They, were out beyond sight of land all too quickly, rolling on great swells and an aroma so thick that Avelyn felt as if he could float atop it. They were busy every minute, checking and rechecking lines, adjusting the rigging, for the Windrunner hadn't been out to deep sea in several years and Captain Adjonas was clearly nervous. Old Bunkus Smealy seemed to take extra pleasure in ordering the monks on any particularly dangerous task.

But the old sea dog couldn't fathom the level of physical training these four men had endured. He ordered Thagraine and Quintall up the yard of the mainmast, and so up they went, faster than any crewman on the Windrunner. Smealy sent them far out on the yard, and they went easily, hanging under, hand over hand, adjusting the rigging and then sliding down the ropes to stand on the deck right beside the first hand.

"Well, next for ye --" Smealy began, but Quintall cut him short.

"Take care, Master Smealy," the monk said calmly. "We are as part of the crew, and as such, will work --" He paused, his stare boring into the man. They were about the same height, but Quintall carried an extra fifty pounds, every one of them hardened muscle.. "-- as the crew works," Quintall finished ominously. "If you entertain thoughts of working the brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle beyond what you demand of the regular crew, then accompany those thoughts with visions of swimming."

Smealy squinted perhaps a dozen times in the next few seconds and lifted a hand to scratch hard at his gray hair -- to kill a few lice, Avelyn figured. The twitchy little man looked across the open deck, past the staring eyes of the crewmen, to the tall, regal figure of Captain Adjonas. Quintall suspected that he and his fellow brothers might be fighting very soon, but so be it. He had to set the ground rules right away or this would be a long and perilous journey indeed. This was Adjonas' ship, that Quintall did not dispute, but the abbey had paid well for this transport and the brothers had not been put aboard as slaves.

To the relief of the monks -- though Quintall felt a bit of disappointment Adjonas tipped his great feathered hat to the monk and nodded slightly, a clear sign of respect.

Quintall glowered at Smealy, the old sea dog trembling with frustration. Smealy glanced at each of the four monks, spat something unintelligible, then stormed away, taking out his rage on the nearest crewmen.

"You took a chance," Pellimar remarked.

Quintall nodded. "Would you have us treated as, cattle?" he asked. "We would all be dead before we ever reached Pimaninicuit." He grunted and started away.

"Not all, perhaps," Thagraine remarked, stopping Quintall short.

Avelyn and Pellimar held their breath at the bold words. The monks still carried some jealousy, Avelyn -- and obviously Thagraine -- realized, concerning which pair would go onto Pimaninicuit.

Quintall turned slowly. Two long strides brought him right up to Thagraine. "You might have fallen from the mast," he said bluntly, his tone making the statement sound like a threat. "And then I would journey to the island."

"But I did not fall."

"And I did not push you," Quintall stated. "You have been given your duty, and I mine. I will get you to Pimaninicuit." He glanced Avelyn's way. "Both of you, and if Captain Adjonas or Bunker Smealy -- or any others aboard the Windrunner -- conspire differently, they will answer to Quintall."

"And to Pellimar," the fourth monk added.

"And to Thagraine," the man said, smiling.

"And to Avelyn," Avelyn was compelled to add. The bond was immediate and secure, the four monks putting aside their personal squabbles in light of potentially more dangerous enemies. Avelyn, who had worked so closely with Quintall for more than four years, found that he believed the man wholly. He looked at Thagraine, who by fate had become his most trusted ally, and he smiled when he noted that the man and Pellimar, who had been together a year longer than had Avelyn and Quintall, had clasped wrists firmly, staring eye to eye.

It was indeed a good start.

No land came in sight for three days, the Windjammer making a direct run to the southeastern point of the Gulf of Corona, the northern tip of the region known as the Mantis Arm. They saw a light after dusk on that third day, far to the south but obviously high above the waterline.

"Pireth Tulme," Captain Adjonas explained to his guests. "The Coastpoint Guards."

"Whatever it may be," Pellimar put in, "it is good to see a sign of land again."

"You will be seeing it often over the next two weeks," Adjonas replied. "We will run the length of the Mantis Arm near to the shore, then to deeper water in a straight run to Freeport and Entel."

"And then?" Pellimar's Voice was full of anticipation.

