When the brain is deprived of oxygen, neurons begin firing rapidly in a last-ditch e fort to stay alive. Visual and auditory hallucinations are the result. You know that, Grace. It had to be a current that carried you ashore.

In which case, it might have carried others besides her.

Grace listened, but all she could hear was the roar of the ocean and the thin lament of the wind over bare rocks. After two attempts, she managed to stand. Her wet clothing clung to her body in a clammy embrace, and she shivered, but that was a good sign. Shivering would generate body heat. So would walking. But which way?

Behind the beach sloped a high bluff of the same black stone that made up the coast, its edges softened here and there by tufts of brown grass. A gray line snaked up the face of the bluff. Was that some sort of trail? Maybe; she could think about it later. The beach itself was littered with driftwood and gelatinous blobs of kelp. Then her eyes picked out a large chunk of wood that was dark and wet. The broken ends of planks stuck out like ragged fingers. At once she knew it was a part of the Fate Runner.

Clutching her arms around herself, Grace stumbled along the sand. Pebbles and fragments of shell dug into her bare feet; she must have lost her boots in the ocean. Walking loosened the muscles of her legs, and she quickened her pace. In moments she reached the flotsam-a section of the ship's deck.

Falken was leaning against it.

She knelt beside him. The bard's hair was plastered against his face, and a piece of seaweed was looped over his shoulder like a ceremonial sash. Grace touched his neck and felt for a pulse. It was there, strong and slow. She smoothed his hair away from his face, and his eyes opened.

"Grace...?" he croaked, but he didn't get any further. Instead he leaned over and coughed up water.

Grace held his shoulders. When he finished, she helped him sit back up.

"I thought I had drowned," he said, his voice still hoarse but stronger. "It's not the first mistake I've made."

She picked the seaweed off him. "Can you drown, Falken?"

"I'm immortal, Grace, not invincible. I don't age, and I haven't taken ill in seven centuries. But anything else that can kill a man can kill me."

She thought about this. Falken was born in Malachor, and he believed it was his fault that kingdom fell into ruin. She knew that knowledge tortured him. And yet he had endured for more than seven hundred years, when all it would take to end that suffering was a quick thrust of a knife, or a leap from a cliff. Could she have survived so long believing what he did?

But he had hope all those years, Grace. That was what kept him going. Malachor fell, but one of the royal heirs survived- your grandfather twenty times over. Falken made it his purpose to preserve the line of succession until the kingdom could be reborn.

And now he thought that time had come. Wasn't that why he wanted to journey to Toringarth to find the shards of Fellring? He meant to make her a queen in fact, not just in name.

"Can you stand?" she asked.

"I think so, if you would be so kind as to give me a lift." He held out his right hand.

Grace stared, unable to move. Falken gave her a puzzled look, then followed her gaze to his hand. A sadness stole into his faded blue eyes.

Ever since she had known him, Falken had always worn a black glove on his right hand. She had never seen him without it, and surely it was because of the glove that he was called Falken Blackhand. Only now the glove was gone. It must have been torn away in the currents of the ocean, just like Grace's boots, and the bard's right hand was bare.

Grace clamped her jaw to stifle a gasp. Falken's hand was made out of silver.

He clenched the hand into a fist, and she marveled at the fluid way it moved. The hand was not jointed, like that of some robotic skeleton. Instead it was smooth: a perfectly sculpted mirror image of his left hand, down to the twisting lines of veins on its back. However, Grace was certain the hand was solid metal to its core. She studied it, thinking.

"It would be warm if you touched it." His voice was almost lost in the wind. "Wasn't that what you were wondering?"

"Yes." She knelt again beside him. "May I...?"

He unclenched the silver hand, holding it out. It was warm against her skin, just as he had said, but as hard and unyielding to the touch as ordinary silver. How did he make it function? Through some kind of magic? She tried to see how it was joined to his wrist, but there was only a sharp line where flesh ended and metal began. It looked perfectly healed.

"How...?"

The bard shook his head. "It's a long tale, and one we don't have time for. Suffice it to say that the Necromancer Dakarreth saw fit to cut off my hand as punishment for the dark deed I had wrought with it. And also that a witch took pity on me, and gave me a hand that I might make music again." He sighed. "Only now I've lost my lute in the sea. After all these years, it's gone."

"Lost things have a way of turning back up, Falken Blackhand," said a crisp voice.

They looked up to see Vani standing a few feet away. Her leather clothes were coated with sand, and her usually burnished skin was pale. In her hands was a wooden case.

Vani set the case down on the sand. "Or should I call you Falken Silverhand now?"

The Mournish woman's gaze was curious, but not questioning. Grace supposed she had heard everything Falken said.

