“I am Sulmar,” he said.

  “And you are from Tengar,” she said. “I come from Lone Valley forty leagues to the west. Will you tell me about your homeland and your people?”

  “I no longer have a homeland,” he said, “or a people.”

  Chentelle felt the bitterness behind his words. No people; he was an outcast. She tried to imagine being cut off from her community, but the thought was too horrible. She understood, now, the source of the pain she had felt in his heart. “I am sorry,” she said. “What happened?”

  The Tengarian didn’t answer. Chentelle felt the anger and sorrow boiling inside him. The feelings were dauntingly powerful, but Sulmar’s expression was unchanged. He locked his emotions behind an iron wall of discipline.

  Then, slowly, he raised his arm, displaying his tattoo. The dark scar shifted eerily on the firelight. “This is the mark of the Black Dragon. It is a curse, an invitation for the powers of evil to consume my soul. So long as I wear it I am corrupted. I have no rank, no clan, no identity. To return to Tengar would mean my death.”

  “But why?” Chentelle asked. “What could make your people treat you so cruelly?”

  “No,” he said, “it was not the people. It was—” Sulmar’s voice faltered and he lowered his head. “It does not matter. There is no returning.”

  “But surely—”

  He raised a hand, cutting off Chentelle’s reply. “Do not ask. I will speak of this no more.”

  She nodded. It was no more right to pry with questions than with her Gift, when the matter was truly private.

  The Tengarian stood and shuffled to the far side of the fire. “See to your own comfort, girl,” he said, pointing at the bedroll. “I will sleep uncovered.”

  The man’s manner left no room for debate. Chentelle settled herself on the blankets and closed her eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of the waves. Almost immediately the excitement of the day yielded to exhaustion, and she fell asleep.

  The dream did not come. That was the first thing Chentelle realized when she woke. The second thing was that Sulmar was not by the fire. She jumped up quickly, trying to ignore the pain in her legs and back. Ellistar was already rising over the water, and she squinted into the glare. There he was, standing near the shattered remains of his sailboat, staring at the waves. The tide was higher than it had been last night, but the waves crashed against the rocks with no less force.

  Chentelle reached for her dress, then reconsidered. She wrapped the cloak around her body and walked down to join the Tengarian. “Good morning,” she said. “How are your wounds?”

  “Nearly healed.” But Chentelle could see that rough scabs remained on his hands and arms.

  She rested a hand on his shoulder and touched him with her Gift. Sulmar tensed, then relaxed. He was healing quickly, and there was no infection, but the cuts had been deep. It would be days before he recovered completely, and he would have to be careful lest he reopen the wounds. “You still need rest,” she said.

  “I must retrieve my sword.”

  “In your condition? Do you think I would let you drown again, or contaminate your wounds with salt water? I will get your precious sword.”

  Sulmar glanced at the pounding surf. “Girl, I cannot let you—”

  “What?” she said. “You cannot let me face the perilous waves? Who do you think saved you from the Ill-creature last night? Speaking of which, you might at least say ‘Thank you.’” She pulled the cloak off her shoulders and thrust it into his arms. “Now stand back.”

  The Tengarian stepped backward, eyes widening. Then he regained his composure and bowed smoothly from the waist. “I must ask your forgiveness.”

  “Oh, must you,” Chentelle retorted.

  Sulmar snapped stiffly back to attention.

  Chentelle realized she had made a mistake. It was the first sign of openness he had shown, and she had punished him for it. She laid a hand on his arm.

  “Now I must ask for your forgiveness,” she said. “I understand what you meant, and I have felt the goodness and honor in your heart. I would like to call you friend.”

  Sulmar did not answer, but she could feel the softening of his ire. He was clearly not accustomed to independent or assertive women, and she surely resembled a child in his eyes, despite her maturity of body. He had thought of her first as a potential enemy, then as a helpless creature. Now, perhaps, he was ready to accept her as the elf she was.

  She turned back to the sea. “Now I will get your sword.” This time Sulmar did not protest.