"And then we have just begun," Quintall put in firmly. The stocky man knew their course better than his three companions, as part of his private training with Master Siherton. The dangers of such a voyage were many, but perhaps most prominent among them was the danger to the mind. Pellimar seemed too eager, as if he expected Pimaninicuit to be quite close to Entel, but in truth, the Windjammer would likely spend the better part of four months getting to the island, and that was assuming favorable winds. Even if they arrived at Pimaninicuit early, they would only spend their days encircling the island, awaiting the day of the stone showers. "Then we turn more directly south," Captain Adjonas added.

"In sight of land?" Pellimar asked.

Adjonas scoffed at the absurd notion. "The only land to be seen would be the coast of Behren."

"We are not at war with Behren," Pellimar promptly put in.

"But the southern kingdom has little control over its raiders," Adjonas explained. "To be in sight of land would mean to be in sight of pirates." He snorted and walked away, but paused, looked back, and motioned to them.

The four began to follow.

"Only you," Adjonas said, pointing to Quintall.

The stocky man followed the captain into his private quarters, leaving his three curious companions out on the deck with the cold, wet wind and the distant light of Pireth Tulme.

Quintall returned to them much later that evening, belowdecks in the closet-sized. compartment they now called their home. There was something weird about his smile, Avelyn noted, something misplaced..

Quintall took Thagraine's arm and led him out of the cubby, then the stocky man returned alone.

"Where?" Pellimar asked.

"You will learn soon enough'," Quintall replied "I think two is enough for one night." He moved to his bunk as Pellimar and Avelyn exchanged unknowing shrugs. Their curiosity only heightened as Quintall chuckled repeatedly, until he fell away into a sound slumber.

Thagraine was likewise chuckling the next day on the deck. Avelyn wasn't sure the man had ever rejoined them the previous night, and indeed he looked haggard but certainly not displeased. The stoic Avelyn dismissed it, all of it. Apparently Quintall and Thagraine's secret posed no threat, so whatever it might be really didn't matter. For now Avelyn, had his duties, and his goal was growing closer with each gliding league.

Pellimar, though, was not so patient. He prodded Quintall repeatedly, and when he got nowhere with the stocky man, he went to his older friend. Finally, after the bright sun had nearly reached its zenith, Quintall and Thagraine exchanged nods.

"The ceremony of necessity," Quintall explained with a grin -- a rather lewd grin, Avelyn thought.

"A fine one," Thagraine put in. "Not so long in the trade, I'd guess."

Avelyn narrowed his eyes, trying vainly to decipher the cryptic talk.

"Not here," Pellimar breathed hopefully, having apparently figured it all out. Avelyn looked at him for some clue.

"Only for Captain Adjonas," Quintall explained, "and for the four of us, who have earned the captain's respect."

"Not so long a trip then!" Pellimar cried. "Direct me!"

"Ah, but, you have rigging to tie," Thagraine teased.

"And I'll work all the better after the --"

"Ceremony of necessity," Thagraine and Quintall said together, laughing. Quintall nodded his approval and Thagraine led the eager Pellimar away.

"What are you talking about?" Avelyn demanded.

"Poor dear Avelyn," chided Quintall. "Sheltered in your mother's arms, you have never learned of such treasures."

Quintall would say no more about it, leaving Avelyn chewing his lip in frustration for the rest of the afternoon. Avelyn stubbornly decided that he would ask no more, that he would overcome his curiosity, treating it as a weakness.

That discipline lasted only until the four took their supper, a bowl of lumpy, lukewarm porridge in the tight quarters of their small room, when Quintall talked of taking "first watch."

"We set no watch," Avelyn protested. "That is the job for the common crew." The monk certainly wanted no part of a night watch on the decks, for a soaking rain had started, and even the smelly, damp cabin was better than walking the slick decks, or even worse, climbing the masts.

"I am second," Thagraine said quickly, to Pellimar's dismay.

"Fear not," Quintall said to Pellimar, "for I am sure that Thagraine's watch will not last long." That brought a laugh from both men, obviously at Thagraine's expense.

Avelyn shoved his plate forward forcefully, angered now at being left out of their little secret. It wasn't until Quintall had left, though, that he finally got the clue he needed.

"She's a fine one," Pellimar remarked, quite offhandedly. Thagraine's face as he glanced Avelyn's way showed that he was disappointed; that alone clued Avelyn in to the fact that Pellimar had slipped.

"She?" Avelyn asked.

"The ship's whore," Thagraine admitted, scowling at Pellimar. "I am thinking that your watch, Brother Pellimar, just became the fourth."

"Third," Pellimar insisted. "If Avelyn desires a ride this night, he can wait until I've finished!"

