She thought of a place that she and Leftrin had discovered. Boards of ivory and ebony, dusty playing pieces still in place, had rested undisturbed on low marble tables. She had not recognized any of the games, nor the runes on the jade and amber chips that were scattered in the wide bowl of a scooped-out granite stand. “They gambled here,” she suggested to Leftrin.

“Or prayed, perhaps. I’ve heard of priests in the Spice Isles who use rune stones to see if a man’s prayers will be answered.”

“That could be it, too,” she’d replied. So many riddles. The walkways between the tables were wide, and on the floor of the room, large rectangles in a different stone gleamed black. “Are those warming places for dragons? Did they come in here to watch the gambling, or the praying?”

Leftrin’s reply had been a helpless shrug. She feared she would never know the answer to that question. The clues that could tell what Kelsingra had been would be torn away and sold, except for what she could document before the scavengers arrived.

The plundering of Kelsingra was inevitable. Ever since she’d realized that, Alise had begged passage to the city every day on which it was clear enough for Heeby to fly. She had spent every daylight hour visiting and recording her impression of every structure, rather than rushing from building to building. Better to have a detailed and accurate recording of part of the ancient city than a haphazard sampling of all of it, she’d decided.

Now she heard footsteps on the pavement outside and went to the door. Leftrin was striding through the empty streets, his hands stuffed under his crossed arms for warmth and his chin tucked into his chest. His gray eyes were narrowed against the sharp breeze. The cold had reddened his cheeks above his dark beard, and the wind had mussed his always-unruly hair. Even so, her heart warmed at the sight of him. The blocky ship’s captain in his worn jacket and trousers would not have merited a second glance from her during her days as a respectable Bingtown Trader’s daughter. But in the months of their companionship on board the Tarman, she’d discovered his true worth. She loved him. Loved him far more than she’d ever loved her cruel husband, Hest, even in the first heady days of her infatuation with the handsome fellow. Leftrin was rough-spoken and scarcely educated in any of the finer things of life. But he was honest and capable and strong. And he loved her, openly and wholeheartedly.

“I’m here!” she called to him, and he turned his steps her way and hurried to join her.

“It’s getting colder out there,” he greeted her as he stepped into the small shelter of the house. “The wind is kicking up and promising rain. Or maybe sleet.”

She stepped into his embrace. His outer clothes were chill against her, but as they held each other, they warmed. She stepped back slightly to capture his rough hands and hold them between her own, chafing them. “You need gloves,” she told him, uselessly.