M

Finally, the Praetor pulled his cowl back over his head dismis-sively and turned away. “Go now. Listen and study. We must be ready for her.”

Greshym began to swing around, but the tall man spoke again. “And take better care of your servant. He reeks like rotting fish.”

Joach would have flinched and blushed at these words, but instead his body continued to stand, slack and dumb, beside the darkmage.

“Why do you keep the boy anyway?” he continued. “Be rid of him.” Greshym scowled. “I think not. Like the Blood Diary, the boy is a card whose value is yet unknown in this game. I’ll keep him until our hand is fully played.”

The Praetor walked to the window and waved them away. “Then at least clean him up.” Greshym bowed his head slightly and turned on a heel. Leaning on his staff, the old mage limped toward the large ironbound oaken door. “Follow me,” he snapped at Joach.

The boy’s legs obeyed, and Joach shambled in the darkmage’s wake.

In his head, though, Joach reviewed their words. He knew whom the two had been speaking about. The wit’ch had to be his sister Elena.

He sobbed quietly in his empty skull. His sister yet lived! It had been so many moons since he had heard mention of her. He had not known if she had died in Winterfell or what had become of her. Now he knew! Elena was free.

But as much as this relieved him, a greater fear gripped his heart. Elena was coming here! She would be captured or killed. He remembered his promise to his father before he and Elena had fled their burning home: to protect his younger sister. And he meant to keep that promise! But how could he? He couldn’t even keep from fouling himself.

His body shambled after its master, but in his head, he railed against the chains that bound him. He must find a way out of this imprisonment and stop his sister from coining here.

Yet, regardless of his passion, his legs still kept following the darkmage’s footsteps, and drool once again rolled from his cracked lips and dripped from his chin.

How? Joach cried in his head. How am I to brea^free? Where was the door out of one’s own skull?

Greshym limped back through the corridors that led to his room. His mind seethed with black thoughts.

How dare Shorkan order him about like some low servant! He had once been the man’s teacher! Of course that was long ago, and they had been different men—whole men, before the forging of the Blood Diary had split their spirits.

Now Greshym hardly recognized his former student. Had he himself changed as much? He didn’t think so. After imbuing half his spirit in the book’s forging, he was still the same man, only now he was able to think more clearly, able to see his heart’s desires more keenly. He now had no nagging doubts about facing his innermost lusts. Once, guilt and regret had tied his hands, and sorrow and pain had guided his acts. Now he walked free, unfettered by constricting emotions, able to loose his baser desires and pursue his lusts with all his energies. He now dabbled freely in the blackest arts just to see what would happen, his ears deaf to screams and pleas for mercy. The forging of the book had opened his spirit to all its secret demons, allowing him to rejoice in them without shame, to pursue them without guilt, finally to live his life true. The book had freed him.

He cursed under his breath as he struggled down the stair. So why had he lied to Shorkan about his real reason for his interest in the Diary’s destruction? It was not, as he had explained, to keep the wit’ch from gaining it. No, he wanted the book destroyed for his own selfish reason.

He spat on the dusty floor. He had lied because Shorkan would never understand. The fool seemed content with his wounded spirit. . And why shouldn’t he be content? Shorkan had everything. Not only did he have boundless power and the freedom of an unlocked heart, but he also had something Greshym did not: youth.

Shorkan never aged. He appeared the same black-haired young man as when the book was forged, still vital with youthful energy. The passing of winters had left him untouched. Whereas, due to some trick in the magicks, Greshym’s body had continued to age. His joints grew hoary with pain, his eyes bloomed with cataracts, and his hair fell from his wrinkling skin.

Whenever Greshym saw Shorkan standing tall and handsome in ¦‘, his tower room, his heart burned with the injustice. This disparity ’

ore on him as his body declined. Like water dripping on rock, it dug a well of discontent deeper and w

deeper into his spirit.

He had been treated most foully and was determined to reverse this injustice. Over the centuries, he had studied the black arts in secret—reading texts bound in runes, practicing on small animals and children—until at long last he had come upon a method to regain his youth. It could work, but it first required freeing his spirit’s other half—and to do that, the book must be destroyed!

To this end, he would let nothing stand in his way. He cared naught for his allegiances to the Dark Lord, nor for his promises to Shorkan. His unfettered heart felt no compulsion to obey these two who thought themselves his masters. The book had freed him to act on his heart’s desires, and in this matter, too, he would do as his spirit willed.

Greshym continued through the halls of the sprawling Edifice, striking the oak of his staff hard on the stone.

Let all who stood in his way burn!

He stopped at the crossing of two halls and leaned heavily on his staff as he glanced down each hall. As he stood, breathing harshly through clenched teeth, his shoulder was bumped from behind, almost knocking him down. Twisting around, he swung on his assailant.

It was only the cursed boy. He snapped his staff forward and struck the boy across the ribs. “Keep back from me,” he hissed.

Unfazed, the boy did not even blink, just stumbled a step away then stood staring at him with that omnipresent glaze in his eyes.

Greshym swung back to study the hallways. The boy was like a rash on his skin: always there, a constant irritation. He shook his head, dismissing the irritation, and considered the choice of halls. His hips ached, and the thought of his soft bed tempted him back to his cell, but if he was ever to regain strength and vigor in his limbs, now was not the time to listen to complaining joints.

With the wit’ch under way, he must delay no further. Who knew how long before she came knocking on the door to the Edifice? If he was to succeed, he had to begin now. Decided, he set off down the hallway to the right.

“Follow,” he called to the boy, “but keep one pace away from me!” The hall led away from his room and toward the Grand Courtyard. Greshym scowled at the thought of crossing the decaying park contained within the walls of the courtyard. While he reveled in its rotted wood and brine-choked roots, its occasional cluster of thriving green leaves or single bright blossom always reminded him of its former grandeur. These shards of past glories galled him and sickened his belly with old memories. Yet this was not the real reason he detested the Grand Courtyard. In truth, a small part of him feared the place. Traces of Chyric magick, sustained and preserved over the centuries, still lay like pools of poison among the gardens.

The Grand Courtyard, nestled in the center of the Edifice, had been the nexus of Chyric power for the entire city. It was the root from which all of A’loa Glen grew. Though the city itself was now long dead, echoes of its magicks still whispered along its garden paths.

Greshym pulled his shoulders tighter together. He hated the place. Yet, this day, he had no choice but to walk its paths. The only way to the catacombs was through the courtyard.

He continued down the long hall with the boy in tow. Footsore, his ankles throbbing, his heart beating like a scared rabbit in his chest, he finally reached the gilt-and-glass doors that led to the courtyard.

The two doors towered twice the height of a man and contained an inlay of stained glass and crystal that formed a pair of the entwining branches of a rose bush, its thorns glistening in the afternoon sunlight. The roses themselves were crafted from ruby and heartstone— the twin symbols of the Order. Whole townships could be bought for the price of one of those roses.

Flanking the doors, two guards bearing long swords stood to either side of the threshold. One stepped forward and swung open the door for the white-robed brother.

Nothing was denied a brother of the Order.

Greshym bowed his head in thanks and passed through the portal into sunlight. The boy followed in his usual shambling gait. Squinting, he looked into the Grand Courtyard and remembered another reason he hated the place. Speckled like white mold on an old corpse, others of his white-robed brethren moved through the relic of a garden. He had forgotten how crowded the courtyard could be, especially when the sea mists lifted and the sunlight shone brightly. He suppressed a groan and stepped farther within the garden. “Brother Greshym?” A voice rose to his left. He heard the scrape of loose rock as someone stood up near the edge of one of the graveled paths. “How delightful to see you up and about! The sun has been drawing out everyone today.”

Greshym turned toward the speaker, but he kept the edge of his JAMES

wl tilted down to partially hide his face. How had the cursed fool recognized him? Then he remembered co

the boy. Of course, everyone knew his doltish servant. Even now he saw the man glance pitifully at the spell-cast boy.

