Only she wasn’t at home. She was floating in a ship whose every board cried out to her in muted agony. She was following a dream she didn’t understand to a place she had never seen, in order to destroy an evil she could not comprehend. She was traveling with good men touched by evil, an evil goblin transformed by good, and a wizard so full of bitterness and despair that he would not even talk to her. And only in the deep song of a strange sea could she find comfort for her troubled mind.

  A voice from the main deck called out to her. “Lady Chentelle, we are about to begin. Will you join us?”

  So soon? Chentelle looked up at the sky and saw only a deep red glow lighting each horizon. It was time. She hadn’t been paying attention. “Coming,” she called, waving to Father Marcus.

  The High Bishop stood in the center of the deck, ringed by the assembled company. Captain Rone had fixed the wheel so no one would have to miss the ceremony. Even A’stoc was present, looking somewhat wild and unkempt. Chentelle took a place beside the wizard and greeted him with a smile which was not returned. She was trying to think of something properly piercing to say when Sulmar came from somewhere to squeeze in between them.

  Once everyone was in place, Father Marcus made the sign of harmony and led them all in the First Meditation.

  “In peace, there is harmony.

  In harmony, there is unity.

  In unity, there is healing.

  In healing, there is peace.”

  “That is the First Meditation of Jediah,” the High Bishop said. “Words that we all know, and perhaps do not think about often enough. But there is not a time of the year when they are more relevant than the Szygy. At this moment, Infinitera lies in perfect balance between the Two Sisters. We have completed our orbit of Ellistar, and are about to begin the journey around Deneob. It is a time of perfect harmony between the Golden Sun and the Winter Sun, a time of light when evil cannot reign, a time of unity when all things come together.

  “Every race, every nation, every village has its own ceremony to celebrate this time, but all of these ceremonies celebrate the unity of family and community, the harmony between man and nature, the healing of old wounds and grievances, the peace of wholeness with the Creation. I wish that each of you could be with your families on this day, to join in those celebrations, but that is not possible. We are called to a different duty. I cannot change that, but there is one thing I can do.

  “We of the Holy Order have our own ceremony for this day. It is a simple ritual, but one that has great meaning to us. At Szygy, the forces of Creation are in balance, all things are joined in unity, all days are one. At Szygy, it is possible to share in that rapport, to travel in the mind to anyplace, to relive in the mind any day of your life. On this day that is so often celebrated by the exchange of gifts, it is a gift I would like to share with you.”

  He paused. “Brother Gorin, are you ready?”

  “Yes, Lord High Bishop.” The goblin’s voice came from outside the circle, opposite Captain Rone. Gorin stood the same distance behind the seaman as Father Marcus did in front.

  While the company watched, uncertain what to expect, the two priests started to chant. The words were indecipherable, but somehow they rang with meaning. Light sprang up around the clerics. Father Marcus started to shine with a deep golden glow, and a crimson aura surrounded Gorin. They became the Two Sisters, and the company was Infinitera, circling around the Golden Sun.

  As one, the priests extended their arms toward Rone. Light flowed from their fingertips, coming together to surround the captain in a shimmering rainbow.

  A look of deep joy came over the seaman’s face. His mouth hung open in surprise and laughter poured from deep inside him. The glow lasted for only a few seconds, but even after it faded the look of rapture remained. Rone bowed deeply, first to Father Marcus, then to Gorin. “Bless you, bless you both.” Then he left the group, walking in a circle until he came to a point opposite Gorin.

  Without needing to be told, the rest of them moved also. They followed the path of their orbit, rotating around Father Marcus until Zubec stood balanced between the two priests. Again the clerics reached out with their glow, and Zubec, too, was taken by rapture. The procession continued, and soon Chentelle was standing between the holy men, waiting for the light to wash over her.

  The dress was beautiful. The silver-blue threads made her hair glow like spun gold, and the spidersilk shimmered in the sunlight, surrounding her with tiny rainbows. How did her mother make them more dazzling every year? And how could she possibly top this one?