  Chentelle reached out with her Gift and started to sing. Her song reached out, spreading peace and harmony. Violent waves subsided to gentle swells and then stillness. For as far as her voice carried the Quiet Sea lived up to its name. Without stopping her song she stepped easily into the placid water.

  She altered her serenade slightly, adding a note of playful beckoning. Almost immediately, her call was answered. A pod of dolphins danced over the water, joining in her song. Their clicks and whistles blended seamlessly with her melody. Chentelle spoke to them with her Gift, sharing her need.

  The dolphins disappeared under the surface. Soon one of them reappeared with Sulmar’s sword gripped between its teeth. Others followed bearing boots, a short knife, a scabbard hanging from a frayed belt, and a burlap sack filled with spoiled food. They deposited the items in Chentelle’s arms, then rejoined their fellows.

  She heard a splash behind her as Sulmar rushed forward. “Be careful,” she said, letting her song fade. “Don’t get your cuts wet.”

  “How is this possible?” he asked, taking the sword and setting it carefully on a rock at the shore. Then he took the other things from her hands and waded back and forth to set them on the dry beach.

  Chentelle smiled. “It is my Gift,” she said, absently patting one of the dolphins. “I am an enchantress. The magic of nature touches me deeply. It speaks to me, and when I sing, I can speak to it.”

  “I have heard legends of such people,” he said. “It is said that only one is born in each millennium.”

  “I’m not sure whether that’s true. There has not been another in Lone Valley for five generations, but one may have been born elsewhere.”

  A dolphin surfaced next to Sulmar, carrying a seashell in its mouth.

  “How sweet,” Chentelle said. “She’s giving you a gift.”

  Sulmar shrugged and accepted the shell. Then he nearly lost his balance when the dolphin bumped into his legs. “What is she doing?” he asked.

  “She wants you to pet her,” Chentelle explained. “They are very affectionate creatures. She also wants you to know that she is the one who found your sword.”

  Sulmar ran his hand tentatively down the dolphin’s side. She whistled happily and spit water into his face. Then she rolled away and splashed water at him with her tail.

  “Watch out,” Chentelle cried, laughing. “Don’t get your cuts—” Then she became aware of something else. “Oh, no! Hurry, get out of the water.”

  Sulmar bolted into action. Before she even realized he was moving, the Tengarian snatched her into his arms. He carried her to shore in a half-dozen powerful strides and dropped her protectively behind him. He whirled to face the sea, sweeping his sword from its rock, raising it, and dropping into a balanced crouch.

  “No, Sulmar,” she said, gasping for breath. “It’s not that kind of threat.”

  She pointed to the water splashing with renewed vigor against the rocky shore. “It’s just the sea. Without my song to hold it back, the waves will become agitated again. I didn’t want your wounds to get wet.”

  She felt the tension ease once more from the Tengarian. He even smiled when he reached down to help her stand. “I apologize for overreacting. I am not yet accustomed to—”

  “I understand. I thank you for the gesture.” For had the danger been to her, and immediate, he might well have saved her life. His action had indicated a readiness to do just that. Now, however, he was steadying himself, evidently having used more energy than was wise in his present state.

  Chentelle called a brief farewell to the dolphins, then returned to the campsite.

  She retrieved her cloak and used it to dry herself, conscious of the man’s careful aversion of gaze. Would he have done that if he really saw her as a child? Then she dressed and put on her boots.

  She saw that Sulmar had discarded the ruined food and laid the rest of his belongings by the fire to dry. He turned and met her eyes. “My lady, thank you for returning my sword. And—thank you for saving my life.”

  She smiled. “I was happy to help. But I am on an urgent errand, and I am afraid I must leave you now.” She was privately pleased, however, that he was no longer calling her “girl.”

  “If I may ask—where is it that you go, my lady?”

  She paused. Her Gift had shown her that the man could be trusted, but the dream had convinced her that secrecy was vital. “I am—seeking someone.”

  “Is it possible that you would need a companion?”

