Suddenly, she was pulled away. By altering her song to match A’stoc’s, she had slipped out of harmony with the song of the Vespers. Now, the union was broken, and the ceremony was coming to an end. As the song died away, the participants were drawn back to their isolated existences. The last thing she witnessed, before the physical world claimed her awareness, was A’stoc, tears in his eyes, turning away and running for the shelter of his room.

  The night was short, the morning bright. By the time Ellistar crept over the horizon, Deneob was well past zenith. This was why Father Marcus had chosen to wait for the Season of Light, the time when Infinitera moved between the Two Sisters. For weeks, there would be almost no darkness as the world shifted into the hands of Deneob, the Winter Sun. That meant that for weeks the Ill-creatures would be unable to act, unable to move against the quest.

  They traveled by carriage to a large, closed boathouse near the shipyards. There was an air of excitement about the company, an exultation and anticipation that filled the air. It was a feeling shared by all of the party except two. Chentelle still felt a twinge of guilt for having disrupted the Vespers, though Father Marcus had assured her that the song had ended only because it had been the correct time for it to do so. Her gloom was only deepened by A’stoc’s complete withdrawal from any communication. The wizard had not spoken a word all morning, not even in answer to direct questions.

  They made their way inside the boathouse. A single, stout craft was moored within. It could not be mistaken; it was the goblinship, now renamed Treachery. Just over fifty cubits in length, its dark black-oak frame looked stained with malice, and the twin masts had awkward lateen-rigged sails. The design looked crude in comparison to the smooth lines of elven vessels, with the only hint of sleekness coming from the elongated prow with its fanged serpent figurehead. A single ballista was mounted just behind the bowsprit. The sight sent a cold shiver down Chentelle’s spine.

  “Father Marcus,” she asked, “how did such a ship come to be in the Holy Land?”

  “I think Gorin can tell that story best,” he said, nodding toward his acolyte.

  All eyes turned toward the goblin priest.

  Gorin flicked his nictitating eyelids several times at the sudden attention. “It was entirely by chance,” he rumbled in deep, soft tones. “Which is to say, it was surely by the will of the Creator. I was the spell-weaver of this ship, what you would call a shipsage. In its day, it was a proud whaling ship. But during the human wars, the Heresiarch of Desecration ordered it refitted as a warship. The first time it met a battle at sea, we learned the folly of that decision.” He winced, then continued.

  “A human warship routed us, and we were forced to flee to the north. But a chance storm caught us in its arms. It may have saved our lives, for it blew the humans off our trail, but it also blew us off our course and damaged our hull. It took all of my Lore just to keep the ship afloat. When the storm died, we headed straight for the nearest harbor we could see. That harbor was Norivika Bay.

  “As soon as we passed through the Barrier, the peace and tranquillity of the Holy Land filled me. For the first time in my existence, I felt the communion of life. The rest of the crew was similarly affected. All thoughts of war became impossible and we surrendered to the officials of the Holy Order. My brothers-in-arms chose to return to their homes and families, even though it meant forsaking the beauty of Creation, but I stayed. The Holy Land breathes truths into my soul that I had never before imagined. I have dedicated my life to understanding those truths. One day, when I have learned enough, I will return to the Hordelands and teach my people the truth of the Holy Order, show them that the Ill-Lore of the Heresiarchs is not the only way.”

  Determination and devotion rang behind Gorin’s words like finely tempered steel. It made Chentelle want to reach out and hug the goblin priest. And she was not the only one affected.

  “That is a brave dream,” Dacius said, “a dream worthy of any man. May the Creator smile on it.”

  “He will,” Gorin said. “It is his will that guides me.”

  Chentelle had no reason to doubt that, and felt a tinge of guilt for her fear that the mission was by no means assured of success.

  Captain Rone led the way onto the ship, bounding up the gangplank with unrestrained enthusiasm. “Get a move on, lords and lady. You have my permission to board and be quick about it. There’s a wide sea calling, and I don’t plan on keeping her waiting.”

