Despite Harrald's concerns and the revelation that he might be mage-born, Galen continued to train with Triss. As far as he could see, being able to defend himself was even more important now that he understood the danger.

The minor injuries he sustained gave him a chance to practice, too. If he had magic, as Harrald claimed, maybe he could learn to use and control it. The problem was he had no idea where to begin.

None of the books he owned contained anything useful, and there was no one in Dern he could ask—especially as rumors of magic continued to swirl. While shopping for vegetables in the market, Galen overheard gossip of 'mage-folk' being expelled from a smaller town downriver from Dern, and whispers of another witch killed in Galos.

"That won't happen here, though," Behn said confidently one afternoon, as he, Triss, and Galen walked back to town from another training session. There'd been another tremor that morning, though a very minor one, and the topic was fresh on their minds. "Dern's not like that."

Triss scoffed and tossed her thick red braid over her shoulder. "That's what everyone says. 'We're different. We'd never. Not here.' It's bullshit. People in Dern are no different from people anywhere else, and in the same situation, they'll act the same."

"But there are no mages in Dern," Behn argued. "Unless you count the Naqqiri fortune-tellers on Trader's Lane."

Galen said nothing. At first, he'd been eager to tell his friends what he'd learned of his past and possible heritage; they had few, if any, secrets between them, and he trusted them both with his life. After hearing the gossip in the market, though, he'd changed his mind. If magic meant trouble, he didn't want them getting dragged into it.

Triss rolled her eyes. "That's where it will start; but believe me, that's not where it will end. If people want to find witches, they will."

But, as they descended a set of narrow stone steps, taking a shortcut to their favorite lunch spot, they saw that the argument was moot.

It seemed the Naqqiri fortune-tellers, as well as a good portion of the rest of Trader's Lane, shared Triss's lack of faith in the good people of Dern. The usually bustling street was deserted, and most of the shops were closed, with windows and doors boarded up. In just the few days since they'd last visited, almost everyone who wasn't a born and bred Thrynian had packed up and left—much to Behn's distress, as they stood outside the Yuthi dough-ball shop and found that it, too, was closed.

"Aw, turd-biscuits," he moaned, peering in through the small, thick panes of dirty glass to the darkened interior. "I was really craving the spicy ones, too. Now what will we eat?"

"Good hearty Thrynian food, like everyone else," Triss said, and led the way back up the street to the more 'reputable' parts of town.

"I mean, I love me some pasties and stew," Behn said, trailing along dejectedly at Galen's side, scuffing his feet on the rough cobbled stones. "But you can't beat Yuthi spices for flavor. Pyrran food's good, too, actually. So is Abarran, and Edraxi—except for all the raw fish. Those puffed rice things are delicious, though."

Galen half listened as Behn listed all the foods he liked (it was a long list) and Triss led the way up the sloping streets to a small inn. It wasn't known for its fine cuisine, but the fare was eclectic, and there was often more than one meat-free option from which Galen might choose. Inside, they found an empty table by a grimy window and sat. A menu, written in chalk on a small slate, leaned against the wall, and Behn picked it up and studied it.

"Hm... The broccoli-cheddar quiche doesn't sound bad," he said. "But the roast chicken with garlic sounds good, too. Or maybe the leek and potato soup, with bacon and fresh bread... What do you think, Gale?"

Galen took the menu and read it through. He wasn't very hungry, and Triss had landed a good blow to his ribs. He wanted to get home and experiment with a new healing salve.

"Maybe just the chilled soup and bread," he said.

"I'm going with the sausage hash," Triss declared. "Lords know what's in it, but it's always good."

She waved at the innkeeper, who was just carrying a tray of steaming plates to another table. The woman bustled over with a broad grin, wiping clean the little slate she carried so she could record their orders with a bit of chalk.

"Afternoon, lovelies," she said. "What can I..."

Her eyes went to Galen, and her smile faltered. She glanced between Triss and Behn.

"Something wrong?" Triss asked, leaning back in her chair with flame-colored brows raised.

The innkeeper swallowed and nodded towards Galen. "I'm sorry, but we don't serve his kind, here."

Confused, Galen glanced behind him to see who the woman was talking about, but the table at his back was unoccupied.