  Chentelle started to decline, but Sulmar interrupted her. “My lady, I have lived all of my years according to the Oath of Discipline and the teachings of the Noble Path, but in the days of my suffering I lost even that. My anger and my bitterness threatened to consume me, and I wandered with no true destiny. My life was finished, my soul destined for the Abyss. But you intervened.

  “There is a law within the Oath of Discipline that demands repayment for the gift of a life. You may demand any service from me that you wish. You may also choose your reward from among my lands, my offices, or my marriageable children. Alas, your options there are few.”

  Sulmar knelt before her. “My lady,” he said. “I offer you my service. I beg you to make me your liegeman. I am without destiny. If you do not accept, my disgrace will be complete.”

  “You don’t understand,” Chentelle said, taken aback. The man had swung from helplessness to seeming contempt, and now to—what? “I can’t ask you to do this. There may be great dangers involved.”

  “Then you have more reason to accept my vow,” the Tengarian said. “I am a warrior. Once I have sworn my loyalty, no danger will reach you without overcoming my sword. I beg you, my lady, accept my service.”

  Chentelle’s Gift showed her the depth of his sincerity, of his determination, of his need. How could she accept such service? The man had no way of knowing the terrors they might face. But how could she refuse the longing she sensed in his plea? It was true that as he mended, he could become a formidable protector. And it would be good to have the company. “All right,” she said. “I accept you as my liegeman, but only until I finish my journey.”

  Sulmar touched his head to the sand. “I swear myself to your service,” he said. “You are my liege, and I will accept no other duty until you release me from my vow.”

  Chentelle reached down and helped him to his feet. “Fine,” she said, “but no more bowing. I just want someone to travel with me.”

  “Until the journey’s end,” he said.

  “Until the journey’s end,” she repeated, feeling a strange power within the words.

  He smiled. “But I hope any formidable threats have the grace to wait a few days, as I regain my strength. I wouldn’t want you to be obliged to rescue me again.”

  She laughed. “I hope so, too.” Then she reconsidered her decision not to tell him her mission. Surely he needed to know it, to best serve her welfare. “I seek the apprentice of the wizard A’pon Boemarre,” she said. “We must locate him and deliver a message from the High Bishop of Norivika. We will find him south of here, along a rocky coast.”

  Sulmar nodded. “Allow me a moment to prepare.”

  He sifted through the wreckage of his boat, salvaging some canvas from the sail and a length of rope. He used his knife to shape the canvas into a rough tunic, using the rope to secure the waist. He sheathed his sword and secured the scabbard and the small knife to his makeshift belt. Then he pulled on his still-soggy boots and kicked sand over the fire. He lifted his burlap sack over one shoulder and her pack over the other.

  “Very creative, liegeman,” Chentelle teased. “It may be that you will become a tailor in your later years.”

  “This will be adequate for now,” he said flatly.

  They walked through the day, taking only brief stops to share the last of Chentelle’s drinking water. Luckily, the day was pleasant and the sea breeze kept them cool. As they moved south, the coast became a thin strip bordering a rocky cliff dotted with small caves. They investigated these but found no sign of human presence.

  As evening approached, Chentelle began to worry. The sky to the south was filled with storm clouds, and there was still no sign of the wizard’s apprentice. Sulmar was bearing up well, but she knew he needed to get a good night’s rest so that his healing could proceed. As it was, only the healing of her Gift had made him able to travel without soon tiring. Also, she was hungry. Sulmar could always catch some fish or crabs once they stopped, but the rocky coast offered little forage for an elven appetite.

  There was a rumble of thunder in the distance, and something else. “Did you hear that?” Chentelle asked.

  “Yes, lady. We should find shelter before the storm hits.”

  “No, not the thunder. I thought I heard a rooster crow. Did you hear it?”

  “No, lady. But they say elven ears are more keen than human.”

  “If it was a yardbird, then there should be people nearby.” She looked back at the storm front. “We should hurry.”

