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Creslin shakes himself and redirects his attention to the main storm, forcing himself to re-intensify the hammering lightnings.

Around him lie the bodies, the bodies that always seem to accumulate whenever he acts. He takes another deep breath, then looks at the black-haired squad leader. “Back to the pier.”

“Yes, ser.” Thoirkel turns. “Back to the head of the pier. We’ll hold there.”

Creslin watches as a heavy-laden cart rolls toward the pier, a single Recluce raider guiding the horse.

“The Nordlan ship!” Creslin snaps. “Last one on the left.”

“Who—” The man stops as he sees the silver hair. “Yes, ser!”

Creslin moves behind Thoirkel’s men and turns his attention from the storm to the ships along the pier. All five of them are being readied for sea.

Another cart rolls onto the pier, then another.

For a long time—Creslin is uncertain of how long, except that the fog has almost totally lifted, although the rain still lashes the port city—the carts roll onto the pier, and the cargoes are quickly stowed.

A flash of white grabs at Creslin’s senses, and he probes farther uphill, toward the keep, where a point of white flickers and builds—from either one of the wizards who has escaped or from a third. With a deep breath, Creslin builds the storm cell just to the west of the keep, until it is darker than night, until the lightnings flash within. Then he releases his hold, while directing that force toward the keep.

Craacckkk!

Even Creslin pauses at the flare, and at the rending and crumbling of stone. Despite the downpour, the flames and smoke begin to grow and rise from the pile of shattered white stone above the harbor.

Creslin is no longer watching as once more his guts spill, although he has walked to the edge of the pier and manages to foul only the harbor. Blackness wavers before his eyes, as if he were blind. He takes a deep breath, then another.

“Gee-ah. Move, beast!”

Slowly he turns, feeling his way, using his senses to guide him along the edge of the pier toward the Dawnstar.

“You all right, ser?”

“Just hold the pier, Thoirkel. I won’t be much more help.”

“We’ll scarce be needing more, I think.”

“. . . look at that!”

Though unseeing, Creslin needs no eyes to sense the destruction he has wrought, nor to know that Megaera must feel some of his discomfort. Step by step, he makes his way back along the pier and onto the Dawnstar, sensing, as he walks, how all has been seized; the horses being boarded in the makeshift stalls, the barrel upon barrel of grains and foodstuffs stored in the holds, the rest of the goods, seized under the cover of the storm, securely stowed away.

“You all right, your grace?” Freigr meets him at the Dawnstar’s railing.

“I’ve been better. How does it look?”

“The Nordlan schooner is pulling clear now, and Byrem is almost ready with the Hamorian.”

“The Lydians?”

“Won’t be too long.”

Rubbing his splitting forehead, Creslin sinks into a heap on the ladder leading to the helm. “We may have to leave quickly. Can you pass the word to finish up?”

“Make ready for departure! Set sails!” Freigr orders.

“No one’s headed to the harbor. You sure?”

“I’m sure. Remember, we still have to reach Land’s End.”

“That is that. But who would follow us on the high seas?”

“No one, I hope. Because there’s not much else we can do.”

Creslin sits sightlessly on the ladder as the seven ships glide northward on the dying winds of the storms he has built.

Few on the Dawnstar look at the exhausted man in green leathers, even after Cape Frentalia has become less than a dark smudge in the evening’s distance.

CXXXV

MEGAERA SAYS NOTHING, but she doesn’t have to.

Creslin can sense her churning feelings and disapproval, and has since long before his small fleet returned to Land’s End. They sit at opposite sides of the table.

Lydya glances from Megaera’s drawn face to Creslin’s impassive one and back again: Hyel enters and sits down, followed by Shierra.

Creslin looks pointedly from Hyel to Shierra, who flushes before laying the ornate scroll on the table.

“The Suthyan brig that arrived yesterday