A goblin sorcerer stepped to the rail of one warship. Lightning crackled around his outstretched claws. Chentelle felt mild concern, realizing that this was real danger. Then an arrow quivered suddenly in his chest, and he fell backward. She felt moderate regret and relief.

  The goblins started to shift the focus of their attack. Convinced that the flaming humans were beyond their power, they switched their aim to Captain Rone, exposed on the wheeldeck. But he, too, seemed beyond their reach.

  Dacius and Thildemar crouched on either side of the captain, dozens of goblin missiles sprouting from the twin shields each wielded. Vitriol smoked and scarred the metal-wrapped wood, but the defense held. The Treachery plowed forward, leaving the warships quickly behind.

  Then lightning blasted through the wheeldeck. Rone and his defenders were tossed into the air. Dacius and Thildemar landed heavily, but Rone used the wheel to steady himself. He fell to his knees, but the Treachery never strayed from the wind.

  Then came the arrows. Most of the final salvo fell short, raising brief white splashes in the gray sea. A few of them found the deck. Thildemar danced away as acid sprayed across his leatherbark tunic, and a metal bolt pierced Dacius through the calf. Captain Rone toppled to his side, blood running from his open mouth.

  “Captain!” Zubec’s voice sliced through the howling wind.

  The warm safety suddenly disappeared. Brother Gorin was rushing past her, close on the heels of Zubec. By the Creator, Captain Rone! She ran for the wheeldeck.

  Gorin and Zubec were crouched beside Rone. The priest was already beginning to chant, and Zubec cradled the captain in his arms. The wheel spun free behind them.

  The Treachery’s bow swung across the wind, and the ship tilted dangerously to port. Chentelle stumbled forward, nearly landing on top of Brother Gorin.

  A barbed metal tip poked through the front of the captain’s chest. Blood soaked the boards under his back. “The wheel,” he gasped. “Take the—”

  Rone’s death shuddered through Chentelle’s spine. She felt a terrible cold, then nothing. After a time, she realized that it was dark. She opened her eyes.

  Brother Gorin was shaking his head. “The arrow pierced his heart. His spirit was loosed. I could not call it back.” He lifted a clawed hand to the captain’s face and gently closed the eyes. Then he moved over to inspect Dacius’ leg.

  Zubec didn’t say anything. But his eyes were tightly clenched, and the wheel trembled in his grasp.

  The blasting sagewind carried them eastward until Ellistar was full over the horizon. Then, the flames around A’stoc and Father Marcus sputtered and died. Both men collapsed to the deck.

  Chentelle was at their sides in an instant.

  A’stoc burned with fever. Chentelle reached into him with her Gift, but his spirit was still walled off from the world.

  She switched her touch to Father Marcus. Weariness and guilt swept through her in a massive tide. She jerked her hand away, spinning dizzily under the onslaught. Desperation burned in her throat. Failure. Pain. She stumbled to her feet, trying to comprehend the rush of emotion.

  Strong hands steadied her balance. Sulmar. She latched on to the Tengarian, anchoring herself to his steadfastness.

  “Mistress, are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I think so. Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

  “What about them?” Dacius asked. “What did you sense?”

  “A’stoc is still the same,” she said. “But he has a fever now, a bad one. Father Marcus—I don’t know. I think he just needs rest. But he has terrible feelings of—something. It’s difficult to sort out.”

  “We should take them below,” Dacius said. “Leth, Gerruth—give them a hand. Brother Gorin, can you help the wizard’s fever?”

  “Perhaps,” the priest said. “I will try.”

  “Fine,” Dacius said. “But don’t exhaust yourself. There’s no telling how long we’ll be in the clear. Zubec, what’s our course?”

  The sailor pointed to the tattered sails, hanging limp in the still air. “We have none, Lord Gemine. The sagewind pulled us much farther east than I would prefer, but we’re stuck here until the wind picks up. I suggest we use the lull to repair the sails. There’s not much we can do about the spars right now.”

  “Agreed,” Dacius said. “Then set course for the Holy Land. Get us underway as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, Lord Gemine. But, with your permission, I would like to bury Captain Rone first.”

