REYN STOOD ON THE AFTERDECK OF THE KENDRY, WATCHING THE WIDENING wake of the great liveship in the broad river. The coming of morning turned the milky water of the river to silver and made the ever-dripping canopy of the forested banks a shimmering curtain of falling jewels. The swiftness of the current and the ship's great sails carried them downriver at an incredible rate. He drew in a great breath to try to lift the heaviness from his heart. It would not go away. He bowed his head into his hands. Sliding his hands up under his veil, he scrubbed at his sandy eyes. Deep sleep seemed like a nursery tale from his childhood. He wondered if he would ever sleep well again.

“You look like I feel,” a voice said quietly. Reyn startled and turned. In the dimness of the early morning light, he had not noticed the other man. Grag Tenira rolled a tiny parchment up and slipped it up the sleeve of his shirt. “But you shouldn't,” he continued, his brow creasing in a frown. “Are not you to be Malta Vestrit's escort at the Summer Ball? What is there to sigh about in that?”

“Very little,” Reyn assured him. He plastered a smile onto his face. “I share her concerns for her father and their missing ship. That is all, but it is a heavy concern. I had hoped that her presentation ball would be a wholly festive occasion. I fear this will overshadow it.”

“If it's any comfort, the Kendry brought me word that the rescue expedition has already left Bingtown.”

“Ah. I had heard your name linked with Althea Vestrit's. This word comes directly from her then?” Reyn nodded his veiled head toward the missive that still peeped from Grag's sleeve.

Grag gave a short sigh. “A farewell missive from her, before she set forth. She has great hopes for her expedition, but none at all for us. It's a very friendly letter.”

“Ah. Sometimes friendly is harder than cold.”

“Exactly.” Grag rubbed his forehead. “The Vestrits are a stiff-necked bunch. The women are too damn independent for their own good. So everyone has always said of Ronica Vestrit. I've discovered the hard way that the same is true of Althea.” He gave Reyn a bitter grin. “Let's hope your luck with the younger generation is better.”

“She gives little sign of that,” Reyn admitted ruefully. “But I think that if I can win her, the battle will have been worth it.”

Grag shook his head and looked away from the other man. “I felt the same way about Althea. I still feel that way. Somehow, I doubt that I'll get a chance to find out.”

“But you're returning to Bingtown?”

“I won't be stopping there, I'm afraid. Once we get to town, it's belowdecks for me, until we're out at sea.”

“And then?” Reyn asked.

Grag gave a friendly smile but shook his head dumbly.

“Quite right. The fewer who know, the better,” Reyn agreed. He returned his gaze to the river.

“I wanted to tell you personally how grateful the Teniras are for the support you've shown us. It is one thing to say you will back us. It's another to put your family fortune on the line as well.”

Reyn shrugged. “It is a time when the Rain Wilds and Bingtown must stand united, or give up who and what we are.”

Grag stared at the ship's white-edged wake. “Do you think enough of us will stand united for us to succeed? For generations, we have functioned as part of Jamaillia. All of our lives are patterned as closely as possible on Jamaillia City. It is not just our language and our ancestry. It is all our customs: our food, our style of dress, even our dreams for our futures. When we stand apart from that and say, We are Bingtown, what will we really be saying? Who will we be?”

Reyn concealed his impatience. What did it matter? He tried to formulate a more political answer. “I think we will simply be recognizing the reality of the last three or four generations. We are the folk of the Cursed Shores. We are the descendants of those brave enough to come here. They made sacrifices and we inherited their burdens. I don't resent that. But I won't share my birthright with those who will not make the same commitment. I won't cede my place to people who don't recognize what it cost us.”

He glanced at Grag, expecting him to agree easily. Instead, the man only looked troubled. In a low voice, as if ashamed of the thought, Grag asked him, “Have you never thought of just kicking it all over and running away?”

For a moment, Reyn just stared at him through his veil. Then he observed wryly, “Obviously, you have forgotten whom you are speaking to.”

Grag gave a lopsided shrug. “I've heard you could pass. If you wanted to. As for me . . . sometimes, when I am away from my ship for a while, I find myself wondering. What holds me here? Why do I stay in Bingtown, why must I be all a Trader's son must be? Some folk have kicked over the traces. Brashen Trell for instance.”