Falken moved to the wooden case, wiped it with his cloak, and opened it. Inside, the bard's lute was dry and undamaged. He carefully shut the case again.

A jolt of panic coursed through Grace. Falken had lost his lute in the sea. What had she lost? However, even as she asked the question, her fingers fumbled at her throat and found the steel necklace. The shard of Fellring was safe.

She let out a breath of relief, but then a new worry filled her. "We have to look for Beltan."

"I already found him," Vani said. "I believe he's fine, although he's moving as slowly as a snail. He should be along any moment."

Indeed, just then Grace saw the tall knight stalking toward them across the beach. His white-blond hair was wet and tangled, and there was blood on his tunic, although not much.

"Beltan," Grace said gratefully as the knight drew close. "Are you all right?"

He touched his shoulder. "It's just a scratch. Nothing to worry about. I'm fine."

"Thanks to my aid," Vani said.

The knight glared at her. "I told you I didn't need your help."

"No," Vani said, hands on hips, "you said something much like glub, glug, gurgle. And then I squeezed the water out of your lungs, preventing you from dying."

"No, you crushed my rib cage and just about killed me. I would have coughed up the water just fine on my own."

"More likely you would have coughed up your ghost."

"All right, you two," Falken interrupted. "It's cold enough as it is here. There's no need to make it chillier."

The bard struggled to his feet, and Grace helped him.

"Oh," Beltan said. "You lost your glove, Falken."

Grace glanced at him. "Aren't you, you know...shocked?"

"You mean about his silver hand?" Beltan shrugged. "Not particularly. I mean, sure, it's weird and everything. And I've always wondered how it stays on."

Falken gave the knight a piercing look. "You mean you've known about it all this time?"

Beltan grinned at Grace. "It really is convenient when people think you're dumb. They have a tendency to get careless around you and let things slip."

"You're not dumb, Beltan," Grace said seriously.

"I know, but let's keep it a secret."

"We should get off this beach," Vani said.

The assassin was scanning the ocean, and Grace understood. At the moment the rough gray waters were empty. But how long until crimson sails appeared on the horizon? There was no shelter, nowhere to hide.

"What about other survivors?" Falken said.

"There aren't any," Vani said. "I've explored the entire beach. I found some wreckage from the ship, but nothing more." She cocked her head. "Except..."

"Except what?" Beltan said.

"There were footprints in the sand, over at the other end of the beach. They were mostly washed away by the waves. I thought perhaps they belonged to you, Grace, and you, Falken. But now I see that can't be so. You both washed up at this end of the beach."

"Maybe the survivors went up that trail," Falken said. He pointed to the gray line that crisscrossed the face of the bluff.

If it really was a trail, it was the only way off the beach, that much was clear. The bard slung the case with his lute over his shoulder, and together the four started across the sand. Vani led the way, and Grace and Falken leaned on each other for support and warmth while Beltan brought up the rear.

It was a trail, but not much of one. Grace couldn't tell if it had been carved by men or simply worn into the bluff by the hooves of animals. There was only room enough for them to go single file, and the stone was slick with spray and treacherous beneath their feet. For what seemed an eternity they toiled up the bluff. Grace used the tufts of dead grass as handholds to pull herself along. Soon her bare feet were bleeding, but they were so numb with cold she felt no pain. The wind rose to a howl, the sea bellowed in answer, and the clouds churned in circles in the sky.

"Is it always like this in Embarr?" she called out to no one in particular.

"Only on the nice days," Beltan called back.

They kept climbing, back and forth along the steep slope. Then, just as Grace began to think she would rather tumble off the cliff than keep going, and the sky darkened to the color of coal, they reached the top of the bluff.

And there was just enough light left to make out the castle rising up before them.

The lord's name was Elwarrd, and he was the seventh Earl of Seawatch, a fiefdom in northern Embarr of which Grace supposed this castle was the seat.

The rain had finally broken loose from the clouds, pelting them as they made their way from the top of the bluff, over broken heath, to the castle. Or keep, really, for the castle was no more than a single square tower built atop a motte-or man-made hill-and surrounded by a low palisade of soil. The bailey at the foot of the motte was fenced with wood rather than stone, and it housed, not guards, but sheds under which sheep bleated and cows lowed, huddling together for warmth.

They saw no people in the bailey-it was hardly fit for the beasts out there, let alone men-but lights glowed through some of the castle's oiled-vellum windows. They made their way up steps whose edges were rounded by time and wind, and Falken knocked on the keep's great, ironbound door, his silver hand eliciting a ringing boom.

