"I'm all right," he said and then looked down. "Your hands!"

Her gloves were charred and blackened. She hadn't even noticed the sting in her hands.

Fire around the grateless cargo hatch above filled the hold with flickering light, and seams of flame began spreading along the ceiling.

"We have to get out of here," she said.

"We won't survive onshore without our gear," Leesil argued, and headed for the shattered door.

Magiere almost grabbed him from behind, ready to throw him over her shoulder and flee-but she knew he was right. He led the way with Chap right behind as they all trudged through the water in the outer passage.

They hurried to their quarters, grabbing what they could-weapons first. Leesil found their coats, and then hesitated for breath. He took up his new winged blades, but Magiere's dagger was still missing. Sgaile had not brought it back yet.

"Forget it!" Magiere snapped, and jerked him toward the door.

They slogged back for the stairs, and then an elf they'd never seen before came through the passage's other end. He was dressed in a plain canvas tunic and breeches, and his feet were bare. He carried a large barkless root almost too heavy to hoist, smooth and round and dully pointed.

Magiere froze. The root's long tail trailing behind the man moved on its own-like the ship's tail that Wynn had spotted so many days past.

The elf stopped at the sight of Magiere, and then crouched to set down the strange squirming bulk. He glared up sternly at Magiere and then Leesil, and spoke quickly in Elvish. It sounded like a question.

Magiere could only shake her head and point toward the hatch stairs.

"We have to get off," she said. "So should you."

She had no idea if he understood.

He lowered his head, muttering in Elvish, and reached around his back to fling something toward her. The long white-metal dagger fell in the shallow water near Magiere's boot.

She reached down and picked it up. Its hilt was now thick and wrapped tightly with leather. By the time she looked up, the elf was gone, then she spotted the tail of his wooden burden whip as it slid up the hatchway stairs.

"Put it away and let's move!" Leesil growled.

Magiere shoved the blade in the back of her belt. They emerged to find the deck engulfed in flames feeding upon remnants of sails, rigging, and crumpled masts. Magiere looked about for the tall, barefooted elf.

He stood at the seaward rail-wall just below the aftcastle, the only place on that side not blocked by fire. Magiere saw no sign of the moving root he'd been carrying.

"Come on!" she shouted. "Get to a skiff!"

He never even turned around. The tall, barefoot elf just stood there. Beneath the crackle of fire and splitting wood, Magiere heard a low rolling hum, like a song without words. He slowly lifted his head, as if watching something moving in the open water.

The deck creaked beneath Magiere's feet.

Chap barked sharply as he scrambled toward the shoreward rail-wall.

Magiere had no choice but to follow him.

Sgaile's arms grew heavy in the cold water, and despair began to mount.

Where was the woman?

He swam back along the Ylladon ship's course, but through one swell after another he found nothing. And both ships had drifted onward behind him. Then he saw something swirling upon the surface.

It was too light to be kelp or debris. Then it sank again, gone from sight.

Sgaile thrashed forward. When he reached the spot where it had gone down, he dove under.

Beneath the surface, the water was so dark that all he could do was hold his breath and grasp about. His hand struck something rough and thin-a rope. He grabbed hold, winding it around his hand and wrist, and kicked for the surface.

Sgaile's head broke through. Before he even sucked in a breath, he pulled. Twice he sank under, reaching down, hand over hand along the rope. Until his grip closed on soft, cold fingers. He grabbed hold and kicked back up to the surface.

She came up, gasped for air over and over, panic-stricken.

"Float," he managed to say. "Relax yourself."

He kept an arm under the middle of her back as they both rolled over the crest of another swell. The woman tried to turn her head, blinking water from her eyes so she could see him.

"Sister," she choked. "My sister… is on the ship."

Sgaile grew even colder.

Another of his people was on that human vessel? Still holding her atop the waves, he looked back. The elven ship-the Pairvanean-was burning in the night.

By now, the hkomas would have ordered the crew into the skiffs. The Ylladon vessel had been damaged as well, and listed deeply to one side. It was so far away, how could he do anything to save this woman's sister?

A thundering crack rolled across the night swells.

The Ylladon ship rocked, and its stern shifted suddenly toward the open sea.

"No…," Sgaile moaned.

Another thundering impact filled the night. The marauder ship's prow dipped sharply into the sea and did not come up again. It was sinking.

The hkoeda had released his shavalean-the "swimmers." They would not stop pounding and ramming at the Ylladon vessel until either it sank beyond reach in the depths or they became too damaged or worn themselves.

Sgaile looked away as the woman tried to lift her head to see.

"Do not," he said.

He pulled a stiletto to sever the rope, then grasped the back of her tunic and towed her as he swam. Another crack sounded in the distance from the hull of the Ylladon ship.

All Sgaile could do now was try to reach the shore.

Chane watched helplessly as oil globes struck the elven ship and flames erupted across its deck.

"Wynn," he whispered.

He lunged across the ship, searching to slaughter whoever had flung those globes.

"Stop!" Welstiel shouted.

Chane turned, sword in hand.

Sabel came behind Welstiel, along with the other ferals, all laden with canvas and ropes and packs.

"You said they would have time to escape!" Chane rasped, and his throat turned raw.

Welstiel's lips curled angrily. He opened his mouth to spit a response, but Chane never heard it. The sound of wood smashing filled his ears.

The Ylladon ship lurched sharply, and seawater sprayed over the rail, driving debris across the deck. Welstiel clutched the mast, glancing about as half the ferals were thrown from their feet.

"Take the packs and gear from her," Welstiel said, pointing to Sabel. "Tie the canvas to your back."

Chane glared at him and did not move.

"We have to swim," Welstiel snapped, "as far north as possible before going ashore. We cannot risk Magiere or the dog sensing us."

"Swim?"

"We will be too visible if we take a skiff," Welstiel answered. He turned to Sabel and the others. "Leave no one here alive, and then follow us."

Another thundering crack sent the ship spinning sideways, and the bow dipped sharply.

Chane grabbed the rail to keep from sliding. The ferals snatched at anything they could hold on to. For once they showed little eagerness for feast or slaughter. And Chane's own hate faltered under his instinct to survive.

"We all go now!" he hissed. "Any crew left would never let themselves be caught by the elves. We are hardly in danger of them revealing you!"

He pulled himself up the slanting deck and took Sabel's bundled canvas. He tried to wrap it tightly about his own pack, to protect the precious texts from the monastery, before tying the bulk across his shoulders.

Welstiel never answered him, just threw his own pack full of arcane objects over his shoulder. Without hesitation, he shouted, "Come!" to his monks and vaulted the ship's rail.

Another loud crack exploded into the hull. Chane clutched the rail, waiting for the ship to settle, and then jumped overboard.