we'd welcome even more is a bite to eat, if you have any. My fellow sailors and I have had nothing but fish and peanuts for days, and not even that since morning."

"We'll lay on a feast," Captain Tebet promised. "And you tell us the story, while yon navy finishes wrapping up them pirates."

Wren then introduced Patka, Thad, Lambin, and Danal, who had been standing in a silent row.

As Captain Tebet asked them kindly questions, Wren whispered to Connor, "I was coming out to find you, and here you are. "

Connor looked down into her tired face. "Not one bell ago I was standing on the rail swearing I'd go after Andreus if, well, if anything had happened to you, and making and discarding plans as fast as I could."

"Plans." Wren's eyes widened, and then narrowed. "Disappearing mages. Andreus. Why? He doesn't do anything for fun. We learned that long ago. He always has plans. Usually plans leading to plans leading to other plans."

Connor gazed down into her face, wondering why the air had gotten so hot. No, he had.

He took a step back as Wren gazed out to sea, looking troubled. "I wish I knew what to do."

Nineteen

It was five days before Tyron sent a message to Teressa saying, "Halfrid's here. We are on our way over."

Teressa had been sitting with the scribes, going over seasonal judgments province by province. Incredibly tedious work that had to be done, her father had told her when he first invited her to sit in on the sessions:

Most of the backgrounds of these judgments you won't know anything about and so you won't change them, and the dukes and duchesses know that you won't change them, but they also know you're looking over their shoulder. And after enough years patterns do emerge in the way they make their decisions. You still might not reverse their judgments, for that's an action of last resort that undermines their authority, but you will keep those patterns in mind when you make laws.

She still felt apprehensive about too much lawmaking. So far in her short reign, it was hard enough to see that her father's laws were obeyed and not twisted to someone else's convenience.

Questions about road tolls, the price of apples differing between this city and that one, a border

dispute between two farmers after the spring rains caused a creek to jump its bed and carve a new way down the land, it was all tedious but she knew she had to get through it.

Still, when Tyron's message arrived relief washed through her. "We shall have to postpone until tomorrow. Master Halfrid has returned and is on his way to wait upon me."

Her relief was obviously shared. She saw it in the exchanged looks between some of the scribes, and the speed with which they packed up.

She ran up the steps to her parlor, the one room she knew had no secret chambers or spy-holes, and had been warded by Halfrid himself against magical spy spells.

She was stopped three times on her way up, once for a question about the lemon-cakes for the ball later that evening, once for a message from her seamstress about ribbons, and the third time a messenger in Croem livery. Lord Omric wouldn't send her a private message unless it was a matter of import.

She skimmed past the opening honorifics. Omric, though barely older than she was, had always been a stickler for form, even when they were mud-covered companions marching through mud during the war.

. . . report from home that a young woman and a fellow who say they are Rhiscarlan rangers have been seen up on

the ridge inspecting our dam. Thought you ought to know . . .

Teressa sighed. More jabs at Hawk. Had to be. There were plenty of people who'd love to see her pick Omric as a suitable consort, as he was wealthy, steady, sober, of proper rank, and of blameless family history.

Hard working, earnest—and bossy, in the way of people who have that iron conviction that they are always right.

She stalked into her parlor, crumpled the paper, threw it into the fireplace, then realized that there was no fire. She was stooping to pick it up again when she heard steps behind her, and there was Halfrid's short, stout form, his round face creased with merriment, his white hair wisping all around his head.

"My dear child." He held out his hands. In front of everyone else he was scrupulous about titles, but in private he acted like a grandfather rather than a courtier, and she found that comforting. "Tell me your news."

"None." She sent a look past his shoulder at Tyron, wild-haired as ever. In fact, there was even a pen behind one ear, and ink streaks in his hair. Green ink. "Hawk Rhiscarlan is here, but if you didn't already know that, I'll eat this table."

Halfrid patted the air in soothing motions. "Never mind that. Your political, and, ah, courtly motions, are

of course not of our concern unless they impinge on magic."

Teresa thought wryly, We both know that's untrue, but what you're saying is, you at least won't offer me unwanted advice and warnings.

She couldn't resist sneaking another peek at Tyron, whose smile had tightened to irony at the corners.

Teressa said, "Have you found Wren?"

Halfrid said, "We did attempt to scry her, but with no success. Someone has placed an effective ward against her being scryed. And her stone was trace-warded as well."

"Andreus!" Teressa clenched her hands together, the paper crushed between them.

Halfrid said, "We have no evidence of that. The last I heard was that he'd returned to the Emperor of Sveran Djur, who you know had trained him when he was young. We lost sight of him after that, but as Sveran Djur is very far south, I didn't envision him interfering with events up here."

"But Wren went south!"

"This business with her scry stone appears to have happened just before she left Hroth Harbor," Halfrid said. "It's especially troubling when we put her warding together with two very strange disappearances of northern mages, even though this happened some time ago. But they, too, were scry-warded. A pattern thus emerges."

Teressa grimaced. "It is Andreus. Who else? I mean, the world has far too many evil mages, but none of them, outside of Andreus, know Wren."

Halfrid turned to Tyron. "What did you say her last communication was?"

Tyron said, "I sent her directly to Falin. She spent the night there and set out the next day. Three or four days later—I don't remember which—she scryed me to say she was right above Hroth Harbor. She was adding something about Falin when she ended the scrying. I never heard back, so I assumed she took ship and everything was fine. Falin certainly didn't mention any problems then, nor has she since."

"Wren said something about Falin," Halfrid repeated. "Do you remember what?"

Tyron's tense fingers raked through his hair, smearing the green ink a little more. "I don't remember. Nothing of import." Then he looked at his hands as if discovering them anew. "Ink. Yes! I made some silly joke or other about Falin. You know how we always used to tease her about all her paints and inks on her hands, clothes, even her chin when she used to rest it on her hands while reading. But Wren said something about unfairness, and that's when the scrying ended."

Halfrid lifted a hand as if to dismiss the subject, frowned, and reached into the cloth pouch he always carried at his side. Pulling out a scry stone, he said, "You two move back, so you do not touch my garment

— " He hesitated. "Amend that. Tyron, you scry Falin, and I am going to observe."

"Won't she know if you're listening?" Teressa asked.

"Not if we do not make physical contact."

Tyron took Halfrid's stone in both hands, and Teressa watched him do his spell. She'd listened to Wren utter such mutterings, without ever understanding it. Then Halfrid stepped back as Tyron frowned into his stone.

Teressa only saw a sickening flicker of faint colors in the stone. Her eyes tried to make sense of that flickering, but it only made her dizzy. She looked up at Tyron instead, noting how his profile seemed uncharacteristically severe as he stared down into that swirl of colors.

Tyron said, "Mistress Falin. I, ah, am doing my weekly check early, as I have a full schedule the day after tomorrow."

Teressa heard and saw nothing, but the faces of the other two changed, Tyron's taking on a neutral listening expression. Whatever it was that he heard was obviously as expected.

Halfrid, however, looked quite serious indeed.

The colors vanished from the stone, and Tyron handed it back. "I didn't see anything wrong."

"You don't recognize an illusory scry spell? No. The last time we had one of those used against us was — "

"Was when he was my hound," spoke a wry voice behind them.

Equally startled, they all turned, Tyron flushing red.

Teressa was so used to privacy that she'd left the door open. Hawk strolled a step or two inside and lounged against a chair back, looking elegant and somewhat sinister in his dark, severely-cut clothing.

When his dark eyes met Teressa's, she felt the kindling deep inside, glowing up her bones. He said, "I sought you on the terrace, and as no one was around, and I heard voices, I came in here." To Tyron, "Not to rake up old times, but I did use that same spell to ward against anyone scrying you. If you see what you expect to see, it works. Curiously enough it was your stripyhaired friend who broke that one."

"And I've learned it since," Halfrid said dryly.

"That may have been set up by Falin, and for unremarkable, if not legal, reason—so she can paint instead of do mage work—but if so, she and I are going to have a talk."

"I don't think it's Falin," Hawk said, and Teressa saw her own shock mirrored in Tyron's and Halfrid's faces. "Mind, I don't have proof, but I strongly suspect your Falin is a window ornament or potted plant, and what you've got there in Hroth Falls Market-town is a spy hired by Andreus, who goes by the name of Sanga.

I threw her out of Rhiscarlan just last winter," he added.

Tyron said, "How long have you known this Sanga was spying in Hroth Falls?" His voice was quiet, his face expressionless as a stone, but Teressa felt his anger. It was the same anger she felt.

Hawk raised a lazy hand. "I just told you that I don't know for certain. But an illusion scry spell, and what was that about Wren being warded? Sounds like Sanga might have gotten in there."

Halfrid said, "Thank you, young man. You've saved me from at least one trap, and many days of labor that I can ill afford. I know how to take care of this matter."

"By surprise," Hawk said, with his mocking smile.

"Indeed." Halfrid pocketed his stone, shut his eyes, and whispered.

He vanished.

Leaving Teressa with the two young men she liked best in all the world. Who loathed one another.

Tyron looked across the room at Hawk, who was still lounging in the doorway. "You didn't see a reason to tell us about this Sanga because . . . ?"

Hawk lifted one shoulder. "Thought you knew. You are in charge of the magic side of things here while the old man is away, right?"

"I would not be likely to know about one of Andreus's spies being kicked out of Rhiscarlan."

"You never asked for an exchange of information," Hawk retorted. "Just surrounded me with guards."

The tension in the room was so strong that Teressa's insides cramped. "That's enough," she said, sharply enough to bring their attention her way, Tyron unsmiling and almost unfamiliar, Hawk lazy and mocking, except for those wary black eyes.

"I would like an alliance," Teressa said. "Between Meldrith and its neighbors. Nothing more, right now, but nothing less. That is my wish."

Hawk just smiled.

Tyron flicked an unreadable look from Teressa to Hawk, then back again as he bowed. She couldn't remember the last time he'd bowed to her. If he ever had, except as a joke. But he did it now, not out of mockery. A formal bow, from the Queen's Mage-to-be to the Queen, and he turned to the door—except Hawk was directly in his way.

Tyron stopped. Hawk stilled. Tyron did not attempt to push by. He just waited. Hawk straightened up, and with a courtly gesture in an ironic manner, he moved out of the way. Tyron walked out.

Teressa realized then why she was angry with Hawk. Yes, he'd given them information, but after listening at the door. Like he had a right to. Did a few kisses give him that right? None that she'd granted.

She could not imagine Tyron ever doing such a thing, because he wouldn't ever listen at a door. If he

happened on a private conversation he'd cough, or thump his feet, or drop something in order to call attention to his presence.

She said to Hawk, "You might have noticed that I don't have any communication with your cousin Idres. No ambassador has come to me. No messengers, even."

He shrugged. "She doesn't communicate much with me either, but I do know the Senna Lirwan treasury is about as empty as you'd expect, after years of Andreus's army building, magic experimentation, and the cataclysm your Prince Connor set off."

"Then she could use the boost to her treasury that comes with trade, if she were to open Rock Harbor to our ships, and the River Lir to our northern provinces." Teressa had clenched her fists, and the letter, momentarily forgotten, crinkled in her fingers. "By the way, why do you have people scouting out the Croem Dam?"

"To learn how it is constructed, of course," Hawk said.

"Why couldn't they request permission to be escorted, and to have their questions answered?"

"How much welcome and cooperation do you think anyone from Rhiscarlan gets?"

"They will get more by going through the forms everyone else does," she said. "As for the court, if you want to win them over, do something to prove your good will. Bring me a harbor treaty."

Hawk stood silently for a moment, eyes narrowed, his smile impossible to interpret.

Then he lifted his hand in the duelist's salute, and left.

Teressa slammed the door.

Twenty

Captain Tebet clapped Wren on the shoulder. Wren tried not to stagger, as exhaustion weighted her limbs. "Here, you young'uns. You come along o'me. This inn is only known to some of us. Cheap, good food, and no nosy questions."

Somehow Wren found enough energy to trudge after Patka up a narrow alleyway. She was vaguely aware of weather-beaten houses with sharply slanting tile roofs that gleamed with reddish highlights in the lamp light.

She fell into bed without undressing, sleeping until a somber Patka shook her awake the next morning. "Wren, wake up! The Admiral wants to question us."

Head throbbing, limbs heavy, she plodded after the others to the room where the Admiral and several high officials waited. She nodded through the others' account of everything that had happened since the day they were boomed in Fil Gaen until they sat in the gig with empty bellies, running from pirates.

Lambin and Thad did most of the talking, and when the Admiral dismissed them, Wren had just enough

energy to trudge back to the room she shared with Patka and fall back into bed.

The next couple of days were a haze of sleeping, waking up to the sounds of a harbor, and sometimes the rise and fall of sea-songs sung in a room somewhere below. Each morning, she found food waiting on a little table, ate, then lay back and slept some more.

The day came when she woke up feeling like herself again. Patka was already gone, her bunk neatly made. For a time, Wren lay gazing around a tiny chamber tucked under a slanting ceiling. Its window peeked over a jumble of orangy-yellow tiled roofs to the harbor and its forest of masts moving gently up and down on the swell.

Was that really Connor, or had she dreamed that he'd been on board that ship? She'd dreamed about him so many times ever since he'd left, realistic dreams, so clear she could see the sunlight in his red hair, and the fraying edges of his fine linen shirt cuffs.

It felt like someone had sneaked in and done a partial stone spell on her, sticking a boulder right in her heart.

Time to get up, she scolded herself. Stop being ridiculous.

She found a tiny bath-chamber next door, the tub full of magic-cleaned and heated hot water. Those were very expensive spells. Who had paid for that?

She could ask later. Right now, she just wanted to get the grit of salt water out of her scalp and off her skin. She took off her clothes, put them through the cleaning frame behind the tub, and watched in satisfaction as all the grime and salt snapped away in a blue flash, making an audible crackle.

Then she plunged gratefully into the bath.

When she got back to her room, she discovered that someone had thoughtfully removed her old green tunic from her pack and cleaned it, too. Just as she was finishing her braids she heard a tap at the door. "Come in!"

The door opened . . . and there stood Connor.

Wren gazed at him, so happy that she felt as if her entire body had turned to light.

He was so tall he had to stoop to enter.

"I thought I dreamed you!"

Connor chuckled, his changeable hazel eyes dark gray, like the sea under a storm front. "You've been asleep every morning I've come by to see you. The rest of my time," his smile changed to a faint grimace, "has been spent at the Port Authority while the Admiral questioned pirates."

Some of Wren's joy leached away. "What do they say?"

"Most of them are lying."

Wren gazed out the window at the ships heaving gently on the sea. "The Admiral questioned us, too, didn't he?" On Connor's nod, "I don't remember what I told him."

Connor gave her a wicked grin. "All you said was something about chickens. You mentioned them a couple of times."

Wren groaned, her neck prickling with heat.

"Wren, no one expected you to make a lot of sense. It was just a formality, in case you could give us some clues about why Andreus was chasing you."

"I don't know why he is," Wren said, and turned away from the window to face Connor. There he was, sitting on the single stool with his hands on his knees, but somehow he filled the entire room.

Again light flooded her being, leaving a kind of tingle in her hands, and an emptiness in her arms. She wanted to throw them around Connor and hug him there forever, now that she'd finally found him.

But she couldn't. So she crossed her arms and hugged them tight against her middle instead.

"Connor, it's so good to see you, and it makes me so happy. But now that I have, I think I'd better go back home."

Connor's grin faded as his hands tightened on his knees. "What's wrong?"

Wren sighed. "I thought about it. Lots. On the gig, I mean, when we were waiting for that last attack at night. I'm supposed to be a journeymage, and I

thought I was so ready, so smart. But you should have seen my flubs during every one of those fights."

"Fights?"

" Messing up the simplest spells, ones I've known since I was a beginner! Tangling the others."

"Wren, how many fights were you in?"

"Two different sets of ship battles. The chickens during the first one were the funny part, but it isn't so funny when you consider how my mistakes nearly got us killed, or captured."

"Ship battles, Wren? How many of us — "

"I'm not ready to be a journeymage. So I am not going to humiliate myself by going to the Summer Isles, or standing before the Mage Council and declaring some project that would be nice and easy just to hide how much I flub. I guess I need a few more years of being a student. And that's all right. I enjoy classes, and learning."

Connor lifted a hand, palm out. "Wren. What did you fail at? We arrived to find an entire pirate fleet in disarray, chasing a single gig."

Wren shook her head. "I got that far because they had no mage, and we were about to lose. If Mistress Leila had been there, she would have sent them to the right-about with three elegant spells, and had time left for a leisurely midday meal."

Connor sighed. Then he looked up. "I don't want to argue. You know your own business best. But if Tyron thought you were ready, maybe you really are."

Wren avoided his earnest gaze, which unsettled her. She busied herself repacking her knapsack as she said, "Tyron just wanted to be rid of me. To help me, I should add. Because I had an argument with . . . someone at home." She sneaked a peek at him.

Connor's expressive brows snapped together. "Argument? You? Who with?"

"Oh . . . no one in particular."

She looked at all those masts spiking up on the bay, then down at her pack, and at her dusty sandals, anywhere but at Connor's wide gaze, which really did make her middle feel . . . . odd.

Then he drew in a sharp breath. "You argued with Tyron?"

"No!"

"Teressa?"

That horrid prickly heat burned through her, making her squirm. "Yes," she admitted. "Over that cactus-tongued slunch of a Hawk Rhiscarlan. Coming to court her. And she let him."

It was Connor's turn to gaze out the window, his high forehead puckered. "I see."

Wren studied his profile. Usually she could discern his moods, but this time she couldn't. She had never been able to, in fact, when the subject was Teressa.

The pause was just turning into a silence when Connor got to his feet. "I apologize. I came to get you. The royal messengers returned just before dawn, with the king's response to the Admiral."

Wren sighed. She'd have to brood about her own problems later. The present ones were more important. "Are they going to go after Andreus?"

"I'm not sure. The Admiral invited you to sit in at the meeting, if you wish."

Wren shoved her feet into her sandals. "Then we'd better go! I want to hear what they're going to do."

They walked down the narrow, twisted stairs into a common room already loud with sea-going voices. The innkeeper gave Wren a nod, then returned to polishing his mugs as he listened to a conversation about storm sails, taking place in three languages.

As soon as they were out the door, Connor said, "Can you tell me what happened with Teressa?"

Wren had been thinking about it. "Yes," she said, and her shoulders relaxed as if invisible weights had slid off. She'd always been able to talk to Connor, even if she didn't understand his reactions. "I will. And it will feel good to be able to talk, instead of arguing with myself inside my head until my thoughts make as much sense as a gaggle of cackling geese!"

"Do geese cackle?" Connor asked, flashing a quick grin.

"Inside my head they do," Wren stated firmly.

As they started up the road to the harbormaster's, she launched into the story, backtracking to Fliss having to travel, and Wren's having to teach the beginners, and Halfrid still being gone, before she finished up with that last uncomfortable conversation with Tess.

Connor remained silent the while. When Wren had finished, he was still silent for two steps, three, their feet crunching gravel, as birds rode the currents overhead.

Finally Wren said, "Go ahead and say it."

"Say what?" he asked the sky.

"Whatever it is you don't want to say because you think I don't want to hear, which I probably don't, but yes I do, because I know you know I . . ." Wren stopped, and snorted. "Wait. I did know where I was going with that, but, well, I forgot. I must be tireder than I thought."

Connor chuckled, then said more seriously, "Have you considered that Teressa and Hawk have a lot more in common then you've been willing to admit?"

Wren hated hearing that. Anger flooded through her, making her feel hot and itchy. She struggled against a nasty retort, and after a few fuming breaths, "They have nothing in common. He's a disgusting snake-faced, cactus-tongued villain, and she's not."

