Leesil scanned the waters. "He's right. Especially if any of the other crew survived… and made it to shore."

The skill of swimming came back to Chane. As a boy, his father had taught him-if "teaching" was the right word for being tossed into a cold lake, with rope around his waist to keep him from drowning.

He swam a northward course behind Welstiel several lengths ahead. Hopefully far enough not to be seen when they came ashore-and not to be sensed by Magiere or Chap. His cloak and gear made the process difficult, but neither the cold nor the lack of air concerned him. At first he held his breath, as in his living days. When he finally gasped reflexively, opening his mouth, water surged into his lungs. He choked in panic, but it was only an unpleasant sensation, no longer harmful to a dead man.

Finally, the sea floor rose into sight.

Chane followed Welstiel's lead, clawing along the bottom until there was not enough depth to bother staying submerged. They broke the surface amid the surf, and Chane's soaked cloak became a massive weight. He was halfway up the rocky beach before he stopped, bent over, and vomited salt water from his dead lungs. As he finished stripping off his pack and cloak, the ferals emerged from the water.

One by one, pale faces rose from the dark surf as they shambled from the sea to the shore. Sabel had gone over the side just before Chane, but she was last to emerge, just behind Jakeb.

Chane shook his head and hands, trying to clear some of the seawater, and he turned his gaze south.

"Are we far enough?" he asked. "Will she sense us?"

Welstiel stared off along the shore. "Yes, we are safe from detection… if Magiere survived."

He sounded less than certain, which brought Chane pleasure at first. If Magiere were dead, Welstiel would suffer, perhaps never finding his coveted treasure. Anything that wounded Welstiel was now sweet to Chane, but he quickly lost the taste of it.

If Magiere had not survived, what chance could Wynn have?

"Check now!" Chane hissed. "Get out that damned dish of yours!"

Welstiel turned with a sharp glance. "My exact intention."

He crouched, opening his waterlogged pack, and drew out the domed brass plate, shaking it several times to scatter clinging droplets of water. With his back turned, he drew his dagger. Chane could not see anything as Welstiel chanted softly.

Welstiel lifted his head, facing south and away for Chane.

"She lives… and she is a short distance away."

These words only made Chane burn silently.

"But that says nothing," Welstiel added, "concerning your little sage."

Chane could not go see for himself-not without being detected and hunted. Not without Welstiel's protection, or rather that of his ring of nothing. And the situation could grow even worse if the ferals came after him or were discovered. He wanted those creatures nowhere near Wynn-if she lived.

Dawn was half a night off, but they would travel no farther. The mortals would sleep, and tomorrow at dusk, Welstiel would verify which direction Magiere had taken.

"I will find us a camp," Chane hissed and stalked off into the trees.

Sgaile awoke groggy and weak at the first streaks of dawn, but he remained silent until the others began to stir. To his surprise, the fire was still burning-someone had fed it regularly during the night. He sat up and found Osha squatting beyond the circle of bedrolls, keeping vigil.

Sgaile said nothing, though he wondered if he had been too harsh on his young student the night before.

His breeches were still damp, but his tunic and boots were reasonably dry by the fire. As the crew roused, daylight brought a sense of greater safety, and some wandered closer to the beach. Soon they had cookfires burning while others searched for wild berries or sea life along the beach's rock jetties. He watched their quiet attendance to necessities, until the hkomas approached.

The man's burns looked worse in the morning light. He made no mention of pain, but Sgaile knew better.

"We will travel the coastline," the hkomas said. "The forest here is dense, and we are too near human lands. We will be safer the farther north we go, though we must keep to the shore for our ships to find us."

Sgaile agreed but hesitated. "I travel south with my charges, as required by guardianship."

The hkomas's amber eyes flickered in surprise. All an'Croan respected the tradition of guardianship, but perhaps the hkomas thought Sgaile's protection of his own people should take precedence. With a frown, he turned away toward the beach.

Sgaile sighed and looked about to check on his charges. Wynn was again dressed in her loose elven clothing with the pant legs rolled up. She and Osha foraged for berries with the crew, while Magiere and Leshil inventoried the belongings they had salvaged before abandoning ship. Thankfully they had also retrieved the gifts of the Chein'as.

Strangest of all, Magiere had the dagger tucked into her belt at the small of her back. Its hilt was complete with leather strapping over the living wood that Sgaile had requested from the ship's hkoeda. He wondered how and when she had retrieved it.

Chap scrambled among the crew who were digging for clams. He sniffed about the beach, barking loudly now and then. At his call, crewmen came to dig where he stood. This morning, Sgaile's people did not seem to mind humans, half-bloods, or a wayward majay-hi in their midst. He was about to join in the foraging when the hkomas's young steward cautiously approached him.

"I am called Avranvard," she said.

"I know who you are," Sgaile replied and finished pulling on his boots.

The girl's eyes widened briefly. "May I speak with you… Sgailsheilleache?"

He stopped, suddenly uncomfortable. Something in this young woman's tense manner troubled him.

"Of course," he answered.

She gestured toward the clearing's edge, away from the camp. "In private."

He had little strength left for intrigue, but he followed her beyond earshot. At first she would not look him in the eye.

"I must come with you on your journey."

Sgaile's discomfort increased. "Your place is with your crew and hkomas. But do not fear. One of our ships will come for all of you."

Avranvard shook her head. "I am not concerned for my safety. I… I was sent by Most Aged Father to watch the humans and report."

"That is impossible," he stated flatly. "You are not Anmaglahk."

"I will be," she answered and finally raised her eyes to his. "Most Aged Father sent me-gave me this purpose. I must come with you."

She was so plainspoken and steadfast that Sgaile almost believed her. He felt the blood drain from his face. How could Most Aged Father place an untrained girl in this position? And why send someone to report on those under Sgaile's guardianship… as if he could not be trusted?

Avranvard's young face grew troubled. "Sgailsheilleache?"

He glared down at her until she began to fidget.

"Listen carefully," he said, exerting calm into his voice. "You will remain with your crew and make your way with them back to our lands. Do otherwise, and I will expose you to your hkomas. Do you understand?"

"But… I have a purpose… from Most Aged Father! There is another-"

"You will serve no purpose at all," Sgaile cut in sharply, "should your hkomas and all the seafaring clans learn of your subterfuge among them. Your duty is to your hkomas and crew!"

He grabbed her by the wrist, prepared to haul her back to camp, but she broke free before he took three steps. She shifted toward the beach, watching him with a pained shake of her head as if her world had turned over and was not as it should be.

Sgaile remained silent and stern. Avranvard turned and ran.