Irimus drew out a dagger.

Nella Bye clenched her eyes shut, baring her teeth, and emitted a faint squeal as the spider stroked her brow with the edge of a fibrous foot.

"Is it hurting you?" Irimus asked.

"No," she squeaked. "It's ... prickly like a thistle."

The spider made no aggressive moves. It just kept its foot against Nella Bye's forehead, then prodded lightly at the ragged fabric over her left shoulder.

Suddenly it released her and skittered around to perch on the back of the raft.

"They're ... they're not after us," said the ale boy. "They're after something else."

No sooner had he said it than something came swimming aggressively upstream behind them, running right into the low-slung line. It looked like a living tree branch, but it thrashed like a bearcat caught in a trap.

"Another big bug?" asked Kar-balter.

"I don't think so," said Irimus.

The travelers watched, horror-stricken, as the captured pursuer became tangled in the line. Its limbs twitched fitfully, and it kicked and fought the web. The more it struggled, the more of its wooden, nine-legged body became glued. Meanwhile, the spiders went to work. Standing on the surface of the water, they spun their thrashing prey, wrapping it in a thick cocoon.

Other cavespiders descended from the ceiling, casting lines across the water behind the rafts.

"More sensible spiders I never have seen," said Irimus.

"That thing," said the ale boy, "it's not welcome on their river."

"And they're expecting more," whispered Irimus. "Let's go. I'd rather meet more of these spiders than any more of ... that."

Behind them, the spiders left their catch suspended like a trophy.

Weary as he was, the ale boy could not sleep. The spiders and the wooden claw had reminded them all that they were vulnerable and that they had no idea what to expect ahead.

They did not wait long for the next surprise.

"That's ... ice," gasped Aronakt, pointing to the stream ahead.

"How can there be ice on the river?" asked Irimus Rain. "It isn't cold enough."

"It certainly is ice," said Kar-balter. "An island of ice floating downstream." The ale boy wanted to rise, but he could not.

He heard a sharp crunch. "I've got it with the oar," Kar-balter shouted.

"Look," said someone else. "Snow flowers!"

"Those only grow on mountain ice," said Irimus. "Must have come from far away."

A moment later Nella Bye held a cupped hand to the ale boy again. "Here you are. Try this."

He touched his tongue to an ice crystal. The fierce clarity of it shocked him. He took in a mouthful and held it there. His teeth ached, and then his head ached. But the melt that trickled down his throat was immediately invigorating. It was as though wires pulled taut throughout his body relaxed.

"That's good," he said. "That's very good." He closed his eyes, recognizing a faint scent from Nella Bye's frosted hands. "We have to keep going."

17.

HOMELESS DREAMERS.

ood thing your patrols never found my highwatches." Cal-raven's voice came from the darkling branches above. Then he landed hard, his boots stamping deep impressions in soft, loose soil. "Without them, we'd go hungry."

Ryllion woke, jittery, the evening around him a blur. "Food?"

Cal-raven tossed him a leather pouch. He sat up and leaned against a boulder, dizzy with hunger and punished for lack of something that only the Seers could give him-but what? He feared that he knew the answer.

He loosened the sack's drawstring, and with a claw he teased out some green nuts and shelled seeds. "How'd you keep pests out of the stash?"

"Made the pouches from gorrel hide." Cal-raven laughed as Ryllion choked.

While Cal-raven arranged kindling, whispering as if to give the fire an invitation, Ryllion watched him, bewildered. Cal-raven looked more like a merchant fallen on hard times than a king. His red hair had grown long and ragged. His beard was long too, but uneven, revealing deep scars on his face.

What is this man made of? he wondered. He laughs so easily with one who recently plotted to kill him.

He caught a few words, and he knew that Cal-raven was building that new house in his imagination. The thought made him anxious. What chances would he have among stragglers he had mocked and abused? Would they respect their king's orders? Would Cal-raven keep his promise and give him a chance to make amends? What would happen when House Bel Amica found out?

They won't shrug and say, *Oh, when Ryllion killed Deuneroi, it was just the Seers' influence.' They'll demand justice.

Cal-raven struck a sparkstone, and a yellow flame slithered through the kindling, revealing the low, mossy trunks of the trees.