“Why, Brother Treet,” Greshym answered, attempting to squeeze the irritation out of his voice. “A truly handsome day it is. How could I resist? My old bones were craving warmth and dragged me down here.”

The pudgy man, his cowl thrown open to the sunshine, smiled. Hair the color of dried mud lay sparse on his exposed pate, and his eyes were too far apart. He looked like a surprised cow, Greshym thought.

Suddenly the balding man’s eyes widened. “Oh! Then you haven’t heard!“

Greshym inwardly groaned. Gossip ran like wild dogs through the halls of the Edifice, thrashing all in its path. He did not have time for this nonsense and pretended not to hear the man’s words. At his age it was easy feigning deafness. “I… I should be going before my ol‘ legs give out on me. This winter’s damp still has a grip on my creaking knees.” He leaned heavily on his staff in emphasis.

“Why then, a little walk in the gardens is just what you need,” Brother Treet said consolingly. “I’ll come with you.”

“How kind, but there’s no need. I have my boy here.” He began to turn away.

“Nonsense. I must take you to see the koa’kona tree. You can’t miss this.” Greshym almost cringed at his words. “I don’t have time—”

“Ah, then you truly haven’t heard, have you?” The glee of someone with a secret to reveal was rich in Brother Treet’s voice. “Come. Come see. It’s wondrous. An omen of good fortune.” As much as Greshym balked at stepping within a stone’s throw of the monstrous dead tree in the center of the gardens, Brother Treet’s excitement piqued his curiosity. What was the daft man spewing about?

“What is this talk of good omens?”

“I won’t ruin the surprise. You must see for yourself.” Brother Treet led the way down a gravel path, his sandals crunching loudly in the quiet garden.

Greshym followed the pudgy man. Hiding his scowl, he waved the boy to stay near his heels. Of all the traces of ancient Chyric

magicks, the koa’kona tree at the garden’s heart was the most potent. Its limbs had once stretched far into the sky, higher than any of the city’s spires. Before dying, its trunk had grown so thick that ten men with linked arms could not circle its girth. The mighty tree had once shaded the entire garden under its green-and-silver leaves, and at night, its purple blossoms would open and begin glowing like a thousand sapphire stars.

To the people of A’loa Glen, the tree had been the living heart of the city.

Yet, as majestic as the tree appeared, it was nothing compared to its roots, poking like massive gnarled knees near its base. The roots dug deep into the island and spread like a web under the city. To those in power, here lay the true heart of the city. The old mages of A’loa Glen would concentrate their magick into the tree’s roots, creating a living nexus of energy. Then the roots’ thousand branches, crisscrossing and winding under the city, would spread the magick throughout A’loa Glen, sustaining its spell-cast spires and other impossible wonders. But that was long ago.

As he marched after his fellow brother, Greshym stared up at the long-dead tree and felt a twinge of sympathy. Time had been no kinder to the tree than to Greshym. After the fall of A’loa Glen, the tree had succumbed to the ravages of passing winters and the loss of sustaining magick. Now the tree was a skeleton of tiered branches, most of its limbs long rotted and fallen to decay. Occasionally though, like a dying man opening his eyes to peek one last time at the world, a few leaves would grow in small clumps on one branch or another. But it had been ages since even that had occurred. The tree was now just a lifeless monument.

But dead or not, Greshym still shied from its presence. Whispers of ancient magicks seemed drawn to the tree, hanging about its branches like moss. Though these traces of ancient magicks were weak, there was still danger. It was an intricate weaving of black magicks that kept death from Greshym’s heart, a fine web of power and blood, and even a passing drift of Chyric magick could unravel or weaken a part of the complex black spell that sustained him.

So Greshym had learned to walk with care among the decaying gardens of the Grand Courtyard, especially near the koa’kona tree. But this day, he did not have much choice. Though his mission to the catacombs required traveling the edges of the courtyard, it was curi-JAMES

ity that drew him toward its heart. He knew better than to risk such a path, but when his blood oS

developed a desire, Greshym was t easily dissuaded. So he followed Brother Treet deeper and deeper nO

into the gardens, passing other brethren along the way.

Greshym noted that as he neared the tree the number of white-robed brothers who gathered there grew, becoming a solemn pilgrimage to the tree. Some brothers led others, heads bowed in whispers, while others walked singly, eyes raised toward the barren branches. What was luring such numbers of his studious brethren?

With each labored step, his curiosity grew. Why hadn’t he heard of any of this? Anger became mixed with curiosity. He stared at the sheer number of white robes descending on the tree. Why had he heard nothing?

As if reading his thoughts, Brother Treet answered. “It just appeared this morning. But news is traveling fast.”

“What?” Greshym snapped, no longer capable of feigning an affable good nature.

Brother Treet glanced toward him at his sharp retort.

Greshym collected himself and waved the man on. “I’m sorry, Brother Treet. It’s my old joints complaining and being testy. I’m afraid this trip may not have been a good idea.” His words seemed to console his guide. “No worries, Brother. We’re here.” Treet turned forward and gently pushed the gathered men aside. “Make room,” he scolded. “Let an older brother through.” The sea of robes parted. Brother Treet stepped aside to allow Greshym to pass forward. “It’s a sign, an omen,” he said breathlessly as Greshym limped past. “I just know it!” Greshym feigned a misstep, crushing Brother Treet’s foot with his staff as he struggled among the gawkers. Only the sinking gravel kept the man’s toes from breaking, but the pain purpled his pudgy face.

Greshym continued on as if unaware of the harm he had caused. He finally reached the shadow of the tree’s trunk.

Around him hushed voices whispered in prayer and astonishment. Just overhead—Greshym had to crane his neck backward—a low-hanging branch ended in a small cluster of green leaves.

Greshym scowled. It had been almost two decades since the tree had sprouted any growth. A stray breeze fluttered the patch of leaves, their silvery undersides flashing and dancing in the sun. The crowd murmured in awe at the sight.

Is this what drew them all? From within his cowl, Greshym grimaced his disdain. A handful of leaves!

He was about to turn away when brightness caught his eye. Buried within the cluster of leaves, a spark of color flashed—a sapphire blazing in a fluttering sea of green and silver. A purple blossom! Curled and closed in slumber, it rocked gently on its branch.

Greshym stared in shock, his bleary eyes struggling to understand. The koa’kona had not bloomed in over two hundred winters! Yet there it was! Hanging and rolling in the sea breeze, a lone jewel from the distant past.

He backed a step away. He suddenly felt it: like a chill that passes down a spine, raising the smallest hairs. He backed another step, bumping into the boy who stood ever present at his shoulder. Too stunned to scold, he just herded the boy behind him as he retreated. But the chilling sense of danger crept after him. He recognized his unease—and its source. It was Chyric power, white magick, flowing out from the single bright blossom. He had not felt its touch so strong since ages long lost.

His eyes wild, his staff knocking knees and shins, he stumbled back as the crowd surged forward, their voices suddenly rising loud with astonishment.

“Sweet Mother!” someone called at his shoulder. “It is a miracle!” another exclaimed in wonder. All about him, voices echoed these words. Somewhere a bell began ringing.

Greshym’s heart clamored in his breast; his breath choked him. He stared in horror.

Overhead, the blossom’s petals slowly opened. A gentle light glowed from their heart, brightening the petals with a soft azure luminescence. Greshym recognized this gentle radiance. It was the glow of Chi.

JOACH STUMBU* BACKWARD THB

AS

DARKMAGE HERDED HIM AWAY FRQM

the ree If not for the press of the other white-robed brothers he would have fallen over his own topping feet. His legs felt numb and

eet fW Z PinPuCkS- ^ rCaChed Ůt ^ dutched « ^e sleeve of a neighbonng brother to secure his stance, but even his fin

gers, numb and tingling, failed him, and cloth slipped from his palm A choking gasp escaped his throat as he realized what was happening. Thankfully, the rattling noise was lost in the commotion of raised voices around him. No eyes looked in his direction. His vision squeezed toward darkness as he moved one limb, then another. First, he took a step back, then raised his hand before his face and clenched his hand into a fist.