  The captain’s energy infected them all. Chentelle could not help smiling as she carried her pack up the walkway and boarded the ship. But her smile vanished the instant she set foot on the deck. A lance of agony shot through her. The wood for these planks had been severed by axe blades, and it was done while the trees were still alive! She staggered dizzily, and only Sulmar’s quick support and the closeness of the rail kept her from falling. Nausea twisted her stomach, and she vomited over the side.

  “Mistress, what is wrong?”

  Sulmar’s concern washed over her like a wave of clean water, helping focus her thoughts. “The wood—” she gasped. “The ship—can’t you feel it?”

  “No, mistress,” the Tengarian said. “What can I do?”

  His presence was a rock, and Chentelle used it to steady herself. She drew back her perceptions, pulling away from the source of her pain. “I’m all right, Sulmar. Just help me to stand.”

  He eased her gently to her feet, hovering nervously nearby in case she should swoon again.

  “It’s okay, now,” she said, taking in a deep breath. “I was only caught by surprise. This wood has suffered such terrible pain.”

  “And you feel that pain,” Father Marcus said. “I am sorry. I had no idea it would affect you so. Will you be able to endure?”

  “I have to,” she said. “This is the ship we have to use.” She straightened her robes and forced herself to smile through the pain. “The worst has passed. I can still feel the echoes of pain, but it won’t overwhelm me again.”

  “Lady Chentelle,” Captain Rone said. “Maybe you should go below. Some rest in your cabin might do you good.”

  Chentelle shuddered at the thought of surrounding herself with the cries of the wood, of lying down on a bed of butchered planks. “Thank you, Captain, but I think I’ll stay up here. The fresh sea air will help me most.”

  “As you will, lady,” he said, and then he set about readying the ship for departure. His crewmen, the cousins Zubec and Pardec, helped him in this, as did several of the Legionnaires. Gorin helped them adjust the lateen rigging, and soon the Treachery was ready to sail. They were just missing one thing.

  “Shipsage!” bellowed Captain Rone. “Paun, where in Firesta’s pits are you?”

  “Down here,” cried a voice from the dock, “waiting for permission to come aboard, captain.”

  Captain Rone shook his head and sputtered something incoherent. “Permission granted. Come aboard, and pull the gangway in after you. All hands, make ready to cast off.”

  A handsome young human with dark hair and bright eyes made his way aboard. He dropped a sea bag casually on the deck and took up a place near the prow, leaning on a long oaken staff. He cocked his head and gave the captain a questioning look.

  Rone sniffed at the sea air and shook his head. “Not yet, shipsage. There’s a good breeze. I think we’ll take her out on our own. It’ll give us all a chance to get to know her.”

  He started barking commands, and the crewmen and Legionnaires leaped to obey. They floundered a little at first, hindered by the unfamiliar rigging and the inexperience of the Legionnaires. But with Gorin’s help, they soon developed a feel for the Treachery. They practiced tacking and maneuvering procedures until Captain Rone was satisfied with their control of the goblinship. Then they headed for the mouth of Norivika Bay.

  “Who would have believed that I could learn something new about sailing from a goblin!” Rone cackled, giving Gorin a friendly slap on the back.

  The Treachery slid confidently toward the Quiet Sea. But long before she reached open water, the wind began to die. Soon it was obvious that they were going to be becalmed.

  “Shipsage!” Rone bellowed from the afterdeck. “Paun! I need you up here now.”

  The young man emerged from below deck and headed for the bow. He planted his staff against the deck and began humming softly. After a moment he turned and shouted calmly toward the stern. “Master Rone, I am having difficulty adjusting to the ship. The wood resists me. It will not make contact with my sagestaff.”

  “What do you mean you can’t make contact?” Rone yelled. “Do I have to turn back and find another shipsage?”

  “Master Rone, there is no need for such hasty action,” Paun yelled back, somehow managing to sound even calmer as his volume increased. “The wood of this vessel is not good for spell-current. It makes for poor sagecraft.”

  Chentelle understood why. The wind did not like the aura of pain in the wood.

