The air was hot and close inside the narrow cabin, but at least it blocked out the sunlight that refracted blindingly from the waves, making spots dance in her vision. Here it was mercifully dark. Lilias curled into a Dwarf-size bunk, wrapping herself around her sick, aching belly into a tight bundle of misery.

For a few blessed moments, she was left in solitude.

The door cracked open, slanting sunlight seeping red through her closed lids.

“Sorceress.” It was a woman’s voice, speaking the common tongue with an awkward Arduan inflection. The cool rim of an earthenware cup touched her lips, moistening them with water. “Blaise says you must drink.”

“Get away.” Without opening her eyes, Lilias slapped at the ministering hand; and found her own hand stopped, wrist caught in a strong, sinewy grip. She opened her eyes to meet the Archer’s distasteful gaze. “Let go!”

“I would like to,” the woman Fianna said with slow deliberation, “but I have sworn a vow of loyalty, and it is the will of the King of the West that you are to be kept alive. It is also the will of our Dwarfish hosts that no Man shall accompany one of our gender in closed quarters. So … drink.”

She tilted the cup.

Water, cool and flat, trickled into Lilias’ mouth. She wanted to refuse it, wanted to flail at the life-sustaining invasion. The Archer’s hard gaze and the calloused grip on her wrist warned her against it. And so, with resentful gulps, she drank. The cool water eased the parched tissues of her mouth and throat, rumbling in her belly. Still, it stayed where it was put.

“Good.” Fianna sat back on her heels. “Good.”

“You should wish me dead,” Lilias rasped. “Aracus is a fool.”

“You know his reasons. As for me, I do.” The Archer’s voice was flat, and there was no burdensome compassion in her mien, only hatred and steady distrust. “Would you say elsewise of me?”

“No.” Lilias drew herself up until her back touched the wall of the cabin. “Oh, no. I would not.”

“Then we understand one another.” She refilled the cup. “Drink.”

Lilias took it, careful to avoid contact with the Archer’s fingers. Those were the hands that had nocked the Arrow of Fire, those the fingers that had drawn back the string of Oronin’s Bow. She did not want to feel their touch against her skin ever again. “Indeed, we do.” She sipped at the water, studying Fianna’s face. “Tell me, does Blaise Caveros know you are enamored of him?”

A slow flush of color rose to the Archer’s cheeks; halfanger, half-humiliation. “You’re not fit to speak his name!” she spat, rising swift to her feet.

Lilias shrugged and took another sip. “Shall I tell him?”