  Dacius stared over the stern rail. “No. Repair the sails first. I will make sure the body is prepared, but the safety of the quest must come first.”

  Zubec turned away and knelt beside Rone’s body. He brushed his fingers lightly across the captain’s ruined chest. “The ship first,” he said softly. “Always, the ship first.”

  Zubec stood and squared his shoulders. “Pardec, lower the mainsail. I’ll get the patch kit. You, Drup, untangle the spar from those lines. We may be able to reroute the rigging. Gerruth, take the wheel. Just keep her pointed ahead. If the wind comes, I’ll relieve you.”

  The elves exploded into action, pouring themselves into the mundane tasks with an almost manic concentration.

  Dacius walked to Captain Rone’s body and rolled it to its side. He drew his dagger and started to use its pommel to hammer the barbed arrow through the elf’s chest.

  Chentelle’s stomach churned. She whirled and ran for the stairs, suddenly unable to bear the horror of sharing the deck with Captain Rone’s corpse. She stumbled down the stairs, catching herself against one of the dining tables. It wasn’t fair. They had made it. Why did Rone have to die? Why was the price so high?

  Tears drifted down her cheek. Despite the captain’s sacrifice, she felt relief, even elation, at their escape. But guilt followed immediately. How could she be happy when Rone was dead? Not just Rone; Alve and Simon and the Legionnaires from the other ship—the quest had taken them all. Good men had given their lives, and all she could think about was her own safety. How could she be so selfish?

  “Enchantress?” Brother Gorin’s gruff voice startled her from her thoughts. “Chentelle, are you all right?”

  She wiped her eyes clear and nodded. “I’m just—” She shrugged. “I wish so many people didn’t have to die.”

  “As do I. As do we all. Sometimes the Creator leads us along difficult paths.”

  “But why? What does it all mean?”

  “Death has no meaning, Chentelle,” the priest answered. “It is only a silence in Creation’s harmony. It is life that has meaning. We create that meaning, each of us individually and all of us together. Captain Rone’s life was filled with meanings: the sea, his ship, his crew, his sense of duty and justice. He shaped these meanings with his life, and they shaped him. In the end, his path led to death, as will yours, as will mine. His life has ended, but the reasons for that life have not. If we would honor Captain Rone, then we must honor those principles.”

  It sounded so reasonable, so soothing. Chentelle tried to latch on to Gorin’s words, to mimic the goblin’s unwavering faith. But her grief was too fresh. She decided to change the subject, not because the matter was slight, but because she had to divert herself from it until she could better cope with it. “How is Father Marcus? When I touched him, I felt something—” She searched for the proper word. “Horrible.”

  “He needs rest and solitude,” Brother Gorin said. “He has done a thing that causes him much grief.”

  “I don’t understand. Do you mean how he revived A’stoc? What did he do?”

  The goblin grimaced, displaying multiple rows of pointy teeth. “The High Bishop did not revive A’stoc. He animated him, took control of his mind. The technique is usually reserved for teaching. It allows a bishop to lead a student through a meditation or ritual. Sometimes it is also used to bring comfort to those near death, to allow them to complete a task they feel is vital. But it is never, never used without the consent of the subject.”

  Chentelle felt a terrible emptiness. A’stoc was unconscious, his spirit unreachable. He could not have given his assent. This had been a terrible violation. Father Marcus had saved them, but at what cost?

  Someone knocked lightly on the frame of the hatchway. “Your pardon, Chentelle, Brother Gorin,” Dacius said. “We are ready to bury Captain Rone. Has the High Bishop recovered?”

  “No,” Gorin said. “I will perform the ceremony.”

  The priest spoke briefly, consecrating the captain’s remains and commending it to the unity of waters. Then they gave Rone’s body back to the sea that he had loved so well. Despite Gorin’s reassuring words, the faces of the company were bleak and lifeless. They were the faces of broken spirits, molded in gray ash.

  Chentelle could hardly bear to look at them. Their pain was so sharp, their despondency so deep. Each face was an echo of her own guilt and despair. It had to end. She thought about the words Gorin had spoken to her, fixing their message in her mind. Then she sang.