Free! Sweet Mother, he was free of his prison! His body was once again his own.

The tingling in his flesh quickly faded to echoes along his bones as the spell of binding unraveled. Unsure what had freed him, Joach continued to retreat through the crowd, the darkmage backing with him. So far, Greshym had failed to notice the change.

A skinny white-robed brother turned in his direction as he bumped past. Eyes wide with wonder, the man’s voice was dazed, his words breathless. “It’s a miracle. Can you not feel the magick?” Joach did not know what the fool was talking about. He tried to flee, but the man had gripped his arm with excited fingers. “Look,” the brother said, pointing with his other hand toward the huge tree’s limbs.

“Its flower blooms in daylight! It’s a sign!”

In reflex, Joach’s eyes drew to where the man pointed. He spied a drooping purple flower buried within a cluster of leaves. The petals appeared to glow from under the shadows of the wide leaves— probably a trick of light.

Yet, as his eyes settled upon the flower, a calm overtook his hammering heart. Like the touch of a summer sun on his cold skin after diving deep into the chilly waters of Torcrest Pond, it warmed through his body. Somehow Joach understood that here lay the key that had freed him from prison. He did not understand how or why, only that some magick in that glowing flower had broken his bonds.

With this thought, as if to confirm this supposition, the petals of the flower broke apart and drifted like purple snowflakes toward the ground, their duty done. A sigh of regret rose like a mist from the crowd around him. Clearly some momentous event had been anticipated, and with the fall of petals marking the end of the miracle, disappointment rang clear in their voices.

“It’s over,” said the man beside Joach. The brother’s fingers fell from the boy’s arm.

Greshym’s voice suddenly rose from near his shoulder. “Leave my boy be,” he snapped at the skinny robed brother, but the darkmage’s

I UKM

voice lacked its usual fire, sounding more distracted, almost fearful. His eyes stared at the falling petals for several heartbeats. Finally turning, he waved the tip of his staff, and his gaze flashed over Joach, hardly seeing the boy. The edge had returned to his voice as the last of the petals settled to the dirt.

“Leave the poor boy be. He doesn’t understand all this.”

“Well, neither do I,” said the other man. “You’re the oldest of the Order, Brother Greshym. What do you make of these events?”

“Just echoes of the past,” he mumbled harshly. “Some memory in the dead wood, like a dream coming to the surface. Nothing to get stirred up about.”

The dismissive words sagged the skinny brother’s shoulders and faded the light in his eyes. “You’re probably right,” he said sadly. “Still, I shall see if I can collect one of its petals before the others all get to them.”

Joach noticed the brothers had clustered around the bole of the huge tree and were bent reverently collecting the small fallen petals.

“Come,” Greshym said to Joach as the other left their side. The darkmage turned his back and stomped his way through the garden.

“Follow me,” he ordered.

Joach found his feet following, not because of any spell, but simply because he did not know what else to do. It was clear that the darkmage still thought Joach was his slave, a thrall to his words and commands.

The man was mostly blind to Joach’s presence and did not seem to notice his new hesitations or extra movements.

As he walked, a fleeting thought to call out to the other brothers and expose the snake among them passed through his mind. But restraining thoughts kept his tongue silent. Would they believe him? The others all thought him a brain-addled fool. Who would believe that not only a revered member of their order, but also its very leader, the Praetor, were under control of the Gul’gotha? And even if he could convince them, what if there were other darkmages unknown to Joach? If the Praetor, the head of the Order, was under the Dark Lord’s black dominion, surely there might be others. For his risk, would Joach only succeed in chopping off the head of the weed, leaving the foul root intact? Then would anything be truly gained if he spoke out? These worries kept his voice silent.

Nothing would be gained by speaking—at least not yet!

A different plan formed in his head as he shuffled behind the white robe. His legs had weakened from starvation, and it was easy to mimic his usual dull pace. What if… ? The more he pondered his plan, the firmer his resolve became. Greshym only gave Joach glancing attention, barely seeing him most of the time. And Joach, trapped in his head these many moons, had learned what was expected of him and how he should act. But could he truly pull it off? Could he masquerade as the spell-cast slave of the darkmage? And by doing so, perhaps learn more about Greshym’s schemes? Joach could not answer this last question.

Even if he learned nothing, he could always explore ways to escape the island. But in his heart, Joach knew he would never use that escape route—at least not alone.

He pictured his sister Elena’s face: freckles on her nose, eyes crinkled as she concentrated. He had no idea where among all the lands of Alasea his sister might be now, but he knew Elena was headed to A’loa Glen. If Joach could not find her and warn her away, he could at least learn in secret what traps were being laid here and try to thwart them.

So Joach continued after the bent back of the darkmage. He knew his best chance at helping his sister lay in deceit, in masquerading as a slave. He would fight fire with fire, deception with deception. As Greshym and the Praetor wore false faces, so would he! Elena, he whispered in his skull, /‘// not fail you again.

For a heartbeat, the purple flower appeared in his mind’s eye, glowing much more brightly in his memory that it had in reality. Was it mere chance that had freed him? Or like the black snakes that hid among the white folds of A’loa Glen, were there perhaps allies of the light—maybe others who might help him—hidden in the black shadows?

With Greshym’s back turned, Joach glanced furtively around the courtyard. Shadows and sunlight danced along the paths of the decaying garden. The bright and the dark mingled together.

If there were others out there who could aid him, how would Joach be able to recognize them in this play of sunlight and shadow?

Whom could he trust?

Somewhere beyond the high walls of the Edifice, a gull cried a lonely call across the empty sea. The cry echoed in Joach’s chest.

In this matter, he knew he was alone.

The gull’s cry swept over the waves toward where Sy-wen’s small head bobbed in the gentle surf. Her eyes followed the bird’s flight across the blue sky. As her webbed ringers swept back and forth in the salty water, keeping her stationary in the sea, she imagined the various landscapes the gull had flown over. She pictured towering peaks, forests of dark shadows, and empty meadows wider than the sea.

Tales were spoken of such places, but she had never seen any of them.

She craned her neck back to view the spread of sky and cloud, her green hair floating like a halo of kelp around her. The gull disappeared to a dot in the sun’s glare. Sighing, Sy-wen turned her attention back to the churning white surf where the sea met the shore of the nearby island in an angry rumble. White froth spewed high in the afternoon sunlight, and black rocks glistened like the backs of whales while over it all, the ocean roared as it attacked the stone island, as if angry at the interruption of its blue expanse.

Sy-wen thrilled at the war of sea and rock. It touched something deep inside of her, something she could not name. She studied the island. Her eyes rilled with the views of its green-draped peaks, of its cascading falls of spring-fed water, of its arched stones of windblown rock. Beyond this one island, others could be seen like the humped backs of great sea beasts marching toward the horizon.

Archipelago.

Even the word that named the maze of islands set her heart to beating. Here was mystery and lands unknown—forbidden territory

t

for the mer’ai. Only the banished of her people walked those broken shores and sharp rocks.

As she kicked her powerful legs to hold her head above water, she felt the familiar gentle brush of a warm nose against the back of her thigh. Sadly, she spread her legs to allow Conch, her mother’s mount, to slide under her. Once she was seated on his familiar back, Conch arched up, raising Sy-wen higher.

Soon only her webbed toes still touched the sea. From atop Conch’s back, she could see past the churning barrier reef to the interior of the island. Above the foam and spray, she spied the towers and straight-edged buildings of the lan’dwellers, those of her folk banished from the sea so long ago. She raised her arms wide and caught the sea breezes in her splayed hands. How would it be to swim through the air like a gull, to fly among those towers and peer in the windows at those who lived life at the sea’s edge? Did they miss the oceans and cry all night for their long-lost home, as Mother said?

