'Shouldn't it blow north?'

'It probably will, but I want him to know where we've gone in case it doesn't. And don't worry, Garec has a lovely singing voice. If it gets thick, we'll give you a holler.'

'Oh, I understand,' Steven said. 'You don't want us moving from here-'

'Because there might not be enough draft around that island, because you might run aground again between here and there, because I don't want to lose you in the fog, but mostly because I don't want you losing us us in the fog.' in the fog.'

Garec smirked. 'The last sounds you hear are your own bones breaking.'

'Got it.' Steven tallied their orders. 'Don't get lost, don't run aground, but most of all, don't run over the little boat with the big boat.'

'Very good,' Marrin smiled. 'We'll make a sailor of you yet. Could you pass that along to our fearless leader?'

'Right away,' Steven started aft.

At the capstan, Brexan asked, 'When Prince Malagon, Nerak, came to Orindale, was he heading for Sandcliff Palace?'

'I thought he was,' Gilmour said, 'because I thought that's where he would go to operate the spell table.'

'But he had actually come to Orindale, because he was going into the Blackstone foothills to retrieve the spell table?'

'It was his understanding that Steven and I were making way for Orindale, hoping to secure a transport to Malakasia, or at least Praga, to search for Hannah Sorenson. Nerak acted under the assumption that with a military blockade on the town, we would either be captured, killed or forced to wait on the outskirts, while he searched for us, killed us and took the keystone. His spies and minions had failed to collect it for him, so Nerak decided to come and get it himself.'

'But you didn't have it, because Steven and Mark had forgotten it back in Colorado?'

'Overlooked it.'

'Rutting whores.'

'My sentiments exactly, my dear.'

'But his plan was to have the key, get the table and open the Fold from the Blackstone foothills?'

'Or at least have the key to experiment with the table on his way back to Pellia.'

'Which is essentially what Mark is doing right now.'

'Essentially.'

'So why did Nerak bring the book with him?'

A moment of silence passed between them. Brexan pulled her hood up and flinched as beads of icy condensation trickled beneath her hair and down the back of her neck.

Finally, Gilmour said, 'I don't know why. Perhaps Nerak was studying the spells, trying to round out his understanding of magic. Perhaps the book had shown him something he believed he would need in order to open the Fold-'

'Or,' Kellin interrupted, 'the book showed him something he believed he would need after after he opened the Fold.' he opened the Fold.'

Silenced by that possibility, Gilmour recoiled from his memory of the spell book's opening folio. The Ash Dream, The Ash Dream, he thought. he thought. What in all Eldarn is the Ash Dream? Something Mark needs to open the Fold? Something we need to close it for ever? Or maybe Kellin's right and he needs it after his master's arrival. What in all Eldarn is the Ash Dream? Something Mark needs to open the Fold? Something we need to close it for ever? Or maybe Kellin's right and he needs it after his master's arrival. Staring down at a nebulous cloud of chilly fog as it billowed about his legs, Gilmour said, 'You may be right. The book might have shown Nerak something he would need after he opened the Fold and ushered in an Age of unbridled pain, torture and suffering.' Staring down at a nebulous cloud of chilly fog as it billowed about his legs, Gilmour said, 'You may be right. The book might have shown Nerak something he would need after he opened the Fold and ushered in an Age of unbridled pain, torture and suffering.'

Kellin blanched, looking as though she was about to retch. 'Oh,' she said. 'In that case, we'll just have to get to Mark before he has a chance to ... to do ... that.'

'That's why we're here, freezing, in this godsforsaken archipelago.'

Brexan looked aft. Most of the Pragan brig-sloop was lost from view; the parts she could see a few ratlines, the mainmast, a hatch and a stretch of starboard gunwale looked like bits of a derelict ghost ship. 'Gilmour, are you confident that Nerak actually read the book? Was he able to understand it, to glean anything from it?'