A brascle called from above. Both men tensed. Any other bird call would have been welcome in this lifeless forest. But brascles meant beastmen. This one was close.

"Where are we?" asked Ryllion. Sick as he was, their days of slow travel in search of the Abascar company's trail were blurring in his memory.

"Edge of Fraughtenwood, a journey west of the Throanscall." Cal-raven shook his head. "The last time I was this far north, I was driving beastmen from the site of my father's folly. He tried to dig a channel from the Throanscall."

"Why?"

"He wanted streams to flow through Abascar, water to bless my mother's gardens. But then she ran away. He was humiliated. The dig became something else. A demonstration of control."

"Is that why your father rejected the Seers' help? Fear of losing control?"

"He wanted Abascar to provide for itself-food, water, everything-so no one would have to go outside. He once loved the wild, just as he loved my mother. But then the wild took my mother. Losing them both, I think his heart broke twice."

Ryllion finished the last of the small, stale meal. "You speak as if you cared for them."

Cal-raven scowled, staring into the flames as moths fluttered about his head like troubling memories. "I think I understand my mother. I cannot put a wall between myself and the wild unless I wish to cut myself in half. I'm also my father's son. I want to build a house that will shelter my people from harm. I must not repeat their mistakes. I want my people to enjoy all the gifts the Expanse still has to offer, all the things my father and mother denied them for fear or jealousy."

"There were stories in Bel Amica. I heard your father cast out the teacher you loved."

"Scharr ben Fray told me tales of the Keeper. How it would crush Cent Regus hordes. How it would carry injured travelers across the Expanse to healing waters. How it would hide from those who sought it but take the most determined believers to a great city of many towers. Bell towers. I would dream of making that journey. I would wake hearing that music. Fourteen shining notes. I'd go out into the forest searching."

Cal-raven turned to face him, a silhouette against the fire, sparks rushing up behind his head. "You really don't remember the dreams?"

Ryllion doubled over, groaning with the sense that jaws were grinding up his guts. He seethed until the pain passed, then spoke through clenched teeth. "At the shipyard where my father worked, I fell from a boat's prow. I seized a piece of driftwood and stayed afloat. I carried it for days after that. It looked like a winged horse with a dragon's tail. It was only an accident of wood and weather, but it seemed so familiar." Ryllion felt as if he were setting down his armor in the presence of an enemy. "I gave it a name. Don't all children name their toys? Decided I would build a boat and place it on the prow. Like a protector. But the foreman of my father's ship saw it and mocked me. My father stepped between us. And that night he returned from the shipyard with cuts on his face. So he beat me."

"For that toy?"

"No. With that toy." A snarl slithered into his voice. "The foreman had punished him for failing to rid me of such childish dreams. The foreman was a man of certainties." He paused. "It's strange. The foreman knew my toy looked like the Keeper even though I never said anything."

"He recognized it."

"Men make right what's wrong through strength, my father said. So I pursued strength. And I caught the Seers' attention. They told me that they could help me become stronger and that my ambition was given to me by my moon-spirit. It was my responsibility to fulfill it. So as I grew, I followed their counsel."

Cal-raven stared intently into the dark. "It isn't easy to discover that faith has made you a fool. It's hard to know what to ..." He stopped and stood up. "Did you hear something?" He snatched up a piece of kindling and carried its flame to the clearing's edge.

Ryllion listened. The forest was restless, as if a wind were rising. But there was no wind.

"On a few occasions," he said, "I've seen a shadow in my dreams. It's a terrible feeling. I wake sensing that the Keeper is angry. Angry that I cast it aside."

"Then let me quiet your fears." Cal-raven returned to the fire, drew a second burning brand from the flames, and brought it to Ryllion. "I've seen the Keeper. The beast that inspires these dreams and stories is an animal. A beast of bone and blood. It's magnificent. But it does not grant your wishes. It does not heal wounds. It's as likely to destroy what you love as it is to tear down what's in your way. And yet ..."

The brascle cried out again, a shrill and angry call, and wheeled away southward.

