Magiere stood on deck with her companions as the crew loaded boxes and barrels into two skiffs. After three days, their ship had reached its next layover.

The cargo grate was still open, and she looked down to see the hold was nearly empty. She turned back to the wild coastline where one dock served a small settlement upon the rocky shore. Leesil stepped up beside her, and everything seemed peaceful.

But it wasn't. She could feel it.

The crew stole furtive glances at them. They were far too quiet, even considering the presence of humans on their ship.

Sgaile, Osha, Chap, and Wynn joined Magiere at the rail-wall.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

Wynn kept her eyes down.

"Last stop," she whispered. "We have reached the end of an'Croan waters. If not for us, the ship and crew would turn back north for Ghoivne Ajhajhe. Because of us, they cannot go home."

Magiere didn't doubt Wynn-as her explanation made sense-but sometimes the sage's interpretations weren't completely on the mark.

"Is that true?" she asked Sgaile.

His thick hair hung loose today, blowing around his face in coarse, white-blond strands. The effect made him look less proper and civilized. Before he answered, the hkomas closed on all of them, speaking short, clipped Elvish. His leathery skin looked rough next to Sgaile's, and the two conversed in careful tones.

Chap stood near Wynn, watching them.

"What's this about?" Leesil asked.

Sgaile glanced at him and then Magiere. "It is true-we have completed the last stop. The hkomas agreed to take you wherever you asked, but now he… requests a more specific destination. He has sailed out of our waters a few times, but the southern coastline is perilous for his ship and crew."

"Is the weather more severe beyond your waters?" Wynn asked.

"No," Sgaile answered slowly. "It is a matter of protecting this vessel, as it is not military."

"So you have other ships guarding your people?" Leesil suggested.

"We have vessels which patrol," Sgaile confirmed and returned his attention to Magiere. "I must tell the hkomas something. Willing or not, he expects to know how far he is to go and where he leads his crew and this ship."

Helplessness made Magiere almost as angry as did fear. She studied the hkomas, who stared back with hard eyes. He looked about fifty in human years-which meant he was much older for an elf. He crossed his sinewy arms in stiff challenge, and for all Magiere's frustration, she couldn't blame him. She'd have felt the same in his place.

"I don't know," she finally answered. "I wish I did. We need to keep heading south, until I get a sense of when to stop."

"That is not specific enough," Sgaile countered.

"What about a time frame?" Leesil suggested. "Ask the captain to carry us south for seven more days. If Magiere hasn't found the right place by then, he can let us off, and we'll go on foot. Either way, we'll get there in the end."

He touched Magiere's arm with a knowing nod. "And well before anyone else."

Magiere only cared that they kept going but shouldn't have felt so urgent. Her half-brother, Welstiel, couldn't know where she was or that she had a lead on what he was after. But sometimes she forgot Leesil's way of cutting cleanly to the quickest solution.

"Yes, tell the captain," she said to Sgaile. "See if he'll agree to that."

Sgaile conversed with the hkomas, but the man shook his head and snapped something back. They fell into another sharp debate, and all Magiere picked out was "Aoishenis-Ahare."

At those words, the hkomas wavered. He nodded curtly and walked off.

Magiere winced. "You asked him in the name of Most Aged Father?"

"You have your seven days," Sgaile answered coldly.

Magiere was even more unsettled by this. Most Aged Father's influence could be dangerous.

Well before midday, the skiffs returned from their last trip ashore, and the ship set sail, heading south.

Chane walked out of one hell to sit and rot in another.

A few nights had passed since they'd boarded, and the Ylladon ship ran south at full sail. The vessel was barely as large as a schooner, and its hull was made of double-thick planks overlapped upon each other. It was reasonably swift, but he had learned little since the night they had boarded- when he was ushered below deck with Welstiel and the ferals to their "accommodations."

Chane stood in the rocking ship's dank, dark, half-filled hold.

Sabel crouched nearby, rocking on her haunches as she hummed a tune Chane did not recognize. Her eyes had turned glassy and lost again. All the monks were starving.

So far, the crew had been staying clear of the hold, although upon boarding, both the captain and the helmsman, Klatas, had studied Sabel the same way the captain had first eyed Welstiel's globe of lights.

Chane expected the crew to attack at any time. Each dawn he fought off dormancy as long as possible, still gripping his sword when he finally succumbed.

Upon rising tonight, Welstiel had gone off on his own, leaving Chane to watch over their tattered and pathetic group. The two younger males and the silver-haired one curled unmoving upon the hold's floor. Sabel and the fierce curly-headed man crouched in place as if vaguely aware of their surroundings.

If Welstiel intended to use these monks in acquiring his treasure, they needed to be fed tonight or risk incapacitation-and Chane wasn't far behind. Should the crew move against them, even these mad undead might not all survive the fight.

Chane held up a hand to Sabel as he headed for the door. "Wait here. I will return."

The hold was in the stern, but crew quarters were located near the bow. Leaving the hold and finding himself alone, Chane crossed over to a port-side stairwell up to the deck. At its top, he cracked the squat door and waited.

He smelled life on deck. Each time he saw someone moving, he restrained himself from lunging out. He waited for the right sailor to come near, ignoring a thin, middle-aged man and one less than twenty years old. He could only risk taking one and needed someone large and healthy.

A portly sailor in a rust-colored shirt and open vest turned around the mid mast, and as he strolled within reach, Chane lashed out with one hand.

His fingers clamped across padded jowls and thick lips. He jerked the sailor into the stairwell. The sailor bucked and thrashed.

Chane slammed his fist into the back of the man's skull, stunning him limp. He dragged his prey halfway down the stairs. A pulse still pounded just below the man's stubbled jawline, and Chane could not hold back any longer. He bit hard into the sailor's throat, drinking in gulps.

He hardly even tasted the blood, and sagged in relief at life's heat filling him. Then he snapped his head up as if someone had jerked a chain around his neck. He had taken enough to sustain himself, but oh how he wanted more.

The man began to rouse, struggling weakly, and grunted beneath Chane's hand.

If anyone heard and came to check, Chane might find himself quickly outnumbered.

He dragged the sailor along the cross hall and down the passage to the hold's lower door. He kept fierce pressure on the man's mouth and throat, only letting go long enough to flip the latch and shoulder the door open. He did not notice the change in the hold until he had the sailor halfway inside.

All the ferals were on their feet or crouched in waiting. Wide eyes fixed on Chane's prey, as if they knew he was coming and what he brought.

Sabel began shaking. Between her parted lips, her canines had already elongated. The curly-headed monk sniffed through both his nose and open mouth as if he could taste the blood in the air.

"Quietly," Chane warned. "If you wish to survive."