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Dragonheart…” She trailed off. After a while she said, “To be where they were. . . I don’t know how I can pass the Fane by—”
    Lang slouched further down against the tree. His face was calm, but his heart was shouting, Yes, and look what happened to them! Béorgan and Béaneth dead of the Shadow or of sorrow, Raela gone off through some door and never heard of again, Efmaer dead in the mountains, or worse, in Glasscastle—
    Segnbora twitched, resettling her back against the rowan’s trunk. She heartily wished there was something else left to try, but over twenty years she had exhausted the talents of instructors all over the Kingdoms. This was a last chance: if she failed this, she could finally rest.
    “ I thought I might talk you out of it,” Lang said, very low. “I like you the way you are.”
    “ I don’t.”
    “ But if you go up there there’s no telling what’ll happen to you—”
    “ I know. That’s the idea!”
    Lang drew back, pained.
    “ Look,” Segnbora said, regretting his distress. “Twenty years of training, and I’m Fire-trained without Fire, I’m a sorcerer who doesn’t care for sorcery and a trained bard who’s too depressed to tell stories. It’s time to be something else. Anything.”
    “ But, ‘Berend—”
    The use of the old nickname, which Eftgan had coined so long ago, poked her in a suddenly sensitive spot. She laid her hand on Lang’s, startling him out of his frightened annoyance. “You remember the first time we met? You tried to talk me out of joining up with Lorn, remember?”
    “ Stubborn,” Lang muttered, “you were stubborn. I couldn’t stand you.”
    She gave him a humorous look. “Maybe change isn’t such a bad thing, then?”
    After a moment he squeezed her hand. “Care to share afterwards? If you haven’t turned into a giant toadstool or some such, of course.”
    Her heart turned over inside her. When Lang made such offers, there was always more love in his voice than she could match, and the inequity troubled her. It had been a long time since her ability to share had been rooted in anything deeper than friendship. “Yes,” she said, hoping desperately he would be able to lighten up a little. “You disturb me, though. You have a prejudice against toadstools?…”
    Lang chuckled.
    “ You two ready?” said another voice, and they both looked up. Herewiss was standing beside them with Khávrinen sheathed and slung over his shoulder. Freelorn was with him, arms folded and looking nervous.
    “ What do you mean ‘you two’?” Lang said. “I prefer to die in bed, thanks.”
    Segnbora squeezed his hand and got up, brushing herself off. “You found the raft, I take it.”
    “ Hidden in the reeds,” Freelorn said. “In fact, the reeds were growing through it in places. Evidently not many people come this way.”
    “ Just the three of us are climbing, then.” Herewiss said. “Still, it’s probably better that we all go across—in case any Fyrd get by our rearguard.”
    Lang got up, and the four of them went off to join the others by the lakeshore. Dritt and Harald and Moris were standing at a respectable distance from the raft, for Sunspark was inspecting it suspiciously.
    (You really want me to get on this thing?) it said to Herewiss as he came up. (That water’s deep. If I fell in there—) It shuddered at the thought.
    “ So fly over,” Herewiss said, stepping onto the raft from the bank.
    Sunspark gazed across at the Fane, its mane and tail burning low. (There’s a Power there, and in the water,) it said. (I’m not sure I want to attract Its attention quite so blatantly…)
    “ Then come on.”
     
     
    ***
     

 
     
THREE
     
     
    The Goddess’s courtesy is a terrible thing. To the mortal asker she will give what is asked for, without stinting, without fail. Nor will She stop giving until the gift’s recipient, like the gift, becomes perfect. Let the asker beware…
    ( Charestics , 45)
     
    They all climbed onto the raft.