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“I don’t think we need to do any more. Those last adjustments to the northern mid-winds seem to be holding . You’d know better than I would, of course.”

“They’re holding.”

“We should have more sunny days as the summer ends.”

“What about . . .”

Although they talk further about the weather, Creslin’s stomach still churns, and his head aches when he leaves the cot.

Astride Vola and heading to meet Megaera at the public room of the inn, he surveys Land’s End.

The keep is three times the size it had been when they arrived. All of the abandoned cots have been occupied and repaired, and several larger dwellings are being erected, although their construction—requiring stone, crude plaster, and pine timbers from the small stands of old pine nearly ten kays south—takes more time than it would in Montgren.

At the pier rides the Dawnstar, her canvas finally in place. Freigr has said that the ship will sail in the next day or so. The Griffin has already left for Renklaar, where Gosssel claims to have both cargo and customers for the small load of spices.

With a last look at the pier, Creslin vaults from the saddle and leads Vola into the covered shed that serves as a stable for the public room. He marches from the stable and through the drizzle to the doorway of the inn.

Megaera has risen from a conversation with a guard to meet him. “You’re angry. I could feel you coming.”

“You’re right. I am.”

“What did Klerris say to upset you?”

“Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you.”

. . . if he had a mule, he’d give it to a fool,

and if he had a knife, she’d not be his wife!

The troopers and guards clustered around the circular table laugh as the thin guard strikes the final chord. Several of them glance up as Creslin and Megaera seat themselves at a smaller table near the kitchen.

“Something to drink, your graces?”

The serving woman’s polished tone tells Creslin how far the tavern has come. “What is there?”

“Black lightning, wine, hard mead, and green juice.”

“Green juice?” asks Megaera.

“It comes from wild green berries on the cliffs. It’s very sour, but some folks like it.”

“Green juice,” Creslin says.

Megaera suppresses a smile and nods. “I’ll try it, tart as it may be.”

“Thank you, your graces.”

“You’re implying that I’m attracted to tartness?” Creslin asks.

“It seems to have a fascination for most men,” Megaera observes.

He shakes his head, but he cannot hold back the twist to his lips.

Megaera’s hand squeezes his, then releases it. “The public house was a good idea.”

“One of those few that worked almost from the start.”

“You did provide a little . . . help.”

“There are times I wish I’d sung to someone else before then.”

“Times?”

“All the time,” Creslin admits. He takes a deep breath.

“You’re still angry.”

“I can’t help it. Klerris gave me a lecture about my creative avoidance of the order-chaos balance—”

“Oh.”

“I know. You’ve worried about it for a long time, but I kept asking for help. And he didn’t have any ideas, except the same old bit about patience. What are we supposed to do? Let everyone starve? Beg the Whites to take us back? Eat quilla roots until we’ve uprooted every cactus on Recluce?”

Megaera grins briefly.

“It’s all well and good to preach about absolute order, but it doesn’t feed people, or pay for tools and weapons.”

“That’s why we’re regents, best-loved.” There is no irony in her voice.

Creslin turns and looks into her green eyes.

“Do you think your mother wanted to send you out alone?” She asks. “Or that Ryessa really liked putting me in irons?”

“I thought you hated her for that.”

“I did. I do. Not for doing it, but for not caring. She felt that she had no choice, but she could have cared.”

“Oh . . .”

“You see?”

Creslin sees, sees that he must do what he must, sees that he must never hide the pain from himself . . . or damn others for having no answers. Megaera’s hand touches his briefly.

Creslin looks up at the guard on the stool as she eases into another song.

. . . holding to the blade,

a-holding to the blade,