Brother Avelyn sat back, thoroughly overwhelmed. The ship's whore? The ceremony of necessity? His hands grew clammy -- more out of sheer fear than anticipation. He had never expected such a thing, could not comprehend that his companions, on the most important journey of their lives should they live a century, would surrender to such base urges.

"Surely you are not offended," Thagraine scoffed at him. "Ah, but it is simple embarrassment, then. Why, my dear Pellimar, I do believe that our companion here has never ridden a woman."

Ridden a woman? The coarse image burned in Avelyn's mind. To hear his fellow monks speaking of something as sacred as love in such crude terms did surprise and offend him.

He said nothing, though, fearful of making a fool of himself. Avelyn understood that he could lose more than a little respect from the other three, and that any mistakes could cost him dearly as the weeks aboard the Windrunner dragged on.

"You go after Thagraine," he said to Pellimar, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. "I will wait for another time." He turned to lie on his cot then, noting the judging look Thagraine was sending his way. There would be a measure in this of his manhood, Avelyn realized, a test he could not fail. To completely lose the respect of Thagraine, or any of the others, could jeopardize it all. There were replacements for Pimaninicuit, after all, and Quintall, so strong and virile, Quintall, no doubt practiced in the arts of lovemaking, Quintall, who would likely visit this woman daily at the very least, was next in line for the island.

But the thought of actually going to see the woman terrified Avelyn. Thagraine's perception of his sexual past was indeed accurate. All his adult life had been devoted to his studies; there had been no time for such diversions. He tried to push it all from his mind and find solace in sleep, but he got another shock when Thagraine and Pellimar began speaking in quite familiar terms of a certain maidservant and two of the cook's helpers back at the abbey.

"More practiced than any of them," Thagraine assured Pellimar, speaking of the ship's woman.

"Yes, but the young one," Pellimar argued, his voice almost wistful. "Bien deLouisa was her name, was it not?"

Avelyn's stomach churned; he knew the woman, hardly more than a girl. She worked in the kitchen at St.-Mere-Abelle, a beautiful young lady with long black hair and dark, mysterious eyes.

And now these two fellow brothers were comparing her lovemaking techniques!

Avelyn found he could hardly breathe. Had he been so blind as that? He had never even suspected that anything so sordid could go on at St.-Mere-Abelle.

He didn't sleep well at all that night.

* * *

The weather was rough over the next few days -- mercifully so, in Avelyn's estimation, because he and his companions were kept very busy, attending rigging, a dangerous yet thrilling exercise in the gusting winds, and crawling in the dark belowdecks, checking for leaks in the hull. At one point, they even took up buckets as part of a balling line.

The grueling schedule, though, allowed Avelyn the opportunity to put off his more personal problems. He knew what would be expected of him -- the other three viewed sexuality as a test of manhood -- and, on one level, at least, he was indeed intrigued. More than that, however, Avelyn was simply terrified. He had never known a woman in that way, and didn't know how he would react. Every time he passed that cabin door, a small stateroom just behind the quarters of Captain Adjonas, he trembled.

His sleep every night was fitful, tossing and turning even more than did the Windrunner on the rough swells. All his dreams melded into that singular, mounting fear. He began to envision monsters behind that door, a horrid caricature of a woman, of his mother even, leering at him as he entered, eager to destroy his finer feelings, to steal his very soul. But even those nightmares were not quite that simple, for Avelyn's other instincts, more base than any he had ever allowed himself to feel, often made him attack that female demon as fiercely as she attacked him, wrestling and kicking, biting in furious, uncontrollable passion. He awoke always in a cold sweat, and one time found himself in an even more uncomfortable position.

It had to happen: the weather cleared. The Windrunner glided easily over calmer seas, the southern reaches of the Mantis Arm's coast a gray blur to the west. The four monks were on deck when Bunkus Smealy informed them that they would have no formal duties that day, that they might go about their business. "I know ye've a bit of prayin' to catch up on," the old sea dog said, mostly to Quintall, with a lewd wink. "Say a prayer for me, if ye'd be so kind."

"One for every man on the ship," Thagraine piped in, bringing on a cackling fit of laughter in Smealy. The old man ambled away on bowed legs.

"I could indeed use a round of morning exercise," Thagraine added jubilantly when they were alone once more. He rubbed his hands together and started aft. Quintall caught him by the shoulder. "Avelyn," the stocky man said. Thagraine turned to regard him. "We have all tasted the sweetness of Miss Pippin," Quintall explained, "except for our brother Avelyn."