Connor said, "Do I have to count up all the things they have in common, including losing their parents

and having to take over positions of responsibility far too young?"

Wren was going to reject that, too, but she couldn't because it was true. Of course Hawk's position of responsibility was just . . . was just . . . Wren sighed, remembering that Hawk had been in the process of rebuilding on his family's ruined land. The many homeless young people he'd gathered and given jobs. Some of those jobs were more like being bullies in a military way, but they seemed to think differently.

As for Teressa . . . there she was in her beautiful palace, with lovely gowns, but she still wore a knife strapped to her leg, and she had a personal sword trainer, though no one knew but her favorite servants, and Wren.

Wren finally said grudgingly, "He could have been worse."

"Then consider this. Is it possible he might be bettered by knowing Teressa?"

"I don't know why I hate that, but I do."

"Are you jealous?"

"What?"

He repeated calmly, "Are you jealous? I know I once was. But I also know that my feelings for her were pretty much in my own head. I admired a Teressa that didn't exist. Wasn't her fault. She is who she is."

"You wanted her to be romantic. I know her."

"You knew her. But people change. Are you against the change because you want her to be the Tess you were best friends with at the orphanage, or do you want her to be herself?"

Wren stopped in the road, hands on her hips. "Have you been saving all that up for months?"

He grinned. "I've been arguing with myself ever since the mountain fell. That's partly why I had to get away."

"Partly?" Wren asked.

But they'd reached a broad cobbled courtyard, and Connor stopped speaking. Wren looked around. It was an ordinary court, with low buildings on three sides. Central was the tiny jail. Wren remembered what Connor had told her—Andreus had actually been right here.

She shivered, then Connor led her past a pair of guards, their sharpened halberds at the ready, and swords at their sides. The short, stout one waggled his fingers at Connor in a surreptitious wave, and the tall one with the bumpy nose gave them a brief grin.

Wren and Connor entered a big room filled with people in military tunics, and two obvious royal messengers in fancy livery. At the other side of the room sat a grizzled man wearing an ordinary summer tunic .

Connor whispered, "Harbormaster," as they sat down on the end of a bench.

Wren leaned forward, mentally rehearsing things she'd say if they asked any more about Andreus.

The meeting began. From the beginning it did not go as Wren expected. The Admiral described what the pirates had said under questioning, prefacing almost every sentence with words like "reported" and "if he can be believed."

"So you see." The Admiral leaned on the table, hands apart, face somber. "Due to the fact that the action took place outside of our border waters, and the fact that it did not concern any Okidainos, it is not considered a state matter. If the king were to send us to battle against these islands when there has been no trespass against Okidai, no threats, even, then we become the aggressors." He added hastily, "In the eyes of others, of course. What it comes down to is, the king has decreed that we cannot attack other lands unless we can prove that attacks against us have been instigated there."

The military people and the scribes all looked down, or out the window, or back at the Admiral. Nobody spoke.

Now I know why I was invited, Wren thought. The Admiral knew the king wouldn't do anything about Andreus. He invited me to hear why.

And she knew enough about royal decrees to realize there was no hope, but still she said in her

politest voice, "Pardon me, sir, but what about attacks against trade?"

The Admiral turned her way. "We can't prove that this Black Hood has interfered with Okidaino trade, outside of three times in the past season, and all three of those we took care of at the time. North island trade, yes, they've interfered with quite a bit—and that becomes a matter for the islanders themselves to handle. This strange business about abducting mages cannot officially concern us, because none of our mages have been abducted."

Once Wren might have jumped up in protest, sure she had right on her side. But the past year of yawning her way through Teressa's court functions had taught her that royal courts, at least, all had different definitions of the word 'right.'

She also had learned to listen for clues. This Admiral, a very stern-faced disciplinarian from what little she'd seen of him so far, did not just blurt out whatever came into his head. He'd thought out his words very carefully. Like that word 'officially.'

Wren shifted her gaze to the two royal messengers at the back, who were listening closely. They seemed to be satisfied with what they heard: the navy would do nothing, because the king so decreed. They heard what they had come to hear—and that word 'officially' got nods of approval.

"Thank you, sir," Captain Tebet said. Wren loved her squawking parrot voice.

"Please tender the king our thanks and our good wishes." Connor bowed. He was using his prince manners, a sure sign something else was indeed going on.

So Wren stayed silent. She rose with the rest. Everyone who was supposed to bow bowed, and everyone else filed out. All according to the rules, orderly and quiet.

Wren followed Captain Tebet, peering past the older woman's grizzled head at the harbor below, the docks, the big capital ships warping slowly in and out, with small skiffs and rowboats making their way around all the larger vessels. It was a hot day with almost no wind.

"A day," Captain Tebet muttered, "to make and mend, and not to sail."

Connor pointed toward the long, slant-roofed building across the courtyard. "That's the barracks for the guards and the rest of us. Here, I'll give you a tour, Wren. Introduce you to the rest of the inmates."

Wren followed him through a low door into a wide, empty room with a big, battered table in the center. Windows glowed with indirect light from below the awning that the slanted roof formed. The sun here in the south was very hot and very bright, and no one wanted it blasting straight through the window glass.

On the table lay markers for two or three different gambling games, and on a tray there were several packs of hand-painted cards. This was the room Connor had talked about, where he'd spent his time listening for word about pirates, or Andreus, or mages, or something he could help fix.

Longface and Captain Tebet crossed to the battered doors at the other side of the room, then stopped. Connor and the Harbormaster watched through the windows as the last of the naval party disappeared down the switch-backed road to the harbor. Guards led two very fine horses up to the royal messengers, who mounted, and rode up the path to the royal city high on the mountain.

As soon as they were out of sight, the Harbormaster muttered something, then slipped out.

Connor spoke in Dock Talk for the benefit of Captain Tebet and Longface. "He's going to get the prisoner."

"Prisoner?" Wren repeated.

Connor said, "The king has a standard judgment for pirates, but this fellow, the Admiral said, was an exception, and the Harbormaster agreed. He's just a boy, no older than you were when we all first met. He ran away from being a cabin boy in the Purban navy because there were too many rules and beatings, and he thought a pirate's life would be freedom and good times."

Wren remembered back in her orphanage days, weeding vegetables and thinking that being a pirate would be fun. Or at least play-acting a pirate would be fun. "So he joined up?"

"Yes. He didn't think much of the pirate life once it came to attacking small traders and taking their goods, and he was already thinking of jumping ship when their captain decided that their pickings were too slim and to throw in their lot with Black Hood."

Wren shuddered.

"I guess Andreus promised them plenty to come. Anyway, this fellow was in that attack. He's terrified that Andreus will come after him, so we shifted him away from the jail with the others and hid him. He was especially afraid because he said he has some secret knowledge, but he won't talk unless he's protected by a real mage."

The Harbormaster returned, leading a small, skinny boy with pale hair and eyes. His hands were scabbed from scrubbing and hard work, his face almost green with fear.

He looked at Wren. "Are you the magicker?" he asked in Dock Talk. Wren had gotten pretty good at that language during the long days in the gig.

Wren nodded.

The boy said in a low, fervent voice, "Can ye turn me into something else? Something that he won't find? I'll tell ye everything. Everything."

Wren said, "I don't dare transform you. The magic is so strong that he could probably put tracers on you."

The boy looked terrified. He looked at the Harbormaster. "But you promised," he whispered.

Wren took his thin, rough hand. The boy instantly pulled away, his shoulders hunching, but she had his attention back. "I can remove any tracers on you. And as for getting away, a disguise, now that I can do. I'm really, really good at disguises. And we won't have to depend on magic that can be traced."

The boy sagged in relief. "A disguise! And I'll go far inland, as far as I can. I never want to see the sea again. Ever. Sheep tending sounds good to me."

Wren looked up. When the Harbormaster gave a nod, she said, "Done."

The boy sat up, then sighed. "All right, where d'ye want to begin? I confess, I want to be away soon.

Before he comes a-searchin'."

"Now that the Okidaino mages know what he's up to, they're probably down there laying magic traps all over for him," Connor said.

The boy just shook his head. "Nobody traps him"

The Harbormaster said, "Never mind that. Begin with his citadel. What it looks like, and what protections he's got."

The boy asked for paper and chalk, which were brought. "The castle itself is on the highest mountain.

One road leads up, and it has guard towers at every turning . . ."

Even though he couldn't draw very well, a clear enough picture emerged—a daunting one.

" . . . and on the lowest wall, between the start of the mountain road and the harbor, stand all the gargoyles. All the land between the walls and the harbor's been paved over in stone, so the lookouts can see everything. And so can the gargoyles. They are mages, every one. All the ones he caught. They sit out there on the walls as a warning of what happens if anyone crosses him. And there are worse things. Oh, much worse. He calls that demonstrations."

"Yuck," Wren breathed.

"The harbor is patrolled day and night. The clearing has spy birds over it day and night. The castle, well, everyone says he has magical traps everywhere inside."

"Did he say what those are?" Connor asked.

"No. Just gloats. But we know one, for he used it against one o' his former allies who thought to try to overthrow him. Main road doesn't just have guards, it also has traps. You get past the first gate, and terrible things happen to you if you don't know all the secret signs an' things. Nobody uses the main road, except if they know the signs."

"Does he put tracers on everyone in his fleet?"

Wren asked.

"I don't know what that is. He said if we got caught, if we talked, it meant death. He said his reach is all over the world, and we could never escape. No matter how far." He blanched with fear. "And we know it's true, because he always brings back something of the ones he kills. Puts the things out on the lower wall betwixt them gargoyles, so's everyone can see. Killer Diel's sash with the skulls 'broidered on it. Captain Rumko's pearl-handled knife. Things famous in the south seas here. Everyone hears about 'em."

Wren leaned forward. "About the mages."

The boy said quickly, "He does punishments out below the wall, where not only them on board the ships can see, but he says the mages can see and hear."

"Why?" Wren asked. "Is he collecting mages just to have a set of gargoyles?"

The boy looked around carefully, as if he expected Andreus to be lurking in the corners. "He gets them from all over, because he needs them for his plan," the boy whispered. His skin looked clammy, and he trembled as he spoke. "See, I was scrubbin' the deck just outside the skylight when he was talkin' to the new captain. Nobody noticed me. They never did, except to kick me and give me more work. But I heard it all, in Djuran, which I speak 'cause I came from Ourna."

Wren frowned, trying to remember why that name seemed important, then she remembered: one of the

three small islands caught between the two powerful enemies, Sveran Djur and Shinja.

"He traps mages, and they get a choice, see. Help, or be a gargoyle and watch him win. Every so often he unfreezes them just enough to ask if they'd join him. If not, they go stone again. In ugly forms. He says it hurts more, that way. But he said 'after the plan' he won't need 'em anymore, and the pirate captains who win can do what they want to the gargoyles."

Captain Tebet muttered colorful curses under her breath.

Wren said, "What were the mages supposed to help with? What is this plan?"

The boy leaned forward, and whispered even lower. "He's drawed together a big fleet."

"Fleet?" Wren asked. "For what?"

"Launch against three kingdoms."

"When?"

"As soon as the last of us arrived."

"Who was to be last, do you know?"

"Yes," the boy said. "The fleet that attacked you."

Twenty-One

Wren gasped. "Then that means . . . the big plan is soon?"

"The first plan, not the really big one."

"What's the first plan?"

"The three kingdoms. "

"And then?"

"Once he gets control of the targets — he calls the kingdoms he wants to attack the targets — he's going to use them to turn on the Emperor of Sveran Djur."

"Is one target Okidai?" the Harbormaster asked quickly.

The boy shook his head. "I don't think so. They're all somewhere north." He wiped his hair back from his face with shaking fingers.

Up north—like Meldrith? Wren bit her lip. Wait. Wait. Don't start a panic. The boy hadn't named any countries, and what could Meldrith offer Andreus toward his big plan? Wren didn't claim to know much about military matters, but it didn't make sense to conquer a place already in bad shape, if you wanted to use that country's resources against someone else.

One thing she did know: someone had to be told. And soon.

Wren said, "Well, you did your job. Now for mine. I said I'd break that tracer."

She pulled her book from her tunic and flipped through the well-worn pages. While everyone watched, she picked the most powerful of all the spells that dissolved tracers, and performed it.

" . . . Nafat," she said, and clapped her hands.

Bluish sparks flared around the boy. When they faded, he didn't quite smile, but he did look less like he was going to die of fear at any moment.

Wren said, "Now I'm going down into the harbor to shop for your disguise. No one ought to see you if you want to really disappear without a trace."

The Harbormaster said gruffly, "I have a room I'll stick you in. You may's well get a good meal into you while you're at it, for you've got a long walk ahead if you want to get yourself lost inland by nightfall."

The boy bobbed his head, wringing his scabbed hands together.

"I'll go with you," Connor said to Wren as he picked up his staff.

They were soon walking down the road, Connor with his head bent, his brow furrowed. Wren's own thoughts were such a jumble she knew she was scowling as well.

She lifted her head. Way, way above two jackdaws drifted, very still except for an occasional flick of wingtips. Wren said, "I know I've seen them before."

Connor shifted his staff to one hand and lifted the other to shade his eyes. "Those daws again," he said.

Wren gasped. "You recognize them?"

"I don't know if they're the same pair. But two daws have shown up along my trail for the past year."

"Have you spoken to them?"

He shook his head. "They are silent."

Wren sent a wary glance skyward. "I wish I could scry them, but my stone is gone. And I can't use anything else to scry because someone blocked me."

Connor looked puzzled. "Andreus?"

Wren said, "Or whoever told him where I was. You know, there was something odd about my last scrying with Tyron. Huh! No help for that now." She took out her book, flipped back to the tracers pages, and, with her gaze firmly on the birds overhead, she tried two different spells in order to determine if the birds had been enchanted with tracers.

"Nothing," she said. "Well, that's a relief. They can't be Andreus's, or I'd have found a little whiff of Andreus's stinky magic binding their minds and bodies to his will."

She looked away, knowing what she should do. She also knew just how many people would yell at her if she tried to do it. "Anyway. I'll think about it later. I never even asked you about your trip, and you've been gone a whole lot longer than I have. Where's Tip, first of all? Nothing bad's happened, I hope? He was a wonderful dog."

"Still is." Connor grinned. "He found himself a mate, and a pack, back in the Brennic Marshes, and stayed there. As for me, there isn't much to tell."

"Hah!" Wren snorted. "Not the impression I got from that fellow Longface on the ship. Or from Captain Tebet."

Connor shrugged. "A few encounters with brigands and the like, while I was a caravan guard, and some river pirates after. It was fun—most of the time. Never boring, anyway. But that's the sort of thing I could do just as well at home, if I were to join my brother's Brown Riders on the border."

Wren stopped in the middle of the trail and put her fists on her hips. "What are you not saying?"

Connor gave her a rueful smile and a shrug of the shoulders. "That it sounds fine to say I'm going out into the world to find myself but it doesn't work. At least not for me."

Wren gazed at the last of the morning mist rising from the harbor like bits of distant spider web, floating away softly over the water and vanishing. She sensed Connor turning in the same direction, and sneaked another peek at him. How could she have missed how

grown up he seemed, all of a sudden? He'd always been tall, but . . .

Her thought seemed to spiral upward, like the mist, then vanish into . . . feeling. Only she couldn't quite define the feeling—it was like the friendship she'd always felt, but stronger. Like dawn had brightened to midday. "I take it you changed your mind about the Summer Island, and finding out your past?"

Connor lifted one broad shoulder slightly, and began spinning the staff in his hands. "The past seems to be little more than songs and bits of story. The question about my place in the world seems to travel right along with me."

He threw the staff up, and caught it with his other hand. Then he spun it again.

"So you didn't learn anything?" Wren asked.

"Nothing surprising. I already knew I'm good at chasing brigands. I could have done that with Rollan, like I said. I like the sea, but I find I much prefer the mountains, and we have plenty of them at home. Finally, I realized it's kind of stupid to think I can 'find myself' when I started lying to people as soon as I left our border."

Wren watched the whirling quarterstaff shift from one of his hands to the other. He didn't seem to be paying much attention, though the pattern was an intricate one.

Wren said, "Hiding your talents isn't really lying."

"Hiding my talents also isn't self-discovery. But the lies were about my real name. I hated being Prince Connor at home, but I was used to it, and people were used to me. When I began meeting strangers I found myself making up lies to hide the royal connection, for a lot of reasons. Some of them are stupid, but one reason is a good one. A prince without all the trappings of royalty—outriders and banners and horns, and especially wealth—is regarded much the same way a sea captain without a ship is regarded: like a blowhard. People want princes to be in their proper place—far away—or handing out largesse if they are near."

"Teressa said the first thing she learned about being a princess is that people don't see you, they see a crown. And they start expecting things."

"That pretty much covers it. So." Connor threw the staff up again, and caught it with the other hand. "The result is, the farther away I got, the more I thought about everyone and everything at home, and the less I found of myself, because 'myself' is Connor Shaltar of Siradayel, for better or for worse, who misses the mountains of home. Whether or not I find out who my ancestors were, and what kind of magic they had, doesn't seem to matter anymore. It still won't show me how to, well, tame whatever it is I have."

Wren said, "Mountains again, right?"

Connor tossed the spinning staff from hand to hand. "Yes. It only seems to come to me in the

mountains, but I discovered that fact when you and I traveled to Allat Los a long time ago. I guess I will never find a place, so I should go home and make a place for myself."

Wren nodded, looking down at her dusty sandals scuffing the rocky trail.

Connor has found his direction, and I need to make a decision. No, I already made it. So stop trying not to think about it. Do it.

And Connor said slowly, "Wren. When you get that look, I know you're up to something, and you know that nobody will like it."

Wren laughed for about a heartbeat, but then all the humor faded away, despite the interesting harbor just below the next two bends, despite the cool breeze off the sea not just carrying the familiar briny smell, but enticing and spicy food scents.

Despite having Connor walking right beside her, alive and well.

She said, "At first I thought we'd be taking that map and all the things that boy said to other governments, and handing over the problem. But there isn't anyone to hand it to. At least not that we could get to fast, and we've already lost several days. Is there?"

Connor frowned. "Purba is the closest, maybe four or five days' sailing if the wind is good, but the government of Purba has a dismal reputation. I can't see them stirring on anyone's behalf. The other islands

are all too small. Are you thinking of going home? By magic transport, I mean?"

"That was my first idea. Then I remembered that Halfrid isn't even there. And I can't scry him because of that ward on me. What can Tyron do? Nothing, because he can't leave Meldrith. So that leaves me."

Now it was Connor's turn to stop in the road, the quarterstaff gripped tightly in his hands. "Wren. You are not thinking of going out to Tomad yourself."

Wren walked right on past him. "Who else is going to?" And when he ran the few steps to catch up, looking exasperated as well as worried, she said, "Andreus is going to launch that fleet soon. And you know what that means? War all over again, but not just with one kingdom. With three. I don't know anyone else to transfer to, and how would I get them to listen? I'm afraid they'd be just like these Okidainos. It's like no one wants to bother with problems elsewhere. They're only interested in problems at home."

Connor sighed. "Wren, how are you going to accomplish anything against a gigantic pirate fleet without at least an army? And a navy."

"But those don't work. Not against him. Just a lot of people get killed. We already learned that during the war he brought to Meldrith. What defeated him was the unexpected. You should know that if anyone does. And the unexpected worked against those pirates. Bad

as I was, the spells I had time to think out and prepare did fend them off."

"Wren—"

Wren couldn't bear to look at Connor. She didn't want to see him angry with her, because the very idea hurt so much.

So she talked fast, aiming her words at the road, the sky, and out at the peacefully glimmering sea. "You were right about the chickens. I see it now. I just have to make more chicken plans — not fumble them by accident. The plans have to be unexpected to the enemy, not to me. Plans that don't fight or kill or destroy, but will make such a big mess that Andreus's fleet won't be able to launch."

