She clapped her hands over her mouth and started to rock. This is it, she thought. I’ve gone mad at last.

Something entered the room, a wash of cool air that wasn’t really air, more a feeling of water than a breeze. Most of it circled over the empty sacks she used for a bed. A lone thread spun out of that cool mass. Drifting across the room, it twined around her shoulders.

“Now do you see it?” the educated voice demanded. “I want the locksmith.”

“You’ve got ‘im, Master Niko.” That deep voice also sounded very close.

Metal scraped on metal. Air moved. She didn’t know that the door was opening until it bumped her.

“Urda bless me, what a stink!” the deep voice said.

“Move aside, man,” the crisp voice ordered. Its owner, a light-colored shadow, stepped into the room. “My child? My name is Niklaren Goldeye. I’ve been looking for you.” He raised a lamp that someone had passed to him.

The light struck her eyes, which had been in the dark so long. Pain made her scream and cover them. She would see almost nothing for quite some time.

2

Summersea, in Emelan:

Sandry’s great-uncle, Duke Vedris IV, the ruler of Emelan, watched the rain fall outside the library window as first Niko, then Sandry, told the tale of the last four months, of Sandry’s rescue, healing, and the long trip north. If he had opinions about their tale, they were locked behind his deep-set brown eyes and heavy features. Stocky, broad-shouldered, and commanding, the duke preferred simple clothes like those he had on: a white lawn shirt, brown wool breeches, a brown wool tunic, and calf-high boots. Only the flash of gold braid at his tunic collar and hems and the signet ring on his left forefinger hinted that he might be wealthy. With his shaved head, hooked nose, and fleshy visage, the duke looked like one of his own pirate-chasing captains rather than a nobleman whose line had ruled from this castle for eight hundred years.

When they finished, he turned to look at them. “Master Niko, it was good of you to bring Sandrilene to me, particularly at this time of year.”

“The land roads weren’t so bad, your Grace,” replied Niko, stirring his tea. “And certainly I couldn’t abandon Sandry at that point.”

“I know I should have waited till spring, Uncle,” the girl added, “but I just couldn’t. Hatar—it’s a giant graveyard now. I couldn’t stay an hour more.” She was still pale and thin after her ordeal in the storeroom and weeks of recovery. Dressed in black from head to toe, she had become a small ghost. Niko’s suggestion, to bring her north to her father’s favorite relative, had been welcome.

Vedris smiled. “I understand, my dear. You don’t have to apologize.”

Sandry returned the smile with a small, trembling one of her own.

The duke sighed and rubbed his shaved scalp. “You have presented me with a dilemma, however, if you want to stay,” he said regretfully. His voice was the most elegant thing about him, smooth and velvet-soft, the kind of voice that others fell silent to hear. “Do you wish to remain? Or do you want to head north in the spring?”

Sandry shook her head, making her twin braids fly. “I don’t want to go to my Namornese relatives, if you please, Uncle.”

The duke sat in the window seat. “After my lady wife died, I let court functions go. My nobles socialize with one another at their homes. With no hostess, and my children all grown and married, there is no lady here I would ask to take you under her wing. You are welcome to stay as long as you desire, but this castle is a grim place for a young girl.”

Sandry looked down at her lap. The picture he painted was not appealing. The thought of days in these plain stone halls was a lonely one. The idea of packing and traveling to distant Namorn, at any season of the year, sounded far worse. She hadn’t liked her Namornese kinfolk.

“Then I have the solution,” Niko said cheerfully. “I’m surprised you didn’t see it yourself, your grace. Lady Sandrilene can live at Winding Circle Temple. Your nobles send their own children there. She can learn the things that she will need to move in society, and she will get an education worth having.” Looking at Sandry, he explained, “Winding Circle is known throughout the Pebbled Sea as a center of learning and magic.”

Magic? Sandry thought wistfully. She had thought the magic in the world died with Pirisi. “I’d like to see magic again,” she whispered.

“It is the obvious solution,” Niko told the duke, who looked at him sharply. “She will be close by, as safe behind those walls as she might be here. The two of you can visit whenever you like.”

“Sandrilene?” asked the duke.

She smiled tiredly. “I don’t know, Uncle, but—surely it’s worth a try?”

Nidra Island, off the shore of Sotat:

It had taken so little time for her to tell the Trader Council of the fate of Third Ship Kisubo. Out early to get in a fast cargo, it sank in a late winter storm. The five judges—two land-Traders, two sea-Traders, and a mimander, a mage—retired when she finished, to discuss her fate. In the judging-room, Daja and her rescuer waited for their verdict.

Daja was sick with hope. They might let her live among those of her relatives who were too old or too young for the hard life at sea, at one of the Traders’ handful of hidden cities. They might give her a new name, send her to a new family. People had gotten second chances like that—rarely, but it happened.

“Prepare yourself for the worst,” advised Niko, his eyes kind. “You know they regard lone survivors as the worst kind of luck.”