His entire party, together with Captain Lira, was there, laughing and drinking. Alec looked up and his smile faded to a look of concern as he saw Seregil hesitating in the doorway.

“What happened to you?” asked Micum, setting aside his wine cup. Soon everyone was staring at him.

“Nothing.” He caught sight of himself in a looking glass above the sideboard; his eyes were red, his face pale except for hectic spots of color in each cheek. “I’ve been out in the wind. Alec, a moment?”

Alec joined him in the companionway and closed the door behind him. As soon as the latch clicked Seregil grabbed him in a rough embrace.

Alec held him a moment, then pulled back to look him in the eye. “Your heart is pounding. What’s wrong?”

“I think I had another nightmare.” Seregil let out a shaky sigh. “I can’t remember this one, either, except—I think something was happening to you. When I woke up, I couldn’t get here fast enough.”

“I’m worried about you. It’s like after Nysander died.”

“No, it’s not. This feels more like—”

“Like what?”

“Like the dreams I had when we were chasing down Mardus and the Helm.”

“You think they might be prophetic?” Alec asked, frowning. “You haven’t had any of those in ages.”

“I know. And those I could remember. With these it’s simply feelings of panic and fear. And I’m pretty sure they’re about you. I just don’t recall any details.”

Alec embraced him tightly, then guided him back into Klia’s cabin. “You could do with a drink.”

“Is everything all right?” asked Klia as they came in.

Seregil nodded and accepted a cup from Micum. As he raised it to his lips, he caught the sharp aroma of brandy. Grateful, he took a long sip and savored the burning trail it blazed from palate to belly.

THEY reached Kouros four days out from Cirna. At dawn the lookout cried land sighted and they came on deck to see the snowcapped peak of Mount Erali, shining like new silver against the clear blue sky. By late morning the island grew to a craggy reality as they sailed down the western coast.

It was here to Kouros, more than ten centuries earlier, that the first priest king, Hierophant Valmir, had led his people, establishing it as the seat of a far-flung empire that would eventually become the Three Lands. Where they had come from and how they found their way here was lost in the mists of time, but they’d brought worship of the Four with them. The ruins of the ancient capital, Menosi, still stood somewhere in the eastern hills, where Toneus and his mistress had died.

From the sea, Kouros looked barren, with steep grey stone cliffs and long expanses of ledge and beach. Here and there, however, small villages were tucked into pocket coves, and the passage of the carracks tossed tiny fishing boats in their wake, white sails bright in the morning sunlight.