Lord Crosset's change of mind scrambled their priorities. Meya was unshackled, the gold on her head shifted to Jerald. As Hyacinth's spy unit, the Spiders, combed their webs of hearsay for whispers of Crosset's long-lost heir, Hadrian and Jaise exploited Lady Hyacinth's frustrations to ease their escape.

Baron Hadrian promised Amoriah a share of Jaise's upcoming harvest, her Great Hall restored to every last spider spinning their web in the shadows, and a proper cremation for victims of the riot. In exchange, he asked for means, supplies and safe passage home. Delighted, Amoriah provided.

Jerald posed as one of Winterwen's Greeneye curators, hidden in plain sight under his glass mask and black cloak. The curator whose place he took trusted his eyes to his colleagues and laid himself among the mindless, eyeless patients.

Once safe across the drawbridge, away from the eyes and ears in the Hyacinth wall, the voyagers gathered on the sand plains beyond the eternal fire, catching breath and parting words with those who would remain.

Lady Jaise, Baron and Baroness Hadrian weaved through the crowd, eyes sweeping hawklike over the bustle. For once, Coris joined Zier and Christopher in physical labor, lugging eyeless Greeneyes onto wagons alongside Gillian and the dragons. Ahmundi had introduced Amara to Dizadh; the little girl was playing with her father's ankle-length hair. And the fellowship of Greeneyes were saying their farewells.

"Tell my mother I'll be home soon," said Cleygar heavily as he shook Lors' hand, tears in his pleading eyes, "Just have to see this to the end."

Old Lors cracked a rare smile as he slapped Cleygar's shoulder, beaming with pride,

"I'll be sure to, lad." He grunted softly, then received Dorsea's hug.

"Send my love to Claudie," She squeaked through her sniffles.

"And be good to her this time 'round, old man. You hear me?" Tissa added sharply, hands on her hips. Lors scowled as he parted with Dorsea, his cheeks blushing,

"I dun need to hear you, lass. Why d'you think I'm going home?"

He turned his scowl to Meya, calling all eyes to her. Blinking, Meya followed their insinuating looks to her middle, then her face flushed Hadrian Red amid Dorsea and Tissa's giggles.

"What, now I'm a cautionary tale in Hadrian, too?" She scowled back in kind. Frenix tilted his head, his eyes suspiciously round and large,

"If it's not enough, Atmund can spread the word in Jaise, and I'll do my part in Pearlwater."

Before Meya could do more than raise her foot to stamp a seal of approval on Frenix's smart arse, Lady Jaise approached with Atmund and Sir Jerald, now restored to his normal appearance.

Meya lowered her foot and fell to her knees. Around her, the other Greeneyes followed suit.

"Milady, we owe you our lives."

Winterwen caught her before her forehead touched the earth. As Meya reluctantly rose, the Lady waggled her hand at the others, urging them back to their feet.

"It is my duty, and my honor." She dipped her bejeweled head at Meya with a smile. Her borrowed eye swept the throng, then settled upon Atmund and Jerald in turn, "I'll leave you to your farewells."

After one last smile, she swept back to rejoin Baron Hadrian and oversee the loading of supplies. Meya tore her gaze from her receding back to find Jerald smiling, looking younger than his age for the first time. He nodded at Atmund, who drew in a deep breath and lowered his mask.

Short, wavy black hair. Olive skin with a healthy shine. Thick, dark eyebrows. Two round, protuberant, glowing green eyes. A wee button nose over a smile lined with thin lips and white, uneven teeth. His face was thin and pointed, but his cheeks were full nevertheless.

Meya's eyes welled with tears. She swept him into her arms,

"I'm gunna miss you, me lad."

Shaken by his ordeal and reminded of his age, Old Lors decided to return home to his daughter Claudia. Whereas Atmund decided he'd become Jerald's page and accompany him to Crosset, after stopping in Jaise to find his mother, Hamina. Desperate after years squirreling away every Latt she could to feed their son, Hamina had confronted Elmund over his reckless gambling, and Elmund had stolen Atmund away to continue business in peace with a golden goose. Or rather, dragon.

"Good miss, don't cry." Atmund rubbed his little thumb under her eyes, brushing away fresh tears. Meya simply nodded, waving for the others to come take their turn hugging the young knight. Dorsea swooped in,

"Trust in Freda. She'll guide you home." She whispered as she nuzzled Atmund on each cheek. The boy nodded fervently.

"See you in Crosset." Frenix punched Atmund in the shoulder. Jerald laughed, his eyes twinkling,

"Then my first act as Lord Crosset shall be to triple the budget for firefighting."

Frenix chortled along with the grownups. As the laughter subsided, Meya caught Jerald's eye once more in the falling silence. She bent her knees into a curtsy,

"Tell me father I'm all well." She rasped through the fresh lump in her throat, "Please take care of me family."

Jerald rested a heavy hand on her shoulder as he sank to one knee.

"On my honor, little lass."

The line of wagons trundled up the road. The wind swayed the date palms to wave their bladelike leaves and scolded the prickly pears to bend their wobbling backs in well-wishing.

Arinel shut her cloak against the billowing dust, her eyes fixed upon the carriage that held Jerald as it shrank into the empty, vast distance of the Sands.

The rest of them would follow after cremating the dead. With their obsidian and sulfur deposits, Jaise was best equipped to host Zier's surgery. Baron Hadrian would depart for the capital, Bishop Riddell in tow, to report on the drought, then hopefully return in time to his son's side.

Using The Axel, they would craft The Rota, deliver it in secrecy to Easthaven then sail for Everglen, but when would that be? Was Klythe waiting still? How much longer could he?

