He had no patience left for hero worship or shattered illusions. Perhaps now he understood why Brot'an'duive and other caste elders so often shied from the people. An'Croan saw their protectors in the garb of the Anmaglahk, but they knew little of what that life required.

And now he, too, was left in ignorance.

Sgaile had tried to ignore the growing animosity between Most Aged Father and Brot'an'duive. It seemed both had expectations for his current purpose-and neither had fully related these to him. He did not know who to trust, and this left him reeling.

All Anmaglahk must trust in each other, or their people would suffer from the discord.

He scanned the beach, spotting the hkomas near the hidden skiffs. The man must still be wondering why two anmaglahk would abandon a stranded crew for humans and a half-blood. But Sgaile had no time for guilt-driven explanations, as he headed over.

"Your steward is more traumatized by the death of your ship than the rest of your crew," he began. "Keep her close, and be certain she remains under watch for a few days."

The hkomas studied him and then slowly turned sad eyes to the empty sea.

"I never thought to see any Pairvanean, who blessed my clan, murdered by humans. Yes, Avranvard is young, and such a loss might be worse for her… I will watch over her."

Sgaile nodded with gratitude and walked back toward the campfire, but the exchange did nothing to ease his mind.

Magiere and Leshil had finished repacking and stood talking quietly. Leshil had suffered only minor scorches on his face and hands. In all other respects, he was well enough, but Sgaile remembered the state of Magiere's gloves. She no longer wore them.

Her bare hands were pale and unblemished-with no sign of burns.

Sgaile looked up quickly at her face, but she did not seem to notice. Dressed in breeches, hauberk, and coat, she hefted one pack.

"Can we get started?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, still staring at her.

Magiere returned her habitual scowl. "What?"

"Nothing."

A tall elven sailor hurried upslope, stopping in front of Sgaile.

"The hkomas says you go south… with the humans." And before Sgaile could respond, the sailor pulled off his thick cloak and held it out. "Take this and my gloves. I will not need them, as our people will come for us."

The cloak was deep brown, not dark shifting green-gray. Sgaile's exhaustion mounted at this sacrifice. The sailor did not know him; the man saw only a revered member of the Anmaglahk.

"I cannot."

"Please," the man said. "Do me this honor."

Sgaile almost flinched. His thoughts slipped once to a strange lesson his own jeoin, his teacher, had once told him.

What are we beyond how our people see us?

Young and ignorant, and still full of awe for his teacher, Sgaile had been unable to think of an answer. Years later, he overheard Brot'an'duive reiterate this lesson to a handful of new caste initiates, all still years away from seeking out their own jeoin.

We are more, we are less, Brot'an'duive admonished, and we are nothing but silence and shadow. All we can do is accept their hope in us with the humility it deserves.

This was the truth behind the litany of Anmaglahk-in silence and in shadows.

To serve, and not to place oneself above or below that service, no matter what shape or form it took. To be the silence of peace that surrounds duty, and the one who guards it from within the shadows.

Sgaile slowly reached out and grasped the cloak and gloves. "Thank you."

The sailor smiled with great relief and headed back for the beach. But the man's reverent act of kindness left Sgaile more burdened-more uncertain.

He wanted to slip away with his word-wood and speak to Most Aged Father, to somehow understand the patriarch's sudden lack of faith in him. Then he thought on Brot'an'duive's silent scheming and the Chein'as's gifts given to Leshil-Leshiarelaohk, so named by the ancestors. And a majay-hi, like those of ancient times, had thrown itself into the lives of a half-blood and a pale monster of a woman.

Stretched between too many paths, Sgaile had to choose one to follow.

"Are we going or not?" Magiere demanded.

Sgaile turned toward the beach. "Chap, it is time!"

Not long ago, the thought of calling a sacred majay-hi by a personal name would have shocked him.

Chap loped upslope, looking over Magiere and Leshil as Wynn and Osha joined them as well. The majay-hi glanced at the cookfires burning along the beach, where the crew prepared a good catch of clams. He released a groaning whine.

"We will find breakfast along the way," Sgaile assured him.

Chap grumbled and trotted off, and Magiere followed. As Leshil stepped in behind her, Sgaile noticed the tips of the Chein'as's winged blades peeking from his pack. Leshil's continued discomfort regarding the weapons was clear.

"May I wear your old blades?" Sgaile asked cautiously. "The new ones should take their place, and you will walk more easily with less weight."

Leshil cast a narrow-eyed glance over one shoulder. "Why don't you wear the new ones?"

It was more of a challenge than a question.

"I could not." Sgaile shook his head. "They were given to you."

"Oh, just do it, already!" Magiere snapped at Leshil. "You're the one who insisted I accept the dagger."

"They don't fit my sheaths," Leshil argued.

"I can make alterations," Sgaile countered, "while we walk."

For all the bitter ire in Magiere's voice, none showed on her face as she looked intently at Leshil.

"They're only weapons-nothing more," she said. "You choose what to do with them."

"Fine!" Leshil growled and dropped his pack. He jerked the tie straps of his old blades, pulled the gifted ones from his pack, and thrust both sets at Sgaile.

Sgaile took them, and Leshil hoisted his pack and pushed past Magiere after Chap.

Sgaile slipped Leshil's old blades from their sheaths. He handed both sets of blades to Osha, and, as they walked along the shore, he drew a stiletto and began altering the sheaths.

As he worked, he pondered this next leg of their journey-born not from hope but determination. He was tired of Magiere's and Leshil's ill-mannered petulance. Their mood proved infectious, and Sgaile grumbled under his breath as he cut leather.

By midday, Hkuan'duv was pacing the deck.

Avranvard had not contacted him at dawn, and he had called for anchor, not knowing how far ahead the other ship might be. Soon his concern gave way to open worry.

Danvarfij leaned with one hip against the rail-wall, watching him. "Can you not contact her instead?"

"No… I cannot risk revealing her presence, even to that ship's hkoeda and hkomas."

"Then cease stomping on the Pairvanean's back," she said. "You will disturb it."

He glared at her calm face, her skin like tea tinted with goat's milk. "Something is wrong."

"I know we cannot be seen," she returned, "but neither can we lose track of their ship."

"Inform the hkomas," he said. "But make certain our pace is cautious."

Danvarfij pushed off the rail-wall and headed for the aftcastle.

Hkuan'duv turned his gaze down the coast, feeling trapped by the constraints of his purpose. He was not accustomed to hiding from his people or those of his own caste.

Kurhkage emerged from the hatch below the forecastle, followed by A'harhk'nis. As always, the latter appeared deceptively spindly in his oversized cloak. Kurhkage fixed his one eye upon Hkuan'duv.

"We are moving," he said. "Have you received communication?"

Hkuan'duv shook his head. "We must attempt to locate the ship ourselves."

Danvarfij rejoined them, and all four headed up to the bow, scanning the waters ahead. Several crew members glanced at them, but no one spoke. The hkomas's strained voice rose in orders to his crew.