Wren couldn't believe she was saying it, but once she hadn't believed that lovely, peaceful Meldrith would be ruined by a war. That Laris, who loved jokes more than anything, would be left lying dead in the snow at the hand of a sorcerer who never even gave her a second glance.

"Wren, he's collecting mages as wall decorations.''

"Yes, but though he might have that island warded against Halfrid and the Mage Council, I know it's not warded against me because he wanted me as a prisoner. And he would never expect me to actually go to Tomad, so if I'm quick and smart I can go in and do my magic and sneak out and he will never know I was there. But here's the important thing, the thing I can't

get away from no matter how hard my mind tries to skitter away." She tapped her head. "Thatfleet must not sail. Or at least not until after we can find someone important who will raise armies and navies and whatever else it takes to stop him."

"Wren! Listen! His potential for evil far outstrips your imagination. He knows more evil spells than you know funny, unexpected ones. It's dangerous."

Wren's heart beat faster, and her mouth was dry. She said, "Yes. But I can't get past the other truth: I'm the only one here, right now, in the right place at the right time." Then she turned to face him at last, and made a discovery: he wasn't angry, and he certainly wasn't derisive, like that horrible Hawk

He was worried, and determined—and scared.

"Connor, you aren't arguing me out of it, you're arguing yourself into helping me. Aren't you?"

He gave her a strange half-wince, half-grin. "I think I'm getting my arguments ready for the others."

"Others?"

Connor spread his hands. "You need a ship to sail in, right? And Captain Tebet told me once that she's always had a weakness for lost causes. She said her entire crew is made up of people someone else called lost causes, but she believes each one of them is very good at something."

Wren danced around, sending dust up in clouds. "You're coming with me! You're coming with me!"

"You'd have to tie me in a sack and throw me in the harbor to stop me," Connor said, then sneezed twice. "Can we leave the dust?"

They sped down the last of the hill toward the harbor, as above them the jackdaws lifted on silent wings, and flew away over the sea.

Twenty-Two

When Tyron entered Halfrid's private chamber, the senior mage indicated an unfamiliar young woman slouched in a chair, arms folded, round face scowling.

This had to be Sanga, the mage who had taken Falin's place. Halfrid had obviously caught her in the act, and had removed whatever illusion she'd put on herself to look like Falin.

"Ah, there you are." Halfrid's smile was grim. "What did the queen have to say?"

Tyron had been considering how to report his conversation with Teressa and the one he had with Hawk afterward. As he looked from Halfrid to the angry mage, he realized that Halfrid wouldn't really want this person hearing what amounted to state business. Halfrid had asked his question just to mention the word 'queen.'

"Queen Teressa was extremely angry about what had happened to her friend Wren," Tyron said. "In fact, I can promise that she would far rather deal with this situation under royal law than leave it to us."

Sanga sat upright, red flooding her face. "I didn't do anything to Wren! I told you the truth!"

"Did you, now?" Halfrid asked. "Well, we can let the queen determine that."

Sanga shifted her gaze from side to side, but there was no escape. Halfrid's chamber was not only warded with many spells, but also, the tingle of magic in the air made it clear that he'd placed some sort of ward on the chair so Sanga could not move from it.

She kicked her feet against the rungs, her angry face crimson. "I only put the tracer on Wren's stone and the ward against her scrying. That's not harm. Not really. I did it to all three—" She stopped, snorted, and sat back.

"All three who?"

"Nobody you know." Sanga sulked, then said in a dispirited voice, "Two prentice Guild mages. One from the Brennic Marches, and one from Fil Gaen. He wanted young mages, he said. I hoped he'd be satisfied with them, since I didn't get Hawk Rhiscarlan. Then Wren came, and I thought if I got her, he'd . . . free . . . Grenya." Sanga squeezed her eyes shut, but tears escaped, running down her face. "He said he'd kill my sister if I didn't do his bidding."

Tyron watched, appalled. He couldn't tell if she was faking or not—or which one would be worse.

"Tell us about Hawk," Halfrid asked.

Sanga gulped, and wiped her eyes. "I went to Rhiscarlan first. Like I was supposed to. But I tripped one of Hawk's wards." She made a half-hearted

gesture of insult. "Hawk's guards are fast. They caught up with me before I could get away on foot. I told Hawk everything. He said because of my sister he would let me go, but if I set foot back in Rhiscarlan, he'd turn me into a gargoyle. I felt the wards against me as soon as I left. But Andreus still had Grenya as a prisoner, and he told me to watch for Meldrithi mages

— naming Tyron, and Wren, along with you, and Mistress Leila, and a couple of others. So I went to Hroth Falls. Tricked Falin. Did her work better than she does. That place was a disgusting mess! Paint all over! Nobody took any harm."

"Wren did," Tyron said.

"No, she didn't!"

"You were going to send her to Andreus," Halfrid said sternly.

"Well, yes. That is, I wavered about it. She was talking, and I liked her, and I couldn't do it, so I just put the ward on her scry stone, and then I slept in the next day and hoped she'd be gone. And she was!"

"And so you warded her against scrying?"

Sanga hung her head. "I—I had to report her to Andreus. I was afraid he'd find out if I didn't send her, and he'd do something terrible to Grenya! Andreus can't enter Hroth Falls. There are strong wards against him. Hawk Rhiscarlan told me that Queen Idres herself put the tracer-wards against Andreus — if he walks in, he'll lose all his magic. I wish he would!"

"So do we all," Halfrid said. "Continue."

"Well, Andreus said to make sure that Wren was boomed aboard one of the free traders, and to let him know the name. He'd catch up with her later. That didn't seem so bad, and I knew how to contact the boomers, through a clerk in the Harbormaster's office. He takes bribes to do things. I bribed him on account of those other two mages I mentioned. I contacted him, and described Wren, and I'm sure she got boomed, but still she'd have a chance to get away, don't you see? And if she did, he couldn't blame me and hurt Grenya."

Halfrid frowned, turning Tyron's way.

So far Sanga's story matched Hawk's, but Tyron sensed she was leaving something important out. He made a quick hand sign, to which Halfrid returned a tiny nod of agreement.

Halfrid said, "But you acted against fellow mages. On the orders of Andreus, whose motives cannot possibly be construed as anything but harmful. I very much fear you shall have to be remanded to the Mage Council."

Sanga tried to leap up, fell back, then her hands wove in the air, but Tyron felt the magic distort, sending a flutter of nausea through him.

"I didn't do anything really bad! I could have killed that Falin! Andreus told me to, but instead I lied to him."

"Falin was shape-changed into a pear tree," Halfrid explained to Tyron. "She's recovering in the healer's chambers now."

Sanga's eyes were puffy and red. "I did it to save my sister!"

Halfrid sighed. "All right, you've mentioned this sister several times. Tell us about her."

Sanga's tears ran freely again, falling into her lap. "My sister Grenya is the one who trained me. She was trained by our grandmother. We do all the magic for our valley. We don't need any mages from your old Council poking their noses everywhere."

"The Council protects, it does not attack," Halfrid said gently. "But that can be addressed another time. Continue. What happened to your sister? How did she come to Andreus's notice?"

Sanga sniffed. "My sister wanted this magic book. Containing more powerful transformation spells, ones that would be permanent. Just as a defense," she added quickly, her sulky expression back. "On account of— well, some trouble at home. We thought, or Grenya thought, she could take care of the problem, and no one in your nosy old Council would know—oh, it doesn't matter. Anyway, the book was a lure. For mages who ignored your Council's rules about transformations, I guess. And you don't have to say the obvious, because I already know," she added, angry again. Then Sanga sniffed defiantly. "Anyway, this book was a trap. When it came into our hands and we tried to use it, a ward seized us and we ended up transported somewhere. Andreus told us who he was, said Grenya could help him in his plans, or be a frog on his wall."

Halfrid looked grim. Tyron felt danger tighten the back of his neck.

"We had heard of Andreus, of course, during that war you had up here. Grenya spoke up. She said she'd rather be a frog. I don't think she believed him, see, and she was demanding he send us home when without any warning at all he transformed her, using that very same book we spent our entire earnings to buy! He turned her into a frog-monster, and set her on this high stone wall overlooking some harbor somewhere. Then he told me what he'd do — push her off so she'd shatter below—if I didn't do what he said. He told me the rewards if I did what I was told. I was to trap Hawk, or one of the rest of you, and any other mages. He taught me the ward spell against scrying. And if I cooperated, my sister would go free."

"Where is this wall located?"

Sanga shook her head. "I don't know. We were moved about by magic transport." She sobbed, eyes squeezed shut. "I don't even know if Grenya is still alive!"

Halfrid said, a lot more kindly, "She probably is. Andreus would find living mages more useful as hostages. Shattered bits of stone are no use to anyone."

Sanga did not respond, just sat listlessly in the chair. Tyron closed the door, and the two passed through the short hall to Halfrid's magic chamber.

Tyron asked, "Is Falin going to recover?"

"Yes. Sanga seems to have had enough of a conscience to change her into a form that is slow to do harm to humans. Even so, it's been half a year, and it might be a while before Falin recovers her voice and the ability to move. Now, what happened after I left?"

"Teressa got angry with Hawk and me for our lack of communication. I left, since she obviously wanted to talk to him alone. I hoped she would send him off. I waited outside, and when he came out of the parlor, I spoke to Hawk as she requested. He told me the gist of what we just heard. When I asked him why he hadn't offered the information, he retorted, You never asked." Tyron raked his fingers through his tangled hair.

"Since all I ever heard out of him was mockery and insult, why bother asking for more?"

"I think I need to have a talk with that young man."

Tyron opened a hand. "You might have to wait. He added, I'm off to talk to Cousin Idres. Ended with a typical insult about guardian hounds, and left. So I came straight here."

"Cousin Idres?" Halfrid asked.

Tyron sat down. "Maybe you should go to the ball tonight. Hawk is probably a waste of time as far as information is concerned, but Teressa might tell you what she has in mind. She's too angry with me."

Halfrid rubbed his thumb over his lip, a sure sign he was thinking. "I will do just that."

Tyron said, "Can you break that scry ward on Wren?"

Halfrid shook his head. "Not immediately. I tested it just before I confronted the young woman, in order to get a sense of what I might be dealing with. That ward is lethally complicated, with tracers all over it. Those will have to be removed one by one."

"I'll help, no matter how late I have to stay up. I will feel a lot better when we know where Wren is." Tyron jerked his thumb at the door. "But first, are we sending Sanga to the Council right away?"

Halfrid frowned. "I am afraid we have to, though the few remaining Council members have far too many troubles already."

"Remainder of the Council?" Tyron grimaced. "I hope you aren't hinting that Master Gastarth and Mistress Selshaf are . . . not at Council headquarters."

He named the heads of the Mage Council, a brother and sister of great age and wisdom — the two most powerful mages in the world.

Halfrid laid his hands flat on his desk. "I was asked to keep the news to myself. You knew I was on Council

business, but you did not know that much of it has rightly been their tasks. Master Gastarth and Mistress Selshaf have been missing for a year."

o0o

Wren and Connor had spent enough time around the play-actors in Cantirmoor to know plenty about changing people's appearances. Shortly after noon, the former pirate boy, now with nut-brown skin and hair, dressed in an old smock commonly worn by shepherds and sturdy walking sandals, made his way up the mountain. Wren was sure the poor boy was looking back frequently, despite warnings to act normal.

When he was safely out of sight up the trail, Wren and Connor dashed back down to the harbor, where they found Captain Tebet, and told her their decision.

As soon as Wren finished, the old captain slapped her scrawny knee and croaked, "I've gone me whole life lookin' for just such a cruise!"

Connor laughed, and Wren rubbed her hands. "C'mon, let's get our stuff out of the inn."

"I've got to talk to the Harbormaster. He'll need to hire someone in my place," Connor said.

"You two do that, and I'll see to hurrying the last of the supplies on board. We can sail on the next tide, if everyone is nippy," Captain Tebet declared.

Connor toiled back up the hill for the third time that day, while Wren threaded through sailors, traders, visitors, sellers and buyers chattering in a dozen different tongues. When she reached the inn and dashed into the tiny room that she'd shared with Patka, she found Lambin and the siblings there, in the midst of a conference.

"Did you find anything?" Thad asked, then his dark eyes shifted from Wren's face to her hand reaching for her pack. "You did!"

Patka jumped up, her eyes round. "Wren! You found a hire and you didn't come to get us?"

The four faces before her were characteristic:

Patka's ever-ready temper already flaring, Danal looking wistful, Thad inscrutable, and Lambin serious.

Wren sank down onto her bed, wondering how much to say. "It's not exactly a hire," she finally began. "More like a passage, you could say."

Thad crossed his arms. "Go on."

"That's it."

"That's it?" Patka asked, her eyes wide. "Who offered you passage and why?" She plopped down onto her bed between her brothers. "Oh, of course.

Your magic."

Wren groaned. "Patka, I told you I have to earn my way by working. That is to say, I would — " She stopped, wincing.

Thad pointed a bony finger at her. "You've got a plan. And it has magic in it. And it probably concerns that sorcerer who's chasing you, am I right?"

"Well, I don't think he's chasing me anymore. But, well . . ."

"You can't leave me behind," Danal said unhappily. He added in a humble voice, "I know I'm worse than useless when it comes to magic. I mean, all I can do is recite those Crisis Rules and the Twelve Natural Laws, and maybe make an illusion or two. But if you go off, when will I get to learn more?"

"You go to the Magic School, Danal," Wren said, exasperated. "I told you that."

Patka snorted. "I know what's going on. You're doing something dangerous, and you're deciding for us about helping! After all we went through!"

Everyone started talking at once.

"Argh!" Wren waved her hands, told them in three short sentences what was going to happen, trying to make it sound as bleak as possible.

The result? All four grabbed their gear. "Now, how do we start?" Thad asked.

Wren couldn't help grinning. "Last chance to back out. We're going to be attacking a huge fleet, not running." And when no one moved, she gave in. "This is what I figured out on my way up here: we work best when we plan and then practice. I told you that magic doesn't make something out of nothing. On the gig, we used seaweed and crumbs and a few threads."

Danal rubbed his hands. "One of the Natural Laws! You can change the state of something non-living—"

"—but it's far easier if the state is something akin to what it once was, or will be. Yes. So here. If you're going to come, and I'm glad you are, my errands will be much faster." Wren opened her pack. Tyron's coins had been stolen when she was boomed, but Connor had given her some silver earlier, when they were shopping; Wren and Connor had traveled together before, and they were used to pooling their resources.

"Use this money and go into the markets. Here is my list." She tore out a back page from her magic book, and wrote fast. "Get as many of these items as you can, and Danal, you may as well buy a good, sturdy book and pens and ink, if you can find them, because you'll be taking lots of notes. Meet aboard the Piper before the tide changes, and I'll go let Captain Tebet know you're coming. Then I'm going to make some preparations of my own."

Twenty-Three

By the end of a week, Teressa was not the only one to become aware of a pleasant change in the atmosphere of Cantirmoor's court life.

She hosted the weekly royal ball, this one out on the terrace, which was marginally cooler than the ballroom. Despite the evening being even warmer and more humid than that at the last ball, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Even the musicians sitting under the trees appeared to be playing quicker, merrier tunes: she realized they were getting more requests for popular Meldrithi traditional dances than for the stylish and complicated court figure dances.

She looked around as the twilight slowly purpled into night. Yes, they really are happier. It's not my imagination, and it certainly isn't my mood. I hate hot weather, I hate worrying, I hate not knowing what's happening to Wren, or to Hawk.

I hate waiting.

Laughter caught at her attention, a rich, low, happy chuckle—a familiar laugh that sent irritation burning through her. Orin! There she was, her long silver hair touched to fire-gold by the many tiny lamps hung in

the trees, her plain mage's gown swinging with grace as she romped down the row of dancers with Tyron.

Teressa watched her future Queen's Mage spinning his magic student round and round with an expertise she never remembered seeing in him. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time he'd even danced.

The dance ended. Marit, the new Baron of Tamsal, bent to say something to Tyron, which caused him to laugh. Then Marit—sniffy, pouty Marit who had been so tiresome at fourteen and had somehow turned into a responsible, attractive young man—held out his hand to Orin.

The mage student looked grave, but she took his hand and joined the new dance starting up.

"Come, Cousin. You can sit around when you're an old woman." Garian appeared at Teressa's side, hand open in appeal.

She forced herself to smile and stood, shaking out her skirts.

"You have no excuse now that your usual partner is not among those present," Garian went on.

Teressa took her place beside him, and as the music struck up again, they started the skip-step-step, skip-step-step of a roundel. Teressa said, "Well?"

Garian's eyebrows quirked. "Well, what?"

"Well, where is the nasty comment about Hawk, and how everyone is happier with him gone?"

"Is he gone as in, really gone?" Garian glanced over his shoulder as she twirled under his arm. "I thought he was just . . . away."

"I sent him on a mission. If he returns, he returns," Teressa said as lightly as she could.

"None of the fellows will rejoice if he does, but I think some of your female friends have been looking for him. Who knows why," Garian added.

"Why don't you like him?" Teressa asked. She regretted the question as soon as it was out, and waited for the obvious comment about Hawk's past actions, his anomalous place in the war.

Garian's mouth twisted derisively, and then he took her by surprise. "I think it goes beyond distrust. I think it's because he so obviously has no respect for any of us."

Teressa came so close to saying He has respect for me! that her lips began to shape the words. Instead she raised her hands for the next figure in the dance. She had to considered the truth of that statement. She was fairly certain he respected her now, but she'd been unsure until the night she lost her temper, and sent him away. And he went.

She and Garian clapped twice, twirled, and their palms met for hands-across. She frowned at Garian's face, to meet an unexpectedly narrow look, not unlike Uncle Fortian's old, unloved expression of calculated

assessment. Except Garian was not as arrogant as his father had been.

"Any?" she asked, as though joking.

But Garian was too smart to fall for that trap. He waited until they had twirled down the dance, and then said, "It's hard to like someone who thinks he's superior to everyone around him. Even the girls who like flirting with him know that he won't waste half a heartbeat trying to please them. He doesn't care what they think. Except, he likes them being interested in him."

She had to ask, now. "And how do I fit in?"

"You tell me," Garian said, brows up. "Does he respect you, or your crown?"

Clap-clap, step, turn, bow.

The dance had ended, and he turned away, beginning a conversation with Perd about the next day's horse race.

Teressa was left with nothing but air to speak to. Which was fine, because she had nothing to say that wouldn't just start an argument. Garian wouldn't believe me if I said Hawk respects ME, she thought. But that wasn't what made her feel angry and kind of sick. Would I believe myself?

The musicians had begun the opening strains of another dance, but stopped. Whispers serried through the crowd. Skirts whirled, faces turned, and there was Hawk at the top of the stairs leading to the terrace, a

tall, dark-haired woman on his arm, her face made in the same sharp-boned, brown-skinned, sardonic mold as his. She had to be Hawk's only living relative, Idres Rhiscarlan, the powerful mage and new queen of Senna Lirwan.

As the entire court watched, Hawk brought his cousin Idres to Teressa. Whispers rustled through the older courtiers, and Teressa wondered how much they remembered of Idres when she was Teressa's own age

—    trained by Andreus, but she fell in love with Teressa's father instead.

Idres was dressed in a high-necked gown of fine gray linen that fell in beautiful lines. Like Hawk, she was well shaped, and the simple design of her clothing

—    the way it draped — made the most of her figure.

"Teressa," Hawk drawled, and Teressa knew he was aware of all those ears around them. "May I present my cousin, Idres Rhiscarlan? I believe you said you wished to discuss affairs of mutual interest?"