In front of her, Conch’s head surfaced. The jade seadragon’s scaled neck sparked, scintillating in the sunlight. He huffed explosively as the scaled flaps that blocked his nose opened, expelling old air. He rolled one large black eye toward his rider, blinking his translucent lid open and closed. Sy-wen shrank under his gaze.

Though not bonded to the dragon as her mother was, Sy-wen had been raised with the giant and had learned his moods. Conch was frustrated with her. He hated it when she swam close to the stone islands that dotted the sea. Yet from the relieved tremble in his throat as he rid himself of his stale air, she also sensed the great beast’s worry and concern.

She rubbed a hand along his long sleek neck, scratching the sensitive nest of scales by his ear holes. Her touch calmed his irritation. She smiled as he turned away. Conch had always been such a worrier. Even when she was a child, he had always watched over her, a constant shadow as she grew into a young woman.

Yet as much as it pained her, Conch’s guardianship would soon end. Sy-wen must soon bond her own dragon and leave Conch behind. Having already begun her woman’s bleed, she was no longer a child.

For the past ten moons, immature seadragons had already been flocking to her, drawn by each moon’s virginal bleed—a flurry

of whites, a scattering of reds, even a few jades like Conch. But she had fought them all off. As an elder’s daughter, she knew her duty and must soon choose, but she was not ready. Not yet.

Tears suddenly rose to her eyes. She did not want to lose Conch, not ever—not even to bond one of the rare blacks, the mightiest of the seadragons.

After her father had died, Conch had become her guardian—and her companion. She could hardly remember her true father, only a vague memory of laughing eyes and warm, strong arms. Even her mother, too involved with her duties as an elder, seldom left their clan’s home inside the belly of the giant leviathan, the whalelike creature that housed her family’s clan of mer’ai. Without siblings, Sy-wen learned quickly how empty the oceans could be. With only Conch at her side, she had wandered the seamounts and the elaborate coral reefs, always alone.

Lately, she had found herself lured to the islands. Whether it was some growing unease as her womanhood and its responsibilities beckoned, or simply a swelling dissatisfaction with the empty sea, Sy-wen could not say. She had no words for the continuing draw that pulled at her heart.

Maybe it was simply her stubborn nature rebelling against her mother’s restrictions. After her first excursion near the islands, her mother had vehemently forbidden her to venture near the Archipelago again, warning against the fisherfolk with their spears, telling tales of how the banished, angry at the loss of their true home, would lure mer’ai to their deaths on the rocks. She had never seen her mother so disturbed: voice cracking, eyes red, almost wild. As fury and frustration had choked her mother’s words, Sy-wen had only nodded in agreement, eyes lowered in obeisance, acting properly scolded and chagrined. But once her mother was gone, Sy-wen had simply dismissed her warnings.

No words, not even angered ones, could sunder the lines that had so snugly hooked Sy-wen’s heart.

So, against her mother’s will, she often snuck away from the leviathan and swam alone to the edge of the Archipelago. There, she would drift in the currents, studying the islands carved by wind and sea. Curious, she would watch for any signs of the banished, one time even swimming within sight of one of their fishing boats.

But always, as now, Conch would eventually follow her scent and venture forth to collect her up, carrying her back to where their leviathan home swam slowly in the Great Deep.

The seadragon, loving Sy-wen as he did, kept silent about her wanderings—not even telling her mother.

Sy-wen knew how hard it was on the sweet giant to keep a secret from his bondmate. Recognizing his pain, she limited her visits to the islands to only occasional excursions. Still—she glanced behind her and stared at the island one last time as Conch began to swing around—she would be back. Sy-wen rubbed the dragon’s neck, telling him she was ready to

leave.

Conch snorted the last of the dead air from his series of lungs. Under her, the seadragon’s chest swelled as he drank in the fresh breezes, preparing to dive.

Before submerging, Sy-wen slipped loose the stem from one of the air pods at her waist and bit off its glued end. It tasted of salt and seaweed. She inhaled to test its ripeness. The air was still fine. Even if the pod had staled, there was no danger. Sy-wen knew Conch would let her use the siphon at the base of his neck. Though tradition allowed only a bondmate to share a dragon’s air, Conch had never refused Sy-wen.

Sy-wen slipped her feet into the folds behind his front legs, and Conch tightened the footholds to secure her.

Satisfied, she tapped Conch with the heel of her hand three times, signaling she was ready to go. A rumble shook through the great beast and his form sank under the waves, taking Sy-wen with him. Just as the water swamped her face, Sy-wen’s inner lids snapped up to protect her eyes from the water’s salt. The translucent lids also sharpened her eyesight in the silty water.

After the rush of swirling bubbles cleared, leaving only a few stragglers chasing them into the Deep, Sy-wen stared in awe at the full sight of the creature she rode. From nose to tail, Conch stretched longer than six men. “Dragon” was the mer’ai’s word for the great beasts who shared their world under the waves, and though the seadragons had their own name for themselves, Sy-wen found her people’s title most fitting. Wings spread out to either side as Conch stretched his forelimbs wide. Gentle but powerful movements rippled through the wings as the dragon sailed through the sea. His snaking tail and clawed rear legs acted as skilled rudders, guiding them in a slow curve around the lee of the islands and heading toward the open waters.

Slow undulations swept through the length of Conch’s body as his form glided deeper. Schools offish darted in unison to either side of his flowing body, splashes of blues and greens. Below, rows of reefs marched under the wings of the dragon, dotted with the glowing yellow and bloodred blooms of anemones. At the fringes of the reef, tall fronds of kelp waved as they passed.

Sy-wen stared at the massed coral below her. It was like flying, she thought, soaring above distant mountain ranges. She smiled, biting on her air pod’s stem. Her eyes grew hazy as she watched the seafloor flow under her. A patch of clouds far overhead blotched the landscape in patches of shadow and filtered sunlight. She dreamed of flying in the sky with Conch.

Suddenly Conch twisted sharply in the water, diving deep toward the peaks of coral. Startled, Sy-wen almost lost her lips’ hold on her air spout. She quickly searched for what had startled the dragon. There was little for a seadragon to fear in the wide Deep. Except…

Sy-wen craned her neck up. Far above her, the shapes that she had thought were clouds shadowing the ocean floor were actually the bloated bellies of boats. She quickly scanned the barnacled bottoms of the fisherfolk’s vessels. Seven—no, eight boats! Sy-wen did not have to be told what this meant. A solitary boat usually just carried pole and net fishers: nothing to fear. This many—Sy-wen’s heart climbed to her throat—this many boats meant hunters ‘t

Sy-wen clung to Conch’s side as he wove his wings and body so deep that his belly scratched the sharp peaks of the reef. The waters near the islands, though, were too shallow. They would be easily spotted by the ships above. Conch struggled to find deeper water. From the corner of her eye, Sy-wen spotted trails of blood flowing back along their trail from the dragon’s coral-wounded belly.

Drawn by his blood, as if by magick, schools of sharks appeared from the black waters. In only a few heartbeats, monstrous rock-sharks, longer than three men, glided from dark valleys in the reef.

Sy-wen realized what Conch was trying to do. He had purposely wounded himself, luring the larger predators from their hidden

homes, trying to lose himself among the more common denizens of the reef.

Conch slowed his glide through the water, letting the other predators within his shadow. He pulled hard once with his wings, then folded them under his body, narrowing his silhouette as he flowed through the water. Only the slow undulations of his body now propelled them forward.

Sy-wen risked a glance upward. A huge rockshark, with a snap of its large finned tail, swept just over her head. Sy-wen leaned down closer to Conch’s neck. The shark would not dare risk attacking until he knew the dragon was near death, but the hulking rockshark was not the true threat here.

Farther overhead, the last of the boats glided past. Staring over her shoulder, Sy-wen slowly expelled the air from her sore lungs as the bellies of the hunting fleet faded behind her. They had made it!