Three sets of eyes bore down on the young monk, who felt small indeed. "Go," the nervous young monk bade Thagraine, before he hardly considered his options. "I am weary from the days of storm."

"Hold!" Quintall said forcefully, stopping Thagraine before he had taken a single step. To Avelyn, he asked, "Are you to join with the barrelbumpers, then?"

Avelyn's eyebrows rose with curiosity. He had heard the term before, and he knew Quintall and the others used it for the common seamen, but he had no idea what it meant. Now, putting it so obviously in sexual terms only confused poor Avelyn even more.

"Yes," Quintall remarked quietly, "that might be more to your liking." Thagraine and Pellimar chuckled; Avelyn noted that they tried to stifle the laughs and were thus somewhat sympathetic to him, at least.

"I know not of what you speak, Brother Quintall," he replied bluntly, firming his jaw. "Perhaps you would tell me what a `barrelbumper' might be."

That brought a loud snort from Pellimar. Thagraine nudged him hard.

Avelyn scrunched his face with distaste and disbelief. To see other members of his order acting so . . . juvenile was the only word he could think of to describe it, pained him greatly.

"Do you see that barrel," Quintall happily explained, pointing across the open deck to a single keg set far forward.

Avelyn nodded gravely, not liking where this was going.

"It has a small hole. in one side," Quintall went on, "for those who cannot use the woman."

Avelyn took a deep breath, trying to calm his mounting anger.

"Of course, you'll have to pay on your appointed night," Quintall finished.

"The night you are in the barrel!" Thagraine howled, and all three broke into laughter.

Avelyn saw nothing at all humorous in the ridiculous joke, nor did the few crewmen close enough at hand to hear the insults. For Avelyn, this was a most sacred mission, the most important duty of the Abellican Church, and to profane it so by indulging in a shipboard orgy, was surely blasphemous.

"The woman was sanctioned by Father Abbot Markwart," Quintall said suddenly, sternly, as if he had read Avelyn's thoughts -- not so difficult a feat, given the man's sour expression. "In his wisdom, he knows the trying times of a shipboard voyage and would have us reach Pimaninicuit healthy of mind and body."

"And what of soul?" Avelyn asked, but Quintall snorted at the notion.

"The choice is yours," Quintall finished.

Avelyn didn't think so, not at all. He had been called onto the table, so to speak. His actions now carried serious consequences concerning his future dealings with his three companions. If he didn't have their respect, he couldn't expect their loyalty, and given the level of jealousy that had been creeping about the four since they had become the chosen Preparers . . .

Avelyn took a bold step, cutting between Quintall and Thagraine. The stocky man willingly fell back, a smirk on his dark face -- darker now for the week of beard -- but Thagraine put his arm out to hold Avelyn back.

"After me," the monk said firmly.

Too angry for debate, Avelyn hooked his arm under, then up and over Thagraine's and gave a sharp tug to put the monk off balance. Avelyn then let go and dropped into a leg sweep that left Thagraine lying flat on the deck. Not wanting to continue the struggle, Avelyn was up and walking fast before the felled monk could respond.

Quintall's laughter followed him.

Captain Adjonas came out of his room as Avelyn neared. He looked at the flustered young monk, then across the deck at the other three. His grin was telling when he looked back at Avelyn, and he merely tipped his great feathered hat and continued on his way.

Avelyn didn't look back. He stalked up to the stateroom and lifted his hand to knock, then thought that perfectly ridiculous and simply walked in.

He caught her by surprise, wearing only a dirty nightshirt. She jumped when he briskly entered, pulling the covers from her bed up before her.

She wasn't what he expected -- and was certainly not the monster of his dreams. She was younger than he, probably just a year or so past twenty, with long black hair and blue eyes that had long ago lost their sparkle. Her face seemed tiny, framed by the voluminous hair, but cute, if not beautiful, and her frame, too, was small and thin. Avelyn suspected that to be from lack of food not from any desire to be fashionable.

She looked at Avelyn curiously, her fear fast-fading. "One o' the monks, then?" she asked in a throaty voice. "He said there'd be four, but I thought I'd seen all. . ." She paused and shook her head, apparently confused.

Avelyn swallowed hard; she was so oblivious of her partners that she didn't even know how many of them had visited her.

"Are ye?"

"What?"

"A monk?"

Avelyn nodded.