'I don't know,' he replied. 'From what Steven said, Nerak was not nearly as powerful as his legend would have us believe, but it was my experience that he had a good deal more power and knowledge, at least in a mystical arena, than anyone I had ever known.'

'More than you?'

'Oh, certainly more than I ever did.'

'More than Steven?'

Gilmour tried to hide a half-smile. It didn't work. No, not more than Steven.'

Brexan smiled herself and glanced aft again. 'Would Nerak have been able to help us now?'

'What's that?'

'If Steven had kept him here, kept him alive somehow, do you think Nerak would have been able to help us close the Fold?' Seeing Gilmour hesitate, Brexan tried to clarify her thoughts. 'From what Steven and Kellin said, right in the moments before he was cast into oblivion, Nerak was different: beaten, submissive, I don't know, maybe less homicidal and power-hungry.'

Gilmour nodded, obviously contemplating his former colleague's demeanour that day in the glen. 'That's true, Brexan, but Steven had made an effort to be compassionate. He gave Nerak the hickory staff. I thought he was insane to do it; we all did. But he gave Nerak the chance to save himself, and instead Nerak used the staff to strike out at him. With the staff, he might have saved himself, banished the evil holding him prisoner, even been restored to his former position of grace and respect. But he ignored Steven's mercy, and that more than anything was what killed him.'

'Was Nerak evil before the terrible essence emerged from the Fold to take him prisoner? How long before his fall did he try to kill you, or to kill the other one ... what's his name ... Kantu?'

Gilmour frowned. 'I don't know exactly, but there was some time before Sandcliff fell that I feared Nerak. I always worried when Kantu, Pikan or I travelled through the far portal. I felt anxious that he was using our absence as an opportunity to develop spells that would kill us or perhaps trap us on the other side of the Fold for ever.'

'So no, then,' Brexan said.

'No, what?'

'No, Nerak probably wouldn't have helped us banish this evil essence and seal off the Fold.'

'No,' Gilmour shook his head, 'most likely not.'

Brexan felt the cold seep inside her cloak. 'I'll get us some tecan,' she said, shivering.

'That would be nice,' Gilmour said, glad for the change of topic. 'Biggest mugs you can find.'

Warmed by the morning brew and empowered by the truths Brexan and Kellin had forced him to examine while kedging the Morning Star Morning Star off the Malakasian shoal, Gilmour Stow of Estrad excused himself from the chilly partisans still watching the fogbank for Garec and Marrin and tiptoed into the companionway leading to his berth, and the leatherbound book of Lessek's writings. Gilmour rarely felt old, but this morning, despite living inside the youngest host he had purloined in nearly a thousand Twinmoons, his body was stiff, cramped, feeling as if it might disintegrate without warning. His shoulders were sore; his lower back ached. One knee was inflamed, while the other had stiffened with the dampness and fog. His fingers felt swollen, clumsy and arthritic, and his eyes were a beat slow, managing to focus on what he had been seeing a step or two after it had fallen behind him. Being two thousand Twinmoons old was not normally physically gruelling if it was, Gilmour would have been worn to the bone, dead several times over. Instead, it was an intellectual distance run, a tiresome and wearying adventure, and this morning, with his shortcomings and challenges neatly outlined by the curious freedom fighters, Gilmour felt the off the Malakasian shoal, Gilmour Stow of Estrad excused himself from the chilly partisans still watching the fogbank for Garec and Marrin and tiptoed into the companionway leading to his berth, and the leatherbound book of Lessek's writings. Gilmour rarely felt old, but this morning, despite living inside the youngest host he had purloined in nearly a thousand Twinmoons, his body was stiff, cramped, feeling as if it might disintegrate without warning. His shoulders were sore; his lower back ached. One knee was inflamed, while the other had stiffened with the dampness and fog. His fingers felt swollen, clumsy and arthritic, and his eyes were a beat slow, managing to focus on what he had been seeing a step or two after it had fallen behind him. Being two thousand Twinmoons old was not normally physically gruelling if it was, Gilmour would have been worn to the bone, dead several times over. Instead, it was an intellectual distance run, a tiresome and wearying adventure, and this morning, with his shortcomings and challenges neatly outlined by the curious freedom fighters, Gilmour felt the emotional emotional exhaustion in every muscle and bone in his body. exhaustion in every muscle and bone in his body.

