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at that – was unparalleled.
    As the dipping sun inflamed the western horizon a shallow-keeled skiff emerged from the shadow of the Water Gate. Alan watched its progress, illuminated by a single lantern in the prow, and sculled by half a dozen blackcowled figures whose synchronised rhythm dipped and beat the fiery waves. The omnipresent offshore breeze had strengthened to a squall, making it difficult for the rowers as they skirted the great shadow of the Temple Ship in mid-estuary to head for where Alan stood, in the company of Milish and the dwarf mage, at the very lap of the tide. Given the nature of their destination, Milish had dressed more frugally than was usual for the Ambassador. A simple cape of black wool overhung an ankle-length dress of silvertrimmed grey.
    Alan continued to observe the Ambassador, sensing an unusual level of inner tension. ‘Is something worrying you, Milish?’
    Milish drew him a few yards aside and whispered urgently: ‘If I might speak in confidence?’
    ‘Of course!’
    ‘In our haste to discover you, after word began to spread of your arrival in Tír, there was no opportunity for counsel between the Kyra’s mother-sister and this daughter-sister. During the maturation of a Kyra, time is put aside for frequent counsel. It allows the transfer, from mature to immature, of key experience – the confirmation of leadership and power. With the Kyra’s death, far separated from the daughter-sister, the opportunity for such counselwas lost. The young Kyra lacks that peerless matrilineage of memories, of leadership in battles beyond counting, the wisdom and judgement of hundreds of Kyras extending back thousands of years.’
    Alan considered the implications of what Milish had said as the shallow-keeled boat swept up closer to the beach. When he spoke again, he did so softly, still out of earshot of Qwenqwo. ‘I hope the young Kyra realises how lucky she is to have you as her adviser.’
    Milish turned her gaze riverwards, as if examining the boat’s determined progress through the rising dark. With a wave of his hand, Alan bade Qwenqwo to rejoin them. He addressed them both as several cowled and caped figures slid over the gunwales of the boat and, wading to above their knees in the swirling surf, hauled its prow as close to the sand as they could manoeuvre.
    ‘What strategy should I adopt with the Council?’
    Milish spoke urgently. ‘Discover one high-ranking friend among them, then speak always as if addressing this one friend!’
    ‘If, on the contrary, you would take my advice,’ Qwenqwo added with equal urgency, ‘you should trust none of them – least of all the one among them who takes pains to befriend you!’
    Alan smiled, then turned to hug his friend, Mo, who was still recovering from the spiritual trauma she had suffered at the Battle of Ossierel. She looked wan and vulnerable, her dark hair blustering about her delicatefeatures in the heightening wind. Mind-to-mind he caught her whisper.
    I dreamed about Mark, last night. I sense that he is still here with us.
    Alan hesitated, taken aback by the thought. He took Mo’s premonitions very seriously. He wanted to know more but now was not the time.
    Hey, Mo – I’ll be back before you have time to miss me!
    Take care of yourself, Alan.
    His eyes found Siam, Chief of the Olhyiu, whose bravery and leadership had brought them through so many dangers along the course of the Snowmelt River. Siam nodded in understanding. Alan was relieved see that Mo was already cradled by the protective arm of Siam’s very capable wife, Kehloke.
    The cowled rowers brought the prow round to face the crossing, allowing Alan and Milish to clamber aboard the stern, and they were soon receding from the waving arms of their friends, who were swallowed up by the dark, the squall whipping up a salt-laden mist that soaked the passengers’ clothes and faces. Alan had to grab the starboard rail to steady himself against the pitching and tossing, before