The scent-hound bayed, waking the High Houndkeeper in Col Sargoth with a start.

The second howl was so loud the houndkeeper jumped to his feet and stood paralyzed for a moment before remembering what he was supposed to do. When his wits returned, he released the lever that held the inner ring of the giant compass in place, and the scent-hound swung about on the axle protruding through her navel—steel bearings screeching with protest—only to lurch to a sudden halt pointing southeast. The hound bayed again and began whining as her nose centered in on what she smelled. When the compass quit moving altogether, the houndkeeper checked the coordinates, then went to the sprawling map of the Sargothian Empire hanging on one wall. The coordinates were the same as last time: 140 arc degrees off north. The scent-hound was still whining though, whereas last time she'd only fussed for a moment. Whatever this dreamwielder was doing, it was big.

The houndkeeper snatched up one of the steel balls from a rack below the map and rushed to a U-shaped flue pipe in the corner of the chamber that looped up through the flagstone floor and back down again. He opened the door hatch on the flue and placed the ball inside as steam billowed from the opening. He then closed the hatch and turned the valve lever, and a burst of steam shot through the pipe, hurling the steel ball down the flue toward the bottom of the tower where the alarm would be sounded.

The scent-hound bayed again. Yes, whatever this dreamwielder is doing, it's big, the houndkeeper thought. And this time she's given herself away. Wulfram is going be pleased. Very pleased.

~~~~

Parmo lay on the beach with his eyes open for a long time before he realized he was alive. There were no stars, only lightless clouds above him, but in the distance a thin swath of the black veil was illuminated gray with the promise of an imminent sunrise. He had not expected to ever open his eyes again, and he didn't trust his senses at first. He could hear the surf at his feet though, and he could smell the salty air and feel Makarria curled up at his side, sleeping in the crook of his left arm. He was surprised to find that he could move his free hand with ease and brush her hair from her face. His breaths came to him in a painless, natural manner. The more he thought about it, the more he realized nothing was causing him pain except for the tingling sensation of his arm falling asleep beneath Makarria's head.

"Makarria?"

He shook her gently, but she woke with a start and gasp.

"Grampy?"

"I'm here."

Makarria sat up with the sick feeling that she'd done something horrible, that something bad had happened. When she looked at her grandfather though, she saw that he was alive and well—more than alive and well. Even in the predawn darkness, she could see that he was no longer old and sick, but rather the young man she had seen in her mind. She remembered having fallen asleep with that image burning through her.

"You're not old anymore," she said simply.

"What?" Parmo asked, incredulous but realizing even as she said it that it was true. He ran his fingers over his face. The wrinkles were gone. He felt his arms, stout with the sinews of a seafaring man. He breathed in deeply the sea air, and his lungs did not protest. How is this possible? I was dying.

"Grampy?" Makarria said, suddenly noticing the hundreds of small dark shapes on the beach around them. "What's happened?"

Parmo stood and followed her gaze. All around them—covering the beach for a mile in either direction—were sea creatures. Dead sea creatures. Fish, crabs, squid, gulls, swallows, turtles, jellyfish, starfish, oysters, snails, all of them dead.

"Mẽrda," Parmo swore in disbelief. The enormity of what Makarria had done slowly hit him. The Emperor must have sensed this.

"What's happened to them?" Makarria asked, the sick feeling rushing through her body again. "Is it my fault?"

Parmo grabbed her by the shoulders. "No, look at me, Makarria. You saved my life. You made me young again."

"But how? The fish, they—"

"I'll explain it all to you later, Makarria. We haven't time right now. We need to leave. It's not safe here for you anymore." He prodded her toward the jetty. "Go, untie the skiff and make ready to set sail. Make as much room as you can. Get rid of all the traps, the pole-hook, and anything else we don't need to sail. I'll get supplies from the barn."

"What about Mother and Father?"

Parmo turned back to face her. "We can't take them with us, Makarria. There's not enough room, and they'll try to stop us besides. They'll be safer if they don't know where you are. I'll leave a message for them so they know you're safe with me. That's the best for everyone right now. Alright?"

Makarria didn't understand, but she nodded in agreement.

"Go then," he urged and spun away to sprint up the hill to the barn. He was amazed at how effortlessly his legs propelled him up the incline. I'm not an old man anymore, he marveled.

Inside the barn he found what he was after: two wooden chests he had not opened in ages buried in the back corner behind a stack of old harnesses and disused tack for the plough horses. The rusted hinges squeaked as he opened the chests, but the contents inside looked to be unharmed. He threw down two wool blankets from the first chest and piled everything he thought they would need in the middle, including a parcel of salted goat meat from the storage shelves and two skins he filled with fresh water. Lastly he pulled a long object wrapped in burlap from one of the chests. He set it down beside the wool blanket and unwrapped one end of the burlap to reveal the tarnished hilt of a sword. Tied to the hilt with a piece of twine was a ring, almost as blackened with tarnish as the sword hilt. He untied the twine and went to the barn doors. There he tied the ring to the door handle. Prisca would know what it meant. They had discussed scenarios in the past of what to do if Makarria were in danger. Prisca would be livid with him, but she would at least know that Makarria was safely gone with him and know to burn all of Makarria's belongings—all evidence that Makarria ever existed. Parmo didn't dare tell Prisca more. It pained him to abandon his daughter this way, but there was nothing for it. There was no time to argue.

His decision made, Parmo ran back to the blanket, grabbed up the four corners to pick up the supplies in a big bundle, then grabbed the still-wrapped sword with his free hand and hurried out of the barn toward the beach. Makarria stood ankle-deep in the surf waiting for him, holding the stern of the skiff nervously. A flood of conflicting emotions ran roughshod through her: excitement; shame at leaving her parents without saying goodbye; dread at the thought of all the dead fish on the beach and floating in the shallow waters around her; but mostly excitement about the adventure of sailing away in the dark. When Parmo got there, he heaved the bundle of supplies into the skiff then helped Makarria in.

"Off we go," he said, pushing them forward, and they vaulted over the first wave, then the second, and Parmo pulled himself in and took up the oars. "Prepare the sails."

"Where are we going, Grampy?"

"To the East Islands, Makarria. We'll be safe there."

Makarria's eyes bulged. "The East Islands? I thought you had to have a ship to get there. I mean, a real ship."

"For any ordinary sailor, yes," Parmo said with a grin. "But your grandfather isn't any ordinary sailor."

