Driving in upon the waiting fangs of the cape were ships: two… three of them. And such ships as dwarfed the coastwise traders she had seen pulled to their deaths there before by that treacherous onshore current which enriched and damned Verlaine. These could only be part of a proud fleet of some great seafaring lord. Yet in the continued flashes of light which gave only seconds’ viewing, Loyse could sight no activity on board any of the vessels, no attempts being made to ward off fate. They were ghost ships sailing on to their deaths and apparently their crews did not care.

The lights of the wreckers, of the shoreline scavengers, were already moving in clusters from the high gate of Verlaine. For a man on the spot might just conceal some rich picking for himself in the general confusion, though Fulk’s weighty hand and a quick noose for those caught had cut down such thievery to a shadow. They would cast nets to bring in the flotsam, turn to tasks they had long practice in. And for any who went ashore still living! Loyse exerted her strength and dragged the girl away, shut and barred the window.

But to her surprise the face the other now turned to her was no longer troubled by ancient terrors. There was intelligence in the depths of the girl’s dark eyes, excitement, a gathering strength.

She held her head slightly to one side as if she listened for some sound she must sort out of the brazen clamor of the storm. More and more it was apparent that whatever had been her place in the world before the sea brought her to Verlaine, she was no common soldier’s wench.

“That which has been long in the building,” the girl’s tone was remote, she spoke as if from the core of some experience Loyse could never know. “Choose, choose well. For this night is the fate of countries, as well as that of men, to be made and unmade!”

“Who are you?” Loyse demanded as the girl continued to change before her eyes. She was no monster, put on no shape of beast or bird as rumor whispered could be done by the witches of Estcarp. But that which had lain dormant, wounded almost to death, within her struggled once again for life, showed through her scarred body.

“Who am I? Nobody… nothing. But one comes who is greater than the I who once lived. Choose well, Loyse of Verlaine — and live. Choose ill — and die, as I have died, bit by bit, day by day.”