  Chentelle jumped into her mother’s arms, thanking her, hugging her. Then she danced around the room, unable to contain herself. What were they waiting for? Already the rich smell of roasting nuts filled the forest. The first stories would begin any minute.

  Finally, her mother nodded to Chentelle and headed for the door. They ran to the village circle. Well, Chentelle ran, her mother walked with grace and dignity and maddening slowness, and Chentelle had to circle back a half-dozen times to keep from leaving her behind. Nearly everyone was present when they arrived, but a place had been reserved for them under the great oak nearest the brook. They settled into place, returning the kind greetings of their neighbors.

  The stories were wonderful, full of mystery and magic and love and sorrow. Old Willow’s tale of Fizzfaldt the Wanderer brought tears to everyone’s eyes, and she was again given the title of master storyteller. Ellissandra won the judgment for her weaving, though Chentelle privately thought that her mother would have won, if only she had entered. A’mond dazzled them all with his fire rings and dancing smoke, and Erina surprised everyone by winning the music competition.

  The celebration lasted through the Long Day, the day that started when Ellistar rose but did not end until Deneob set. After the contests ended, the people gathered into small groups of family and cherished friends. That was when gifts were exchanged and the private stories were told, when the bonds of family and community were reforged in love and harmony. Chentelle basked in the warmth and love, wishing that it could last forever.

  She blinked in confusion and discovered that her eyes were full with tears of love. She stood on the deck of the Treachery, smiling with a joy that filled her soul. The memory was fresh within her, and her whole body trembled with emotion. It was incredible. She had relived the entire day in those few moments of light. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then she walked around the circle to join the others.

  Only Sulmar and A’stoc were left in the circle around Father Marcus. The Tengarian moved into the point of balance, and the glow surrounded him. Almost immediately, tears streamed down his face. He dropped to his knees, sobbing loudly, and a moan of unbearable sadness escaped his lips. The glow faded, and the Tengarian lurched unsteadily to his feet. He clapped both hands to his face, hiding his tears. Then with a visible effort, he dropped his arms slowly to his side. The face he revealed was once again as impassive and unreadable as a stone wall. He bowed deeply to Father Marcus, spun about smoothly and bowed again to Gorin. Then he took his place at Chentelle’s side.

  Now A’stoc moved into position between the priests. Even before they reached out to him, the wizard was trembling violently. He clutched the Thunderwood Staff with shaking hands, holding it before him like a ward. The priests waited, and slowly he lowered the Staff. Then they reached out to him, extending their light. But just before the glow touched him, the wizard jumped out of the way. “No!” he screamed. “No. I—I cannot—I have to—I—”

  He looked back and forth between Gorin and the High Bishop, eyes darting like those of a cornered animal. Then he settled his gaze on Chentelle. One hand released its grip on the Staff and reached slowly in her direction. Then it snapped back to the wood. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning and bolting for the hatchway to the cabins below. “I’m sorry.”

  It was an unsettling end to the ceremony, but the spirit of Father Marcus’s gift to them was too strong to be broken. Captain Rone had to return to the wheel, so the rest of them found places to settle themselves around the wheeldeck. They watched the Winter Sun take her place as the daystar, marking her passage with stories of their homes and songs of love and friendship. Leth and Gerruth taught them all a dance from the Inarr Forest, and the seamen regaled them with fanciful tales from foreign lands. The hours melted away, and only Sulmar remained apart from the sharing, A’stoc being absent.

  Chentelle was worried. Sulmar had suffered such obvious pain during the ceremony. She took advantage of one of Rone’s saltier stories to speak softly to her liegeman. “Sulmar, are you all right? I don’t know what happened to you, but if you’re in pain I want to try and help. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, mistress,” he said evenly. “There is nothing anyone can do.”

  Chentelle waited, but he didn’t say anything more. She couldn’t think of anything else she could say, so she turned back to join the others.

  “Mistress?”

  Sulmar’s voice was uncertain, almost shaky. She hadn’t heard him speak so unevenly since the night she saved him from drowning. “Yes?”

