The plunder ship soon departed as it came, amid a storm of whirling fragments of our poor, shattered forest. A tornado leaned in its wake, as if Jijo’s own ghostly hand were reaching, clasping, trying to restrain it.

Alas, this departure was no cause for joy, for the crew vowed an early return. Surety of this promise squatted near the steaming scar where the ship had lain — a black cube, half an arrowflight wide, featureless save where a ramp led to a gaping hatch.

Nearby, two frail cloth pavilions had been transplanted from Gathering, at the request of star-gods who had stayed behind when their ship departed. One to serve as a place of liaison, and a large tent for “examining specimens.” Already a small foray party of star-humans worked under that canopy, feeding dark mysterious machines with samples of Jijoan life.

Shock still throbbed throughout the Commons. Despite unity-entreaties by their sages, the many septs and clans cleaved, each seeking shelter among its own kind. Emissaries darted among these cloistered groups, parleying in hushed secrecy. All save the youngest of the Six, whose envoys were rebuffed.

For the moment no one, not even the traeki, wants to speak to humans.

Around midafternoon, the river spilled into canyon country. As if remembering some urgent errand, the water hastened through a terrain of thorny scrub, clinging to eroded slopes. Sara recalled these badlands from childhood fossil-hunting trips with Dwer and Lark. Those had been good times, despite the heat, stale food, and gritty dust. Especially when Melina used to come along, before the final lingering illness that took her away, leaving Nelo an old man.

Their mother’s soft accent used to grow stronger, Sara recalled, the farther south they traveled. The open sky never seemed to cause her any dread.

In contrast, the crew of the Hauph-woa grew restless with each southward league, especially after the morning’s episode of inept piracy, by the shattered bridge. Clearly the hoon sailors would prefer tying up for the rest of the day under some rocky shelter. The captain reminded them, with a farty blat from his violet sac, that this was no leisurely dross run but an urgent mission for the Commons.

A prevailing west wind normally filled the sails of craft climbing upstream. In places where the river’s current pushed strongest, trusty hoon operators offered winch tows from cleverly camouflaged windmills-shaped like upright eggbeaters — that tapped the funneled breeze under cliff overhangs. But the first set of lonely vanes swept in and out of sight before anyone could emerge from the attached hut to answer their hails, and half a midura later, the overseer of the next windmill barely finished a rumbling courtesy-preamble before the river hauled the Hauph-woa beyond range.

Like the tug of time, Sara thought. Pulling you into the future before you’re ready, leaving behind a wake of regrets.

If only life let you catch a friendly tow rope now and then, to climb back into the past, offering a chance to change the flow of your own life-stream.

What would she do, with the last year or two to live over again? Could any amount of foresight have averted the sweet pain of giving her heart where it did not belong? Even with foreknowledge of Joshu’s nature, would or could she have rejected in advance all those months of heady joy, when she had pretended in her own mind that he could be hers alone?

Might any amount of prophecy have helped save his life?

An image came to her, unbeckoned and unwelcome out of memory. Recollection of the very day she fled Biblos Citadel, clutching her books and charts, rushing home to that treehouse overlooking Dolo Dam, to drown herself in study.

—black banners flapping in a zephyr that blew past the castle’s heavy roof-of-stone…

—murmur-kites, tugging at their tether strings, moaning their warbling lament during the mulching ceremony for Joshu and the other plague victims…

—a tall, fair-skinned woman, newly come by boat from far-off Ovoom Town, standing by Joshu’s bier, performing a wife’s duty, laying on his brow the wriggling . torus that would turn mortal flesh into gleaming, crystal dust…

—the poised, cool face of Sage Taine, rimmed by a mane of hair like Buyur steel, approaching to graciously forgive Sara’s year-long indiscretion… her “fling” with a mere bookbinder… renewing his offer of a more seemly union…

—her last sight of Biblos, the high walls, the gleaming libraries, with forest-topped stone overhead. A part of her life, coming to an end as surely as if she had died.

The past is a bitter place, said the Scrolls. Only the path of forgetfulness leads ultimately to redemption.

A sharp, horrified gasp was followed by a clatter and crash of fallen porcelain.

“Miss Sara!” an aspirated voice called. “Come quickly, please. All of you!”

She hurried from the starboard rail to find Pzora puffing in agitation, ers delicate arms-of-manipulation reaching out imploringly. Sara’s heart leaped when she saw the Stranger’s pallet empty, blankets thrown in disarray.

She spied him, backed between three barrel-caskets of human dross, clutching a jagged pottery shard. The wounded man’s eyes gaped, wide and wild, staring at the traeki pharmacist.

He’s terrified of Pzora, she realized. But why?

“Do not fear,” she said soothingly in GalSeven, stepping forward slowly. “Fear is inappropriate at this time.”

Eyes showing white above the irises, his gaze swung from her to Pzora, as if unable to picture the two of them in the same frame, the same thought.

Sara switched to Anglic, since some coastal human settlements used it almost exclusively.

“It’s all right. It is. Really. You’re safe. You’ve been hurt. Terribly hurt. But you’re getting better now. Really. You’re safe.”

Some words prompted more reaction than others. He seemed to like “safe,” so she repeated it while holding out her hand. The Stranger glanced anxiously at Pzora. Sara moved to block his view of the traeki, and some tension diminished. His eyes narrowed, focusing on her face.

Finally, with a resigned sigh, he let the jagged sliver fall from trembling fingers.

“That’s good,” she told him. “No one’s going to harm you.”

Though the initial flood of panic was over, the Stranger kept glancing toward the Dolo Village pharmacist, shaking his head with surprise and evident loathing.

“Bedamd… bedamd… bedamd…”

“Now be polite,” she chided, while sliding a folded blanket behind his head. “You wouldn’t be taking a nice boat trip to Tarek Town without Pzora’s unguents. Anyway, why should you be afraid of a traeki? Who ever heard of such a thing?”

He paused, blinked at her twice, then commenced another pathetic attempt to speak.

“A-jo… A-joph… j-j-jo-joph…”

Frustrated, the Stranger abruptly stopped stammering and shut his mouth, squeezing his lips in a tight, flat line. His left hand raised halfway to the side of his head- toward the bandage covering his horrible wound — then stopped just short, as if touching would make his worst fears real. The arm dropped and he sighed, a low, tremulous sound.

Well, he’s awake at least, Sara thought, contemplating a miracle. Alert and no longer feverish.

The commotion attracted gawkers. Sara called for them to move back. If a traeki could set off hysteria in the wounded man, what about the sight of a qheuenish male, with sharp clambering spikes up and down each leg? Even these days, there were humans who disliked having other members of the Six close by.

So the next sound was the last thing Sara expected to hear—