  As they continued south, Chentelle kept her ears alert. She heard the rooster again, and this time Sulmar heard it, too. They picked up their pace, all but running over the uneven shore. Soon, they sighted a small flock of chickens grazing on the sparse greenery that clung to the cliffs: A narrow crevice ran between two large slabs of rock, leading into the cliff’s face.

  They slid through the crevice and into a gap surrounded by gray rock. The dark mouth of a cave opening beckoned from the far side of the clearing. Chentelle started across, but stopped at the touch of Sulmar’s hand.

  “Be wary, my lady,” he said, sliding in front of her. “There may be danger.”

  There might indeed be danger. Her awareness was mixed. Cautiously, they worked their way toward the cave.

  “Be off with you!” called a harsh voice from deep within the cave.

  Had they found him? “My name is Chentelle,” she called back. “I am looking for—”

  A blinding flash cut off her words. A billowing sphere of flame erupted from the cave. Sulmar grabbed her and pulled her into the shelter of some rocks as the fireball struck the boulder behind them. There was a deafening explosion, and a cascade of rock fragments showered down on them. Chentelle pressed her hands to her ears, trying to shut out the echoes of the blast.

  “I want none of your talk,” said the voice. “I said be off!”

  The presence of such magic suggested that they were getting close to their objective. “Please,” Chentelle said. “You have to help me find the apprentice of A’pon Boemarre.”

  There was no reply.

  Chentelle waited. The silence stretched out interminably. Finally she had had enough. She stood and brushed the dust from her dress. “You don’t have to be so rude!” she said indignantly.

  Sulmar jumped to his feet beside her, sword poised, though it would surely be useless against the kind of magic they had just seen. “My lady! Do not expose yourself!”

  She set her little jaw. “I must accomplish my mission.”

  “Why do you seek the wizard’s apprentice?” the voice called. It was closer, now, just beyond the mouth of the cave.

  “I carry a message for him,” Chentelle said, “from the High Bishop of Norivika.”

  A figure detached itself from the darkness of the cave. The man, if it was a man, was covered completely in a dark gray cloak. The face was shadowed by a deep cowl. Even the hands were concealed by voluminous sleeves. A thin wooden rod extended from one of the sleeves. It was a mandril wand, used to focus the powers of Wood Lore, and it was aimed directly at Chentelle and her liegeman. The figure halted a half-dozen paces away.

  “Speak your message,” it said.

  “How can we,” Chentelle demanded, “until we know to whom we speak? I will not risk delivering it to a minion of evil.”

  “Lady,” Sulmar breathed, as if in pain. He clearly feared that her sharp tongue was about to get them both blasted by fire.

  The wand wavered slightly, then dropped to the figure’s side. A hand came up and pulled back the cowl, revealing a lean, unhandsome countenance: the face she had seen in her dream. The man was tall, taller even than Sulmar, but thin to the point of gauntness. He stared back at her with eyes full of bitterness and sorrow.

  “I am A’stoc,” he said, “onetime apprentice to the Great Destroyer.”

  2

  Legion Lord

  Lord Dacius Gemine’s heavy footfalls echoed off the marble floor. He paused briefly before one of the finely carved chairs which lined the hallway, but he did not sit. Charmaine would have a fit if he scratched the furniture. With a sigh, he pulled off his gauntlets and dropped them into his basinet. There was a fresh dent near the helm’s visor; testimony either to his skill as a teacher or to the fatigue of his shield arm. Wearily, he headed for the stairway that led to his private chambers.

  “My lord.”

  Dacius turned, recognizing the voice of his elderly seneschal. “What is it, Charmaine?” he asked.

  The seneschal shifted to her most official voice. “Lord Gemine, the elven lord Alka Shara, Vice-marshal of the Legion, Warden of Inarr, seventeenth in succession to the throne of Essienkal, begs an audience.”

  “Lord Shara is here?” Dacius said, smiling delightfully. “But how? No Legion ship has arrived at the docks. I would have been notified.”

  “I believe he came to the front door, lord,” Charmaine said. “Shall I send him away?”

  “What?” Dacius said. “Of course not. Where is he?”