It was a symptom of his fatigue; he knew that, and he knew that a few avens' sleep would have him back in fighting form. But he hadn't been able to rest; he wanted to finish just one last thing before retiring for the day. Then, he would sleep until the dinner aven, resting like the dead. Or the very nearly dead, anyway, Or the very nearly dead, anyway, he thought with a wry smile. he thought with a wry smile.

But first, he had to read that book, despite his aches and pains. It hadn't been the actual book lashing out at him; first it had been Nerak, then Mark. The book hadn't done it... I hope not, anyway. I hope not, anyway. There was no reason to fear the writings. He had explained that to Brexan just moments earlier: the book wasn't power per se; the book was knowledge, understanding, and whether or not it told him anything useful this morning, Gilmour didn't care. It wasn't useful information he required; it was confidence. His conversation with the freedom fighters had kindled a tiny bundle of hope, just a faint glow, wrapped in the protective layers he invariably applied whenever hope was all he had. But this morning, Gilmour wanted more; he wanted to feel that hope burgeon into a comforting blaze, something to keep him warm for the few days it would take Captain Doren Ford and his skeleton crew to see them into Pellia. There was no reason to fear the writings. He had explained that to Brexan just moments earlier: the book wasn't power per se; the book was knowledge, understanding, and whether or not it told him anything useful this morning, Gilmour didn't care. It wasn't useful information he required; it was confidence. His conversation with the freedom fighters had kindled a tiny bundle of hope, just a faint glow, wrapped in the protective layers he invariably applied whenever hope was all he had. But this morning, Gilmour wanted more; he wanted to feel that hope burgeon into a comforting blaze, something to keep him warm for the few days it would take Captain Doren Ford and his skeleton crew to see them into Pellia.

'Just read the damned book,' he murmured to himself. 'What can happen? Mark won't notice; we're too close already, and he's following the tan-bak. Even I can feel the tan-bak when I search for her. She's like a bloody beacon in a storm out there. He won't bother looking here; we're nowhere near the Northeast Channel, essentially invisible, so there's no excuse. Just read the whoring thing, and then go to bed.'

Crunch.

His tired eyes had overlooked it, brought it into focus a moment too late for his mind to care, but when his foot came down on it, Gilmour stopped to see what he had stepped on.

It was an insect a roach? A beetle, maybe? He scraped up what he could, but he hadn't been the first to step on it.

It's just a bug, old man. Leave it, and go get your reading done.

But something was wrong. Gilmour felt the warmth leave his body, that quiet glimmer of hope fading. He absentmindedly tugged at one of his earlobes and then felt around inside his ear, tentatively, as if afraid of what he might discover.

The spell book forgotten, his fatigue ignored yet again, Gilmour tucked the insect's remains inside his tunic and went back on deck.

Alen and Milla walked along the riverfront quay, heading for the Hunter's Glade, a quiet cafe that served a cheap midday meal and whose proprietor, a childless woman named Gisella, fawned on the little sorceress as if Milla was a member of her own family. Alen had found the cafe one evening while seeking information about barge traffic along the Welstar River. When Gisella discovered that Alen had a little girl, she insisted he bring Milla around. 'Children eat free for the Twinmoon,' she had said, brushing clouds of flour from her apron. 'My sister has three boys, three! Can you imagine the noise when that lot comes for dinner? Rutters!'

Alen had felt a pang of sorrow for Gisella, who seemed a pleasant enough woman; he was sorry she'd not been able to have children, and he promised to return with Milla.

Now, Milla's hand securely clasped in his, he felt some of his own trepidation rub off; perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to work with the child prodigy over the next two hundred Twinmoons.

'Are we going to Gisella's?' Milla skipped beside him, careful to avoid icy patches.