Sy-wen sat straighter on Conch’s back and rubbed a hand along his neck. Tears of relief mixed their salt with the seawater’s. Her silly curiosities had almost killed the gentle giant. A new resolve grew in her breast. Where words had failed, fear and danger had finally managed to dig free the stubborn hooks in her heart. Never again. She would never return to these islands. Her mother’s words had been wise, and like a child, she had dismissed that good counsel! Sy-wen’s hands clenched to fists. Maybe it was time to look toward her approaching womanhood with a more open heart. Maybe it was time she grew up and looked at the world with the wisdom of an adult, instead of the dreaming eyes of a child.

She glanced back as the last of the boats drifted away from them.

Never again!

Suddenly, below them, the seafloor exploded upward, swallowing them in a storm of silt and sand.

Conch’s body contorted violently under her. The scaled folds that secured her feet spasmed open.

Sy-wen was thrown from Conch’s back. Her air siphon ripped from her teeth as she tumbled through the water.

The sea gagged her throat as she swallowed a mouthful of salty water. In the blizzard of sand, she struggled to resecure the stem of her air hose. She must not lose her air. As her body slowed its tumble, instinct drew her fumbling fingers to the pod fastened to her waist belt and felt along its surface until she discovered the base of the stem. Thank the Mother, it was still intact. She hurriedly followed its length and pulled its end to her lips.

She drank the air hungrily while using her webbed hands to hold herself in place. Able to breathe again, she could now think. What had happened?

Swirling sand obscured her vision. She swam backward against a mild current, letting the flow of the water clear the silt around her as she kicked and paddled. Where was Conch?

Suddenly, like the sun pushing through a break in the clouds, the storm of sand settled enough for Sy-wen to get a quick glimpse near the heart of the storm. Conch, his long green body coiled up on itself, struggled savagely with something, his legs slashing, his neck twisting and contorting. It looked almost as if he were fighting himself. Then Sy-wen saw Conch’s adversary. It was wrapped tight around his body, and the more Conch fought, the tighter his opponent gripped him.

A net! A snare set in the sand to catch him!

As Conch struggled, a single black eye rolled in Sy-wen’s direction and fixed on her. For a brief moment, he stopped his struggle, hanging still in the tangled net. Flee, he seemed to call at her, I am lost.

Then the sand swallowed her dear friend away. No! Sy-wen swam into the sandstorm, paddling fiercely.

She had a knife and a stunner at her waist. She would not abandon Conch. She dug and clawed her way through the clouds of silt. It seemed forever that she fought the murk. Then, suddenly, she was free, back in sunlit waters, the wall of swirling sand at her back. She twisted around. She had swum through the entire cloud of silt. But where was Conch ?

Above, movement caught her eye. She glanced up and saw her friend bundled in a tight ball in the clinging net, being hauled and drawn toward the surface. The bellies of the boats were now clustered in a circle around the ascending dragon. Sweet Mother, don’t let this happen!

Sy-wen fought her way toward the surface, but she was too late. She had wasted too much time fighting the swirling sand. She watched, her heart thundering in her ears, as Conch was drawn to the surface.

She kicked toward the planked bottoms of the boats. She must still try. Aiming for the largest vessel, she slid under its keel, and

guided by a hand slipping over its barnacled surface, she floated upward until her head bobbed in the shadowed curve of the boat’s

leeward side.

Voices suddenly struck her ears, strident, their thick accent making them difficult to understand. “Look at the size of that beastie!” someone called from almost directly overhead.

Sy-wen sank lower until only her eyes and ears were above water. She watched as Conch rolled in the tangled net, sluggishly writhing

as he tired.

“It’ll fetch a shower of silver. We’ll all be rich!” another shouted gleefully.

A sterner voice rang out from the boat above, guttural and full of threat, a voice of command. “Git the beast’s nose above waters, you daft fools! You want to drown it!”

“But why do we want it alive? What difference—” The stern voice again. “ Jeffers, if you poke it one more time with that spear, I’ll plant it up your hairy arse!” A voice called back. “It’s still fighting, Cap’n!”

“Leave it be! Give time for the sleep potion to reach its heart!” Then the man’s voice lowered so only the men near at hand could hear. “Sweet Mother above, I can’t believe it. So the rumors were true about seeing a seadragon at the fringes of the Archipelago. Who would have thought?”

“Not been one seen in these parts since my grandpa was young.”

“Yah, but I’ve heard talk of occasional sightings in the Great Deep.” He made a low whistling noise.

“Wonder why the beast ended up here in the shallow coastals? And why it kept coming back?”

“Probably an ol‘ one. Getting daft in the head.”

“Well, whatever reason, it’ll bring us enough silver and gold for a lifetime. Look at that beaut!” Sy-wen could not stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks. Conch, she silently sent to him, I’m so sorry.

“Quite a catch it is, Cap’n. Makes you almost want to believe those ol‘ stories of mer folk.” The other laughed. “Now, Flint, don’t you go daft in the head.”

“Just saying it makes me wonder.”

“Well, you’d best wonder about the riches we’ll fetch with a living seadragon at Port Rawl. Seadragon’s blood is as rare as heartstone. I heard tell that vials left over from the last dragon—the beastie caught up near Biggins Landing ten years ago—still fetches six gold coins a drop! Now wonder about that, Flint!“

Glee entered this other’s voice. “I can just imagine the look on that old snake Tyrus when we haul this treasure to port.”

“His men’ll have to tie him to a mast to keep him from tearing that lice-ridden beard from his face in his jealous rage.” They both chuckled.

“We’re both going to die rich men, Flint.” Then the voice again rose gruffly and shot across the waters.

“Jeffers! What did I just tell you about that spear!”

“But, Cap’n…”

“Each drop of blood is wasted profit! Samel, git that Jeffers be-lowdecks. The next one who stabs the dragon gets fed to it!” Then his voice lowered. “Fools!”

Sy-wen had already stopped listening. Her eyes were on her friend tangled in the net, a pool of blood spreading around him. Drawn by the blood, occasional fins of sharks broke the water but were chased off with spears. By now, Conch had stopped struggling, lying limp in the ropes. She could see he still breathed. But for how long?

Sy-wen’s chest hurt from suppressing her sobs. What was she to do? It would take her until well past nightfall to return to the leviathan and tell the others what had happened. But even if the elders decided to risk freeing him, Conch would be long gone, lost among the hundreds of islands of the Archipelago.

She closed her eyes and made a choice. She could not abandon her friend. His life depended on her.

Opening her eyes, she slipped a hand to her waist and freed the shark-tooth knife from her belt.

Repositioning her air stem, she dove under the waves and kicked and swam toward her friend.

In the distance, sharks circled warily. Sy-wen could see their black eyes watching, unblinking. The spears kept them at bay so far.

Sy-wen swam deep under Conch until the sunlight was blocked by the netted dragon. Floating up in his shadow, she reached his underside and ran a hand along the net. The oiled ropes and knots had dug deep into Conch’s flesh. Blood seeped where the tight ropes had sliced his skin during his struggle. A deep gash in a tangled fold of a wing bled near her hand, and she found herself reaching for the in-y as if her touch could make the wound disappear. Oh, Conch, ur

ü/hat have I done?

Before her fingers touched the dragon, something suddenly slammed into her ribs— hard. Sy-wen gasped, losing her air stem and swallowing a mouthful of seawater. The blow pitched her out from under Conch into the sunlit waters. Gagging, Sy-wen spun around and dug for the surface. Seawater seared her lungs. Near blind with pain, Sy-wen saw her attacker swing back around toward her. It was a rockshark. With her attention so focused on her wounded friend, Sy-wen had failed to see the shark.

She knew better than to let her guard down when sharks smelled blood in the water.

She kicked in retreat. Her head broke the surface of the sea at the same time the huge shark fin crested the waves. It stood taller than her whole body. Coughing and choking, she held up the tiny knife and reached for the stunner at her waist. She had fought before—she would not let a shark stand between her and Conch.

She raised the knife, but she never had to use it. A massive spear flew bright across the sparkling water and slammed into the base of the fin. A fountain of blood flew up from the buried blade, and the rockshark exploded out of the water, thrashing against its death.