  “Mistress,” he said again. “It is not a pain from which I want to be freed. I saw—I saw the woman who was once my wife. And I saw the children who once called me father. They—they are alive, my liege. They are alive.”

  The pain and joy in his voice made Chentelle want to cry out in sympathy. She wanted to reach out to him, to say something that would bring comfort or solace. But there was nothing to say. Finally, she threw herself against his chest and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

  The Tengarian froze in surprise. His entire body went rigid. He started to reach down and disengage her arms, but he stopped the motion almost immediately. Slowly, his tension faded and he let himself relax in the embrace. He even wrapped one of his own arms around Chentelle’s shoulders, though the other remained by his side, unencumbered. They stood like that for several minutes, sharing their own private communion with the Creation. Then they rejoined the others.

  The gathering lasted until Deneob’s cool red glow began to disappear below the water. Then they started to drift apart, ready to ease the fatigue of so many hours awake. But as tired as they were, they also felt a sense of peace, of hope, of renewed strength. The power of the Szygy still lived within them.

  Chentelle said good night to the others and started for the sea door. But as she turned, something off the port quarter caught her eye. Silhouetted against the rising disk of Ellistar was a ship, a big ship. “Captain Rone, look!”

  The captain stared at the shape on the horizon. “Goblinship, looks like a four-master. And she’s on an intercept course.”

  9

  Kennaru

  Dacius jumped to the captain’s side. “A warship?”

  “Most likely,” Rone said.

  “Fires of Hel,” Dacius swore. “I thought we had destroyed them all during the Hordeland Wars.”

  “Apparently not,” came Rone’s dry reply. “All hands! All hands to the deck. Paun! Take your place. Give me all the wind you can muster. Zubec, Pardec, turn sail; we’re heading for the deep. And keep it trim. I want no slack in those lines.”

  “Can we outrun them?” Chentelle asked.

  “No,” he said, spinning the wheel hard to starboard. “That ship is built for speed, but we can gain some time for as long as Paun’s strength remains.”

  “Won’t they have a shipsage, too?”

  “Probably more than one,” Rone said grimly. “But ours is better. They won’t gain on us while his magic holds. And we might get lucky. The natural wind might die. Then the Treachery will have the advantage in maneuverability.”

  Father Marcus came hurrying up from his cabin. Fatigue was written in deep lines on the old priest’s face, but his blue eyes shone as clearly and alertly as ever. He scanned the horizon, taking in the situation at a glance. “I take it we are discovered.”

  “Yes, High Bishop,” Dacius said. “But how could they have known?”

  “That does not matter,” Marcus said. “What matters is that we escape. What are our chances, captain?”

  “Not good, Eminence,” Rone said. “We must go into the deep, or they will gain a favorable angle of approach. But we are already close to the edge of the southern current. Leaving it will cost us speed. If we are lucky, they will break off pursuit. They may only be trying to drive us away from the coast.”

  “And if they follow?” asked Marcus.

  “Then we fight. Lord Gemine, I suggest you deploy your men in the cover of the foredeck. If we must fight, I will turn to face them.”

  Dacius turned to face his company of six. “Bows and shields, everyone. I want arrows planted and ready for rapid fire. Deploy in close order. Simon, you and I will be shieldmen, covering for the archers. Thildemar, I need you below for a moment. Everyone else, prepare your positions. I will inspect in twelve minutes. Move!”

  The Legionnaires dispersed in a flurry of action. Some went below to secure weapons and equipment. Others used the time to turn the two longboats and several barrels of fresh water into a makeshift fortification. In minutes, the barrier was complete, and Simon was supervising the younger Legionnaires as they prepared their lines of fire and cover. They were all in position by the time Dacius emerged from his cabin.

  All eyes turned to the human lord as he climbed to the deck. He was completely encased in the heavy armor of a knight of Odenal. A plumed helm dangled casually off of one arm, and a great shield, bearing the crest of twin suns rising, hung from the other.