"Welcome," Teressa said, acutely aware of all those ears. She gestured to the musicians to start, which forced the courtiers to resume the ball. "If you would care to join us?"

Hawk disengaged his arm from his cousin. "I'll leave you to it."

He turned away as the musicians started up again, holding out his hand to little Robin—even though she'd already had a partner. Again, everyone watched

Hawk's challenging stance, his ironic smile, and the polite bow of Robin's partner, who withdrew with a suave gesture. Robin giggled, flirting her fan as she took her place next to Hawk at the front of the next line dance.

Teressa forced her attention away from them, and to her surprising guest.

"You are not as besotted as I believed," was Idres's first comment.

Anger flared through Teressa. What has Hawk said about me? She wants me to ask, which puts me on the defensive. Out loud she said, "Well, do I get my harbor, or not? Or did you come here to mock my courtiers in the ever-so-winning Rhiscarlan manner?"

Idres's laugh was soft and husky.

"I came here to talk. And to decide," Idres said.

"Shall we walk in the garden, where it's slightly cooler?"

"The lakeside path," Idres said. "I heard about it often enough, and I confess I would like to see it for myself."

Teressa wondered who had talked about it. Hawk or her father? Again she decided against asking.

They walked together down the terrace steps and across the lawn to the lake shore. Shadows moved among the trees: Garian's watchful guard. Idres seemed to note them as well, but other than a deepening at the corners of her mouth, an expression very much like Hawk's, her face was unreadable.

Teressa said, "Hroth Harbor is becoming more demanding. My aunt, Queen Nerith, has her own problems in Siradayel. Because of these, my trade negotiations with my cousins in Beshar for use of Mir Harbor have been held up."

Idres lifted her head as she peered at the twinkling lights in the trees. "Mir is as far north for you as Hroth is south."

"Yes. Your River Lir would be the closest access to the sea for us. Have you opened Rock Harbor to trade?"

Idres said, "I plan to. But we're still rebuilding. Not the Harbor. It was constructed as a military site, strong and built to last. I am bringing merchants in. But all my predecessor's warships have required reconstruction to hold trade goods instead of warriors and weapons. That is slow going, when there is no treasury, and so much to be repaired."

"Tell me what you want from us in trade for use of the harbor," Teressa asked.

Idres gave that soft laugh again. "You are unexpected, young Teressa Rhisadel. Perhaps all princesses ought to be raised in orphanages."

"One does learn to dust and to sweep," Teressa said.

"Even in verbal encounters, eh?" Idres chuckled again. "I will tell you what I desire, in order of greatest need. The first is good cotton, for it will be some years before our crop will be reliable, I am told."

"We haven't a large cotton export," Teressa said.

"But Siradayel does. When your aunt does begin paying attention to trade negotiations again, you could bring me a good trade. We have an excellent rye crop, and our oats are almost as good. Those mountains your young mages knocked over have broken down into very rich soil. As for you, your ceramics out of your western provinces are extremely dear by the time they get to us . . ."

Back and forth they talked, Teressa compromising, Idres compromising, but all along Teressa sensed that there was something Idres was holding back.

Teressa finally said, "We have walked all the way around the lake, and it looks like it's almost time for the midnight supper. They will be looking for me. Would you like to join us?"

"No," Idres said, which did not surprise Teressa. What followed did. "I will probably send you a young woman I trust highly. She will present credentials and a treaty, written up along the lines we've discussed.

But first: I want to send some students to your mage school."

"Oh?"

"I cannot afford to pay for their stay. Not yet. I want, say, ten years before we cover their fees. There will not be many, and I might only send them for the Basics, then undertake their further training myself. I still am considering it."

"I will have to talk that over with Halfrid, but pending that, I have no objection," Teressa said, dismissing thoughts of spies and magic war. The Lirwanis, ancient enemies, seemed to want to live in neutrality, if not quite as allies yet. And Teressa knew that the basics the Magic School taught were tough to use in a harmful way. Anyone that determined would find their way to evil magic, as Andreus had done many years ago.

"Agreed." Idres tipped her head, regarding Teressa through narrowed eyes. "My cousin Hawk does not pay me allegiance any more than he does you," she said.

Teressa waited for her to say more, but that apparently was all Idres was going to say about Hawk.

Idres turned. Her face, so very much like Hawk's, was still sardonic, but her voice was that of a mature woman, one who had honed a cool, quick wit under the grind of tough experience. "Expect my ambassador by harvest time," she said. "I think you will like her, Teressa Rhisadel."

Idres muttered the way that mages do, there was a soft paff of air, and she was gone.

Teressa realized the last words were a kind of guarded approval, and she felt the inward glow of satisfaction that lasted about three heartbeats, the time it took to scan the terrace as the last dance was ending.

There in the very center danced Hawk, his elegant, slightly sinister black clothes a contrast to Orin in her plain brown mage tunic, her long silver hair swinging freely, her manner tranquil and reserved as always. Hawk seemed to be addressing comments to her, but she never answered, though she danced with him, and at the end, she walked away, not even looking back to see his ironic half-bow.

Teressa slowed her steps, watching Orin scan the assembled guests, most of high degree: it was quite clear that Hawk was already gone from her mind, and she sought among these barons and dukes only one person: Tyron. But he was nowhere in sight.

Teressa gave in to impulse and changed her direction. When she neared Orin, she said, "Tyron went back to the school?"

Orin's head turned so quickly that her silvery hair flagged out like a silken cloak. She bowed, then said, "I do not know."

"You and Hawk draw the eye, dancing together."

Orin's face did not change. "He seeks me out because I present a challenge."

"How is that?"

Orin's eyes were light-colored, reflecting the starlight, their expression serious. "I have no interest in what he says, or what he thinks. Somehow that seems to merit his attention."

"Why do you have no interest?" Teressa asked. "You study magic. Hawk is a powerful mage. Some say as powerful as Tyron, if not more so."

"Because I cannot trust any of his words," Orin replied. "So they hold no value for me."

This girl had grown up in a mountain village on the border between Meldrith and Senna Lirwan, her people necessarily hardy. Tyron had once said Orin's best friend was a fierce, giant gryph, a bird universally regarded as untamable.

Teressa said, testing, "Your interest is confined to Tyron, then?"

Orin's gaze lifted. She studied the stars as though reading something there, then she faced Teressa. "Yes," she said, simple and tranquil. "What Tyron says, and thinks, and does, matters to me. And I hope one day that what I say, and do, and think, will matter in the same way to him."

Orin bowed, and walked swiftly away.

Teressa gazed after in surprise, until she felt a hand touch her shoulder and slide around her back.

Warmth branched through her, quick as lightning. She turned in Hawk's grip. He looked down, unsmiling, his eyes shadowed. "Well?"

She swallowed. "You did what I asked."

"Yes. And now?"

She shook her head, her heart hammering with anticipation. "And now what?"

He smiled at last, a faint smile, then said, "We shall begin with this."

His thumb caressed her cheek down to her chin, and right there on the terrace, in full view of anyone who cared to see, they kissed.

Twenty-Four

"Drill!"

The Piper's deck thundered as everyone ran to their stations. Wren and Captain Tebet watched as the crew started performing their assigned tasks: some trimming sail, others booming down the launches, and two of Captain Tebet's younger members running to fetch Wren's magical preparations.

"It might just work," Captain Tebet squawked, rubbing a rough hand through her grizzled, gray hair. "Might just work."

"Don't say that." Wren was thinking of her chickens.

Captain Tebet snorted. "We're as drilled as any navy. All we need is the wind to haul 'round a little more, and we're there." She pointed to her chart, which was spread on the binnacle, then squinted up at the sky. "Bright." She sniffed. "Far too bright."

Wren looked up. The sky was cloudless, but not what one would call clear. There was a faint haze throwing such a strong white glare back that her eyes teared. Splashes of sunlight reflected up from the

choppy waves with diamond-brilliance, making her wince.

"Too hot, too bright, too still. I think we're in for a blow," the captain said with satisfaction. "If it will just come out of the east, not the west, we're clear." She scowled at the eastern horizon. "Haze is worse there, but that could mean anything."

Wren had spent enough time on ships to understand that the wind was of first importance, but you could not always predict what it would do. So far it had benefited them, sending them tacking the long way around Tomad Island, which took a couple of extra days, but it was unlikely that Andreus had posted watch ships on that side of the island. That same wind had pinned his fleet in the harbor. Even the fastest ships in the world couldn't sail very well into the wind.

The bell tinged for a watch change, and those off duty went below into the little galley to eat. Patka had joined Captain Tebet's cook, who was a tall, lugubrious man who seemed to know every sea ballad ever sung. The cook and Lambin had been entertaining the crew at night—between the drills.

It had been Captain Tebet's idea to give each crew member a chance to call suddenly "Drill!" and watch everyone drop what they were doing and move to their positions. The first few days out of the Okidaino harbor they had practiced during the day, when everyone was

rested. When Captain Tebet's turn came, she not only rousted them out at night, but during a rainstorm.

The result was a disaster, which caused each person to practice his or her part on their own. Since then, Wren was pleased to discover, there had been no flapping chickens in the drills.

That meant everyone was ready, and if the plan failed, the fault would lie squarely with her. She frowned at the ruffling wake stretching out behind them, knowing that too much thought like that would defeat her before they even came in sight of Tomad Islands. Better to mentally review her spells —

There it was again, that inward touch, a familiar touch—

After so long without it, she'd half forgotten that sensation, but she recognized it now. Someone was trying to scry her!

She slammed her mental door.

Who could it be? Intense curiosity struggled against caution. Wren was certain that Andreus was the one who had warded her scrying. Had he removed the ward so she would think it safe to try again? He could then find out where she was.

Wren whispered a little spell that hid her from the scrying realm. No one could reach her now, which meant Andreus couldn't surprise her when she was asleep, or not paying attention. She did not want to risk revealing a single glimpse of her location, or any of her plan.

"Something wrong?" Connor emerged from the aft hatch, the slight wind ruffling his red hair.

"Someone tried to scry me," Wren said. "I suspect it might be Andreus. But don't worry. I blocked it. And I'm going to review my spells yet again."

Connor came to stand beside her. "Wren, I've never even seen Tyron worry as much as you have."

Wren said, "I don't care how much fuss I'm making, as long as Andreus's fleet gets the chickens, and not us."

"Understood." Connor looked up, his eyes reflecting the blue of the sky. "Still no sign of those daws, I am relieved to say."

Wren nodded. The jackdaws had followed them for a day or two, swooping and diving with other sea birds, but on their third day, they'd flapped away northward and vanished.

"Longface just told me he thinks a storm is coming."

Wren looked eastward. "Captain Tebet says so, too. But Longface is below, on his snooze watch. How can he know?"

"He says his nose always itches before a big storm."

"Well, I just hope it's itching eastward, and not a nasty westward itch."

A husky crow of a laugh from the Captain at the wheel caused them both to turn her way. "It's a-comin'," she said. "It's a comin' — "

"Land ho!"

Everyone stopped. "Where away?" the captain squawked.

The lookout on the main mast yelled, "Island, straight west."

They rushed to the side, peering under their hands. Wren's eyes teared from the ferocious glare and she could see nothing. Yet already the sea seemed restless, the waves choppier, and the blue color was changing subtly to green.

"Haul north!" the captain bellowed. "Keep well north. We don't want them eyeballing us!"

Sailors dashed to the ropes and sails.

Wren moved to the hatch, out of the way. "I'm making one last round," she declared. "Just to make certain everything is just right."

The Captain was peering in the other direction. She turned her head and roared, "You better make sure it's all battened down!"

The ship heeled sharply. When it plunged down in the other direction, Wren looked eastward. The sky had already changed with frightening speed: the entire horizon was now a white line growing larger and grayer.

She hopped to the hatch as sailors struggled to get it closed against the fast-rising wind, and scrambled down the ladder, both hands holding tight.

If the captain needed her to help tend sail during the storm she'd call; now Wren meant to guard all her magical preparations that she had labored so hard over during the long days of sail.

The hull and masts groaned as the wind began to howl. When the rain hit, a shudder ran through the ship, but the below decks stayed warm and dry as Captain Tebet, unlike the captain of the Sandskeet, had paid for a magical water seal of the entire hull, not just the captain's cabin.

Wren crouched below her swinging hammock, watching the sway of the lamp as the ship rose, rose, rose on monstrous waves, then plunged down into the troughs where the wind did not reach. The sails fell slack, shuddering, then up the ship rose again, until the screaming wind caught the sails with a wrench. Waves broke over the bow with a smash, rushing down the deck and washing over and out to sea again, taking every barrel and tool that had not been securely tied down.

Wren knelt next to her box of arrows, each carefully bespelled, and tested her spells over and over, one after the other. First, the cloaking spell. If the wind is with us, the launches get masts. If not, then we have to row, and that means cloaking the oars —

Teams. How to divide a fleet to make sure everyone is covered? How to do it quickly, depending on wind, and current, and where the fleet is —

Fleet . . . rain . . . lights . . . what if? Images of disaster flittered through Wren's mind: trying to run through water, leafing desperately through her book just to discover the pages had magically changed to a real herb book—

"Wren."

It was Connor.

She opened her eyes; she'd fallen into an uncomfortable doze while kneeling next to her box of arrows. She sat back, her legs full of pins and needles. Her book was safe in her knapsack, where it had lain for days, ever since she discovered that she remembered her spells faster than she could read them.

Connor was soaking wet, his hair writhing in dark, ruddy locks down his sodden shirt.

"We're in the middle of Andreus's fleet." He tried to wipe his eyes, but his sleeve was just as wet as his face. "Come now."

"We're in Andreus's fleet?" Wren repeated blankly. They had endlessly discussed the best way to approach, finally deciding on a big cloaking spell. Never had they thought to find themselves already there.

"They must have launched as soon as the wind changed. But the storm probably blew them out of formation. When it began to clear just a while ago, we discovered we're right in the middle of them."

Wren gave a cry, leaping to her feet. "We didn't plan for that!"

"I know. But Captain Tebet says they are too busy repairing damage to pay the least attention to us. Further, they can't possibly know all the other ships. Meanwhile the storm is passing. We have to act now, for dawn is near."

Wren looked around. It's now. Not tomorrow, but now.

"Bring up the box," she said. "We can start on ships we pass, and send out our launches to take care of the others."

Connor hefted the box onto his shoulder and followed her up onto the deck, where the crew, tired as they were, had begun their own repairs. Rain slanted out of the east in bands. A sudden shower caught her by surprise the moment she stepped up from the hatch, and made her gasp. She was wet through within three breaths.

Captain Tebet called from the wheel, where she and two sailors held the helm, "What now, young mage?"

I'm only a journeymage, and not a very good one, Wren thought, but didn't say it. Instead, she looked around. The cloud layer was still low, and fitful lightning revealed plenty of rain still to come. Twinkling lights surged on the rough waters, indicating ships all around them.

Wren lifted her voice. "We'll start now."

"Launches," Captain Tebet shouted.

The crew leaped to action, everyone knowing just what to do.

Wren moved to each launch, just as they had always practiced, and as the rain poured down on them, she bound each boat with an illusory spell. No mistakes. She had drilled too long and hard. Each spell snapped into place, the boats blurry and guided by feel; when the launches fell into the water, it was difficult to see them, as they reflected the water and air around them.

Silently, the three-person crews dropped into each launch, carrying their supplies. One person would handle sail, the second went to the tiller, and the third would shoot. Each shooter carried a bag of Wren's precious arrows, put there by her own hands. She had made fifty for each boat, knowing that a lot of them might fall into the sea.

One by one the boats sailed away, the only visible mark their wakes, flat for a short time until the wind whipped the waves up to hide them.

Captain Tebet sailed near pirate ship after pirate ship, all too busy repairing after the storm to pay any attention to her little ship.

Connor and Longface, who had the best aim of the Piper's crew, sat high on the main and foremasts,

shooting one arrow apiece across to thunk high in the pirates' masts. Those in the launches only had to hit the hulls, but it was important for all the arrows to go unnoticed, at least long enough for Wren's spells to activate.

Each arrow that hit was followed by three words, carefully taught to the person handling the tiller in each launch.

On the Piper, Wren said the words for Longface and Connor—the latter because his own magic was so unreliable, it was impossible to guess what might happen if he tried a regular spell.

Wren stood directly below Connor, and watched him pull the arrow back to his chin, take aim, and let

^fly.

Z-z-z-ip! The arrow sped through the silvery rain, faintly highlighted in the bleak light that was just beginning to smear the eastern horizon. They did not hear the arrow thock into the mizzen mast of the pirate sailing just north of them, but Captain Tebet apparently saw it quivering there, for she nodded to Wren, who spoke the magical release words.

Four launches, plus the Piper, sailed along the rough semi-circle into which Andreus's fleet had been scattered by the storm. Wren peered into the grayish murk ahead, seeking the twinkling lamplight of another pirate ship. If we each get a dozen ships per watch, then within a day we can have two hundred done, or near it.

All through the dawn and morning they sailed, past ship after ship. At noon the lookout cried, "Birds!"

The sailors kept on with their tasks, but Connor slid down a backstay and joined Wren at the wheel, each scanning the sky.

Wren spotted four birds flying in a carefully spaced line. These birds did not act like birds, but like creatures forced to a human's will as they flew in that unnatural formation across the sky, their heads flicking back and forth as they watched below.

"Spy birds." Wren pointed skyward. "Everyone put down your bows!"

"Get busy cleanin' and repairin'," Captain Tebet cried, and the crew leapt to obey. She hustled to Wren's side, and said in a low voice, "You can't put that cloaking spell on now?"

"Not until we get the launches back—they would never see us," Wren reminded the captain.

Tebet snapped her fingers. "Right. Right. I was forgettin'. This magic stuff makes my hide itch. But even so, I'll feel better when you get that spell on us."

The Piper passed one pirate ship completely while the birds were in sight, and had almost passed another before the creatures dwindled to distant specks in the sky. This pirate ship had been dismasted, and the crew was busy jury-rigging new spars.

Captain Tebet gave quiet orders, the Piper veered closer, Longface shot an arrow into the stern, unnoticed

by the struggling pirates, then they hauled wind and passed on.

And when the sun at last began to sink toward the horizon, though there were no more ships in sight, Wren leaned on the taffrail and tried to imagine her magic working slowly and gently on all those ships, causing the wood to revert to its green state. The surprised pirates would have plenty of time to lower their launches and save themselves — but nobody could go conquering in little lifeboats.

The storm had passed on, leaving a clean, cold eastern wind. As Little Moon rose into the sky, the Piper encountered their first lifeboats full of pirates. In the distance, logs sprouting twigs floated on the water

— the remains of their ship. The pirates in the longboats were cursing and yelling, many of them drunk, the boats full of weapons and supplies.

Some of them hailed the Piper, trying to threaten, cajole, scorn, or bribe the captain into rescuing them, but she sailed on past — only spilling wind when their own launches caught up.

Wren watched the sky. She dreaded seeing more spy birds. They might have fooled the first set, but a second set would mean that Andreus had sent them back . . .

"All right, the last launch is on board," Captain Tebet yelled, and the bell ting-tinged. The captain

turned to Wren. "Should you put that cloaking spell on?"

"Right!" Tired as she was, Wren leaped away from the rail, relief giving her a little more energy.

She took a deep, calming breath. Then she cast the cloaking spell, pulling on as much magical strength as she dared. Her head buzzed when she finished, but she knew the spell was strong, and probably good for several days. "There," she said.

"The evil Black Hood can't find us now," Captain Tebet pronounced with satisfaction.

Wren hesitated, then grimaced.

"What is it, Wren?" Connor murmured.