It was the castle's steward who answered, and Falken-his right hand now tucked beneath his cloak-bowed low. As soon as the bard finished speaking a formal request for hospitality, the steward hurried them inside and shut the heavy door against the gale. The steward was a young man, little older than Aryn, Grace guessed, but he walked with a stoop that suggested curvature of the spine, probably as a result of malnutrition as a child. His face was homely but kind, and when he beckoned for them to follow they did.

Grace was surprised he didn't ask them questions-who they were, where they were from. From what she had been able to see, the landscape around the castle was bleak and empty; she doubted they got many visitors. Then again, she had learned the laws of hospitality were important, even sacred, in the Dominions. If requested properly, shelter could not be denied to a stranger. However, in turn, leave to depart must be begged from and granted by the lord. Which all reminded Grace of an old rock and roll song, something about checking into a hotel anytime you wanted, only never being allowed to leave. She shuddered, but only because she was soaked from the rain.

Though ancient, the keep was obviously well kept. Tapestries draped the walls, blocking the worst of the drafts, and oil lamps lit the corridors without too much smoke. As castles went, it smelled better than most. Grace knew Durge was an earl, but also that his home was a simple manor house, not a keep like this. Perhaps Elwarrd was high in King Sorrin's favor.

Word of their arrival must have been sent ahead, for the earl was waiting for them when they reached his hall, located on the second floor of the keep. It was much like the great hall of Calavere, but no more than a quarter the size, with soot-stained beams supporting a high ceiling and a wooden gallery overhead. A curtain covered one end of the hall, and Grace knew beyond was the earl's solar, or personal room. To her delight and relief, a fire crackled in a fireplace tall enough for her to stand in, and the hall was deliciously warm and smoky.

Grace was startled when Falken introduced them simply as four travelers in need of shelter. However, the earl didn't ask their names, and instead he introduced himself and his steward, who was named Leweth. There ensued a good deal of bowing and curtsying, and Grace could only hope she approximated the right motions at the right time.

Elwarrd was forty, Grace estimated, but he was still athletic and markedly handsome. He was not tall, even for this world- the top of his head came only to Grace's nose-but he was well proportioned. His eyes were ocean green, his nose was hawkish, and the line of his mouth was strong but not cruel. His auburn hair and beard were both short and curly, and flecked with gray. Grace found herself captivated, and when she finally managed to look away, she saw Beltan's eyes locked on the earl. Vani, in turn, stared at the knight with a look of reproach.

If not for how cold she was, Grace might have laughed. Vani was jealous of Beltan's love for Travis. Yet it was also clear the assassin was outraged that Beltan would look desiringly at another man. Then Grace saw Elwarrd's gaze traveling up and down her body, and she realized there was little chance of Beltan betraying Travis in this castle. Heat washed through her, and not just from the fire. She adjusted her cloak, doing her best to conceal her sodden gown, which no doubt revealed more than she would have preferred. Nor was the cold helping matters any in that regard.

"You must sit by the fire," Elwarrd said, "while Leweth sees to your chambers and finds dry garments for you." His voice suited him perfectly: deep and clear, like the toll of a bell.

Grace was glad for the chair the steward deftly slid beneath her; she wasn't sure her legs would have supported her much longer. They sat as close as they dared to the fire, drinking spiced wine, and their clothes soon began to steam. Despite all that had happened that day, Grace felt curiously awake and alive.

It's the adrenaline, Doctor. It's all that's been keeping you going since the beach. And as soon as your body settles down and stops producing it, you're going to crash. Hard.

She listened as Falken told Elwarrd their story, and it was interesting to see what the bard skillfully left out of the tale. According to Falken, they were from the Free Cities, and they had been bound for Omberfell, where they were to seek out suppliers of precious gems. They all belonged to the gem cutter's guild, except Beltan, who was their hired protector. However, their ship had broken against a shoal, stranding them on the beach.

Falken gave the earl Vani's true name. But the bard named himself Faldirg, and Beltan he called Boreval, and Grace got the name Galinya. Grace supposed that was a prudent idea. No one in the Dominions would know who Vani was. But Beltan was the son of King Boreas, and Grace had made a bit of a splash at the Council of Kings a year earlier. Their names might be familiar, even here in the hinterlands of Embarr. And everyone in Falengarth knew who Falken Blackhand was. It was best to stay under cover, and if Elwarrd was in any way suspicious of them or their story, he didn't show it.

"My lord," Grace said when Falken finished, "did any other survivors of the shipwreck find their way to your keep? We thought we saw footprints other than our own on the beach, but we couldn't be sure."

Elwarrd's green eyes were solemn. "You're the only ones to knock on my door, my lady. And the trail by which you came is the only way off the beach. Surely if there were others, they would have seen the keep and come here. I'm afraid it appears you four are the only survivors."