  “What good are you, then,” growled Rone, “if you can’t control the ship?”

  “Please, Master Rone,” Paun replied, “try to contain your anger.”

  “Anger? I have no anger. This is merely an emulation of what I know I should be feeling. Wait till we get beyond the Barrier. Then my true emotion will register!”

  Even Father Marcus had to smile at that truth.

  Paun tried again. “I did not say that I cannot control the ship. I said that I do not yet have the feel of her. You must allow me the opportunity to accustom myself to the wood.”

  “Then just call the wind!” Rone screamed, stamping impatiently toward the wheel. “I’ll steer!”

  Paun bowed his head slightly. “As you command, Master Rone.”

  The shipsage turned back to the bow and resumed his humming. This time, he didn’t plant his staff against the deck. Instead, he held it vertically before him, lower end just slightly above the wooden planks. He started to sway back and forth in rhythm to his hum, and the staff weaved before him, a silent partner in his dance of power. As Paun’s motions became more strident, the sagewind rode about them, filling the Treachery’s sails. They shot forward, cutting briskly through the quiet water.

  Once the wind was established, Paun slowed his dance, settling into a slow, steady rhythm that sustained the summoned wind without taxing his strength. His movements were stately, graceful. He seemed almost to be a part of the wind, whistling back and forth on the deck, contained only by some trick of the air currents.

  The hours passed, and still Paun maintained his wind. Finally, when Ellistar hung low in the western sky, they passed through the mouth of the bay and into the Quiet Sea. Paun released his spell, and the sails fluttered as the dying sagewind battled against the prevailing sea breeze. Captain Rone shouted adjustments, and the crew adjusted the trim of the canvas. Soon, the sails grew taut again.

  Paun weaved his way wearily to the cabins. “With your permission, Master Rone, I will go below and rest.”

  “Of course,” the captain said. “And shipsage, you did an excellent job.”

  “Yes,” Paun agreed. Then he disappeared below deck.

  They continued on their eastern course. Chentelle sat on the foredeck, watching the bow slide through the waves. The expanse of clear water was so beautiful, so immense. And it was so full of life. A thousand voices called out to her, joining in the ocean’s song. The slow rhythm of it filled her with peace. The steady power of it helped counter the pain she felt from the tortured wood.

  Then, the fullness of the song was interrupted. A wall seemed to block off part of the Quiet Sea, deadening that portion of the song. Slowly, the wall worked its way toward the Treachery. No, it was the Treachery that moved toward the wall, toward the Barrier. They were approaching the boundary of the Holy Land.

  Chentelle searched the horizon. The Barrier was invisible, but not undetectable. The air beyond the Holy Land had a different quality, a cloudiness and lack of purity. Chentelle could see the line of change, shimmering like waves of heat before them.

  She was not the only one. “The Barrier!” cried Zubec, from his post on the mainmast.

  “Eh? Excellent,” the captain said, making a notation in his log.

  The company gathered on the foredeck. Only A’stoc remained apart, locked away in his cabin as he had been since the voyage began. The rest of them watched the boundary come ever closer. They had been in the Holy Land for so long, surrounded by its serenity and protection. Now, they were about to put that comfort behind them. Chentelle heard a quiet prayer coming from behind her. It was Gorin.

  The goblin priest noticed her attention and smiled. “This will be the first time I have left the sanctuary of the Holy Land since my conversion. For me, this voyage is a test of faith.”

  “As it is for us all,” Father Marcus said, coming up behind his fellow priest. “But it is one we must pass. Trust in yourself, Gorin; your faith is strong.”

  They passed through the Barrier.

  Chentelle staggered against the rail. She felt as if a piece had been torn from her soul. She was incomplete, unbalanced, removed from the hand of the Creation. Desperately, she sang, trying to recapture with her voice the song that was absent from her heart.