"Oh, I'm just worried about those spy birds. I hope we looked like everybody else from above. If they saw something suspicious — if they found something aboard to fix as a Destination—"

"Those birds flew over a long time ago," the captain said. "Don't worry about what we can't help. Been a long day, mates. Let's eat."

In her cabin, the Cook and Patka were just setting out a supper, which was a tasty tomato soup made with cream, leftover chicken, spiced with sweet-pepper, and had cheese melted on top.

Wren realized she hadn't eaten all day, and her stomach growled as she sat down.

"Looks like our pirates are branching out," the captain declared, giving a rasping laugh at her own wit.

"First time pirates have ever been treed." Connor reached for the fresh-baked bread.

"That's one way to root 'em out," Longface said in his deep voice, without any vestige of smile. But his eyes narrowed, giving him away.

"Let's leaf them alone," Wren said. "They can bark . . . their bark . . . oh, I'm too tired to think. And too hungry. I never smelled anything as good."

Wren lifted her soup bowl. The melted cheese burned a little against her lip, but she didn't care. She was not only hungry, but for the first time in weeks and weeks, the wind felt a little cold, and she drank down her soup, enjoying the taste, the peppery and cheesy smell, and the warmth.

The others continued to make jokes about trees and pirates, but Wren just sat back, stuffing herself and gloating. It worked, it worked. No chickens.

"Captain!"

The shout brought them to their feet, Connor looking around for his staff that was probably below.

Wren's heart thumped as she grabbed up her bread, a hunk of cheese, and an apple and shoved them into her sleeve, hoping there was just some problem with the ropes, or sails, or masts, or maybe a signal from one

of the returning launches. But no one would yell Captain! like that if a rope had come loose.

She stepped on deck.

And froze.

A slim man with long blond hair stood alone on the forecastle, his long black cloak billowing and snapping in the cold wind.

Andreus smiled.

"Yes," he drawled, that familiar, faintly metallic voice making her skin crawl along the backs of her arms. "I know you are warded against my touching you against your will. I know the ship is warded. I know your crew is warded. But the mages all along my wall are not. And until you consent to join me for a little conference, one at a time they will smash to the stone court as soon as I return, until you give it up — "

"I'll go." Wren's voice croaked worse than Captain Tebet. "Don't hurt anybody."

"Wren!" Connor shouted, running forward.

Andreus tossed something at Wren. As soon as the cold metal met her fingers, she felt the flash of transfer.

Twenty-Five

"Have you found Wren yet?"

Tyron stared at Teressa in surprise. In spite of all the busy gossip about her being on the verge of announcing a wedding and coronation, she did not look happy.

Halfrid said, "Please, my dear. Permit me to sit down. It has been a hot walk."

Teressa ran her fingers restlessly along one of the braids looped in her hair. She was dressed with more formality than Tyron remembered ever seeing her.

She said, "I promised you once before. I'll set you up with a carriage, if you like. Since you don't want to do that magical transfer thing."

Halfrid smiled as he settled into his chair in Teressa's private parlor. "Please recall that transfers are not easy, and we all avoid them when we can." He glanced at Tyron with faintly lifted brows to remind Tyron of his duty. "As for your generous offer of a carriage, thank you, but no. Perhaps I'll come to it one day, but for now, our meetings are about the only chance for a stroll that I get. Especially when there's this much turmoil around us."

Teressa flushed, then she waved a hand, dismissing the matter. Gold-embroidered lace dropped back from her wrist, and an old and costly ring sparkled on one finger. Tyron frowned. It wasn't that she didn't look splendid, for she did. But in his experience, the more she dressed up, the more unsettled she seemed to be feeling. "Wren?" she asked again.

Tyron moved quietly to the door and glanced out in both directions. A servant crossed the distant passage with folded linens, but there was no sign of Hawk. So he took up a station at the wall, where he could keep watch.

Halfrid said, "It took me several days but I was finally able to break that ward over Wren. However, when I tried to scry her, I was unsuccessful. And the next attempt brought me against another ward, this one imposed from within, you might say."

Teressa frowned. "What does that mean?"

Halfrid said, "I suspect it was Wren herself. The magic had her signature, so to speak."

"Signature?" Teressa repeated. "Is it Wren, or is it not?"

Tyron would have commented on her imperious tone had they been alone—had they not lost their habit of private talks. But Halfrid only gave her a calm smile. "Magic seldom carries identifiers, unless they are put in. But when you have worked with mages long enough, or have taught them, you can recognize how

they put their spells together. Think of it as handwriting. You would recognize a note in Wren's hand, even if she did not sign it, would you not?"

Teressa's anxious look eased somewhat. "Yes, I would."

Halfrid sat back, hands on his knees. "Well, then. To repeat, I suspect Wren set that ward herself, probably assuming that my scry attempt might be whoever had put the first one on her. From this we may surmise: first, that she's both alive and active, and second, that she's being careful."

Teressa let out a long sigh. "Then you think she's all right."

"Yes," Halfrid said. "I think she's all right. In fact, I am comfortable enough with that assumption that I am trying to deal with all the other matters arising in the kingdom, rather than dropping them in search of a journeymage who, so far, has proved that she can take care of herself."

Halfrid reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a paper. "Here is one of those matters I mentioned. It is crown business: Fliss's report from Hroth Harbor. That is, the purely magical portion of her report has been removed, for you've no use for it. Instead, what you will find is a report of her investigations of what appears to be a thriving business, called 'booming,' which is the abduction of mostly young people and selling them to captains who have less than savory reputations and cannot seem to get sailors by legitimate hire. Fliss found evidence that Wren was boomed, along with some others, which is how Wren's scry stone ended up in the curio shop."

"Is the Harbormaster involved, then?" Teressa asked, anger kindling.

"Not that Fliss could discover. But one of his clerks definitely was, a fellow who is part of a well-organized network of thieves making plenty of money in the reselling of items taken from the victims they boom. That fellow was Sanga's contact. It's all there—names, statements, and the rest, for your perusal."

Teressa leaned forward. "Thank you. I will read it carefully before I talk to Fil Gaen's ambassador, you can be sure. And if we do get our treaty with Senna Lirwan, we might actually be able to do something about these matters, through monetary pressure if nothing else."

Halfrid nodded in approval, as the midday bells echoed melodiously through the marble halls.

Teressa jumped up. "I will be late for Aunt Carlas's river barge party. And I really ought not to be." She flushed, not meeting anyone's eyes.

Halfrid rose. "Then I shall leave you to it and return to school business."

Tyron stepped aside for the Master Mage to leave first, and was about to follow when Teressa lifted a hand. "Wait. Please."

Halfrid kept going. Tyron knew what Halfrid would say: if the queen needs to talk, she might actually listen. That was Tyron's first duty.

Never mind how he felt about being alone with her again. It had always been that way. Maybe it would always be that way. But he'd learned to keep that halfpain, half-joy to himself.

"You never come to see me anymore." Teressa's forehead puckered below that striking hair-style, with the looped braids threaded with pearls.

"That's because we just seemed to end up arguing. There are better things for both of us to be doing," Tyron said.

"I won't argue—if you're not going to harangue me about who I choose to kiss."

Tyron forced a smile. "Why would I?"

"Will you walk with me to the river?" she asked abruptly.

"Of course."

Tyron had gotten into the habit of wearing his white master's robe whenever he walked into Cantirmoor instead of his comfortable old brown one. He was thus as properly dressed as anyone would expect him to be.

She said, "Last night Garian did see fit to harangue me. What's more, Aunt Carlas is apparently going to make some grand gesture at her stupid party today, and then formally withdraw from court, he warned me. Just because they don't like Hawk."

"Are you sure it's not because they don't trust Hawk?" Tyron asked.

Teressa sent him a sharp look. "You're not going to start, are you?"

"I asked a question. If questions have become harangues, let me know."

"Let me ask one of my own, then. Has Hawk given you any cause to distrust him?"

"Yes," Tyron said.

They crossed the terrace before Teressa said, "Well?"

"I answered the question," Tyron said.

Teressa sighed. "All right. Let's hear it."

"He didn't tell us about Falin. Oh, he gave us his sarcastic retort about us not believing him, but that seemed more of a convenience. He certainly isn't hampered from expressing opinions when he wants to. Truth is, I think he was entertained by the whole episode."

"Now you're expressing opinions."

"Fair enough. Then let me say two things, and I'll drop the subject."

"Go ahead."

They were on the tree-lined walkway leading down to the river. Light, shadow, light, shadow, passed before Tyron spoke again. "First, though he seems to care about you—very much, whatever anyone else

might say, I think it's true—he doesn't give any evidence of caring about Meldrith."

"He set up my interview with Idres, and I don't think that ever would have happened but for him."

"But that was for you. Think about it. Except for his poking around watching people, or sending his followers around to . . . observe, let us say, has there been any evidence whatsoever that he takes an interest in the kingdom's well-being? Not for the sake of the power it's regaining, which he might one day use, but for the sake of the people who live in it?"

Teressa smoothed her hands down her green and gold gown with its tiny pearls embroidered in patterns. Against the backdrop of summer trees she looked more handsome than she ever had.

She glanced sharply at Tyron. "Your second observation?"

"Just that your own family library is full of personal memoirs by kings and queens who found themselves in situations like yours. I think it was Queen Rhis herself who said that the problem with attraction is that it is just attraction, no more and no less. And where people make mistakes is in trying to redefine attraction into honesty, into devotion, into a meaning outside of, well, the strong response one feels to a handsome pair of eyes."

Light, shadow, light, shadow, they paced through the rays slanting between the trees along the pathway.

Most of the leaves were yellow. Some had already fallen. Their footsteps whispered through the leaves, sending leaves skittering over the old worn stones.

Tyron lifted his head in time to spot one of Garian's ceaseless roaming patrols vanish over a low, rounded hill on which the grass was already turning golden.

Teressa said, "Are you done?"

"I told you, two things. That makes two."

"So let me ask you this. How much experience do you have, to lecture me about attraction?"

Tyron looked at her in surprise. "Not much. So that makes my reading and thinking worthless?"

Teressa bent her head so all he could see was that profusion of braids. He realized that they took the place of a crown.

Then she mumbled something in which the name Orin could be made out.

Tyron felt a jab of rueful laughter, but he hid it. What could he say? There has never been anyone but you, from the first moment I saw you when I was a scruffy brat playing tricks on my fellow students and you an awkward girl in an ugly dress just escaped from the orphanage.

No. The day he could say that might come in five years, or ten, or never. He liked Orin. He respected her. It was possible one day he might feel more—if Teressa never returned his feelings.

So he said, "I don't mix with students, even attractive ones. It's pretty much one of the rules, and a

rule that's existed for generations usually is in place for good reasons."

Teressa muttered something, then she looked up, and took him by surprise again. "I'm sorry. It was none of my business."

Tyron tried for that light tone. "It's not like I have much time for flirting anyway. You have no idea how behind we've been with this year's classes, and—oh, here we are at the river. I'd better turn back."

Teressa stopped, staring. Tyron took in the long river barge, decorated with garlands of aromatic leaves and flowers, the court in their fine clothes passing slowly over the ramp into the barge, their voices a little too sharp, laughter too much like the tinkle of broken glass.

"Please come," Teressa said. "You know Aunt Carlas wouldn't mind."

Tyron hesitated, scanning the knots of people in tight conversation groups. Was anyone having a good time? Yes, young Robin, over there with two other girls beginning to flirt with Hawk, who until the three girls walked up had been sitting quite alone. "I think I will," Tyron said. "Food ought to be better than the soup and leftover breakfast biscuits that I know are waiting for us back at the magic school."

Teressa smiled, her chin up, and descended the brick-lined path to the landing. Duchess Carlas, waiting at the top of the ramp to greet her guests, led

the bows. When the duchess straightened up, she gave Tyron a welcoming nod that was far less cold than he was used to receiving.

As soon as Teressa and Tyron stepped on board, the lines were cast off and the big, strong fellows dressed in Rhismordith livery plied their poles, sending the boat gently out into the middle of the wide, placid river.

At the back end, musicians under their own canopy began playing softly on flutes, tiranthe, and hand drums. The melodies were all traditional ones, recognizable songs about summer and peace and plenty, as servants uncovered a long buffet filled with fresh fruits, cheeses, a selection of at least a dozen types of fancy bread, and fine pastries, each set on flower petals carefully arranged. At the front end was iced punch, and crystal glasses to drink out of.

People crowded around, but it was soon apparent to Tyron that they did so to have something to do, rather than because they were hungry.

Hawk was still seated at the far side, talking to the group of admiring young ladies led by little Robin in her bright crimson dress covered with knots of pink and white ribbon, with a white ribbon in her hair. The ladies still stood; he had not invited any of them to take a seat by him.

As Teressa stepped onto the deck the courtiers all bowed—everyone except Hawk. Then they resumed their seats and their conversations as Teressa made her way to sit beside Hawk.

Carlas said in a strident voice, "Today we're having an old fashioned picnic, as I promised. The music, the food, are all the ones we older people loved when we were young."

Several barons and baronesses murmured in agreement.

The Duchess smiled. "And so what we'll do next is play a few of the old-fashioned games. We'll begin with one we used to call Word Mask."

The old Baroness of Arakee laughed. "Oh, I remember!"

"Then you shall give us the first word," the duchess declared, moving to the side of the river barge opposite Hawk, forcing everyone to shift position. They stood in a rough ring, facing her.

"Button," the Baroness said.

The Duchess gestured. "Button it is. Now I will quote a line from a famous old song, but I will put in place of the regular nouns the word 'button' and the one who guesses the correct line can say the next word, and pick the one who must provide a line." She paused, as people whispered, then pronounced in a slow voice, "Long rode the button across the fiery button, button at his side and button in his hand!''

A spatter of laughter and clapping, and then Perd said, "Easy! That's from the song about the Wizard Morayen, Long rode the seeker—''

People clapped, then the Duchess called, "You get the next word!"

"Nutcake." Perd raised the pastry in his hand.

"Who shall say a line?"

Perd looked around, then pointed at his old friend Marit, who shrugged. "Uh, let's see. Old song, old song. How about My nutcake said to me, let us go together down to the nutcake and there we shall wed!''

Laughter again, and this time, several people called out the correct line. For a little while the atmosphere was full of fun and laughter as especially silly words changed the meanings of famous old songs, but when the Duchess interrupted, saying, "It's far too easy! You young folk are too clever by half! We shall change the game. The winner names the song as well as the word, and picks someone who has to know it, and if he or she doesn't, there's a forfeit!"

"What's the forfeit?"

"They have to sing another song all the way through."

Laughter followed this, but Tyron paid little heed. The Duchess's voice was too sharp, her venomous glances in the direction of Hawk, still sitting there next to Teressa, too pointed.

Tyron warily took in the barge, and the way Garian lounged next to the punch with Marit and a couple others. Garian's posture was negligent, but his hands betrayed tension, and his shoulders were stiff.

Laughter rose as Robin triumphantly gave them a line from a ballad about Eren Beyond-Stars, but with the word 'snowball' in place of the nouns.

"What's going on?" Tyron said as soon as he reached Garian.

The tall Rhismordith duke grimaced. "You smell a rat, too, eh? M'mother said she's leaving tomorrow, but she had one gift left. I thought it was this party, but now I'm not so sure."

"Look," Tyron said.

They turned their attention to the other end of the barge, to where Hawk sat at Teressa's side. The queen, obviously unaware of anything amiss, was smiling as she toyed with a plate of grapes, but Hawk had gone as still as a scout dog, and Tyron braced himself, wondering what he could do as the Duchess turned and in too studied a voice, said, "Jarelda, will you give us the next song?"

And her cousin from the Siradi border said in an equally loud, equally false, voice, "How about that wonderful old song 'How Fast Flies the Blackbird?'"

About half the company looked puzzled, but all the older ones reacted with either exchanged glances or wooden faces. And no wonder, Tyron thought, as beside

him, Garian muttered, "Oh, Mother, what do you think you're doing?"

Tyron tried to recall the song. Oh yes. It was about a flock of blackbirds that had descended on a field, at first driving away the other three flocks, until the three flocks — peacocks, sparrows, and eagles — banded together to rid themselves of the blackbirds. It was a cruel song, made up after the black-haired Rhiscarlan family broke with the Rhisadels, Rhismordiths, and the now-forgotten Rhistaris, Tyron's own family. How many here knew that?

"And the word," the Duchess said, sending a poisonous smile down the river barge at the blackhaired Hawk, "is traitor."

No one but Tyron saw the brief movement of Hawk's lips, the tightening of his fist, but they all saw the Duchess lurch violently back—and before anyone could catch her, fall right over the rail, feet kicking, her skirts fluttering. She splashed into the river head first.

The guests rushed to that side of the barge, causing the craft to tip alarmingly. As the guests looked around, startled, a few grasping at anything in order to get their balance, once again Hawk whispered and gestured.

The next over the side was the Duchess's old cousin, swiftly followed by a plump baron and two baronesses. The rest either screamed, shouted, or began exclaiming questions that no one listened to. The low

side of the barge was awash with river water, dropped plates and cups floating about in the mess.

Hawk just sat, white teeth gleaming in a slashing grin.

"What do I do?" Garian whispered. "I don't know whether to laugh, or call him out on a duel."

"Leave it to me." Tyron murmured his own spell, flattened his hands in a subtle gesture, and the barge righted itself and settled.

The pole-men eased the barge backward, straining at their poles against the slow but forceful current. Quietly, unnoticed, Tyron helped with a spell for that, too.

As servants pulled the fallen people back up onto the barge—the water was only waist deep — everyone began exclaiming.

The Duchess, first in and last to be rescued, stood there in the murky water, hands wringing, her skirt coated in thick river mud, slimy reeds wrapped around her arms and her neck. Something moved in her sodden hair, and she let out a shrieking wail. A tiny fish wriggled out, fell with a wet splat onto her bosom, and then plopped with a sploosh into the water.

Hawk shook with silent laughter.

Garian's face went white, and he started toward Hawk, his hand closing around his sword, but Tyron caught his arm. "Don't," he whispered.

"I won't say she didn't ask to be tipped into the river. But now he's laughing at her," Garian retorted in an under-voice. "I won't let him get away with it."

Tyron muttered, "Look at Teressa."

Garian stopped, gazing open-mouthed at Teressa, who stared up at Hawk with a sick, betrayed expression.

"Don't force her to have to defend him," Tyron muttered. "Not when she's finally seeing the truth."

Garian stayed still for a long breath, then two, and three, as tears gathered in Teressa's eyes and silently fell. When he moved again, it was to help his mother to get the servants and guests and food all sorted out.

Twenty-Six

Wren found herself in a dark room.

Frightened, she moved slowly, hands outstretched until her fingers bumped against cold, mossy stone. Eugh! She moved slowly around the wall, feeling high and low, nasty as it was. The cell was completely bare. So she sat down cross-legged on the damp stone floor, and methodically tried spells. Nothing worked. The cell had been thoroughly warded, so heavily her magical sense seemed to lie under layers and layers of ^fog.

Wren murmured the Crisis Rules, forcing herself to breathe evenly, until her heartbeat slowed down. She was still clutching the transfer token, which she dropped. In her sleeve she still had the bread, cheese, and apple she'd picked up before the lookout spoke. At least I kept that much wit about me. Not that she'd been witless. She'd known that the weakest part of the plan had been the time between sending the launches and getting them back. She'd offered to try to make a magical tracker so that the launches could find the Piper again, even if they couldn't see it, but the crew didn't trust magic enough to rely on it. Weren't they using magic to fool their enemies? What if the enemies fooled them? They could be lost on the ocean, surrounded by pirates, and no Piper in sight.

Wren couldn't blame them, not after all those terrible days in the gig. Being stranded in the middle of the ocean would be horrid, if there was no one to see them . . .

