She turned the parchment pages carefully, silently mouthing the words as she read. Her full concentration focused on the tome before her as she studied and learned. Underlying her concentration was a powerful challenge burning at the core of her being.

She would be ready.

Thirty-second day, aboard the Falcon

Complaints and cowardice grow more apparent. This morning a near mutiny on Swallow. I sentenced two men to hang, commuted one, and watched the other swing.

Still nothing but the sea – not a bird nor a floating log to give us hint of land. The tumor of faithlessness must be controlled.

Evening. Now we've had wind drop away to nothing. The fleet sits with limp canvas, becalmed in the tropics. We must take action; we must do something!

"What are they doing?" Halloran asked, squinting into the setting sun. Falcon stood still in the water a few hundred yards away, her flaccid sails hanging in pathetic emphasis of their situation. The pennant of the Golden Legion hung straight down from the mainmast, its golden eagle concealed by listless contours of fabric.

The hour was late, but still the sun burned with a penetrating fire, casting nearly horizontal rays as it sank toward the western sea. No ripple disturbed the flat, lifeless surface of endless water.

"Eh? Who's doing what?" Daggrande put down his freshly oiled crossbow and joined Halloran.

"Look for yourself."

They saw the crew of the Falcon gathering amidships, leaving the raised afterdeck clear.

"That's the elf," spat Daggrande as a hooded figure emerged onto the Falcon's deck and climbed the steps to the rear. She stood alone there, turned away from the sun, away from the facing of the little fleet.

The sound of her voice carried across the water as she raised her hands and barked harsh syllables.

"Black magic, by Helm!" chuckled the dwarf. "That pointy – eared faerie might come in handy after all!"

"What magic?" Halloran felt a chill and was unable to shake off the feeling of eeriness. He remembered the magic of a decade before, the apparition that had claimed his tutor and sent Hal himself fleeing panic-stricken into the desert. He had used none of the few spells he knew since that fearful day. The feeling of his sword beneath his hand now gave him some comfort, but he could not shake his apprehension as he watched Darien finish her casting.

Abruptly the elven mage dropped her arms and ceased speaking. Halloran jumped, as startled by the sudden halt as he had been nervous during the casting.

For a moment, the supernatural stillness closed in again, no breath of wind stirring the water or the fleet. The sun seemed to touch the water as it set, and Halloran half – expected to hear the hissing of steam from the scalding contact that looked so near.

He felt it first as a cooling touch against his right cheek. He heard a sailor shout on one of the other ships, then saw a smattering of ripples spread in patches across the sea. The pennant of the Golden Legion suddenly stirred, offering a tantalizing glimpse of its proud eagle emblem.

Then the sail of the Falcon billowed outward, and Halloran felt the Osprey lurch beneath his feet. Their own sail came taut with a snap, and the caravel's timbers creaked and groaned under the increasing strain.

Soon a pleasant breeze pushed them briskly along. Fresh from the northeast, it filled the sails with its reassuring power.

Once again the Golden Legion sailed to the west.

The stream twisted through dense jungle, verdant foliage more entwined, more overpowering than Erix could have imagined. She rode with Kachin in a slender canoe. The cleric deftly handled a great fan of pluma, and the slow whirling of the feathermagic propelled the boat with a gentle grace among the vines and fronds and water lilies. The guards and slaves followed in two more canoes, larger craft propelled by the paddles of the passengers.

Kachin had earlier explained the nature of feathermagic, and its opposite power, talonmagic.

"The power of pluma is the magic of feathers. It flows from the Plumed God, Qotal, and is the stuff of beauty and air and flight." The cleric had wagged a pudgy finger at Erix, assuring that her attention remained fixed upon him. "It can armor the breast of an Eagle Knight or carry a litter along the ground – even propel a canoe through the water with its gentle force.

"The darker force of hishna is the magic of the jaguar's claw and the snake's fang. It, too, is magic of power, flowing from Zaltec instead of Qotal. It can armor the skin of a Jaguar Knight or render him invisible in a jungle thicket. It can send a message of doom or death great distances, from a wielder of hishna to another. It can be used to capture and hold or to kill."

"Which is mightier?" Erix had wanted to know.

"Both… and neither," came the cleric's cryptic reply. "The might of the magic depends more upon the skill of the user than the type of his power."

Thoughts of menacing talonmagic were difficult, in fact, impossible, to maintain here in the forest. Blossoms of tropical brilliance exploded from every bush, while birds cackled and cawed and screeched, their feathers shimmering with a thousand colors brighter than any she had ever seen. The green water slipped easily under the hull, and Erix remained awestruck at their verdant surroundings.

A week earlier, they had passed from the palm-covered savannah of Pezelac into the Payit jungles. In the ensuing time, they had stayed nightly in small huts within the confines of crude villages, after traveling long, hot miles through the encroaching flora. Sometimes they walked along narrow trails, where Erix still rode luxuriously in the pluma litter. At other times, they purchased canoes and followed the winding streams through the jungle, or occasionally used the craft to cross broad, shallow lakes. Always they were surrounded by verdant foliage.

Kachin delighted in showing her the medicinal herbs that the Payit used to defend against sickness, the sweet, nectar-laden flowers given to old men who sought godly visions, and the sumptuous leaves that could be cut to produce fresh, cool water.

Together with the beauties of plants and animals, she learned of the jungle's other side, a side of discomfort and darkness, of danger, poison, and death. She had cowered from a cloud of mosquitoes thick enough to obscure vision, she had seen spiders as big as her hand, and she had even heard the forlorn howl of the jaguar as the great cat went about its nocturnal hunt.

Kachin had shown her venomous serpents, blending invisibly into the dense growth. And one night, as the members of the party shared a hot, muddy hut, her spine had chilled to a bloodcurdling scream of impossible grief.

"Hakuna" grunted Kachin, refusing to explain.

Even so, the three warriors nervously fingered their spears and cast nervous glances out the door of the hut.

Then one day, after a week in the jungle, the cleric turned in the canoe and spoke with animation to Erix.

"Soon Ulatos!" he said, beaming, his wrinkled face growing even more creased from the strength of his smite. "You will like our city very much, I am sure!" He spoke in his own tongue, but Erix had little difficulty following him now.

"My temple is grand, you will see! And you will have quarters there fitting a princess of the Payit!"

She wanted to ask him about that temple, about his god. She wanted to know why she had been purchased so far away and brought here. But, as always before, she could not force the questions from her lips. Instead, she looked forward in skeptical curiosity as the city came into view. She wondered what it was that caused Ulatos to rate the title of city – perhaps a small stone building among the typical cluster of thatch huts?