"Well, good enough then," she said, and she tossed the blanket onto the bed, then reached for the hem of her short shirt, pulling it up.

"No!" Avelyn said, near panic. He noted bruises on her legs, his eyes drawn down despite his good intentions. And the dirtiness of the woman assaulted him. Not that he was any cleaner; it amazed Avelyn how difficult it was to stay washed in the middle of so much water.

"Not yet," Avelyn quickly clarified, seeing the woman's stunned expression. "I mean . . . what is your name?"

"Me name?" she replied, and then she thought about it and chuckled and shrugged. "Yer friend calls me Miss Pippin."

"Your real name," Avelyn insisted.

The woman looked at him long and hard, obviously confused and surprised but also seeming a bit intrigued. "All right then," she said at length. "Call me Dansally. Dansally Comerwick."

"I am Avelyn Desbris," the monk responded.

"Well, are ye ready then, Avelyn Desbris?" Dansally asked, pulling up the hem a bit more and striking a teasing pose.

Avelyn considered the sight from two widely disparate viewpoints. Part of him wanted to take her up on the offer, to rush right over and crush her under him; but another part, the part that had spent more than half of Avelyn's life in fervent effort to elevate him and all of mankind somehow above this level -- above following base, animalistic urges without thought, without reason -- could not accept it.

"No," he said again, walking near her and gently moving her hand away so that the nightshirt slipped back down over her legs.

"What would ye have me do?" the confused woman asked.

"Talk," Avelyn answered calmly, under control.

"Talk? And what would ye have me say?" she asked, a mischievous, lewd sparkle coming to her blue eyes.

"Tell me where you are from," Avelyn bade her. "Tell me of your life before this."

If he had slapped her, she would not have looked more wounded. "How dare ye?" she asked.

Avelyn couldn't hide a smile. She seemed insulted, as if he had gotten too personal with her, and yet she was offering willingly what should have been the most personal thing of all! He held up his hands and backed off a step.

"Please sit, Dansally Comerwick," he bade, motioning at the bed. "I mean you no harm."

"I am here for a reason," she said dryly, but she did sit on the edge of the bed.

"To give us comfort," Avelyn said, nodding. "And my comfort will come in the form of conversation. I would like to know you."

"To save me, then?" Dansally asked sarcastically. "To tell me where I wandered from the righteous path and guide me back to it?"

"I would never presume to judge you," Avelyn said sincerely. "But indeed I would like to understand this, which I apparently cannot comprehend."

"Have ye never felt a bit funny then?" she asked, again with that teasing sparkle. "A bit itchy?"

"I am a man," Avelyn assured her in all confidence. "But I am not certain that my definition of the term and that of my companions is nearly the same."

Dansally, not a stupid woman, settled back and digested the words. She had spent the four days of the storm alone -- except for the regular visits of Quintall, who never seemed to get enough of her. In truth, though, Dansally had felt alone for so very long -- for all the voyage to and from St.-Mere-Abelle and for years before that.

It took more than a bit of coaxing, but at last Avelyn got the woman to answer his questions, to speak with him as she might a friend. He spent the better part of two hours with her, sitting and talking.

"I should go back to my duties now," Avelyn said at last. He patted her hand and rose, heading for the door.

"Are ye sure yell not stay just a bit longer?" Dansally asked. Avelyn looked back to see her stretched languidly on the bed, blue eyes sparkling.

"No," he answered quietly, with respect. He paused a moment, considering the wider picture. "But I would ask a favor."

"Don't ye worry," Dansally replied with a wink before he could begin to ask. "Yer friends'll look on ye with respect, don't ye doubt!"

Avelyn returned her smile warmly. He found that he believed her, and he walked back out into the sunlight truly relieved, but not in the way that the others, particularly Quintall, could ever have guessed.

Avelyn visited Dansally at least as often as all the others, sitting and talking, laughing, and one night even with Dansally crying on his shoulder. She had lost a baby, so she told him, stillborn, and her outraged husband had thrown her out into the street.

As soon as the story came pouring out, Dansally pulled away from Avelyn and sat staring hard at the man. She couldn't believe she had so opened up to him. It made her more than a bit uncomfortable, for Avelyn, with his clothes on, had reached her in ways that the others never could, had touched a very private part of her indeed.

"He was a dog," Avelyn said, "and no better. And a fool, Dansally Comerwick, for no man could ask for a better companion."

"There goes Brother Avelyn Desbris," Dansally said with a huge sigh. "Savin' me again."