Like spy birds. What exactly did those spy birds see from above? Wren couldn't imagine that birds, even ones with spells on them, could tell one ship from another. Was it possible that Andreus himself was able to see through the birds' eyes? If so, that kind of magic was really, really nasty—invading and taking over another creature's mind.

She scowled into the darkness. Just because the idea was unbelievably horrible didn't mean she shouldn't have planned for it. Somehow.

All right, so she'd made more mistakes. So the sensible thing to do was to accept that she'd fumbled again, and try to get out of the resulting mess.

Beginning with getting out of this cell.

Of course Andreus would keep her waiting, while he did whatever he was going to do about the disaster that had struck his fleet. Not that there was much he could do, she thought, with a brief surge of triumph. She'd been very careful about that. He would have to visit every single ship to reverse that spell, and most of them were logs spreading out over the ocean.

There was no fleet launching out against three kingdoms today, nor even next month. A total and complete disaster for any conquering ex-kings.

His temper, when he did come for her, was going to match the size of the disaster. Her insides chilled. If he hasn't killed me outright, or turned me into a gargoyle, then that means he wants to talk. Even if it's gloats and threats, that still gives me a chance to figure out an escape.

Escape. So get busy and start planning.

o0o

As soon as Wren and Andreus vanished, Connor yelled, "Where's the dinghy?" He glared around, desperate to act, sick with guilt because he'd been too late.

A hand gripped his arm. He whipped around, staring down into Captain Tebet's seamed face. "Think, young 'un," she commanded. "Don't squawk."

Connor gripped his staff. "I'm going after her."

"Of course you are," the Captain agreed. "But not in a dinghy that everyone can see. Remember, the Piper still has that spell on it. So he transferred in, focusing on something them spy birds showed him. One thing for sure, his lookouts won't see us until our cloaking spell wears off."

Connor thumped the staff on the deck. "But I—"

"But what?" The captain looked over her shoulder at the tall, gangling mate of the watch standing at the wheel. "Set course for Tomad Isle!"

"Right you are, Cap'n!"

"Now. Into the cabin," Captain Tebet ordered.

Longface followed the captain, Connor, and the first mate into the cabin, saying, "We all heard the layout of the castle from that boy."

"How much do you remember of it?" the captain asked.

"Most." Longface plunked down onto one of the benches at the captain's table, and rubbed his bony knees. "I'm pretty good that way. Once I hear it, I got it in mind."

Captain Tebet pointed at the table. "Then take that pen and ink and sketch it out. We have the rest of the night's cover to reach that island. We should be fast if the wind holds steady in the east." She turned to Connor. "Now, what we have is us, with a spell that will wear off, and a few of Wren's arrows — "

"Thirteen," Longface said. "Just counted."

"Thanks, young 'un. What we face is a big castle on top of a mountain, some say an ancient volcano, which means steep. And we heard about the road up, and the traps Black Hood got lyin' in wait."

"Mountain," Connor murmured.

The captain sent him a quick look.

Connor was used to keeping his secrets, but now was not the time. Still, lifelong habit was hard to overcome. "Drop me to the south, since the castle faces north." He tapped the rough sketch Longface had begun.

"What?" Longface squinted at him. "What good's that?"

Captain Tebet rubbed her hand over her chin as she considered Connor. Then she gave a decisive nod. "Black Hood's got no fleet, but he's got magic, and probably guards all up and down that road. What we need to do is get in and out fast, and give him something to think about while Red here goes to the rescue."

Longface turned to Connor. "All right, Red. Spit it out. What are you hiding from us?"

Connor stared back at these friends who he had come to trust. He said, slowly, reluctantly, forcing the words past years of habit, "I seem to have access to some magic when I am up on mountain tops. I don't know if it's the mountain itself, or the height, or me, or some combination of all three. And I don't know if I can make it work on Tomad. And if I do make it work,

I don't know if it's going to help. But I am going to

^try."

Longface shrugged. "All right. So we're the decoy, then?"

The Captain grinned. "We have thirteen of Wren's arrows left. And even though that castle is supposed to be stone, there's got to be some wooden beams here and there. What do you think will happen if we place a few arrows in those? Creaky squeaky, that's what!"

The first mate guffawed. "Black Hood shakin' like a

j^elly^!"

The Captain punched her fist in the air. "So! We got us a plan. Get some shut-eye, Red. From the look o' the wind, and our position, we should be round the other side of the island just before dawn."

Connor felt he should go alone, that the danger the others were facing was somehow his responsibility. But the Captain glared back, her manner challenging, and the first mate was already out the door and barking orders. Longface waited, a quizzical expression on his otherwise bland face.

They had made their choice. To question it was to repudiate their generosity. Connor felt an overwhelming tide of gratitude, but he said nothing, just retreated to his bunk. There he stared up at the swinging lamp as he tried not to think of Wren facing the evil Andreus all alone. "Angleworm Andreus," he whispered, using Wren's childhood name-game to cheer himself up.

It didn't work.

o0o

It took the whole afternoon before Teressa could get Hawk by himself.

First there was her aunt and the other guests to console, listen to, see to their arrival on dry land, and escort to their various apartments or homes.

But all the time she was talking, listening, smiling, and sympathizing, vivid mental images stubbornly persisted: Tyron covertly doing magic in order to avert more disaster, Garian marshalling the servants and pole-bearers to help sort people out, and Hawk lounging back on the seat, shaking with silent laughter.

"I'll talk to you later," was all she'd had time to say to Hawk, before she was surrounded by her courtiers.

So what would she say to him? She wondered all day as she dealt with the consequences of the disastrous river barge party.

The last and most important was her aunt, who had taken to bed as soon as the poor woman had had a chance to bathe and change.

"I know that dreadful Hawk did it," Aunt Carlas wept.

"He was on the other side of the barge, Aunt."

"But he managed it, just the same. I only meant to give him something to think about. I would never try to drown someone, even him!"

"No, Aunt Carlas. But we don't know that he did, it was just an accident."

"I felt it! I felt a mysterious push, like a ghost's hand. I still think you should prevail on Garian to call him to account."

"No duels, Aunt. Please. Get some rest, and we can talk later."

"I could have drowned!"

"I'm sorry, Aunt Carlas."

"Teressa, your father would never have permitted that scoundrel to run tame here, and it's time you faced the truth."

"We'll talk tomorrow, Aunt Carlas. Here, drink this healing tea."

Carlas swallowed the tea and then sank back onto the bed, her hands plucking at the silken sheets.

Teressa had had her aunt brought up to the royal guest suite, even though her own apartments were nearby, but in those everything had been packed up for her planned return to Rhismordith lands the next day. Tears leaked from Aunt Carlas's eyes. "If Fortian were alive, he never would have been permitted . . ."

Teressa sighed, as her aunt began all over again.

At last, the exhausted woman fell asleep, and Teressa left. She half expected Tyron or Garian to find her and report on what they'd done to right things, but curiously enough, neither was in sight as she crossed from the guest suite through the public rooms and to her own apartments. She even took the long way, in

case there was a messenger or they were lingering somewhere to speak to her.

Instead, when she reached her main parlor, all she found was Hawk, sitting in the arm char.

She stared at him in surprise.

"Well?" He raised his hands. "I'll quote: 'I'll talk to you later.' It seems to be later."

Teressa stood in the middle of her parlor, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. "How could you do that to my aunt?"

Hawk did not pretend not to understand, nor did he try to deny it. "Was not that drivel about cowardly blackbirds and traitors a challenge? A stupid one?"

"It was stupid," Teressa said. "It was mean and stupid. But you're smart enough to have said a line—a word, even—and got everyone past it. Now I have to deal with the gossip, the apologies, and the lies, to keep some semblance of what my mother used to call social balance."

"Your old fool of an aunt didn't get hurt." Hawk's smile twisted. "But she won't cross me again."

"You must be dreaming if you think dumping her over the side of the barge solves anything," Teressa said, her voice strained.

He grinned. "It made her ridiculous. Next time she tries to get them to gang up against me, they'll remember that fish flopping around in her hair."

Teressa felt a pang behind her forehead. Gang up. He did have a point, and his own perspective made him sound reasonable.

But the truth was this: despite his reasons and Aunt Carlas's reasons, a line was dividing Teressa's court right down the middle. Instead of working with her to negotiate, compromise, or work toward understanding, Hawk saw the division and laughed at it, because he didn't care.

He doesn't care, because he has no respect for any of my people.

She pressed her palms against her forehead, sliding the heels over her eyes. "Hawk, what do you really want here?"

"You," he said, roughly.

So simple, and she wanted him back, oh yes. She knew it in how that single word, and his black, steady gaze, sent sheets of fire right down to her toes.

So she did not look back at him, or touch him. Instead, she said, still with her hands pressed to her eyes, "What if I choose to follow my ancestor? Our ancestor, Queen Rhis. Who never chose a king, and refused to set up a second throne beside hers."

Hawk was silent for a long time, and then said, "I thought I proved myself to you when I brought Idres. I've never done that for anyone else. Ever."

Teressa dropped her hands. "Don't you see? A good queen—a good king—goes on proving themselves for the rest of their lives. Or they end up despots."

"A heartening philosophy that I'm sure your father comforted you with when you were little and full of ideals. And look how far it got him."

Now anger shot through her, bright and scorching as lightning. She whispered, "How dare you." She drew in a sick, shuddering breath, and then added nastily, "Just as far as it got your family, with their philosophy of selfish greed."

Hawk rose to his feet, then prowled to the window and back. He kept his distance from her, his gaze out the windows, his hands on his narrow hips.

After a short pause he glanced over his shoulder, his old, derisive smile back. "True. My entire family managed to get rid of one another in an excess of ambition and greed, so no, there was no father to comfort me with any philosophy after I was . . . what, two? But mine did leave some writings, the gist of which was 'Watch your back.' I've taken that one to heart." He turned to face her.

Teressa looked away, then forced herself to face him.

"So what now?" he asked, still with that smile, but his dark gaze was watchful. "A dramatic reconciliation? Are we fighting?"

Teressa gripped her elbows tightly in each hand. "I don't know what we're doing. I don't have the experience. I think I need to get the experience. And so

I can't. I won't. Decide anything. Until then." She paused, but further words would not come, and so the pause lengthened into silence.

"Right," he said at last. And after another silence, even more painful than the first one, "Fare well."

He walked out.

She stood where she was, teeth gritted. The pain would come later, oh, she knew that much. But she also knew that hearts did not break, they went right on beating, for the rest of one's life. She knew that the kingdom's work was waiting right outside her door, and that pretty soon she would be hungry, and tired, and life would gradually revert to normal, and she'd go to the Tamsal ball tomorrow and smile and dance and act as if nothing was wrong, and that hearts. Do. Not. Break.

Twenty-Seven

The transfer spell was sudden and wrenching.

Wren had counted on that much. You don't stick people in dark cells and leave them there in order to see to their comfort.

She'd eaten her food, munching the apple right down to the core, then curled up to sleep, figuring that whatever came next would be best faced with some rest behind her.

She landed, staggering. Light glared into her eyes.

The blurry silhouette resolved into Andreus, seated in a high-backed chair. He looked just as she remembered him, only a little older. His face was lined across the forehead and at the sides of his mouth, and silver stippled his yellow hair.

His eyes were very angry.

"We've met before," he said. "It seems I underestimated you not once, but a couple of times."

Keep him talking, she thought.

"The first time, I think you mixed me up with Idres Rhiscarlan," she said.

"I remember that. But it was not she who sprang the Rhisadel brat from Edrann."

"No, I rescued Tess. Teressa, I mean," Wren said. With some help, but you're not going to make them your next gargoyles.

Andreus sat back in his chair. At his side was a table, with a wine decanter and a goblet. Wren remembered the others talking about his drinking; the smell of stale wine was heavy on the air.

There were no other chairs.

He raised the goblet in salute. "What spell did you employ for that, by the way?"

"I didn't," Wren said. "That is, until the transfer.

But I was a dog, and your people overlooked me."

Did the floor just tremble slightly? Wren figured it must be thirst making her light-headed.

"So there was some truth in those rumors!"

"Not a rumor," Wren said. "I really was a dog."

"I wondered why Hawk insisted on employing the canine transformation for getting rid of Halfrid's fool of an heir, a few years back," Andreus went on. "Now I see the significance of the gesture."

When Wren remembered Tyron kept sick and miserable in a cage that no real dog should ever suffer, much less a human, she burned with anger.

"You were not a dog when you brought down my mountains," he said. His voice was still reflective, but that angry gaze scared her, and she did not hide her start of surprise. "Oh, I found out. You were seen, you

and that fool of a Shaltar boy. What did you take him along for? To poke trees with a sword?"

"Connor would never poke a sword into a tree," she muttered.

Connor's astonishing ability to communicate with trees and other living things in the mountains had aided them at the end of the war. Connor, and not Wren, had tapped the power to overcome the ancient spells forcing those mountains to distort the land.

Wren had helped a little.

But Wren was not about to betray Connor. So she shook her head.

Andreus looked disgusted. He seemed to realize that she was not going to answer, so he leaned over to pour more wine. The floor trembled again, accompanied by a low rumble of stone shifting. He looked around, frowning as if he wasn't sure if the unsteadiness was him or the castle. Then he went on. "What did you possibly think you could accomplish by interfering with me here? You escaped my net earlier, and I was willing enough to let that be that."

"Because you had worse plans for some kingdoms that never did you any harm," she retorted. "I saw what you did to Senna Lirwan, when you were king. And I was not about to let you do that all over again."

"Then you should have come to me with a better idea," he replied. "That experiment, I admit, did not work. I wasn't going to repeat it." He set his goblet

down with a clang. "As it is, you are going to repair the damage you did, by helping me. To be precise, you are going with me to Sveran Djur and you will employ whatever that magic was to bring down the emperor's fortress on Ice Mountain."

"No, I am not."

"Oh, yes you are," he replied. "Or you won't just be watching every single one of my pet sorcerers fall off the wall and shatter, it will be your hand doing it. And making you do it will be quite entertaining. As will whatever retribution I decide to extract for your interference on behalf of fools who have never heard of you. But for now, that much magic means extra exertion. Go ahead. Try your magic." He smiled in anticipation.

Wren shook her head, and then realized nothing was going to happen until she made some sort of effort, so she whispered, attempting to shape a harmless little illusion—and a horrible sensation gripped her, squeezing her breath right out of her.

She gasped, nearly falling down.

Andreus laughed. "The stronger the spell, the stronger the reaction. So I don't have to trouble myself warding you whenever I need you: I will control when, and what, sort of magic you may perform."

It was then that the building gave a long, grinding sort of groan. Wren's heart thumped against her ribs.

Andreus looked around, angry and perplexed. "I think," he said, "I had better investigate that. You will have to wait. But you may sit there in the dark and think about what I said."

He murmured, signed, snapped his fingers — and Wren slammed back into the lightless cell.

o0o

A shadow flickered at the edge of Connor's vision.

He paused in toiling up the mountainside, wiped his sleeve across his face, and looked around. He found nothing but very old, gnarled trees, and a thick undergrowth of flowering shrubs.

Another flicker.

He glanced upward, to see two black shapes against the sky.

The daws were back.

There was nothing he could do about them. Either they were friends or spies. Biddiepeepers — Wren's favorite nickname for spies. Laughter and anguish twisted inside him when he remembered all Wren's enthusiastic insults for villains.

Connor thrust his staff into the ground and launched up the narrow trail again, pausing only to help himself from occasional trickles of water dripping down rocks from streams higher on the mountainside.

When he got hungry, he pulled out the hefty sandwich Patka had made for him, unwrapped the

cloth, and ate the sandwich as he worked his way up the steep trail. Occasional turns in the narrow path afforded him better and better views out to sea. The waters were empty, which was a little reassuring. The Piper had to be out there somewhere, but Wren's spell still held.

For a long time, there were no sounds but his breathing, the trickle of water through the lush greenery, and the crunch of dirt and leaves under his boots. Overhead the daws still flew, back and forth, up and down. Occasionally he heard other birds, or glimpsed bright shapes darting from shrubs and winging skyward.

Up, up. Just past noon Connor paused for the first time. He felt different, somehow. The air was different, everything felt different. Perhaps he could dare a brush with the mountain's life forms.

He spotted a huge, twisted tree, and stepped over its massive roots. He resisted the impulse to sit down. He had learned the danger of communicating like this: time passed so differently for trees that what had seemed a short time for him had once stretched into two weeks, and only the tree itself had saved his life.

So he stood on one foot, hoping that his own body would pull him back if his mind could not, then brushed his fingers over the tree, listening far down, down in the distant ground, on that plane that was impossible to describe in words.

The living things whose minds he found there did not use words. Their awareness was powerful, steady, and shaped not for eyes and mouths and ears, but for pressure, for touch, for the tremendous tidal shifts caused by the moons in the sky, and far, far distant, the beneficent pull of the sun.

Connor fought to keep his own awareness from spreading out and sinking down like water after a rain. He struggled to retain the limitations of identity—his sense of 'I' — as he shifted his attention around. Below, the quiescent pool of hot lava, slowly cooling, but still exerting a gentle pressure upward through the immense weight of rock . . . above, ah, the distortion of magic, forcing root and rock into twisted forms, now with shoots of green running through, causing massive walls to shift and settle. Longface and the others were at work there!

When Connor attempted to explore farther his awareness began once again, like tree roots in good soil.

He forced his eyes to open. Awareness returned to his body with an inward jerk that sent him staggering back to sit down hard on a huge, rough tree root. He winced, massaging his leg, which tingled; around him, the shadows had shifted.

Time had passed. Too much time?

He shook his head. He did not dare sink his awareness into the world of trees again. And he could

not use that strange magic that he could only sense through the trees; the magic warding the castle was so strong that to cause the ground to shift would bring the entire structure tumbling down, thus killing everyone in it. He'd have to rely on Longface and the others who might at this very moment be sneaking through the shrubbery on the north side of the island, to shoot more arrows into wooden beams.

But. He knew the magic was there, lying like a pool of light inside the mountain.

o0o

Wren tried to sleep. Thirst kept her awake. Thirst, and worry. She started singing the Crisis Rules and the Twelve Natural Laws to herself, over and over, but terrible what if images persisted, so she finally gave up and decided to come up with escape plans. Only plans were sort of hard to make when her magic was bound up by a strangulation spell.

This is about as big a crisis as I'll ever face, even if I never get to be a real journeymage. I don't see any way to solve it, especially when I cannot use magic. My wards protecting myself weren't strong enough. They're gone, and he's won -

No. Don't whine. Plan.

Strangulation spell. All right. It squeezes one's breath out. That means it's not as instant as a knife or being squished by a boulder. So, how to get around it?

What kind of spell could she use that would be fast enough to stop Andreus before she was strangled?

Wren put her hands to her throat, and felt tears burn. It seemed so horrible a way to die, but if she could just stop Andreus, then at least she would not have died for nothing, right? Even if, as he said, nobody would know.

She would know.

And anyway it was far better than killing a bunch of helpless mages, right?

Magic seized her.

She found herself standing, trembling and dizzy, on a broad and high wall overlooking a stone parade ground that sloped away toward the harbor.

Andreus looked into her face, and laughed.

o0o

Connor stood up. Once before he'd felt this dizzying, exhilarating sense of imminent flight, but he hadn't been able to figure what to do. His hands gripped his staff as he moved out onto a cliff. He sensed the magic beneath his feet. The mental urge to dive through the air, to spread his arms and take wing fought against the swooping feeling in his gut that warned of danger, danger, danger—

Whoosh, snap!

Black wings flapped near his face.

Connor looked up, directly into a round beady bird eye. Behind was a second bird, both so close he could see the tiny reddish feathers that grew just above their curved beaks.