Behn's eyes went round as walnuts, and a muscle ticked in Triss's jaw.

"Oh yeah? And what 'kind' is that?" she asked, an audible challenge in her voice.

The innkeeper set her hands on her wide hips and pressed her lips into a line. "Foreigners," she said. "Pyrran slave-scum. Whores, an' the like. That sort ain't welcome."

Galen felt a strange chill as he understood she was talking about him.

"If you mean my friend, he was born and raised right here in Dern," Triss snapped. "He's as Thrynian as you are."

The woman shook her head, unmoved. "Don't matter. It's in the blood."

"Guess the Guard aren't welcome here either, then," Triss said, moving her hand so the woman could clearly see the emblem of the Watchers embroidered on her sleeve, along with the symbol of her rank.

The innkeeper's face turned a porridge-like color.

"Of course the Guard are welcome!" she spluttered. "The Guard are always welcome. In fact, you an' this young lad," she nodded at Behn, "may dine here just as you please. It's only him has to leave."

She jerked her head towards Galen again, and he had an odd sensation of being invisible, or a ghost; as if he weren't sitting right there, and didn't speak perfectly good Thrynian, as well as Sakkaran—the empire's common tongue.

Triss wasn't having it, though, and before Galen could think of something to say, she was on her feet.

"Nah," she said, tossing her napkin on the table as she rose. "See, if my friends aren't welcome, then neither am I. Come on, guys. Let's find somewhere else to spend our coins."

She turned and stalked towards the door, and Behn scrambled after her, red-faced with second-hand embarrassment. Galen followed more slowly.

At the door, the innkeeper caught up to them, her face flushed and her hands clutching at her blouse.

"Wait, please!" she called, and finally looked at Galen as she spoke. "I... I'm sorry. It's what they're saying at the Temple, is all."

"What are they saying?" he asked.

The woman chewed her nails and shook her head. "That Thrynis is shakin' the ground 'cause she's angry that we've lost our ways—that since we joined the empire, Thryn isn't... well, Thrynian enough. Thrynis isn't even on our coins, anymore. They say the only way to appease her wrath is to drive out foreign influence and get back to our roots."

Triss scoffed. "Ohhh, right. The 'good ol' days.' See, I'm too young to recall the time before the empire, but you look about decrepit enough to remember it. My grandma told me about it, though: no Edraxi coffee, no Pyrran silks, no Naqqiri medicines, or Yuthi spices, or lucrative Sakkaran trade agreements, and ceaseless border skirmishes killing off every other young soldier before the age of twenty-two. But our goddess's face on our coins! That must have been great."

The woman's face hardened again. "Well, what are we to do then, hm? Ignore the temple and let Thrynis shake our homes to rubble?"

Triss rolled her eyes. "If Thrynis really has nothing better to do, it must suck balls to be a god. What we should do is get the mages from the capital to investigate. Find out the real cause. Oh, but wait—the mages might be Pyrran, and Thrynis wouldn't like that, would She? Oh, well; better just stay ignorant and drive away half your customers. Good luck with that."

The woman pursed her lips, threw up her hands, and flounced away.

"Well...that... went well," Behn huffed, once they'd gone some distance further up the street. Triss still fumed, and had set a pace that left the others slightly winded.

She finally stopped in the shade of the high outer wall, where the street curved around a steep bend, and looked at Galen.

"Shit. That was fucked-up. Are you okay?"

He nodded. The strange feeling hadn't faded, but more than anything, the woman's words left him confused.

"Do I really look like them?" he asked, directing his words at Triss. "Like a Pyrran, I mean?"

Pyrr was one of the most distant regions of the empire—at least if one traveled from Thryn—and the Pyrran goods that came to Dern did so by Edraxi trade ship. If Galen had ever seen a Pyrran, he didn't know it; but Triss had been to the capital at Tal P'Nir, and there were all kinds of people there.

Triss shrugged. "I guess. Most have warm brown skin and dark hair, like you, and they're known for their beauty."

"Two out of three, then," Galen said.

Behn made a face. "Gale, you're prettier than most Thrynian girls."

"Most, huh?" Triss asked, and Behn turned the color of a beet.

