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The gentle hiss of the surf and the sounds of Aldonya in the kitchen surround him. No warmth falls upon his cheeks as he sits down on the terrace wall, for the clouds hide the sun, clouds that will bring the late fall rains.

A set of hooves echoes from the road, but the pattern is not that of Kasma, nor does he feel the closeness he would were the rider Megaera. He stands and walks toward the hitching rail outside the stable, where the rider will dismount.

“Regent Creslin?”

He struggles to identify the familiar-sounding voice of the man he cannot see; then, with a sigh, he uses his non-seeing senses to reach out on the air currents that dance around the holding. His head aches, for while his senses have returned, at least for those objects nearby, he remains sightless.

. . . must you . . .

Thoirkel waits for Creslin to speak. Creslin releases his tenuous hold on the air currents, and the aching stops. Though Megaera is at the keep, he can sense her relief.

“Yes, Thoirkel?”

“The guard commanders wanted you to know that two Sarronnese ships have docked at Land’s End.”

“What do they want? The Sarronnese, I mean.”

“They would be honored if you or the co-regent would deign to see them. They did convey the goods promised last spring by the Tyrant . . . even more than that, and a chest of coins as a . . . belated marriage gift.”

Creslin snorts. “I take it that the sub-Tyrant was not amused.”

“Actually, your grace, she laughed. She said that it only took rearranging the known world to get Ryes—the Tyrant—to pay her debts.”

“I’ll see them, but not here. We’ll both see them at the keep.”

“But—”

“Her grace should certainly share in the bounty and gratitude of the Tyrant.” Creslin turns toward the door that leads into the stable. Unseeing or not, his steps are sure, and saddling Vola takes him only slightly longer than in the past, although the chore requires greater concentration and leaves his head faintly throbbing.

Thoirkel waits, mounted, on the road outside the Black Holding. Farther downhill, the latest Hamorian prisoners work on the paving stones, transforming the former rutted trail into a true highway between Land’s End and the holding.

Clink . . .

The sound of the stonecutter’s hammer comes not from the road, but from farther south, where the first Hamorian stonemasons—no longer prisoners, but craftsmen of Recluce—work at constructing a smaller dwelling. It will house Hyel and Shierra. Hyel and Shierra? Creslin smiles. Then again, who else does either one of them have? In their own way, they are as linked as he and Megaera are.

“How long since the Sarronnese docked?”

“Just a bit ago, ser. They haven’t even begun to off-load when I left. Her grace insisted that I find you immediately.”

“We’ll need to find her.”

Finding Megaera is not difficult, for she is standing inside the arched door to the keep.

“You were quick,” she says.

“Blind doesn’t mean slow. At least, not much slower. I can still sense where some things are, but it hurts to reach out more than a few cubits.”

“I know.”

“Sorry. Are we going onboard the Sarronnese ships? Or are your sister’s envoys coming here?” He shifts his feet and turns toward her, as if he could see her.

“I thought we could let them see the keep, and then let them escort us to the ships.”

As one, they turn back to Thoirkel. “Would you convey that invitation to the envoys?” Creslin asks.

“Yes, your graces. How . . . when?”

“Now is as good as any time.”

Thoirkel bows and departs.

“You can handle the ship? I mean—” Megaera asks hesitantly.

“I can sense enough, and you can certainly stay by my side, playing the dutiful clinging eastern mate.”

“I may stay by your side, but I will not cling.”

Creslin grins.

“You . . . you said that just . . . just . . . Oh, you’re still impossible.”

“Blindness doesn’t cure that,” adds a new voice. Lydya climbs the steps to the old entryway where they stand. “I overheard the last bit. Where do you intend to receive the envoys?”

“I had thought that the six of us would see them in the room we usually meet in,” Creslin tells her.