With another swoosh both birds wheeled, and then dove at him, so swift and so hard for a moment all he was aware of was black feathers and wind and squawking. Connor staggered back, lost his balance—

— and fell off the cliff.

o0o

Wren raised her hands, one holding the end of the long thread she'd worked out of her tunic. She brought them up, started the spell to turn the thread into a rope

And a hard hand gripped her wrist, whirling her around and bending her arm behind her.

Andreus wasn't much taller than Wren; his breath was hot on the top of her head when he exclaimed, "You were going to kill yourself. Doing what? What is that?"

His other hand pried at her fingers, digging into her flesh until she released the thread.

"What was it, meant to lengthen to a rope? And bind me, is that it?"

"If I went over the edge you would have gone, too," she mumbled. All right, it hadn't worked. But she wasn't dead yet.

"Oh, so now we see the vaunted moral balance of your so-called Magic Council." Andreus laughed. "Much more fun than I expected. So the fine, high-minded mage's last act would be revenge!" He laughed again. "Vengeance, the first human need besides survival."

"It was not," Wren protested, stung.

She swayed, then caught herself dizzily against something could and rough, made of stone. It was a huge gargoyle.

No, it was once a living being.

She pulled away her hand. "It wasn't revenge at all!"

"What would you call it?"

"I call it saving innocent lives from your selfish, rotten plans."

He grabbed her arm and gave her a shake, hard enough to make her head rock on her shoulders. "You don't know anything about my motives. Anything."

"But I know what your actions have been. You didn't care for the lives of your own people in Senna Lirwan. You certainly didn't care about the lives you destroyed in Meldrith. Or here in your stupid pirate kingdom."

Andreus snorted a laugh. "You speak with such conviction, as if there were actually such a thing as moral balance." And he snorted again, a bitter, derisive

sound. "I never thought this would be half so entertaining—"

He paused when a deep rumble sounded behind them. They both glanced back at the castle. Andreus frowned. "If I had proof that you had anything to do with whatever it is causing that, you would die right now."

Wren thought, Whoever you are, you bought me a little time. "Isn't this island an old volcano? It's probably just a quake."

o0o

As the daws screamed in triumph, magic glowed around Connor and through him, a hot and cold dazzling fire.

Instinct snapped his arms out and away from his sides, and magic burned along them, flaming out into wings. His flesh tingled, his clothing blurred, resolving into a covering of feathers, and his eyes turned from side to side, until he saw the two tiny figures on the wall, far below. His legs had become sharp talons. His staff had begun to fall from the fingers now turned into great pin-feathers, but he caught it with his taloned feet, and gripped it tight.

On either side of him the daws screamed.

He flapped upward once, twice, to gain more height, then folded his wings to his side, and dove.

o0o

"There is moral balance," Wren said, fighting for time. "Master Halfrid taught us that even if we can't get our minds around the idea of moral justice outside of the world, we can at least see that everyone choosing the moral action makes it happen right here."

"Moral justice," Andreus scoffed. "There was no evidence of moral justice when the Emperor of Sveran Djur threw my father off a cliff, then took me inside and said I'd learn under his tutelage, or die."

"I think moral balance will come even to that emperor, though we can't know when, where, or how." She couldn't help adding, even though her arm hurt and she was hungry, thirsty, and scared, "I'm sorry about your father."

Andreus laughed again, a harsh laugh. "Why? One was as bad as the other. He never told me how he got rid of my mother, who reputedly was trying to defend me against his beatings. But I don't even remember her, defender or not."

"I don't remember mine either," Wren said numbly. "Either of my parents."

Andreus's laugh seemed harder and sharper, making her head pang. "You don't know your father?"

She shook her head.

"Well, that's a disappointment. Then you wouldn't even recognize the fool in my row of idiots here, and I was so looking forward to your surprise when we came to him."

Wren tightened her lips against a shocked reply. He's lying, he has to be lying.

"As for moral justice and the emperor, it will come to him just as soon as you bring down his castle with him in it," Andreus went on. "Now, are we going to make our plans, or must we go through this charade first?" He swung her about, so she could see the row of gargoyles, each twisted into some monstrous form, all of them balanced on the very edge of the wall. Cold air whooshed up from the stones far below, bringing the scent of dust and brine from the harbor not so far away.

"I won't," she squeaked, as Andreus tightened his grip on her wrist, which was still wrenched up between her shoulder-blades.

"Then we may as well begin with your father. The happy reunion won't last long. Certainly not long enough for you to discover what a fool he is."

"My father?"

"Of course. After you brought down my mountains,

I had to know where that much power came from in so young a brat. What a waste of half a year! I finally ran him down on his way to Meldrith. That idiot can scarcely call a flame to a candle. He's been sitting there, watching my fleet grow, ever since."

And with a cruel wrench, he yanked her down the wall past two gargoyles to a short, squat one, half frog and half man, the froggy fingers twisted together under the wide, gaping mouth. Wren stared down at those froggy pop-eyes, seeing an expression of terror in the stone forms, and then shut her own eyes.

"All right, then. Either you are my new assistant, or he's the first to go."

Knowing she would refuse until the end, Wren turned her face skyward, but instead of the warmth of the sun, she felt cool. Shadow.

She opened her eyes.

And a huge bird fell out of the sky, legs outstretched, and between them a staff!

Andreus looked up, eyes wide in surprise. Then they narrowed, and he began muttering spells. Greenish light glowed around his fingers.

Wren cut a fast glance from bird to sorcerer. The bird wasn't going to make it to scoop Andreus up before he finished his spell—

He's not paying any attention to me!

"Neither!" she yelled, and jabbed her free elbow into Andreus's stomach.

His breath whooshed as he swung a fist at her, the magic of his broken spell rapidly dissipating in the air. She ducked down, and threw her shoulder against his knee. He wobbled, looked up, twisted to avoid the bird that was reaching to catch the staff under his stomach and lift him up. Andreas threw himself sideways to avoid the staff—wobbled, hands clutching at air—

And fell. Wren tumbled to the edge of the wall, sobbing for breath. She forced herself to look over as Andreus hit the ground hard.

He twitched, half lifted a hand, then went limp.

Wren pressed her forehead to her arm, sobbing hard, as her free arm curled protectively against the froggy gargoyle at her side.

The giant bird wheeled out and around, then settled onto the wall, the staff clattering to the stones. The bird's edges shimmered until Connor stood before her, arms out.

Behind him two blackbirds settled, and their forms also shimmered until they reformed into a pair of familiar old people, one man, and one woman.

The two most famous members of the Mage Council, the blue sky, the endless sea, spells, pain, hunger, questions all vanished like smoke as Connor's strong arms closed around Wren, and she felt so strange, so light, so very much like at last she had come home.

Twenty-Eight

After two days of constant activity, at last Teressa had nothing scheduled. She hoped no one would find out that she had nothing scheduled.

She didn't want to think about court rumors, treaty negotiations, or the scanty funds in the treasury due to all the extra patrols Garian had added.

She retreated to the library, and stood there, enjoying the cool air ruffling in through the door. The first rain of autumn had begun in earnest, a cold, clean rain, driving out the last of the stuffy, hot summer air from the palace. She had put on one of her warm soft wool gowns.

She crossed the library to the special glass case, feeling the faint tingle of magic when she opened it. The magic protected the contents against heat, dryness, mold, and dust. Inside were Meldrith's most ancient records.

She took out the small, thick book bound in red that lay at the top, and touched the gilt rose on the cover.

An image flickered in the air: Queen Rhis herself, captured in illusion by an unknown mage. Teressa studied her ancestor's familiar face as if she'd never

seen it before, seeing not just the double chin, and the hair slicked back into its ridiculous headdress.

Teressa turned her attention to her ancestor's features, finding no resemblance to her or her father in them. She looked at Rhis's eyes, observing the quiet humor in the way they narrowed, and their watchful, intelligent gaze, though whatever those eyes had stared at was dead and gone hundreds of years ago.

A noise at the door made her look up.

Tyron stood there, tall and rangy, and comfortingly familiar. "May I come in?"

Relief bloomed through Teressa as she replaced the book. "Of course! It's been so long—" She stopped.

And shrugged.

"No use in pretending nothing's different, when on my way here three different people all saw fit to report they'd seen Hawk and his band thundering across the landscape yesterday afternoon, heading for the South Road."

Teressa eyed him, but there was no sign of triumph in his face or his manner. If anything, he seemed . . . pensive.

So she sighed, letting out the last of her anger. "Come in. You don't have to stand in the doorway." And after he'd taken a few steps into the room, she was aware that the atmosphere had altered subtly. So she started talking, as if the words had dammed up behind a wall all these weeks. "Garian's gone back home, now

that the Council is quiet. Aunt Carlas has taken to her bed up in the royal suite. Claiming she's ill. While all the older court members have been streaming in to gloat with her over her triumph at driving Hawk away. While her servants labor to unpack everything again."

"Did she drive him away?" Tyron asked, brows aslant.

He was familiar, and as dear as silvery moonslight. It was strange, to discover that. Only it wasn't a new feeling, it had been there all along. But she hadn't been able to see it until Hawk and his burning sun had gone beyond the horizon.

"No," Teressa said, pressing her hands over her eyes. She was becoming distracted—she needed to concentrate. "You've got news?"

"We've found Wren," Tyron said simply, and there was his old foxy grin, familiar from childhood. Her heart squeezed with a peculiar anguish that was not all pain.

"Wren? You found her?"

"Strictly speaking, she found us." Tyron laughed as he ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up worse than ever. "I still don't quite believe it, but they should be here by tonight. Why does it seem ten years since she left, instead of a season? Halfrid transferred down south to some island the moment she scryed him."

"They?" Teressa repeated, taking a step toward him.

He didn't back away, but his shoulders tightened, as did his hands, and he looked away as he said, "She's got Connor with her. And apparently they were tangling with none other than old Angleworm Andreus."

"Andreus!" Shock rocked Teressa back, and old pain rolled through her. Her hand dropped to her skirt, where underneath her gown she wore a knife strapped to her leg.

Tyron was looking at her now, his eyes wide. Discerning as always, yet she hadn't seen it. She had always taken him for granted.

His lips parted, probably to explain, but she didn't give him the chance. She acted on impulse—who was to deny her? — and took hold of the smooth fabric of his tunic, and pulled him close.

Then she kissed him.

He twitched, as if to pull away, then a little breath escaped him, warming her face. He smelled of spiced apple, and herb-scented soap.

He kissed her back.

It wasn't like the lightning-strike of Hawk's kisses . . . it was warm and nice and . . . and Tyron.

He pulled back first, breathing faster, and frowned as if perplexed.

"Should I not have done that?" she asked.

He ran his hands through his hair, making it more unruly than ever. His voice was husky, and a little unsteady. "What did that decide?"

She thought of all the things she could say—that she'd wanted to test the idea — that she was comparing him to Hawk—then Teressa thought about it from his perspective, for the first time.

Tyron had kissed her back. That meant . . . he had feelings. For her.

She looked into his eyes, wishing she could see into the mind behind them. He regarded her back, his gaze steady, his mouth tender, his brow puckered faintly with confusion. No hint of the tumbling thunderclouds of emotion that Hawk held in leash—which she could sense, and which excited her.

She said slowly, "It didn't decide anything. It was just a kiss. I think I've learned that kisses don't decide anything, except whether or not one wants more kisses." She stopped, and when he didn't say anything, she gathered her courage. "Did it decide anything for you?"

He looked down at his hands. "No. As you say, it was just . . . a kiss."

"But you wanted one," she ventured.

He looked away, and then out came a low stream of words. "I think I've had feelings for you ever since I first saw you. I know I have. Before I knew what feelings were."

"A false attraction? For a me that doesn't exist—like Connor had?"

"Not like Connor, who . . . is shaped so much like the heroic ideal that he . . . sees the world that way," Tyron said slowly. "But of late, I . . . realized it had become a habit. That there are other possible roads."

"Like Orin," Teressa said, jealousy constricting her heart. But then she made an effort and banished those invisible, clutching talons.

"Like Orin," he said. Then he turned away, walked a step, then turned back, to put space between them.

"Is that all right? Should I not have told you that?"

"I'm glad you told me," she stated, and she knew that if she stated it enough, it would be true. "Here's what's important: that we are talking again. I don't ever want to lose that. I've missed it too much. I shut you and Wren both out. The . . . matter of kisses can wait."

Tyron ducked his head in a nod. "Hawk might come back. In fact, he probably will."

"He'll have to come back a better man than he was when he left. But I think . . . I think he wants to be. He just never had anyone in his life to show him how."

Tyron opened his hands. "I missed our talks, too."

"So tell me about Andreus. What happened?"

"He seems to have been collecting mages for some nasty plot, and he really was after Wren, because he thought she was the one responsible for bringing down

the mountains bounding Senna Lirwan. You remember, at the very end of the war."

"I remember," she said, her throat dry. "That's what ended the war. How could I forget that, or the two weeks solid of earthquakes afterward? So that horrible Sanga was telling the truth, and Andreus really did try to get Wren." And Hawk knew all along. If he does come back, he will have a lot to explain. And to redeem.

"Yes."

"I'm glad you and Halfrid sent Sanga to the Council. I'm afraid I'd want to lock her away in prison."

"Her sister really seems to have been turned into a gargoyle, and guess what? Wren's father is there as well."

"Wren's father? How did he get mixed up with Andreus? I thought he was some wandering play-mage, not even good enough for city players?"

"Oh, that's just the beginning of the questions. But we'll have to wait. I haven't seen Halfrid move that fast in ages!"

"Bring them here," Teressa announced. "I will cancel the card party—I don't want to see anyone at court anyway. I'll use the rain as an excuse. As soon as they arrive, bring them here."

"Here? Not the Magic School? There's something Halfrid wants to do," Tyron warned, but he was smiling.

Teressa clapped her hands in anticipation. "Tell me. If I can help, you know nothing would give me greater pleasure."

o0o

Wren and Connor descended to the wardroom. There in the first hammock, they found Wren's father lying quietly, smiling at the little patch of twilit sky visible through the open scuttle. He was a short man, obviously intended to be round, but he was terribly emaciated, as were all the mages who had been forced into gargoyle form. He peered up at them from under a fringe of frizzy silver hair, his eyes as brown as his skin.

His smile was exactly like Wren's. "Little daughter," he whispered.

"Papa!" She savored the word. "You're awake."

Arbran gave a soundless laugh. "I am. Feel good.

No strength yet. It will come."

"I'm here to ask if you'd like to go with us to Cantirmoor, or instead, with the other mages to the Summer Isles."

"With you." He laughed softly again. "Was on the way to find you. Aunt told me. Magic School. Cantirmoor. Meldrith. But that fellow found me first. I still don't know what he meant. About bringing down mountains." His brows quirked. "I can't do that. Can you?"

"No," Wren said. "But Connor here can. Connor can also explain why your spells go awry."

Arbran laughed again. "You heard about that? I studied . . . but I was always . . . somehow . . . a very bad mage. Became a good storyteller." He stretched out his hand, grown thin from the months that he'd been forced into stone shape.

Wren closed her hands around his, feeling the warmth of his skin, but there was no strength, just bones. "You need to rest."

"I'm all right," he said. "Talk is easy. Sweeping the deck . . . well, that can wait for tomorrow . . ."

It was a joke, so Wren smiled, but it wrung her heart anew to realize Andreus had caught her father when he was coming to find her, after all these years of wandering on his part, and wondering why he'd never come to find her, on hers. "Magic?" He shifted his gaze to Connor. "Bad mage all my life. Reason?"

"It has to do with ancestors," Connor said. "If you inherit magical talents from the Iyon Daiyin, or Hrethan, well, then, when you try to build the spells by the regular method, it's like trying to divert a river through a straw. Using a mirror. That's what Master Gastarth told me last night." He looked doubtful, then said, "If you're too tired to answer, please don't, but did you ever feel more magic when in mountains?"

Arbran twitched his head, too weak to shake it. "Never went high. Stayed low, where more people live.

I could do little illusions. Storytelling. I am good at that. And I like it."

Wren said, "Papa." It felt so good to speak that word! "Just tell me where you would like to go.

They're going to shift the mages as soon as they recover a little. The senior mages will do the magic themselves."

His fingers pressed hers briefly. "With you," he whispered, still with his eyes closed.

"I'm glad. Then we'll have lots and lots of time to talk." Wren bent to kiss his hand, and they left him to sleep. They returned to the captain's cabin, where they found Halfrid and the ancient brother and sister known as Mistress Selshaf and Master Gastarth.

"How are you feeling?" Halfrid asked, as the twins regarded her with concern.

"I want to get back to Cantirmoor and see Tess," Wren said. "That's what I want. I'm fine, otherwise. Really."

In the background, Captain Tebet kept chuckling, a rusty sound that cheered Wren very much. All the way as they rowed back to the ship, Captain Tebet had repeated over and over how much she'd loved seeing the beams in that castle crack and snap, sending Andreus's minions scuttling out like spiders before the whole thing crashed down the mountainside.

"Best thing I ever did see," she kept saying. "What a tale it will make!"

Now Master Gastarth said, "We must report to the rest of the Council, for they have not known our whereabouts for a year. We must do it while we still can maintain the human form."

Connor said, "Human is not your natural form, is it?"

"No," Mistress Selshaf said gently. "It is more difficult every time we change. And we can maintain this shape for fewer days."

Master Gastarth turned to Halfrid. "Shall we meet again at your Destination?"

"Either that or at the palace. I suspect our young queen will be thinking the same thing Wren is, and we shall find ourselves gathered there by royal decree. And it is more comfortable," Halfrid said, smiling around at them all.

Master Gastarth exchanged glances with his sister. "I rather think that will be most appropriate place for our business. Anon."

He and his sister bent down, each touching the stretcher on which Andreus lay, deeply asleep by magic spell. Someone had wrapped the worst of his broken bones, but even so, Wren could hardly bear to look at him. Villain or not, he would wake up in terrible pain, both inside and out.

As if she heard Wren's thought, Mistress Selshaf turned to her, silvery hair wisping across her wrinkled face. "We shall do our best to heal him," she promised.

"It is why we have followed him for this past year, he and your friend there, trying to divine what was best for them, and for the world." She nodded at Connor, whose face reddened.

Wren was charmed to see Connor blush like that. What kind of secret conference had he had with his erstwhile jackdaws, while she had been busy eating Patka's best cooking—she'd insisted she made it herself—and then sleeping?

He'd tell her, she knew. In his own time.

The Sendimeris twins vanished, taking Andreus with them.

Halfrid turned to Captain Tebet. "I'm certain that one or more of the local governments will be along to investigate here, and do whatever they think must be done with those who fled into the interior of the island.

I really think if they were to be convinced that this island could be held as a neutral port for legitimate traders, it might be included in their protective cruises."

Captain Tebet beamed. Wren realized Halfrid was offering her the entire island if she wanted to adopt it as a home base—it would be she who 'held' it as a neutral port. Wren loved the idea of Tomad Island becoming a haven for people like Patka, Lambin, Longface, and the others.

Halfrid said to Wren, "I'm going to stay long enough for the Council to return." He indicated the

crew's quarters below, where the mages who had once been gargoyles were all lying, most asleep. "These mages are far too weak to transfer, and some even to walk, as you saw. I think they are far better off being shifted to the Summer Islands for healing."

Wren and Connor knew it was time to say good-bye to their friends.

Wren said, "Captain Tebet, thank you for everything."

"Hah," the captain exclaimed, looking pleased.

"Did well enough for meself, I did. Got to see the crackiest sight I ever seen, that villain's castle fallin' down. And now there's plenty of stone to build a fine port for the likes o' us."

"Are you going to build a fleet to fight against pirates?" Connor asked.

"Are ye offering volunteerly to come help me?" Captain Tebet retorted shrewdly.

Connor looked Wren's way, then reddened to his ears.