"Well, not you, obviously, I just mean... in general... you know." He flapped his hand, and Triss narrowed her eyes at him, but the corners of her lips twitched. 

Galen knew Behn had a crush on Triss. Triss knew, too, and Behn knew they knew; but by unspoken agreement none of them ever acknowledged it.

"Anyway," Triss continued, her expression sobering. "Behn's right. Pyrrans are... prized for their looks. In the capital, at least, if they're not mages, they tend to be..."

"Pillow-slaves?" Galen guessed.

Triss grimaced. "No. Slavery's been illegal in Pyrr since it joined the empire—on the surface, anyway. But yeah," she added, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, "that's the idea. More importantly, if people are looking at you and thinking 'Pyrran,' they're also thinking 'magic,' Gale. That's not good."

"So I've heard." He sighed.

"Maybe you should dye your hair," Behn suggested, brightening. "I could help. My aunt dyes her own wool. I could ask her."

"Is that the same aunt who turned herself blue for a month?" Triss shoved his shoulder as she pushed herself away from the wall. "Anyway, I'm hungry. What do you guys say to fried fish kebabs? I saw an Edraxi ship pull in this morning, and they always put up a stand."

"Edraxi?" Behn hedged doubtfully. "Don't they fry things in meal-worm oil?"

Triss winked. "You'll only know if you ask. Coming, Gale?"

Galen drew a breath and forced a smile. What he really wanted was to go home, but he knew his friends would worry if he did; besides, Triss had stood up for him while he'd sat there like a pile of 'turd-biscuits,' as Behn would say. The least he could do was go along.

"Sure. Edraxi fried vegetables always hit the spot. Probably the worm oil."

He and Triss took turns teasing Behn all the way down to the docks, and by the time they arrived, the strange feeling had all but faded.

Still, he couldn't help but notice how much quieter the docks were than usual. No children ran back and forth along the stone walkways between the water's edge and Dern's high walls, and almost no Thrynians traded with the vendors in the market stands lining the narrow space. The vendors, too, cast wary glances at Triss and Behn, as if unsure whether their appearance meant profit, or trouble.

Triss marched up to the dark-skinned Edraxi man tending a food cart and plunked a handful of coins on the table.

"Two fish-kebabs, and one fried veggie plate," she said in Sakkaran.

The man blinked coal-black eyes at her and nodded once, before turning away to prepare the order.

While they waited, Galen and Behn sat with their legs hanging off the side of the quay, watching the ships arrive and depart. The murky water, muddied by the constant river traffic, lapped at the smooth wall of stone, five or six feet below. It smelled vaguely of lamp oil and fish, and the daily morning fog always left a thin, slippery patina of grease on everything.

"Oh, wow! Look!" Behn pointed excitedly at a sleek vessel just rounding the bend. It had a long, pointed bow, narrow sides, and triangular sails, the foremost of which was red. "That's a Sakkaran ship! Wonder what they want in Dern?"

He frowned, and Galen followed his reasoning. Sakkara—the heart of the empire—was a two-month journey by the fastest route, and Dern was far from the most important town in Thryn. In fact, it didn't even make the list.

As the vessel drifted nearer, Galen could make out figures on the deck, tossing ropes and other gear as they prepared to dock. Only one figure stood still, leaning at ease on the gunwale at the bow, as if he had nothing at all better to do.

"Lazy bastard," Behn remarked, spotting the man as well. "Must be rich. Wonder what he'd come to Dern for?"

Galen could guess.

Even at that distance, he could see the man's shiny black braid over his shoulder, and his pale skin glinting like snow in the sun—just as it had in the woods.

Scrambling to his feet, Galen backed away from the water's edge and into the shadows beneath the walls of Dern.

"Gale?" Behn twisted to look at him. "You all right?"

Galen kept his eyes on the ship. The man hadn't moved, and there was no way he'd spotted him from so far off. Still, he seemed almost to be looking right at him.

"Actually... I'm not feeling so well," he said. "I think I'd better go home. Tell Triss I'm sorry, okay?"

He turned and slipped away up the path towards the nearest gate, not waiting for Behn to collect himself enough to make a reply.