'I thought you might want to go back there,' Alen smiled.

'She's fun, and I like those biscuits, the warm ones. They're so big.'

'Big as your head!' Alen pretended to struggle beneath the weight of a giant pastry.

'Can we bring one back for Hoyt?'

'Of course.'

'Is he going to die?' Milla twirled a length of ribbon around her finger.

'No, Pepperweed. He's going to be just fine.' Alen tried to sound convincing.

'But there's a new hole in his shoulder,' the little girl said sadly. 'One of those soldiers stuck him with a sword.'

'That's almost all better, sweetie. The querlis is fixing that hole right up.'

'But not the other one,' she was quick to point out.

'I know, Pepperweed.'

'Do you think Gilmour will be able to help him?'

'That's a funny thing to ask.'

'Because he's almost here,' Milla said.

'How do you know? Can you sense him out there?' Alen knelt beside her, ignoring the damp seeping through his leggings.

'You know how we felt that big crash from Falkan a while ago?' Milla whispered as if sharing a secret. 'It's like that, only a lot quieter.'

'It must be.' He looked around, thinking perhaps his former colleague might be coming up the quay to join them. 'I can't feel him at all.'

'Well, it's hard, because he's really quiet, but I know where to find him, because I held him that time outside the room.'

'Like you did with me and Hoyt in the wagons?'

'I had to with you and Hoyt, because those Seron things were coming so fast, and you two were dreaming about fireplaces and pretty girls.' Milla snorted with laughter. 'But, yes, just like that.'

'Any idea where he is, Pepperweed?' Alen aligned his finger with hers and Milla wrapped them both in the ribbon.

'A little bit that way.' She pointed southeast, across the inlet and along the coast.

'Are you sure?' Alen asked, 'because if he's coming by sea, he would have to come from that way.' He pointed northeast, where deep water met a wall of atolls and shallow islands in the Northern Archipelago. 'Everyone coming on the water this Twinmoon has to come that way.'

'Nope.' Milla shook her head, her scribbled curls jouncing. Not Gilmour. He's coming from over there, around that piece of ground sticking out in the water.'

'All right, Pepperweed, we'll watch for him from that way. And to answer your question: yes, I hope that Gilmour can help Hoyt, or help me help Hoyt get better.'

They walked for a while in silence. Milla stopped to consider, then hopped over a coil of mooring hawser some docker had left along the wharf. Beside them, the Welstar River was a steely grey ribbon.

'Nice jump,' Alen said, retaking her hand, 'but be careful. You don't want to fall in.'

'I know,' Milla shivered. 'It's so cold it made my head hurt, and my skin was like it didn't feel anything.'

'Numb.'

'Numb,' Milla echoed. 'So I had to warm it up, or I would have been too scared to swim.'

'I hear you did a good job swimming.'

Milla beamed. 'I swam the scramble, just like Hannah showed me, but she calls it the dog-paddle, or something like that. I did have to hurt that one man, though I didn't want to, but he was going to stab Hoyt, and maybe Hannah, too. So I made him stop.' Her lip started to tremble.

Alen picked her up and, holding her close, whispered, 'Don't you worry about it, Pepperweed, not for one more day. Those men were going to take you back to Welstar Palace.'

'Back to Rabeth and the others?' She looked cross. 'But I don't want to go back there. I want to go home to Mama and to find Resta with Hoyt.'

'Resta?'

'You know: Resta the Wonderdog, who writes his name and sings songs.'

'Yes, of course, how could I have forgotten?'

A pair of barges laden with tarpaulin-covered crates moved slowly towards Welstar Palace. Milla waved at one of the sailors. 'You don't think those other soldiers are going to come and find me?'

'Not after what you did to them.'

'That was Hoyt's idea,' Milla said. 'I didn't know if I could do it, but Hannah helped me to come up with a good story, and I just told it to those men, the ones with the hurt legs, and they thought it was true.'

'And Erynn too, right?'