  It started as a wail, wordless, wrenching, filled with loss and suffering. She touched each of the company with it, letting her Gift resonate with their own anguish. The cry grew louder, more strident. Then, slowly, she softened it, blending it into the simple rhythm of the tide. She developed a song of sea, of salt, of motion and vibrant life. She sang of courage and honor, of compassion and hope. She sculpted Rone in tone and melody, highlighting his passions, his humor, his sense of duty.

  She sang, and the spirits of the company followed her voice. They passed through their grief to celebration of the life they had been privileged to share. Tears ran freely down the cheeks of warrior and sailor alike. But the sadness no longer filled them. Their hearts were also home to laughter and resolve, to hope and determination. The song tapered off gradually, disappearing into the sighing breeze.

  “Bless you, Chentelle,” a quiet voice said from the stairs.

  “Father Marcus!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were there. Are you all right?”

  The High Bishop looked pale, but his back was straight and his voice steady. Only the shadows surrounding his cerulean eyes hinted at some hidden pain. “No. But I am far better than I was; thanks to your wondrous voice. You have helped to ease a burden I thought beyond bearing.”

  “She’s done more than that,” Zubec said. “She’s brought us wind! Pardec, tighten the starboard lines. We’ll reach across her.”

  “But I didn’t call the wind,” said Chentelle. “It’s just a coincidence.”

  “As you like, enchantress,” Zubec said, bowing deeply and then jumping up to the wheeldeck. “But my heart is lighter, and the sails are full. And I know who I’ll thank in my prayers this night.”

  Father Marcus turned to Zubec. “I am sorry to learn about Captain Rone’s sacrifice. May I assume that you are now captain?”

  “No,” Zubec said. “This ship has only one captain. But I’ll sail her home.”

  “Fine,” the High Bishop said. “How are you at charts and navigation?”

  “Better than anyone else on board,” said Zubec. “I’m no Captain Rone, but I can guide us safely to the Realm.”

  “Good,” Father Marcus said. “But we are not returning to Talan. Set course for the Westlands. Our destination is Tel Adartak-Skysoar.”

  Dacius came up beside them. “High Bishop, there is one thing I do not understand. Why would the Dark One place a breeding pit on so distant an island? Why didn’t he place it somewhere in the Realm?”

  “I believe it has to do with the Atablicryon,” Father Marcus said. “The temple sits on a concentration of Earthpower. Perhaps it gave him pleasure to twist that power to his own ends.”

  “Yes,” Chentelle said. “And Elihaz said that the Ill-creatures had been active on the island for many years. So they couldn’t have been put there just to stop our quest.”

  “True,” Dacius said. “But those years of activity have me thinking. We thought the Ill-creatures had been banished from Infinitera after the Desecration. Now, I begin to wonder whether they’ve been influencing the Heresiarchs throughout the Hordeland Wars.”

  “I suspect you are right,” the High Bishop said.

  “They must be stopped!” Dacius barked with sudden ferocity. “They are a blight upon all of Infinitera. The Realm will never be safe while Ill-creatures exist.”

  “You are correct,” Father Marcus said. “But ours is a different quest. We fight a more dangerous evil.”

  “I know. The Fallen Star. But it is hard to believe that any threat can be greater than the Dark One. I know his evil. The Fallen Star is just a name.”

  “Not to me,” the High Bishop said. “I must have your trust in this, Lord Gemine. Destruction of the Fallen Star is our goal. There can be no other. The whole of the Creation depends on us.”

  “I do trust you,” Dacius said. “But it is hard. I am used to thinking in more concrete terms. Ill-creatures I can comprehend. The end of the Creation—” He shrugged.

  “Must not occur,” Father Marcus finished. “And it will not, so long as we remain true to our purpose. That is the message of Rone’s sacrifice. Now, if you will excuse me, I want to check on Wizard A’stoc.”

  Chentelle’s own concern for the wizard almost drove her to join the priest, but his manner did not invite company. Instead, she went below deck and headed for the galley. The aroma of baking bread filled the air, seasoned with just a hint of roasted potatoes. Whistling rang through the small kitchen, punctuated by the staccato clicking of a knife against wood.