"Did you see the shipwreck happen?" Vani asked. "If so, you might have seen where others washed ashore."

The lord clasped his hands. "There is nowhere else to wash ashore, my lady. Save for the beach below, the coast is nothing but sharp rocks for many leagues in either direction. You're all quite lucky to have turned up there. And at any rate, no one in the keep witnessed your ship's demise."

"Isn't this place called Seawatch?" Beltan said. "How did it get that name if you don't keep a lookout?"

"We have no need to watch the sea anymore," Elwarrd said, then stood. "And here is Leweth to tell us your rooms are ready. Once you've donned dry clothes, please be so kind as to return here and take supper with me."

Leweth led them to a pair of rooms on the third floor of the keep. Falken and Beltan retreated into their chamber, and Grace and Vani into theirs. Leweth said he would return in a half hour's time, then shut the door.

The air was slightly musty, but a fire burned in the fireplace, giving off a sweet fragrance; it must have been laid with fruit-wood. The bed-which stood a full five feet off the floor-was covered with fresh linens, and on a stand was a basin of hot water, a bowl of dried lavender flowers, and a bar of fatty soap. Draped over a pair of chairs were two gowns. From what Grace knew of Eldhish fashions (which wasn't much) the style of the garments was long out-of-date, and they were a bit on the small side. All the same, they were clean and not soaked with seawater, and that made them inviting.

The women washed themselves and changed clothes, and soon they were far drier and warmer than before. Grace managed to tug the worst of the snarls from her hair with an ivory comb, and she hung her wet clothes over one of the chairs, positioning it close to the fire. Vani rolled her leathers into a tight ball and placed them in a corner away from the fire.

"I must clean them while they are still damp, then oil them as they dry," the Mournish woman explained. "Otherwise, they'll be ruined."

It was both strange and pleasant seeing Vani in a gown. Grace often forgot how beautiful the T'gol was. Her usual garb accentuated the angularity of her features, as did her short hair. But the gown revealed a softer, rounder figure than Grace might have guessed.

Vani scowled. "This garment is both impractical and strange. Did I fasten it incorrectly?"

Grace smiled. "No, it's perfect." She drew closer to the fire, soaking in more of the heat. "What do you think Lord Elwarrd meant?"

Vani started to move across the room, tripped on the hem of her gown, and sat in a chair-quite by accident given the surprise on her face. "What do you mean?" the T'gol said.

"He said they don't watch the sea anymore. Which means they used to keep watch. So something must have changed. But what?"

Before Vani could answer, a knock came at the door, and faster than Grace could follow with her eyes, Vani left the chair and opened the door. Apparently the gown was no hindrance to the assassin when she wasn't concentrating on it.

It was Leweth. Supper was ready.

Beltan and Falken were already in the hall by the time they arrived. The two men were dressed in borrowed tunics, and the bard's right hand was completely wrapped in bandages; he must have told the earl he had been injured in the shipwreck. It was a good disguise. Elwarrd bowed low as they entered. Grace saw him take in Vani's new attire, but his gaze returned to Grace almost at once. She looked away and pretended counting the columns in the hall was a task of the utmost urgency.

The steward showed them to their seats at the trestle table that had been set up in the center of the hall in their absence. Elwarrd sat at the head of the table, with Grace around the corner to his right. Vani and the steward sat to Grace's right, and Falken and Beltan sat across the table from them. But that left one empty place at the table, to the earl's left and opposite Grace. The place was set with a cup, a knife, and a trencher, all carefully arranged. Who was to sit there?

Before Grace could wonder more, servants entered the hall bearing steaming platters and bowls, and she soon forgot all other concerns in the act of stuffing food into her face. She was more ravenous than she had ever been in her life. It was the exertion, of course: struggling through the water, dragging herself across the beach, climbing up the bluff. It seemed horrible she should eat when Captain Magard and his crew were most likely drowned. However, she was still alive, and her body craved nourishment. While she couldn't yet say she fully enjoyed medieval cuisine, she had gotten used to it, and an array of meats, puddings, and unidentifiable objects swimming in cream soon found their way into her belly.

In Calavere, Grace had learned that custom dictated that a lord and a lady share a cup at table. When the earl indicated his thirst, it was Grace's duty to pour wine, wipe the rim of the cup with a napkin, and hand it to him. She tried not to notice how his warm hand brushed hers in the exchange. When he handed back the cup, she gulped down several swallows, belatedly realizing she was supposed to wipe the rim again. He seemed to notice this lack, but he only raised an eyebrow, and his expression seemed anything but displeased.