  “Lord Gemine,” Rone said, “are you certain that’s wise? Should you have to swim, the weight of that armor will bear you down intolerably.”

  Dacius smiled. “Captain, a goblin warship typically carries four companies of marines and two Ill-Lore masters. I have six men to stop them with. If we are boarded, drowning will be the least of my worries.”

  The human lord inspected the defensive position, making one or two minor adjustments. He placed Thildemar in a location near the wheel, ready to defend Captain Rone if it became necessary, then ordered the men to rest in position. Finally, he came back to the wheeldeck himself.

  “How long can he hold out?” Dacius asked, nodding toward Paun.

  The shipsage was visibly worn. The sagestaff trembled in his hands, and his tunic was covered in sweat. He seemed to be kept upright only by the momentum of his dance.

  “Half an hour,” Rone said, “if we’re lucky.”

  Chentelle looked behind them. They were maintaining their lead on the warship, but that was all. Once Paun’s spell faded, that distance would close rapidly. “Maybe I can help.”

  She moved forward to stand beside the shipsage. His humming was quiet, almost subvocal, but she could feel its rhythm. She started to dance, swaying gently in time to Paun’s music. She had to make sure she was in perfect harmony, or else his delicate spell would be disrupted. Slowly, she let the song rise within her.

  She sang softly at first, adding only a quiet harmony, an echo of melody behind Paun’s own. She reached out with her Gift, using it to sense the fragile structure of Paun’s spell. Then she poured herself into the song, using her own strength to support the shipsage’s own. Everything else faded into the background as Chentelle and Paun joined in a union of song and motion. The world was a web of magic floating on a breeze of will. Time was an eight-beat progression, measured in swaying dance steps and sliding notes.

  Suddenly, the spell unraveled. The song ended in mid-beat, and Chentelle staggered to the deck. The sagewind slackened and dissolved into nothingness. People were yelling behind her, but Chentelle couldn’t make out the words. She felt oddly dissociated. She looked around and saw Chentelle standing by the railing, leaning against Sulmar’s arm.

  Chentelle snapped back into awareness. It was Paun who was lying on the deck. She had been seeing through the shipsage’s eyes, lost for a moment in the connection that she had forged. That had never happened before. Her head swam with vertigo, and she stayed on her feet only because of Sulmar’s support. She looked up, trying to focus on her liegeman’s impassive face. To her amazement, Ellistar was now high overhead. “I think I need to go below.”

  The Tengarian swept her smoothly into his arms and carried her away from the bow. Gorin and Father Marcus hurried past them, heading to the foredeck to check on Paun. She let herself be taken as far as the main hatchway and then asked to be let down. Already her head was clearing. Sulmar opened the sea door so that she could descend the ladder, but she headed for the wheeldeck instead.

  Dacius and Captain Rone stood together by the wheel, staring at the eastern horizon. It was empty; the warship was nowhere in sight. Chentelle walked toward them and almost tripped over Thildemar, who lay sleeping in a small patch of shade near the rail. She blinked in amazement.

  Dacius laughed softly. “A wise warrior rests whenever he can, lady. I just wish I could join him.”

  “Why don’t you?” she asked.

  He pointed toward the forward defenses, where the other Legionnaires were also resting. “The reason they can sleep peacefully is that they know I will not.” He paused, a quick smile brightening his face. “It is the privilege of command.”

  Chentelle nodded toward the horizon. “Are they gone?”

  It was Rone who answered. “No, lady enchantress. They’re still out there. I can feel them hovering, just out of sight. They couldn’t match our speed once you added your strength to Paun’s, but they’ll be closing fast, now that the sagewind has ended.”

  Chentelle winced with chagrin. If only she had been able to keep up her song. They might have escaped. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Rone said. “Lady Chentelle, I’ve spent nearly three centuries sailing one sea or another, and I have never seen a sage summon so strong a wind for so long a time. It was a fine run, lady, a fine run. But we are overmatched. If only we had another shipsage.”