"And yet the dreams go on," Cal-raven said softly. "I don't understand this. But perhaps I've been wrong to think that the Keeper is what I've been looking for. Perhaps the Keeper was just a lure. A guide. A piece of a greater mystery. Auralia said that the Keeper sent her to Abascar. But what did it send her to do? Show us colors we'd never seen. A glimpse of another world. When I saw them, I felt such longing. I knew I had to find their source. When I find it ... that will be Abascar's new home."

The fire crackled, one of the wedges of cottonbeard crumbling into ash.

"You're a fool; it's true," whispered Ryllion. "You've gambled everything on a dream. And it's all fallen to pieces. You're like me. Except that you have something I do not. You have hope. I have none, but if you think you can find help for me ... I will go with you."

Cal-raven nodded. "When we find Tabor Jan's company, you will have to hide yourself until I can persuade them to accept you."

Ryllion reached up to scratch at the remnants of his mask of bandages. Then he tore them away, and fresh lines of blood ran down his face. "I do not expect them to forgive what they-"

"Hush." Cal-raven raised the fiery branch. "Something's moving."

Ryllion's ears twitched, and his nostrils flared. "I smell torch oil. Someone else is traveling. And not very far away."

"I'm going back up to the highwatch," said Cal-raven. "Perhaps I can-"

With a calamitous noise, the highwatch crashed down from the treetop.

"This clearing," gasped Ryllion, backing toward the fire. "It's ... larger."

"The trees," said Cal-raven. "Ryllion, they're moving. They're leaning away from the fire."

As Tabor Jan's company prepared for the last stretch of their venture through Fraughtenwood, Milora woke with the troubling sense that a hooded man had been standing beside her bed and staring intently down at her, wringing his hands. She had not feared him, sensed no sinister intent. He had been the frightened one.

She did not like feeling that she had the power to frighten anyone, especially while she slept.

She also disliked the feeling of being seen. She could answer so few questions about herself, she felt unsettled by the thought that someone else might see her first, might guess her story, might have power to reveal an origin, a truth, a purpose.

She rose quickly and slipped out, finding that once again she could tiptoe past watchmen without being seen.

Climbing a nearby hill, eager to rise above the trees, she felt like a drowning woman drawn up from the sea just in time. A few steps shy of the large coil tree at the top, she stopped, startled by a leaf of vivid colors that seemed to promise the full flush of autumn.

A false promise, she thought. This forest is dead.

She ascended slowly, staring at the leaf as if it were a map of a lost world. Then she turned westward and saw another cluster of hills, one of which bore a barn that looked like a beast propped up on its forelegs and fighting for life.

Turning north, she eyed the peaks of the Forbidding Wall with unease. She held the colorful leaf up against the dark cloud world that waited beyond the mountains.

I would set you like a flower in a vase, to let you burn as long as you are able.

She heard a singsong tone from the coil tree, and her heart pounded. Someone else is sneaking about.

It was Obrey.

Milora crossed her arms. "What do you think you're doing? Nobody's allowed to leave the camp."

"Then what do you think you're doing?" the girl snapped.

"I'm a grownup," said Milora.

"I wish you weren't," said Obrey. "I want somebody to play with."

"You're my responsibility," said Milora. "Your grandfather says so. And I say you shouldn't run out into the dangerous woods."

"And who do you think taught me how?" the girl replied. "You told me that we're wildflowers, that we grow best when we're free. And then you scold me for steppin' outside the camp just like you do when nobody's lookin'."

Milora sighed, slumping down and gazing out over the dire woods and the webs of dead undergrowth that had sought to spoil their journey. "This world's finished with wildflowers. I can't wait to get back to the glass mine. It's more a home to me than Bel Amica."

"I liked Bel Amica," said Obrey.

"I would have liked it better without all of those ... people." Milora tousled Obrey's hair. "But I do love you, Obrey. I love how you find play in everything."

"You made beautiful things in Bel Amica. Like the window full of colors. You should have told them it was yours."

"If they found out it was mine, they would start asking for things. Things to make them happy. They don't know why I like to make things."

"Why, then?"

"I just see things, and they seem like pieces of other things, and so I try putting them together to see what happens. To see part of the world I haven't seen yet. Like when you ask me questions, and more questions, and more questions. I should stop talking now. You're still a child. You should get to play as long as you can without having to worry about the why."

Obrey thought about this, carving eyes next to the knob of a root. "It's like playing *What's Your Face?' "