  Drup looked up from his work without missing a beat. “Oh, hello Chentelle, Sulmar. I thought I would fix dinner, since Zubec is acting as captain. Have you come to work or sample?”

  “I’ll work,” Chentelle said. She was surprised at how young the Legionnaire looked in his apron and cap. He wasn’t much older than she, but he had always seemed much older. Maybe it was the uniform. “What should I do?”

  Drup flipped his diced carrots into a waiting bowl with a practiced flair. “Salad or soup, your choice.”

  “Soup,” she said. “I could never slice like that.”

  The Legionnaire bowed extravagantly. “So nice to be recognized for the rare talent that I am. Very well, soup you shall be. The base is prepared; it lacks only seasoning and a proper aesthetic presentation. I leave those in your able hands, while I”—he tossed a tomato into the air, quartered it with two quick strokes, and caught the pieces in his off hand—“teach these vegetables to fear the very name Drup.”

  Chentelle grinned happily. “You certainly are in a good mood. Is there some special reason?”

  A deep smile lit his eyes. “We’re headed home, Chentelle. I can feel Endaleof calling me. Already, I can smell the scent of the forest riding on this salty wind.”

  Chentelle basked in the young soldier’s joy. She hummed quietly as she worked, matching her tune easily to Drup’s whistle. The soup was delicious. A quick taste verified that it needed little help from her. It also reminded her of the emptiness of her stomach. She was soon doing as much tasting as cooking.

  Despite her dallying, the meal was soon ready. They ferried the dishes into the dining salon, and the rich aroma proved to be more than sufficient as a dinner bell. Leth and Gerruth nearly beat them to the table.

  The company ate in shifts, always keeping at least three men on deck. They devoured the meal with a relish that spoke volumes about both their hunger and the quality of the food. Praises were heaped upon the cooks, and Chentelle did her best to direct them toward Drup. The young Legionnaire’s smile never faltered.

  Chentelle watched the progression of diners with growing concern. One face was conspicuously absent. Father Marcus was still sequestered in A’stoc’s cabin. She remembered Gorin’s caution that the High Bishop needed solitude, but she was worried. Well, A’stoc would need food even if the priest didn’t. No one could blame her for taking the wizard a bowl of soup.

  No one answered her knock, so she pushed open the door. Luckily, it wasn’t barred. Father Marcus knelt beside A’stoc’s bed, hands resting on the wizard’s chest. A shimmering aura surrounded the two humans. A’stoc’s face was peaceful, even serene, but Father Marcus looked haggard. The flesh hung limply from his cheeks, and his skin was almost gray. His hands and arms trembled visibly.

  “Oh, no,” Chentelle murmured. “He’s using his own strength to try to heal A’stoc.” She set the bowl of soup on the desk and shook the High Bishop’s shoulder. “Father Marcus. Father Marcus, that’s enough! It won’t help anyone if you kill yourself. Remember the quest!”

  The healing glow faded. Father Marcus blinked his eyes and glanced about the room. “Chentelle?” He tried to stand, but his legs gave way and he toppled over.

  Chentelle caught his arm and struggled to hold him up, but he was far too heavy. Only Sulmar’s quick assistance kept both of them from hitting the floor. Together, they lifted the priest into the desk chair.

  “Thank you,” Father Marcus said. “My legs seem to have grown stiff.”

  Chentelle studied the human’s face, trying to read his condition in the worn lines and unusually guarded eyes. “I thought that you said there was nothing you could do for him. His spirit has to find its own way back.”

  The High Bishop winced. “That was true, before. But when I—controlled A’stoc, when I forced him to summon the Staff’s power, it put great strain on his weakened body. Touch him.”

  Chentelle placed a hand on A’stoc’s forehead. It was cool and dry, at first, but she felt the heat rising. Sweat beaded on his brow as the fever returned, undiminished by Father Marcus’ efforts.

  “You see,” the priest said. “I can suppress the fever, but it returns as soon as I relinquish the healing.” He levered himself unsteadily to his feet.

  Chentelle stepped between the priest and A’stoc’s bunk. “You can’t continue. You need rest.”