"I would guess that you need less saving than most," Avelyn replied. His words, the sincerity of his tone, struck her dumb. She dropped her gaze to the floor and the tears came again.

Avelyn went to her and hugged her.

The Windrunner made great time, cutting southwest from the southern reaches of the Mantis Arm in a direct run to Freeport. Adjonas swung her out wide at first, explaining that it would not do to be too close to treacherous Falidean Bay, where the water could rise forty feet in twenty minutes and the undertow of the tremendous flood tide could pull a sailing ship against gale winds and smash it to bits on the rocks.

They put into Freeport only briefly, with but a handful of sailors going ashore in the boat. The Windrunner caught the next tide away from the unlawful and dangerous place, and they were soon into Entel harbor.

Entel was the third largest city in Corona, behind Ursal, the throne seat, and Palmaris. The wharves were long enough in water deep enough for the Windrunner to dock, and Adjonas gave leave for all hands to go ashore, in two shifts.

On Quintall's orders, the four monks ventured out together to seethe city. Pellimar suggested that they pay a visit to the local abbey. Thagraine and Avelyn nodded, but pragmatic Quintall overruled that choice, fearing that any discussion of what might have brought four brothers of St.-Mere-Abelle so far south could lead to some uncomfortable questions. The secrets of Pimaninicuit were the domain of St.-Mere-Abelle only; according to Master Siherton, even the other abbeys of the Abellican Church knew little concerning the source of the magic stones.

Avelyn remembered the speech Master Jojonah had given him when first they had talked about the island, the stern warning that to utter even its name to any without sanction of Father Abbot Markwart was punishable by death, and he agreed with Quintall's logic.

So they spent the day walking and marveling at the sights of the great city, at the thick rows of exotic flowers in the tree-lined green that centered the place, at the shining white buildings, at the frantic bazaar, the largest open market that any of them had seen, reputably the largest open market in all Honce-the-Bear. Even the vivid, bright colors of the clothing of Entel's inhabitants struck the four as unusual. The city, it was said, wad more akin to those of exotic Behren than to any in Honce-the-Bear, and Avelyn, after half a day of one astounding sight after another, decided that he would indeed enjoy a visit to Behren.

"Another time, perhaps," he whispered, looking over his shoulder as he made his way back aboard the Windrunner, the sun dipping over the city.

Resupplied, the Windrunner put out the next day, sails full of wind with a favorable tide, sailing fast to the south.

Avelyn got his wish sooner than expected, for, without explanation, Captain Adjonas put his ship into the next, harbor in line, Jacintha, just a score of miles to the south, but across the mountain range that divided the kingdoms.

The three, nervous monks looked to Quintall for answers, but he had none, caught as completely off his guard as the others. He went at once to the captain, demanding an explanation.

"None know the southern waters better than the sailors of Behren," Adjonas explained. "What winds we should catch, what troubles we might face. I have friends here, valuable friends."

"Take care that your questions do not lead your contacts to the way to Pimaninicuit," Quintall whispered ominously.

Adjonas straightened, the blood rushing to his face, making that garish scar seem all the more imposing. But Quintall did not back down an inch. "I will accompany you to your . . . friends."

"Then change out of your telling robes, Brother Quintall," Adjonas replied. "I'll not guarantee your safety."

"Nor I yours."

The pair, along with Bunkus Smealy, went out late that afternoon, leaving the nervous gazes of three monks and thirty crewmen at the rail. Pellimar relieved his tensions with a visit to the woman -- to Avelyn's satisfaction, his companions still didn't know her real name -- but Avelyn and Thagraine remained at the rail, watching the sunset and then the lights of the structures that lined the harbor.

Finally came the welcome sound of oars and the boat, all three safely aboard. "We are out in the morning, at first light," Adjonas said sharply to Smealy and to the nearby crew when the three gained the deck.

Thagraine and Avelyn exchanged grave looks, given the man's uncharacteristic tone and the severe look on Quintall's face.

"The waters are not clear, by any reports," Quintall explained to his brothers.

"Pirates?" asked Thagraine.

"Yes, that and powries."

Avelyn sighed and moved back to gaze at the unfamiliar landscape, layers of lights lifting up to the darkness of the great range known as the Belt-and-Buckle. He felt so far from home, and now, with the vast open Mirianic looming before him and the talk of fierce powries, he began to understand that he had much further yet to go.

He, too, visited Dansally that night. Brother Avelyn needed a friend.