Sy-wen stared, stunned by the sight of its cavernous mouth lined by hundreds of teeth. She cartwheeled her arms to clear away from its spasms. Even a dying shark could kill. Voices rose behind her. “Good throw, Kast!”

“What an arm!”

Sy-wen spun around. She was once again near the lee side of the main boat. She glanced up at a pair of bearded, scarred faces staring back at her, their black eyes unblinking. She never knew sharks could leer.

Before she could react, a net flew over the rail of the boat and swept down over Sy-wen. She kicked off the boat’s side, trying to escape, but her feet slipped on the algae-slicked planks. Rope and knot descended on her, wrapping around her like a living creature. Her knife was knocked from her fingers.

She fought, but like Conch, her efforts only aided in tangling her further. Seawater swamped her mouth and throat. Unable to surface or reach her air pod, she gagged and thrashed but could not beat back the dark. Like the sea itself, the swelling blackness drowned Sy-wen, sweeping her away.

Kast ignored the commotion on the deck behind him. He stood at the prow of the S’tipjac’t and watched the rockshark die on his spearpoint. As the king of sharks, its body and blood would drive other sharks away from the wounded seadragon.

Still Kast continued his watch, his eyes drifting to where sunlight sparked off jade scale. Except for a barrel of additional spears at his side, he stood alone. None dared approach too closely unless invited.

His almond-shaped eyes warned all who neared of his heritage.

Kast had been born and raised among the savage tribes south of the Blasted Shoals—the Dre’rendi, a people known for their piracy and hard living. He even sported a tattoo on his neck of a seahawk, talons bared in attack. It was the symbol of the most savage and predatory of the Dre’rendi tribes, the Bloodriders. Kast wore his black hair pulled into a long tail that draped to his waist, leaving his neck exposed for all to see the tattoo. It was not done in false pride or to brag of his heritage, but in simple warning. Sea folk were a rowdy lot, and it was best that a man know who he insulted or accosted, lest blood be drawn. So Kast kept his tattoo exposed, forewarning all to stay clear.

Alone by the bowsprit, he studied the seadragon, shading his eyes with a hand as if supposing it all a mirage of sun and water. Yet the dragon did not dissolve into mist and vanish. It was as real as his own bones and sinew. Kast studied the folds of wing tangled in the net, the hint of pearled fangs protruding from a narrow snout, the black-jeweled eyes the size of a man’s fist.

Raised on the sea, he had never supposed such wonders still hid below its waves. He had seen rocksharks that could swallow a man whole, silver-bellied eels longer than the S%ipjac’t, and even spiny lobsters that killed men with a touch. But he had never seen such a creature as this dragon! Such a beast spoke of another time, an age when myth was forged in blood.

As he contemplated the sight, he brushed the tattoo of the sea-hawk on his neck with a finger. Could it be… ? He remembered the madness that had shone in the blind seer’s eyes as he writhed on his deathbed. He recalled the garbled words, the hand clutching his arm as the old man died. Kast shook his head, dispelling the past, and dropped his hand from his throat.

Why had he followed the words of a madman?

Captain Jarplin’s voice suddenly cracked across the deck behind Kast. “Git her out of the water!” he ordered.“ You’re gonna kill her!”

It was the urgency in Jarplin’s voice, more than the content of his words, that finally drew Kast from his study of the seadragon. He glanced toward the starboard rail, where already a group of deckhands had gathered.

The captain leaned over the rail and yelled again over the side.

“That’s it, men, haul her on up!”

Intrigued at what new treasure was being fished from the sea and satisfied that the blood of the slain rockshark would keep other predators away, Kast signaled a fellow mate to take his post and crossed to join the group of men. Hired for his skill at tracking and hunting the pathless expanses of the sea, Kast had no obligation to help with the nets and lines, yet still he often joined the deckhands in their duties, ignoring their obvious discomfort at working so closely alongside a Bloodrider. He cared not whom he made nervous. That was not his concern. Kast needed to regularly work under the sun, testing the worthiness of his arms and the strength of his back. A Bloodrider did not let his skills wane.

Kast bumped an onlooker on the shoulder, a red-haired, cleanshaven youth. His voice commanded attention. “Tok, what’s been

found?“

The boy glanced toward him, his eyes widening, then backed a step away. “Not… not sure, sir,” Tok answered. “A stowaway, we thinks. Some girl that was trying to sneak off the boat.”

“A stowaway?” Kast could not keep the disgust from his voice. Stowaways were gutted and tossed to the sharks among his own

people.

“The Hort brothers spotted her a’sneaking into the Deep,” Tok added nervously.

The captain’s voice barked again. “Clear away, you lollygaggers! Haul that net up here.” Jarplin bullied through the crowd of deckhands. The captain’s broad shoulders told of the strength still in his old arms, and though his hair silvered toward gray, Jarplin was as hard and tough as any of his men. His green eyes let nothing escape his notice. Known for his quick anger, the captain’s justice was swift and often brutal, but still he ran a tight ship, and over the three winters aboard the Sfypjac’t, Kast had developed a grudging respect for the man. “What are you all doing?” Jarplin called out as he reached the bearded Hort brothers. He shoved other men away from the rail. “Clear on out!” Kast watched as the two brothers hauled their dripping net over the rail and dropped their cargo to the deck. Seawater and oiled ropes splashed across the planks.

The men all backed a step, letting Kast now get a clear view of the catch.

“It’s only a li’l girl,” someone said.

Kast’s brows lowered. Tangled in the net, a small figure lay sprawled across the deck. Bare chested, with only a hint of breasts, she wore a pair of tight breeches made of some slick material—sharkskin perhaps. It took him a few additional heartbeats to realize that the dark green seaweed snarled in the net along with the girl was actually her hair. How could it be? After so many ages…

“She does not breathe,” Kast heard himself say, stepping forward.

Captain Jarplin pushed through the men that crowded around the catch. “Git that net off her!” The boy Tok danced forward with a knife in his hand, ready to slice the girl free.

The captain spotted him. “Tok, put that knife away. I won’t have a perfectly good net wasted on a stowaway.”

The boy stopped, his freckled face reddening.

Kast, though, continued toward the prone girl, a knife flashing into his own palm. He bent to the net and began sawing at the ropes. “She isn’t a stowaway, Captain.”

“I don’t care what…” Jarplin’s voice trailed away as he saw clearly for the first time what his precious net held.

The captain’s first mate, Flint, stood at Jarplin’s shoulder. He was a thin man, hardened and worn by storm and sea into a figure of tanned leather and sharp bone. His voice was as coarse as the scrabble of gray beard on his chin. “You heard the captain, Kast. Git away from the net and let…” Then his words died, too. A long low whistle escaped his cracked lips. As his eyes settled on the cargo, Flint rubbed at a small silver star fastened to his right earlobe. “That… that ain’t no stowaway.” The captain raised a hand, silencing his first mate. Kast sliced through the knots with snaps of his wrist and deft knowledge of where to cut. The girl was free in only a few breaths. Kast lifted her from the tangled ropes. His eyes raised to the circle of deckhands, and they all backed from the intensity of his gaze, leaving him room to lay the slight form on the cleared-off deck. He straightened her limbs and checked for the beat of her heart.

She still lived, but her lips were blue and her skin pallid and cold. She would not live much longer. He rolled her onto her stomach and straddled her, then used both palms to squeeze the water from her lungs.

More seawater than he thought could possibly be contained in her small frame sluiced across the planks.

Satisfied that he had rid her of most of the water, he flipped her back around and bent her neck. He lowered his lips to hers and breathed life into her chest.

As he pinched her nose and worked the bellows of her lungs with his own air, he heard the others murmur around him.

“Look at her hair. It shines like algae floatin‘ on dead water.”

“Did ya see her hands? Webbed like a duck, I tell ya.”