~~~~

Natarios Rhodas, youngest of the three houndkeepers, stared out of his tower window in Kal Pyrthin sick with anticipation. Castle Pyrthin loomed in the distance to the west, and below and between sprawled Kal Pyrthin, a city bustling with people tending to last minute business and errands before nightfall. But concern was not with the city or with King Casstian in the keep. Rather, his eyes were drawn to the northwest, where some thousand miles away stood Col Sargoth. It had been almost twenty hours since Natarios's scent-hound had gone nearly mad with its howling and crying. The poor beast had worked herself up into such a frenzy Natarios thought she was going to die. Whatever sort of sorcerer she had sensed was powerful. That's why Natarios was looking to the west, watching and waiting.

When he first saw the fleck on the horizon, he thought his eyes might be playing tricks on him, but the black form approached rapidly, and within minutes he could make out the shape of a raven. He shuddered as the raven loomed larger. I'm a pitiful houndkeeper, he lamented and threw open the shuttered balcony doors. The raven, larger than any bird had a right to be, slowed to a near hover above the tower and glided toward the balcony. Natarios stood clear as the bird swooped inside and skidded to a halt with an ear-piercing squawk. It stood nearly as tall as Natarios and regarded him with its obsidian eyes for a long moment before shaking itself spasmodically. Its feathers began to mottle and bubble, and Natarios could hear tendons and bones rearranging themselves beneath feather and skin. He had to lower his eyes away, lest he vomit. When he looked up, Wulfram stood before him, his fur and feathers now shrouding his human frame like a cloak.

"Master," Natarios greeted him with a stiff bow.

"Which direction?" Wulfram demanded.

"The southeast. But the hound couldn't pinpoint it exactly, master. I'm sorry. The scent was strong—it nearly killed the hound."

"You're sure it came from the southeast?"

"Yes, Master."

With a savage hiss, Wulfram grabbed the scent-hound's nearest foot and sent her spinning wildly on her axle. The hound screamed, a scream more human sounding than canine. Natarios wished there were a way to close his ears as well as his eyes.

"That's the same reading the hound in Col Sargoth came up with," Wulfram snarled. "This dreamwielder could be anywhere between here and the East Islands. We need the reading from Sol Valaróz to triangulate her position."

"It's a dreamwielder then?" Natarios said, a lump suddenly in his throat.

"What else, you fool?"

"She... she must be close, Master—the scent was strong. Probably right here in Kal Pyrthin, certainly no farther than Pyrvino."

Wulfram swept his cloak free of his hunched shoulders and moved toward the balcony. "I think not here; it's too bold. Still, send your agents into the city to find word of any strange happenings. If they find nothing, take your men toward Pyrvino and search every farmstead and hovel along the way. I'll meet up with you after I go to Sol Valaróz and get the last set of coordinates."

"Of course, Master," Natarios said, but Wulfram had already leapt from the balcony.