Despite her hope for a little conversation to pass the time, she spoke little to Master Larad as they rode. The Runelord seemed intent on studying the landscape, the trees, and the plants. All would be exotic to a man born and raised in the far north, and were no doubt intriguing to his inquisitive mind. Grace decided not to lament the silence. After all, she had other matters to mull over.

Do not trust the dervish . . . the desert changes a man . . .

What had Sareth meant by those words? Did he believe Hadrian Farr to be dangerous in some way?

All dervishes are dangerous, Grace. By definition. They’re people who’ve shunned the laws and ethics of their society in order to learn ancient secrets of sorcery. There’s no way you can trust someone like that. They’ve already shown they’re not beholden to anything. Anything except the quest for knowledge, for power.

Only Farr hadn’t given up the laws of his society. He wasn’t one of the Mournish; he was from Earth. And while she supposed it was possible Farr did crave power, she thought it more likely his thirst for knowledge had compelled him to become a dervish. Farr was a Seeker through and through; more than anything he wanted to learn, to comprehend mysteries no other person before him had. That wouldn’t change just because he somehow found a way to Eldh.

Or would it? He has worked blood sorcery, and he cannot possibly be the same as you knew him. . . .

Perhaps. But had she ever really known Hadrian Farr anyway? He had helped her, yes. First on that October night when all of this began, when he aided her escape from the ironheart detective at the police department, and again when she and Travis returned to Denver in a desperate attempt to save Beltan’s life. But while he had had files and photos and documents about her, she had nothing to tell her about Farr. Other than his eyes, she still could not picture him in her mind. He was like a vague silhouette, wreathed in cigarette smoke and lit from behind. What would she say to him when she saw him? She didn’t know. All the same, a thrill ran through her when she thought of seeing him again, of being close to him. Unconsciously, she urged Shandis into a swifter pace.

Late that afternoon, as they neared the port city of Kalos, one of the T’golreappeared; it was the woman, Kylees.

“Avhir has gone ahead to arrange passage on a ship,” the assassin said. She resembled Vani only in that she was lean in her black leathers, and her dark hair was closely cropped. She was smaller than Vani, even petite. Clad in one of the colorful dresses favored by young Mournish women, she would appear pretty and vulnerable. Grace had no doubt many large, strong, foolish men had thought the same thing. Just before their necks snapped.

“Is Rafid with Avhir?” Grace asked.

The T’golscowled. “Do you think I am not strong enough to protect you as well as Rafid or Avhir if your pursuer appears?”

That wasn’t what Grace had meant. She had only been trying to be polite.

“Keep close,” Kylees said, and moved swiftly down the road.

Grace did as instructed. She had told Avhir about the shadow that had followed them, and though they had seen no signs of pursuit, it was a good idea to stay vigilant.

They reached the city just as the sun melted into the sea. Kalos was situated on a narrow peninsula that formed the southern tip of the continent of Falengarth, and so was surrounded by water on three sides. On the east, tall cliffs formed a deep harbor, and this—along with the fact that the Summer Sea was narrower here than anywhere else—made Kalos a bustling city of traders, merchants, pilgrims, and other travelers. It was a good place to begin a journey. And to lose pursuit.

Avhir appeared as they rode through the city’s gates. “I have found a ship to bear us across the sea,” he said to Grace. “Tonight we will stay at a hostel in the Merchant’s Quarter. Try not to speak to anyone, but if you must, tell them you are the daughter of a northern spice trader and that you are here on an errand of business for him.”

That wasn’t going to be a problem. Grace didn’t plan on engaging in any idle chitchat with the locals. When they reached the hostel, they retired at once to their rooms and did not leave again until first light, when they set out for the shipyards. Though the sun had not yet risen, Kalos was already awake and bustling with activity. Grace bought dates from a smiling, toothless man, and she and Master Larad made a breakfast of them as they rode through the city.

They were nearly to the docks when Grace saw a man in a white robe surrounded by a crowd of people. She supposed he was a priest of one of the Mystery Cults, preaching to a group of followers. However, as she and Larad drew nearer, she saw that the man’s white robe was dirty and ragged, and that it did not bear a holy symbol of any of the New Gods. Instead, a blotch as black as old blood was painted on the center of robe, over his heart. The man was speaking, his voice chantlike, but the people gathered around him seemed not to listen; instead, they stared at the ground or into thin air with slack expressions. They were filthy, their faces darkened by flies.

“You!” the man said, his voice rising into a shout. He was pointing at Grace and Larad. “Do not think you can flee it on a ship! It does not matter where you go. The Mouth will eat you.”

Grace pulled on the reins, bringing Shandis to a halt. He was right. What did she think she was doing? There was no point in going south across the sea. Nothing she could do would change anything. She started to nudge Shandis toward the man in the dirty white robe.

“Come, Sai’ana Grace.” The air rippled, and Avhir was there, gripping Shandis’s bridle. “The ship is ready to sail.”

Grace blinked, and the torpor fell away from her, replaced by urgency. Yes, they had to go at once. She and Larad rode after Avhir as the T’golled the way into the dockyards.

The ship Avhir had arranged for their passage was a sleek two-masted spice trader. It reminded her of the Fate Runner, the ship on which she had first journeyed to Tarras and which had carried her back north, only to founder and sink off the coast of Embarr after they were attacked by Onyx Knights. She thought about Captain Magard, and his rough, kindly humor. And the way he had died in the keep of Seawatch—the same keep where Lord Elwarrd had died rather than let his ironheart mother deliver Grace to the Pale King.

For a short while, Grace had almost believed she could love Elwarrd—if that was even something she was capable of. It was only now, as she thought of him for the first time in years, that she realized how much the handsome, dark-eyed lord had reminded her of Hadrian Far. . . .

“Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” Larad asked as they dismounted at the end of the pier.

Yes, Grace suddenly realized, there was. “I forgot about Shandis and Glumly. What are we going to do with them? We can’t just leave them here.”

Larad looked as if he would be perfectly content to leave the mule behind, but Grace sighed, stroking both Glumly’s and Shandis’s muzzles. Fortunately, she had worried for nothing.

“I have hired a courier to return your mounts to the Mournish,” Avhir said, appearing out of thin air, and Grace was too grateful for his words to be annoyed at the way the T’golhad startled her.

“That was kind of you,” she said.

He waved the words aside with a long hand. “It was not done out of kindness. You must focus on your fate. Your mind must not be distracted by petty concerns such as the welfare of an animal.”

Grace didn’t care what he said. It feltlike kindness. She kissed Shandis’s flat face and tried not to cry. “Lirith will take good care of you,” she said, then she stepped back as a young man led the honey-colored mare and the mule away.