“Kast is wasting his time. She is lost to the Deep.” Others grunted their assent to this last statement. One mate, though, snickered. It was one of the Hort brothers. “ ‘Course Kast isn’t wasting all his time. I wouldn’t mind kissing the lass, too. And those little muffins on her chest look mighty tasty.” He laughed coarsely.

Kast ignored them all. He focused on his duty. In and out, he worked her chest.

Finally, the captain’s voice rose behind him, and he placed a hand on Kast’s shoulder. “She’s gone.

Leave her be. The sea has claimed its own.” He pulled Kast up.

Red faced, Kast sat back on his heels, studying the young girl. His efforts had returned a bit of color to her lips, but nothing more. She still lay unmoving. He let out a rattling sigh, conceding defeat. She was lost.

Then suddenly the girl coughed harshly, wracking her whole form. Her eyes fluttered open and fixed upon him. “Father?” she mumbled and reached a hand toward where Kast knelt over her. Her fingers touched his throat, resting for a heartbeat on his seahawk tattoo.

Kast jumped back from her fingers as if stung. Where she had touched, his tattoo suddenly burned like a brand on his skin. He stifled a gasp, his cheek and throat burning with an inner fire. His heart thundered in his throat.

Shocked and speechless, he watched the girl’s eyes roll back and her arm swoon to the deck. She drifted away again.

Kast bent over the girl, one hand rubbing his neck. The fire was already fading. Obviously the child was delirious, but at least she now breathed. “We need to get her somewhere dry and warm,” he said. The men had fallen silent around him when the child had awakened. He scooped her up in his hard arms.

“Take her to the kitchens,” Jarplin said. “The heat of the hearths should warm her up. But once she’s able, I have a few questions for the lass.”

Kast nodded. He had questions of his own. He waited no further and whisked her across the deck.

Behind him, he heard the captain address his men, his voice gruff and irritated. “And the rest of you, get back to the rails. We have a dragon to haul to port.”

Bent over, Kast crawled through the narrow companionway that led to the lower cabins. His nose was assaulted with old smells of unwashed bodies mixed with the acrid scent of salt and vinegar from the cooking stoves. After the bright sunshine, it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim passageways of the lamplit lower decks. Blinking, he hauled his cargo down the hall toward the galley near the stern.

His mind whirled on the events of the day, his skin still aching with a dull burn. First the dragon, then the girl. What did it all mean? He remembered the child’s green eyes staring into his own, dazed and confused. Could it be the prophecy? For a breath, he again pictured the blind shaman of the Bloodriders dying on his fouled cot in a back room of Port Rawl. His last words echoed in Kast’s head: “A Bloodrider’s oath is tattooed on his flesh. Though the sworn words are forgotten, the flesh remembers.” The shaman had then clutched Kast’s arms with the last of his strength. “You must go north of the Shoals, Kast. The tattoo will soon blaze with its old promises. Do not forget. When the seahawk burns, the oceans will run red with blood, and the riders will be called forth to fulfill their oath—to mount again and drive the great dragons from the sea.” A shiver passed through his body as he carried the girl down the

passageway. The shaman had been his teacher, his master. But was it prophecy or madness that drove the blind seer’s last breaths? He had obeyed his teacher’s last words and traveled north of the Blasted Shoals, leaving behind the lean, swift ships of his people for the heavy, swollen-bellied boats of the Archipelago. For over ten winters, he had exiled himself to respect his deathbed promise, growing more bitter as each winter passed without incident.

But now—could this be a sign?

Confused, Kast dismissed these thoughts as he reached the kitchens and pushed through into the heated room. He needed the girl alive. Perhaps answers would come from her lips, answers he had been seeking for a decade since the death of his teacher. He would get his answers!

As he carried the girl into the warmth of the ship’s galley, Kast spotted Gimli, the cook, bent over a bubbling pot, his old cheeks ruddy from the coals, his brown hair sticking straight up from the sweat and steam. Gimli glanced at Kast as he entered, his eyebrows rising as he spied Kast’s burden.

“Whatcha got there?”

Kast kicked aside two stools and laid the girl across an ironwood table. “I need dry blankets, and a cloth soaked in hot water.” He checked to ensure she still breathed. Her chest rose and fell steadily. Relieved, he went and hurriedly gathered blankets from a neighboring cabin.

As he reentered the kitchen area, Gimli was pulling a scrap of cloth from a pot of boiling water. He juggled it over to where Kast was draping the child’s small form in heavy, coarse blankets.

Kast took the steaming cloth. Ignoring its burning heat, he wiped down the girl’s face and upper body.

The girl moaned under his touch, her lips moving as if she were speaking, but nothing intelligible came out.

As the cook looked on, Kast finished his ministrations, wrapped the girl from the neck down in blankets, and gently positioned a down-filled pillow under her head.

“Who is she?” Gimli asked.

Kast had no answer and stayed silent. He pulled a stool beside the table and sat on it. He wanted to make sure he was the first to speak to her when she awoke.

The cook shrugged at Kast’s silence and turned back to his duties, armed again with his ladle.

WIT CH STORM

Alone, Kast’s fingers wandered to the green locks of the child’s hair drying on the table’s planks. Gimli had failed to ask the right question. He shouldn’t have asked who the child was—but what.

Kast did know that.

He whispered to the blanket-wrapped figure, naming her heritage: “mer’ai.” He touched her soft cheek.

Here lay myth given flesh. “Dragonriders,” he said in a hushed breath.

The ancient slave masters of the Bloodriders.

Sy-wen swam in murky dreams.

She pictured men whose mouths were filled with row after row of shark’s teeth… She fled from a dragon, torn and bloody… She dodged a seabird that clawed at her eyes. She kicked and paddled to escape these horrows. She must flee!

Then her father suddenly came and picked her up in his strong arms, pulling her from the horrors in the sea. He kissed her and carried her to safety. She smiled up at him and found she could finally rest. He would help her. Darkness then swallowed her away—not the cold blackness of death, but the warm embrace of true sleep.

She slept deeply, but over time an urgency slowly grew in her heart. She was forgetting something. No, not something—someone. She moaned as she struggled against the whispers of slumber in her ear. Who had she forgotten? Then a new voice filled her ears, drowning all else away. A harsh voice, coarse and spoken with a thick tongue.

“That girl—spread out on the table like that—looks a mite more appetizing than the cook’s stew, Kast.

How about letting my brother and me have a taste of her?”

As the darkness shattered into shards around her, Sy-wen’s eyes opened. She found herself in a narrow room that reeked of salted fish and burning coals. Around her, empty tables were strewn with dirty bowls, cracked spoons, and half-eaten crusts of bread.

Where was she?

WIT C H JTORM

As jagged pieces of memory tumbled into place, Sy-wen shrank back from the three men staring down at her. She remembered Conch, captured and bleeding. She remembered the tangling net that had pulled her from the sea and recognized two of the men here as the bearded pair who had caught her. Their leering faces were hard, but not as hard as the third man’s. His features made the others seem like mere babes. Yet the severity in his face was not born of harsh cruelty, like the other two, but was more like rock hardened by the beating of a winter’s surf. His features shone with a proud nobility won through time and deeds rather than birth and circumstance. His black hair was swept back from his face and revealed a red-and-black tattoo of a hawk emblazoned on his cheek and throat.

She knew this man, too. Her eyes were drawn to the curve of a tattooed wing upon his throat, and the panic in her heart subsided slightly. He had saved her. He would protect her.

One of the bearded men spoke up. “Looks like the lass likes my voice. I come a’calling, and she wakes right up.”

“Leave us,” the tattooed man said in a low voice. He did not even turn toward them.

“The galley is a common room, Bloodrider. We have as much right to be here as you.” The tattooed man tilted his neck to face the speaker. “You’ve had your dinner, Hort. Clear on out.”

“And I suppose you could make us both,” the other answered, menace thick in his throat. His companion stood at his shoulder, supporting the man’s threat.

Sy-wen ignored the growing tension. Her eyes were still fixed upon the man’s tattoo. She could not look away. She stared at the crown of feathers atop the hawk’s head, the sharp points of its clawed talons.