Wren laughed. "Maybe."

"Well then! Might happen. Might just happen. Or I can go round the world. Find and visit my boy and girl, wherever they are. I get some fun outa just thinking about it." She turned her head. "Meantime, I have you to thank for bringing me good crew-members. Always hard to find, good crew."

Patka, her brothers, and Lambin came forward. Wren could tell Patka was happy at last—she loved the ship, she loved Captain Tebet, and she loved cooking, and most of all, she loved having a place where she belonged.

Danal was clutching the transfer token Wren had requested from Halfrid when she first spoke to him; if Danal decided to come to the school for the new season the next spring, he could use the token. He was turning it over and over in his hand, smiling happily at Wren. She smiled back, knowing she'd be seeing him again.

She turned to exchange farewells with the rest of the Piper's crew, and then it was time for the shift. Halfrid had worked hard to create a big enough square for transferring several people. But his skills were strong, and the transfer, when it happened, was as smooth as such things can be.

Wren found herself standing in the antechamber of the royal palace. The light, slanting in just before sunset, the smell of the old rose garden and beeswax candles, was so familiar that she just stood, blinking back tears.

Twenty-Nine

Servants appeared, Halfrid spoke, and somehow her father was taken one way, and she and Connor another.

Five heartbeats later they heard a brisk step and Tyron launched himself through the door, Teressa just behind. "Wren!" He stopped, putting his hands on his hips. "You couldn't just pick a normal journeymage project? Nooooo, not you!"

"I didn't pick one at all," Wren said, surprised. "In fact, I have to talk to you about that. I just don't think I'm ready yet. Wait until you hear about my flubs on the sea. Beginning with squawking chickens!"

She would have gone on, but she saw Tyron send a strange glance Connor's way, a look of smothered laughter followed by a hasty assumption of mock solemnity.

"What," Wren said, glaring from one to the other. "What is it? Are you going to start telling all the new students about my chickens?"

Teressa came forward then, arms out. Wren hugged her, then stepped back, looking doubtfully into her friend's face. "I'm sorry about what I said," Wren

offered. "Hawk, I mean. I hope—I hope it's going all right."

"Hawk is gone," Teressa said, looking wry.

"I think I'll just see about some chickens," Tyron said loudly. "Connor. Let's strut." He flapped a hand toward the door. "Cackle-cackle!"

Wren had to laugh at the unsubtle hint.

"Buck-a-buck buck!" Connor crowed, then whisked out of the door, shutting it behind him.

Teressa looked around. The room was one of the many minor parlors, with pleasing, old-fashioned furniture designed around the few pieces left over from the fire and destruction of the war. "We may as well talk here," she said. "I want to hear everything."

"It'll take a long time," Wren warned. "But first. I apologize for the things I said that day. Nosing into your business."

Teressa's smile faded. "But you were right. Hawk does what he wants when he wants." She moved to the window, her hands dusting back and forth along the window sill. "We got our first rain of autumn today," she said, then turned. "And it seemed to wash away all the foolishness of summer. As for your words, when we were small, and heart-free, we used to tell one another what we thought. Somehow, when it comes to matters of the heart, it's harder to hear what you don't want to hear."

Wren nodded, not knowing what to think, or to say. So she just listened.

And it was enough. Teressa went on, "Others told me the same thing you did, or tried. Carlas was the loudest and most determined, as you'd expect. But I didn't listen, until something happened that made me hear what all of you had been saying all along. But a fierce attraction can make a person see only that and shut out the rest of the world, if you let it. And I did. For a time. Then, well, I sent him away. No, I didn't send him. He left, and he knows why. I don't know if anything will be worth the effort of his changing his perspective. Only he knows that." Teressa sighed, then frowned in puzzlement. "Have you ever felt any attraction for anyone?"

Wren got prickly heat all over. "A week ago I would have said no, but I think I would have been wrong. Now I know."

Teressa gave a slow nod. "Ah. Connor, is it? He certainly seems to care for you. I've never seen that expression on his face, the way he was smiling at you when Tyron started clowning around about chickens."

"I really like hugging him." Wren grinned. "I just discovered that. It makes me feel like, well, like a sunburst happened inside my skin. And before that, I was missing him so much. You too," she added quickly. "But it was different, somehow. I can't explain."

Teressa smiled, but Wren felt a small shock at the sight of unshed tears along her friend's eyelids. "And so you two will probably find your path goes together, as easy as that."

Teressa whirled around, then back again. "Not that

I want it to be difficult for you! I want you to be happy, for the rest of your life. I just don't see why I can't be as well, but it seems I make mistakes every time I—"

Teressa stilled, her face so taut that there were shadows that one day would be lines. Wren was amazed at how much she resembled King Verne, who had had that very same expression when he was troubled.

Wren held out her hands.

Teressa reached, touching Wren's hands, but Wren could see it took an effort. Teressa did not want a pity hug— or pity words. So Wren changed the subject.

"Did you notice my father among all those people? I figured you wouldn't mind if he came back with us."

Teressa's eyes widened. She dashed her embroidered, silken sleeve against her eyelids, then said, "Your father? Tyron said something about that, but—well, of course he's welcome! He can stay here, and as long as he likes. I look forward to meeting him."

"He's weak yet," Wren said.

Teressa nodded, then straightened up, chin lifted. "Forget what I said. I was just whining. Time and experience might not be so bad a thing for me."

Wren was relieved to see Teressa sounding more herself. "Sure. That makes sense for Connor and me, too. Time and experience. His mother might be wanting him to marry some princess some day, and as for me, oh, I don't know, it's just so new. And fun. But new means it has to get a little age on it before I figure out what to do next."

"Then don't worry about it now," Teressa said. "I'm just glad to have you back."

A knock interrupted them, and Teressa opened the door.

Tyron poked his head in. "Wren, they're ready for you."

"They?" Wren asked blankly.

Tyron slipped in. He was wearing his white tunic with the formal blue sash of a master neatly tied round his middle. His hair was even combed!

"Tyron?" Wren asked, eyeing that combed hair warily.

"Come along, Journeymage," Tyron said, taking hold of her shoulder and guiding her out.

Smiling, Teressa fell in behind.

They walked down the long hall to the most formidable of the parlors, the Queen's Audience Room, all peachy marble with fine gilt chandeliers and two splendid tapestries, one depicting Queen Rhis founding the kingdom, and the other the wizards

Prince Morayen and Tre Resdir discovering the Rainbow River, a place of ancient magic.

Before that tapestry stood a line of mages in their formal white and blue, except for two who wore white with white sashes. Wren stopped, staring in surprise when she saw Master Gastarth and Mistress Selshaf. Then she realized that all the mage teachers from the school—including Mistress Leila, Connor's older halfsister, who must have come straight from Siradayel— were there as well!

"Step forward, Journeymage, so that we may invest you with the robes of a Mistress of Magic," Halfrid said.

"What?" Wren looked around. "Haven't you got the wrong person?"

Despite the formal room, and them in their best mage clothing, they smiled, half of them trying not to laugh.

Master Gastarth said, "Do you not think defeating an entire pirate fleet is enough of a journeymage work?"

Wren's mouth opened. "But that was easy! Once I knew what I was doing, and planned it all out. When I had the real emergency, that first pirate attack, I almost got us killed for all the mistakes I made. I am not ready to be a journeymage yet."

"How many people would have been able to fend off six ships, Wren?" Mistress Leila asked.

Wren pointed. "You, for one. I knew you would have gotten rid of them in a couple of clever spells, and never once a flub."

"Maybe now," Mistress Leila said. "Though it would take more than two spells. But when I was a young journeymage on her very first journey?" She shook her head.

Mistress Selshaf said in her kind voice, "Wren, these tests are really only guideposts we make up along our way, but the truth is, great mages are always learning, and improving, and learning and improving some more. Very few of us could have done as well as you with so little aid, when we were at the same age and had the same level of experience."

"And some never make it that far. They find meaningful work in small ways that do not require tests such as defeating pirate fleets," Halfrid said. "But you have the makings of a great mage, and if you regard this day as one of many marking your upward road in knowledge and skill, then you will have achieved all we really want for you."

Wren swallowed, turning doubtful eyes to Tyron. He gestured. "Come on, Wren." He flashed his foxy grin. "How do you think I felt, getting my white robe right after the war, when the school was a fire-scorched mess, half the staff was missing, and I still thought I had to take my last year of classes?"

Master Gastarth added, "We watched you during your so-called easy portion. You did exactly what we spend so much time training you to do: take the responsibility for solving a problem that needs solving, make your plans, work carefully on them, and delegate tasks to those who are best equipped to carry them out. The actions, in short, of a master mage."

"Oh," Wren said in a small voice. Then she squared her shoulders. And, in a steady voice, "In that case, well, I guess I'm ready."

The Sendimeris twins both held the robe, dropping it over Wren's shoulders. It felt light and cool and heavy all at once. Halfrid stepped forward with the blue sash held in both hands, but he stopped, and it was Mistress Leila and Tyron, her two main teachers, who took the ends and wrapped the sash around her middle. Mistress Leila tied the knot, then stepped back. "Welcome to the ranks of the Magic Council of Magicians, Mistress Wren."

And, one by one, the others said the same words. By the end Wren's eyes blurred with tears, but then the formality was over, and they all crowded around, everyone talking and laughing, until the distant bell rang, and Teressa touched Wren's shoulder.

"Mistress Wren, will you lead the way to dinner?" she asked.

Mistress Wren. Somehow it sounded almost real, coming from Teressa — who had had to become a queen at far too young an age, when she'd barely gotten used to the idea of being a princess.

Afterward, Wren remembered only bits of that happy occasion. All the masters took turns telling of flubs and near-disasters they had encountered during their early years, until Wren began to feel that the chickens actually had their proper place in the ceremony, as much as her new blue sash.

At the other end of the table, Connor sat with Mistress Leila and with a tall, hard-looking man who was vaguely familiar.

Wren watched, puzzled, as the man talked to Connor, making him laugh from time to time. "Who's that?" she asked Tyron.

"Don't you recognize Prince Rollan?"

"Oh yes! But why is he here?"

"Truth is, I don't know all that much myself. Mistress Leila appeared just today, with him in tow.

We were running about getting everything ready and I had no time to ask."

The dinner did not last much longer than that. Halfrid had to return to the island and see to the mages. The Sendimeris twins had the Magic Council waiting for them. Wren knew that her investiture was just one pleasant occurrence among many in their lives, and their responsibilities still awaited them. One day I will be one of those seniors, she thought as she said the

last good-bye. Leaving behind a happy young mage and going back to my real work.

She felt very strange.

o0o

After they'd said farewell to the last of the visitors, Tyron tapped Wren on the shoulder. "Connor is waiting upstairs. Teressa, he wants you as well as Wren to hear this."

"This what?"

"My question as well," Teressa said from Wren's other side.

The three sped upstairs to the other end of the royal guest suites, where the Shaltars usually stayed when they visited Cantirmoor. Prince Rollan and Mistress Leila awaited them in the outer chamber. Through the wide windows, cool, fresh air swept in, carrying the scents of wet leaves, grass, and the faint sweetness of summer's last roses.

Rollan turned a weather-beaten face to his sister.

Leila said, "Connor, we first have to ask: are you still planning to wander the world? You'd spoken of wanting to take two or three years, so is this a brief visit, or a return?"

"A return." Connor shook his head. "I had fun, but I decided whatever I was looking for was here." He touched his head. "Not there." He waved his hand at the window. "And I missed home."

Rollan grinned and rubbed his hands. "Well, here's what: it looks like I'll be moving to Eth-Lamrec. My princess wouldn't have me on any other terms." He chuckled, and Wren vaguely recalled the Princess of Eth-Lamrec who had come at the head of a trained group of warriors to help fight against the Lirwanis, true to their treaty. She'd had a loud, hearty voice, a swinging stride, and a dashing manner. "But there's Dareneth, my own principality, up in the northern mountains. You already know I head the Brown Riders. I want you to take them over. I already know how good you are in the field, when you have to be."

Connor shook his head. "I could ride with them. Maybe. On some missions. I can't lead, as I don't carry a sword any more. I can't take life from living things."

"But you don't need to. We don't kill anyone, by preference. We keep the peace. The worst you'll face is renegade Lirwanis who turn to robbery because all they know is how to fight. We round 'em up and give 'em a choice of going back over the border for Queen Idres to deal with, or we put 'em to work in Siradayel."

Connor nodded slowly. "I could do that."

"They'd accept you. Everyone's heard of your exploits during the war, and this business about Andreus won't hurt, either."

"But it was Wren's magic."

Leila waved a hand. "By the time rumors — and songs — make their way up here, it will be the two of

you against an entire pirate fleet. You don't have to confirm it, but never deny it. People like that kind of heroic tale. Makes them feel safe."

Connor winced. Wren sensed that he felt a little like a fraud. She remembered that feeling.

"Here's why we need you," Rollan said, exchanging a glance with Leila, who nodded. "The truth is, our mother is probably going to step down from the throne. She discovered she likes having nothing to do but socialize. She's thinking of taking up residence at her lakeside retreat year round, where she'll probably be joined by the older courtiers of her day. She still gets all the social precedence, but with no work involved."

"But who'll have the throne?" Connor asked, looking appalled.

"Not Lusra or Kerrith," Leila said, laughing. "In fact, we've just about got them married off. Far away."

"You?" Wren asked, breaking in. "Mistress Leila?"

A nod.

"I thought you gave up your title, and all that, when you came to the magic school!"

"I did. For as long as it was needed to keep the family peace, but you don't actually give up a family unless you move very, very far away. I love my life at the Magic School, but the very things that make me good there have turned out to be useful in running a kingdom. So at my time of life, I am changing places. I never wanted or expected it, but I made peace with it this past year, and will even like it. And it has a practical side, and I don't mean just being able to control our four foolish siblings. It might not be so bad a thing to have another queen who is also a mage, until we know how Idres is going to deal with her neighboring kingdoms."

Teressa said, "I think I can vouch for Idres. At least she seemed willing enough to treat with me."

"Yes, but for how long?" Leila asked, turning to her. "She has no loyalties that we can tell, and though we all agree that the Rhiscarlans are smart and powerful, you have to admit they tend to act on inclination more than on principle."

Teressa sat back, looking down at her hands.

Rollan turned back to Connor. "Here's the other thing we seldom talk about, but the mountains of Dareneth are full of . . . oddities, let's say. In some of the valleys, the people insist the trees walk. Strange creatures live on the mountain tops, stranger by far than gryphs. Your father said once that there was a reason that the Dareneth family lived there, and though the principality came to the Shaltars by marriage treaty when he died, I really believe a descendant from the Dareneths needs to go back there."

Leila said, "Connor, there is even a rumor that your father did not actually die, but took the form of an oak tree. Strange as that sounds."

Wren sensed a stillness in Connor that meant the words contained deeper meaning than they seemed to. Rollan smiled at Wren, a funny sort of smile. But all he said was, "How about we talk tomorrow? Take some time to think it over tonight."

Leila nodded. "I have to return to the school and discuss my replacement with Halfrid. Wren, if you stay at the school you realize you're probably going to find yourself with a class this next season, the beginners' class. Every mage is needed."

Danal will be one of those beginners, or I'm a hoptoad. Wren flashed a grin.

Mistress Leila didn't wait for Wren to respond, but followed her brother out, talking in a low voice.

Tyron said, "Teressa, Leila tells me that that the switch of queens will have an unexpected benefit with treaties and even the treasury. Let me tell you what Halfrid thinks. . ."

Teressa looked from Wren to Connor, then turned away with Tyron, and they passed into the antechamber. Wren watched her go, remembering what Teressa had said about things going back the way they were. Except things never did really go back the way they were, did they?

Connor said, "Wren, do you think you could live in the mountains some day?"

Here it was. Wren felt that light, warm glow all over when her eyes met Connor's and she smiled, but then the meaning of the question really sank in. "I think so," she said, "but I don't know."

Connor reached and took her hands. "It's too early for anything. Too many changes too fast," he said. "For me, too. Oh, I did a lot of flirting on the road. Longface and I met a lot of nice girls in the mountains and along the sea. But those exchanges of kisses never meant much, and there wasn't a one of them I felt I could tell the truth to. With you, it's all different."

"That's the way I feel," she said slowly. "Different."

Connor grinned. "It's enough for now! I'll go back to Dareneth. There is a castle, but it's a nice one. I was there a few times, when I was small. I remember a lot of light, and color, and, well, a sense of home, that I never felt at my mother's palace in Paranir. Your father might even feel at home there, if he decides to stop wandering, for they are so isolated they really cherish storytellers in those mountains. For that matter, it's so high that his powers might settle down."

Wren was thinking hard. She envisioned a home, with strange creatures passing by and magic all around. She envisioned Connor in that home, and seeing him every day. She imagined finding good work to do, probably helping Queen Leila and even coming south to help Tyron, when he took Halfrid's position, and Teressa, whose own life was settling more and more into the affairs of a queen.

She imagined going back home with Connor. It felt right. Good.

"Well," she said, "I won't mind teaching beginners for a year or two. But that's not what I want to be doing for the rest of my life!"

When he smiled back at her, a special, tender, private smile, she gave in to instinct, tugging Connor close.

Anticipation ran through her like thousands of silvery butterflies, all of them igniting into sparks when her lips met his, so soft, so warm, in a first, tentative kiss.

But rising voices from the room beyond broke the moment, and they pulled away, both a little breathless. Tyron and Teressa were arguing. Again.

"I just don't see why I should start strutting around in velvet and lace and all the rest," Tyron said. "Mages wear robes for a reason—they don't have to worry about clothes. Velvet! Faugh!"

"But you're a part of court," Teressa said. "Oh, you just don't understand. You don't want to understand."

"Not if it means wearing lace," Tyron shot back. "I can leave that to Garian. He likes lace. Teressa. . . . don't go. Teressa? All right. I'll do it."

"Just for certain events? Formal events?"

"Yes. For certain formal events."

Wren and Connor exchanged grins. That promising beginning was just that—a beginning, one of the nicest

yet. There was plenty of time, and plenty to do. Wren's whole life was just beginning.

Teressa entered, and put her hands on her hips. "All settled?"

Tyron pointed an accusing finger. "Wren, if she gets me into velvet and lace, you have to wear it, too."

The four of them started laughing.

Chapter Thirty

As Wren had foreseen, time rushed along in its steady stream.

Wren taught for two years at the Magic School, until Halfrid and Tyron were able to bring the staff up to its full complement again. Then Halfrid retired at last. Retired from teaching, that is. He was still sent on mysterious errands by the Magic Council.

Connor took up life in Dareneth, working with the Brown Riders until he felt confident that he could lead them. When Wren left the school (except for sporadic visits back), it was to marry Connor in a great ceremony in Queen Leila's capital.

By rights Wren was now a duchess, but she refused to think of herself that way. She was proudest of her white mage's tunic, and tried to get away with wearing that to court functions, though once in a while, she had to put on her fancy dress. With lace.

Within another year the first of their several children was born. Arbran, who had resumed his wandering as soon as he recovered, stayed around more often once he became Grandpa Arbran.

Life in Cantirmoor went on, altering slowly as the seasons slid by. Tyron and Teressa continued to argue, and sometimes they shared kisses, but gradually those were fewer, as were the arguments. Tyron was so busy at the Magic School that he sometimes sent Orin as his substitute to the palace; she and Teressa began their relationship with determined good will, which altered to respect, and that gradually deepened into a genuine friendship.

Life did not always separate the four. They loved getting together for various occasions, exchanging stories. They knew their lives were entwined, so they were not surprised that the very day Hawk Rhiscarlan rode back through the gates of Cantirmoor, Wren and Connor's first child went up to play on a mountain crag and turned into a bird.

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