Sarka stood on the dock, looking up at the first ship she had ever seen. There were two vast, square sails of ivory canvas and a smaller triangular sail toward the back. The ship itself, with its broad sides of curved wood, seemed impossibly large to Sarka's eyes, large enough to conceal a whole world within. At the top of the masts, brave pennants flew in blazing colors that caught the eye: crimson, saffron, lapis lazuli. On the front, which was the only name Sarka had for that part of a ship, there was a figurehead of a man wearing robes and a trailing sash. Long, flowing hair framed the man's sharp face, and above the wide-open eyes, a crescent was marked on his forehead in gold.

"Jalea," Ro said. He was standing at Sarka's side, leaning on his spear. "The God of the Crescent."

"Oh." Sarka knew, vaguely, that there were other gods in other lands, but had never learned any of their names.

"I sometimes think there are as many gods in the world as there are people," Ro continued. "The Annari have two of their own. Him and his sister, the Goddess of the Sun."

Sarka wondered, looking up at the carven figurehead, if there were gods in the world who still had a hand in mortal affairs. "He looks...peaceful."

"I think he is, for the most part." Ro turned to look at Sarka, his expression growing serious. "They say he's a bold god. Venturesome. I think he will not find fault with you."

It took Sarka a moment to realize that the burning sensation she was feeling somewhere deep inside her skull was the beginning of tears. She had not cried since her childhood. She had not even cried when her mother died. Now, standing on the brink of something dangerously new, facing the legend of the demons that would chase her for daring to escape, she felt a confusing mixture of emotions. Reluctance did not number among them, but somewhere, perhaps, there was regret: regret that she was leaving behind everything she had known.

"Oh, don't do that." Ro rolled his eyes. "So typical of a woman to demand something, then work up to tears at receiving it."

"Are you coming or not?" Captain Etza, about whom Sarka had learned nothing more than her name, was leaning over the rail of the ship with her braids swaying over her shoulder. She looked angry. "Come on, girl! We must make the tide!"

"I owe you much," Sarka began, but Ro interrupted her by snatching her into a hug with one strong arm.

"Shut up and go," he muttered into her ear.

"Come with me." The question was out before she could stop it, and she did not know why she had asked. Perhaps it was instinct; Ro had become the closest thing Sarka had to a friend, and she was going somewhere a friend might be useful to have.

"Now that, my girl, would have required much more wooing than you deigned to do. Go on, get up there. Don't fall in. Do you have your bag? Good. Go."

Sarka turned abruptly away from Ro and hurried up the gangplank. As she ascended, she avoided looking down into the dark water below her. She turned just before stepping onto the deck, but by the time she did, Ro was halfway back down the dock, limping along with his head low as if he had not even considered looking back.