She kept at this until daylight waned, following Chap's huffs and barks to find fuel more quickly than she could by sight. In the end, they barely filled the bottom of the sack. Wynn decided to clean her hands in the sea and headed down for the beach.

When she emerged on the rocky shore, she did not see their camp. Rather than stop to wash just yet, she stepped farther out and looked both ways. She spotted the old downed tree to the north and headed off with Chap following. Before she was a stone's throw from camp, she slowed, and all thoughts of cleanliness emptied from her head.

Sgaile and Osha stood bent over in hip-deep water where the surf was calmer behind a rocky outcrop. They were bare to the waist, their cloaks and tunics lying high on the beach. A pile of silvery fish wriggled on the rocks near their clothing.

The two elves kept as still as trees with their hands sunk just below the water's surface. Their blond hair hung loose across their tan shoulders.

Osha dropped sharply, his arms spearing deep into the water.

He straightened, droplets spraying off his wet arms, and a flat gray form thrashed in his hands. He waded quickly toward the beach, and when the foaming surf receded to his shins, he flung the captured flounder onto the gravel.

"How many?" he asked in Elvish.

Wynn started and then hurried over to the pile. "Um… eight."

But Osha had already waded back out to Sgaile, and they spoke too low for her to hear over the surf.

Wynn kept staring. Osha seemed different-less awkward, almost graceful in the undulating water, catching fish with his bare hands. He turned back with Sgaile and they waded toward her and stepped smoothly out of the surf.

Wynn fidgeted with a strange nervous energy, as if Osha were a stranger. Half-dressed, with the ends of wet silken hair clinging to his shoulders, he looked so…

"What is wrong?" he asked.

Wynn swallowed. "Nothing… um… we will never eat all these tonight."

"There are ways to make it last longer," Osha answered with a smile.

He and Sgaile began pulling on their tunics. Wynn looked away until they finished.

"Can you carry our cloaks?" Osha asked and, without waiting, he snatched up the remaining catch and headed off after Sgaile.

"Of course," Wynn answered, but as she crouched to pick them up, she spotted Chap.

He was squatting on the gravel, watching her intently, and then glanced once after Osha before wrinkling his brows at her. A heated blush spread over Wynn's face.

"Just keep your muzzle shut!" she said and quickly bundled up the cloaks to stalk off.

Back at camp, Leesil had started the fire and already boiled water for tea. Magiere leaned against the fallen tree. She faced toward the south.

Sgaile and Osha set to cleaning fish over a hole they had dug in the gravel. Once done, they buried the waste and spitted several fish to roast over the flames. They hung the rest of their catch higher above the fire's rising smoke. Osha produced a small pouch and pinched out a green powder. He rubbed this all over the hanging fish.

Chap whined and licked his muzzle.

"Not long now," Sgaile said.

"Why so much?" Leesil asked. "The extra won't smoke or even dry fully by morning."

"Yes-they will," Sgaile answered. "Osha is using powdered cl'leichiojh."

"Woodridge?" Wynn asked. "The tree growths Osha showed me on our journey through your land?"

Sgaile nodded.

"Hold on," Leesil cut in. "He's rubbing fungus all over our food?"

Sgaile shook his head. "It is edible and has astringent properties. We must build food stores before reaching the high range Magiere seeks."

Magiere continued staring south, her features intently drawn. Her fingers kept clutching and scraping absently upon the dead tree's gray wood. Wynn exchanged a glance of mutual concern with Sgaile. Fortunately the water reached boiling, and they set to making tea.

For the first time, Wynn was genuinely glad Sgaile had chosen to come with them.

And Osha as well.

Welstiel had rested through the day in the makeshift tent Chane had rigged among the beach-top trees, but he had not fallen dormant. He still possessed enough elixir to keep him conscious for many days, so he'd merely remained quiet until Chane and the ferals roused. Now the monks crawled to their hands and knees around him. Despite their long swim, their tabards were still bloodstained.

"She has a long lead," Chane said. "Likely traveling all day."

Welstiel knew Chane's true thoughts were not fixed on Magiere but rather on his little scholar, Wynn. Such a trivial matter did not deserve attention. He left the tent and walked through the growing darkness down to the gravel beach, to crouch and pull out his domed brass plate.

"Straight south," Chane said, standing over him. "Between the Blade Range and the ocean, she can only follow the shore."

"For now," Welstiel responded.

He stood up, not liking having Chane at his back, and decided not to scry for Magiere. It would be pointless so early in her journey. His main concern was to follow her closely enough not to miss any major course change-and yet keep his group beyond her or Chap's range of awareness. A fine line to walk.

The monks clambered downslope, sniffing the shore air.

"Have them pack up," Welstiel said. "We will start as soon as they finish."

Despite recent events, he believed himself in a good position. Still unaware of his presence, Magiere was moving onward.

The sister of the dead will lead you.

Of his former patron's taunts, this one phrase held true. He would allow her to lead, without needing to rein her in under his control.

Two ferals mewled softly in agitation. Jakeb began slapping a tree with his hand and then motioning southward. Sabel grabbed Chane's arm.

"Chhhhhaaan," she slurred, and dragged Chane a short distance past Jakeb's tree.

"What is it?" Welstiel asked.

"I do not know," Chane answered. "Their senses are stronger than mine, even when…"

He fell silent, his nostrils flaring wide as he looked off through the trees.

"Life?" Chane whispered. "They could not be so close and… wait… it is gone."

Welstiel hurried over. Chane's sense of smell was more developed than his own, but Welstiel doubted Magiere could be this close-or could she? His concern turned to anxiety.

Had she or one of her companions been injured? Or had something else delayed her? He could not allow Magiere to learn of his group's presence; she must not have warning.

"Wait here," he said. "Keep the monks quiet. Get them back in the tents if I do not return by dawn."

"By dawn?" Chane asked in surprise. "Where are you going?"

"Do as I instruct!"

He pushed past along the rough forested slope, staying clear of the beach. If Magiere was ahead, his ring would hide him from her. He caught only glimpses of the ocean as he worked his way south. Then he began sniffing about for himself, until he finally picked up a scent.

He crept on, and the odor sharpened more frequently on the unpredictable ocean breeze twisting through the foliage. Then it seemed to surround him from within the trees, and he halted, peering about with his senses fully opened.

Life-blood filled his nostrils, but it was different and faintly familiar- earthy and rich, yet less musky than a human's. He closed his eyes, with the scent filling his head, waiting for a triggered memory…

Of the lower levels of Darmouth's keep.

A tall figure clad in a green-gray cloak carrying another over his shoulder.

Welstiel opened his eyes.

He smelled elves.

He stepped onward, and the scent broke and faded in the breeze. So he reversed until it strengthened once more. And yet he saw nothing. He turned all the way around.