With the stranger’s neck bent like this, it seemed the hawk’s red eyes blazed directly at her, digging deep inside her.

As she stared, she suddenly found her heart beating faster. It became difficult to breathe. Unable to stop herself, she wormed an arm free of the wrappings around her and reached out to touch the tattoo.

She had a need.

Her fingers brushed a wing that stretched across the man’s throat. At her touch, the man knocked her hand away, flinching back as

w-

if struck by an eel. He reached a hand up and rubbed his tattoo as if trying to erase it from his flesh.

“Don’t,” he said coldly, his eyes wide

and wary.

She answered, her words coming from deep near her heart. “I have need of you.” She reached out to him, and he backed a step away, out of her reach. “Come,” she insisted.

One of the others laughed nearby. “Looks like the lass likes Blood-riders, Kast. Maybe after you’re done with her, we’ll show her what

real men…“

Sy-wen did not hear them. She had a need, and the sight of the tattoo had cast a spell over her. It told her to demand what she wanted of this tattooed man. A part of her struggled against these strange compulsions, but it was a whisper before a roar. She could not resist. Neither could the man. He obeyed her order to come and stepped toward her, his eyes now narrow with fury. It seemed he could not resist the compulsion any more than she could, as if they both danced to some ancient music in their blood, sung and orchestrated by her need. He leaned toward her, exposing his neck to her. She reached and covered the tattoo with her palm. He spasmed under her touch, and his narrowed blue eyes flamed to red, matching the hungry, hunting eyes of the hawk.

As her blood compelled, she named her desire. “Take me from here,” she said. “I must escape.”

“You’re already gone,” he answered in a voice filled with fire. He leaned over and scooped her up.

The bearded men stared at them, jaws hanging open. One of them made the mistake of speaking.

“You’re not going anywhere with the girl, Kast.” Then he made the fatal mistake of blocking the tattooed man’s path, a knife raised in threat.

Sy-wen watched, and though her senses were dulled by whatever spell had been cast, she still knew the stranger moved far quicker than her eyes could ever follow—even when burdened with her weight.

In a blur of sharpened steel, the man named Kast twirled, a knife appearing in one of his palms. Before either bearded man could speak or raise an alarm, they were clutching throats slashed from ear to ear.

Their pig eyes seemed not to know they were already dead. Blood flowed down their stained shirts.

They fell in unison to their

knees as if in final prayer. One raised a bloody hand in supplication toward the tattooed man, then both fell forward onto their bearded faces.

Inside she screamed at their sudden deaths. She had never seen so much blood. Yet still she did not fight the man’s murderous arms. Instead she spoke to him in encouragement. “I must escape,” she said, repeating her heart’s desire.

He nodded, his red eyes aglow, and lifted her higher in his arms. He stepped over the corpses and carried her toward a portal.

As soon as they left the chamber, Sy-wen smelled the sea in the narrow passageway. The scent of home came from directly ahead. Hurry, she urged silently. Her guardian climbed the stairs at the end of the hall and carried her to the open deck of the boat.

Night had fallen. Below stars as bright as the full moon, the ships’ full sails billowed like drifting clouds on a black sea.

A strong breeze blew through her hair as Sy-wen was carried across the decks. Around her, a scattering of men worked the riggings and sails. A few fishermen saw Kast and raised a hand in welcome. Nearby, a boy with shocking red hair sat and worked at coiling a long rope.

“Kast, whatcha doing with the girl? Is she dead?” The boy dropped his rope and stood up. His eyes were bright with curiosity. The boy now stood between Kast and the starboard rail.

As the man walked directly toward the boy, Sy-wen felt him shift her weight in his arms, freeing one of his hands. She realized what was about to happen. Oh, no! The bloody knife glinted in the starlight.

The boy crinkled his brow, and a small laugh escaped his throat as he saw the blade. “Whatcha doing, Kast?”

No, no, no, she sang to herself. Don’t do this! She could not move or stop what was happening. The spell trapped them both.

Then, whether the man heard her silent wish or obeyed some inner compunction of his own, he hesitated.

“Run, Tok… Get away,” he said, his voice strained, his words garbled.

The boy had frozen in place, a confused look on his face.

Kast raised the dagger, but his arm trembled. “Go, boy,” he spat between clenched teeth. “Now!” Suddenly a new man appeared from behind Kast’s shoulder. He stepped between Kast and the boy. He was an older man, all worn

edges and sun-wrinkled skin. A scrabble of gray beard marked his chin, but it was the small silver star fastened in his right lobe that caught her eye. Its brightness seemed so out of place on the gray man—yet at the same time also somehow so right.

Kast spoke to him, his voice a gasp as he fought the spell that bound him to Sy-wen. “Flint… take the boy… Get away.”

“Oh, enough of this nonsense,” the old man grumped. He raised a fist to his lips and blew through it. A fine dust puffed into Sy-wen’s face.

The powder stung her eyes and nose. She sneezed violently, almost throwing herself from her guardian’s arms. She blinked a few times, then darkness pulled her down.

Kast’s blood raged against the assault on the girl. He lunged with his dagger, but as soon as the girl slumped limp in his arms, it felt like a bowstring had snapped within his chest. His vision sprang clear of the red fire that had blinded his thoughts and sight.

He stared at the knife poised at his first mate’s throat. What was he doing?

Flint pushed the dagger away with a single finger.

The boy Tok peeked around the old fisherman’s shoulder.

“What’s happening?”

Flint opened his palm and raised it to the boy. “Does this smell odd?“

The boy bent and sniffed. His eyes blinked, and he sneezed a quick little burst before sliding to the planks. “Sleep dust,” Flint explained. “What… what’s happening?” Kast asked.

The old man wiped his hand on his breeches and shook his head. “Who would have guessed after so many centuries that the bond-oaths of the Bloodriders still tied them so tightly to the mer’ai?”

“What are you talking about?”

As answer, the old man pulled a woolen scarf from his pocket and held it out to Kast. “Cover your tattoo. We don’t want that happening again.”

“What? What happened? I don’t understand.” Shaken, he sheathed his dagger and accepted the scarf.

“Flint, what’s going on?”

“No time.” The old man peeked at the girl in Kast’s arms. “Such a JAMES CLEMENS

pretty face for so much trouble.“ He sighed and glanced up and down the deck. ”If you wish to escape, we must hurry. This night won’t last forever. I’ve awoken the dragon and freed him of the ropes. But he is gravely injured, and any delay could mean his death.“

Kast backed a step away. He had wrapped his neck in the woolen scarf. “I don’t know what scheme you plot, Flint. But I’ll have none of it.”

“Quit being such a fool, Bloodrider. You just killed two shipmates. That’ll get you hung before the Skjpjac’t reaches port. Come or die.”

Kast still stood frozen in indecision. Suddenly an explosion of voices erupted from belowdecks, angry voices. The captain’s voice was among them.

Flint raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Where do we go?” Kast asked.

“I have a skiff tied near the stern. Carry the girl.” He turned and led the way toward the rear of the boat.

Kast followed. He glanced at the sleeping mer’ai girl in his arms. What was going on?

A trail of snoring men marked Flint’s trail across the deck. Kast eyed his wiry back. Who was this man he had worked alongside these past three winters? He was certainly more than just a ship’s first mate.

Curiosity drove Kast after the old man. Flint knew more about what had happened this evening than Kast did, and he was determined to learn all the old fisherman knew of the mer’ai, their dragons, and the strange hold the girl had upon him.

Kast joined Flint by the stern rail, where a rope ladder draped over the side. A small, single-sail skiff rocked in tow behind the larger boat.

“Can you climb down with the girl?” Flint asked.

Kast nodded. The child was light as a wisp. Below, he could see the dragon’s jade snout secured to the side of the skiff. Its huge wings billowed under the waves to either side.

Flint must have noted where he looked. “He’s old, and his wounds are deep. It will be lucky if we can reach the healers before he dies.”

“Where are you taking him?”