  The music filled some of the emptiness inside her, bringing peace. But she was still alone, cut off from her friends, from Creation. She reached out with her Gift, weaving her song into the emptiness of the broken world. She felt the uncertainty of her companions, their sadness and loss. She felt Gorin’s fear and Dacius’ sorrow and the strange melancholy that gripped Father Marcus. She felt the dark rage that burned in Sulmar’s soul. She felt all the spaces that had been left empty by the passage through the Barrier, and she filled those places with her song.

  The music was an anchor, an echo of Creation that reminded them all of what was possible, of the reason for their quest. It wove them together, banishing the loneliness and isolation for at least these few, precious moments. It was only a temporary measure, but it was enough. As Chentelle let her song come to an end, she felt renewed confidence course through the company. The fear and uncertainty had eased, for now.

  “Thank you, Chentelle,” Father Marcus said. “Your song is a true comfort in this difficult time.”

  The High Bishop turned and addressed the company. “Remember this feeling, friends. We lost something precious when we crossed through the Barrier. But the thing that we lost is the very thing that drives us onward. We struggle now to keep that fragment of the True Creation from vanishing forever, to keep evil from overrunning all of Infinitera. It is a difficult quest, but one which must be undertaken, one which we have the strength to fulfill. Do not doubt that. The Creator is with us still. We just have to look more closely to find him.” He paused. “If anyone needs to voice their thoughts in private, Gorin or I will gladly lend an ear.”

  “What I think,” Dacius said loudly, “Is that we need another song. Thildemar, didn’t I see you stowing a new lute in your pack?”

  The old elf nodded, a thin smile growing on his face. “One moment, Lord Gemine. I will see if I can find it.”

  There was a general chuckle. A lutist never lost track of his instrument.

  Thildemar disappeared below deck, and appeared again almost immediately. He took up a position near the wheel and started tuning his instrument with a practiced hand. The rest of the company gathered around, anxious to take part in some merriment. Chentelle started to join them, but stopped when her eyes fell on Sulmar.

  The Tengarian stood quietly, staring at the pale red light that already illuminated the eastern sky. His face was as impassive as stone, and his posture seemed relaxed. But his arms trembled with tension, and his knuckles were bone white against the rail.

  Chentelle knew that underneath the fabric of his sleeve a black shadow writhed sinuously on his forearm.

  Time passed, marked only by the fluctuating light of Deneob and Ellistar. The Treachery sailed out of the Quiet Sea and into the vast reaches of the Great Sea. Captain Rone charted their travel carefully, sighting along the path of the suns. He consulted Gorin frequently, checking their position against the priest’s knowledge of Kennaru’s location. Several times they saw ships on the horizon, but none approached. Even so Rone kept them in the western edge of the southern current, taking advantage of the water’s speed while staying as far from the Hordelands as possible. The daylight kept them safe from Ill-creatures, but goblins were another matter.

  They countered the tension by sharing long tales and merry songs together, and by pursuing their private interests when alone. A’stoc remained withdrawn in his studies, though he would now give monosyllabic answers to direct questions. He, alone of their number, seemed unchanged by their passage across the Barrier. Father Marcus and Gorin spent much of their time in meditation, though they willingly shared their knowledge of the Holy Texts when asked. Rone and Dacius took turns keeping the Legionnaires busy, the captain trying to turn them into sailors and the Legion commander leading them through sword drills and combat exercises. Dacius gave Sulmar a vorpal sword and invited him to join the drills, but the Tengarian declined. He preferred to keep his own schedule of exercises, and he never stopped carrying his own black sword in addition to the vorpal blade.

  Chentelle spent most of her time sitting on the foredeck, singing softly to herself. It seemed that the farther she traveled from Lone Valley, the closer it became to her heart. She missed it so! Perhaps she had always been fated to make this long journey, but she had thought she would be home by now, and the adjustment was not easy. The First Season of Light was always a time of great joy at home, a time to gather the harvest and rejoice in the cycle of life. The forest would smell of autumn flowers and roasting grain, and the people would gather in the village circle to celebrate the Szygy. Her mother would surprise her with a newly spun dress, and they would sit together among their dearest friends to watch the contests of story and song and weaving and magic.