It took him a long time, slipping and scrabbling at the rock, scrambling on all fours, but finally he reached the top of the headland and gazed up and down the coast. He was too far from Cape Cush to see what was happening, but there was an eerie feel to the air, and he saw clouds moving, telling him the great spell was underway. He had to hurry. His friends needed him.

Turning, he shielded his eyes, gazing in the other direction, away from the cape and further up the coast. The headland gave way to a long beach, and as he squinted, he realized he could see a cluster of dark shapes. A thin stream of smoke rose from a fire. Some kind of camp. That lump could be a boat . . .

He began to scrabble down, ignoring the stitch in his side.

Finn approached the camp boldly, chin held high, despite being unarmed.

The desert clansmen were in the throes of a festivity.

At least a dozen men were seated around the fire, clapping and singing. Farther away, a tribesman wrapped in loose cloth was urinating against the cliff. The sand was soft underfoot and made a fine bed for those who’d already drunk their fill of fermented mare’s milk, sleeping and snoring in the sun.

As he neared, Finn glanced past the camp to the sailboat pulled up high on the beach. The Calypso looked whole and undamaged. It was a valuable vessel, sleek and beautiful. These men weren’t going to give it up lightly.

Nor would they give up their captive.

Finn’s eyes were now on Cob. The old man was circling the fire, dancing a strange jig to the raucous calls of the clansmen.

Cob’s shoulders were slumped as he stumbled around the narrow patch of sand between the fire and the onlookers. He kicked a burning log, wincing as he hopped on one foot for a few steps. His round face was bruised; he looked exhausted. He was barely able to dance from foot to foot, but every time he slowed someone shot an arrow into the sand at his feet and he wearily lifted his head to keep moving.

The music came from a man resting against a log and playing a warbling melody on a flute. Beside him, a companion flicked a rhythm on a drum held between his knees. A wineskin passed from one clansman to another. Clapping in time to the music, the revelers were singing some strange tribal tune, chanting with guttural voices and swaying from side to side. Someone occasionally let out a yip.

Finn scanned the group and saw that there was one clansman who wasn’t singing. He had a hooked nose and a neatly trimmed beard, and unlike the others he sat on a carpet. Rather than drinking from the skin, he held a silver goblet that he sipped from sparingly.