Zier was supposed to cross land and sea, bring her brother back to Jaise, where Arinel would be waiting with the perfected anesthesia. Instead, their parents had discovered their secret, called off the honeymoon in Safyre. Old Angus had arrived in Jaise, armed with decades of expertise in Nostran medicine. Meya had fallen pregnant. The drought had taken root so deep in the soil of Amplevale, Simon was called home. Gillian had returned, and never again would he let Zier stray from his sight.

Fleets of ore ships had been lost beyond Gyrinae's veil. Even Dockar, a battle-hardened dragon, wouldn't brave the flight to Everglen. So was it still wise for Arinel to hope? Was it selfish to demand Latakia mount another deadly voyage?

Arinel turned her back on the road, her feet sweeping away scars wheels and hooves had scored on the sand. The cremation ceremony would be held here tomorrow. The dead would each be given a tongue of the eternal fire as their last gift.

Baron Kellis directed Hyacinth guards as they threw a swathe of carmine cloth over the clearing, accompanied by Zier and Christopher. Baroness Sylvia was debating Ozid over a vast array of flower arrangements.

The bandits had wandered into the wilderness, likely to find a sandhill to bury their dragon selves in and sunbathe. Gillian remained, watching the preparations curiously. Ahmundi doused the blue-gray sand with qanat water for Frenix and Amara to mold little sandmen. Cleygar and Dorsea weaved between the towering palm trees, picking fallen dates. Tissa tried her best to climb one.

Meya had drifted across the road, peering and poking at cochineal fluff on the prickly pear. She looked strangely lonesome without Coris by her side superciliously lecturing her on the pigment trade.

"I was observing your exchange with the Crosset heir,"

A cool voice spoke behind her. Arinel jumped, then rolled her eyes. Of course, he'd come to torment her instead.

"Is that an apology?" She said flatly. Coris blinked, then huffed in annoyance,

"I hardly consider it eavesdropping to observe a public conversation from out of earshot, but as I still wish to speak to you, yes it is."

Arinel admired Meya for not having already welded his lips shut with molten metal. Coris must have read the blessings in her eyes; he scratched his cheek sheepishly.

"I take it you've been contemplating my question at the valley."

"Against my better judgment," quipped Arinel, then she met his gaze. As he did that night, Coris seemed sincerely curious. So, sighing, she too set aside her pride.

"I asked him to let go of Mother. She's kept him waiting long enough." She settled on the sand. Coris echoed her. A househusband approached Meya with his winnow basket, offering her a paddle to scrape cochineal with.

"I saw in Mother's diary; Jerald wanted to elope. Lady Arynea left him a fortune when she died. He asked Mother to come away with him, but Mother wanted to finish her treatise. She asked him to wait and so he did. Still did."

A lump lodged itself in her throat, breaking her voice. Arinel swallowed it,

"Seventeen years. If she truly loved him, she wouldn't have asked so much. Wouldn't have agreed to be Father's mistress. Risked her life, my life, day after day in a lab festering with poison. But she chose alchemy."

She concluded in a bitter smile. Coris shook his head.

"She may have chosen all but." He said, his voice heavy as he met Arinel's surprise with a frown,

"You've seen your father's wrath as a frail old man. She suffered him in his prime. She'd be stealing not one, but two of his heirs. She had Gretella's life to fear for, and Jerald's future. She may have been waiting for Fyr to claim your father or Jerald's father, for this day."

"But wouldn't she have stayed away from the labs, then? She should've done her damnedest to stay alive, but she chose alchemy!"

Arinel burst out. Coris fell silent as she deflated, panting. And Arinel gazed within, to the eye of the whirlwind.

"Maybe that's why I was drawn to it," She whispered, "Perhaps I hope to prove it was something worth her leaving me for. And if it saves the one I love, then perhaps it had all been for me, after all."

This time, Coris nodded.

"You took the blame, when perhaps she was simply foolhardy. And greedy." He shrugged as Arinel glared, undaunted, "She wanted it all. She refused to have to choose, so Freda punished her hubris. It has nothing to do with you. Yet, you tell yourself there is something you could do, could change. You feel powerless otherwise."

Arinel's heart skipped a beat. She frowned at the young man, wary, slightly unnerved. Coris read minds, never hearts. That was Zier's demesne.

"Did Zier put you up to this?"

Coris jolted. Catching himself, he straightened with a devious grin,

"Well, you couldn't have fallen deeper for him if I tossed you a shovel. If I say yes, my sacrifice would be wasted. I'll take my chances with No."

Arinel didn't bother deciphering his riddle, having seen it for the facade it was. Coris's smile faded. He turned away, picking at a scab on his cheek.

"My mother tried to tear me from her womb," He confessed. Arinel nodded,

"I've heard say."

"But she loves me now. As much as she loathes herself, perhaps." Coris sneaked a glance at his mother; she was busy sniffing flowers, "I tried to see beyond the end to the beginning, to understand why she did what she did. For there must be another answer; the one I have is too cruel."

"And is there?" Arinel asked, her voice barely a whisper. Coris turned to Meya, then. He flinched as she hopped in place, shaking her hand, while the househusband giggled. She must have pricked herself on a thorn trying to reach the tiny bugs. Finally, he nodded.

"Some women need more than a birth, a year, a decade even, to become a mother. She may take some time to learn to make the right choices, but she can change."

"If only she was given the chance."

Arinel scrunched her eyes against an onslaught of despair at the cruelty, the unfairness of it all. She would never know, would never have peace, would never find closure.

Coris paused for long while.

"She chose you, once." He said tenderly, "She carried you, chained herself to the man she feared and hated above all others. She was prepared to suffer so you can be Lady Crosset. Such courage asks for nothing less than a mother's love as its toll."

Warmth enveloped her heart as she remembered. Arinel closed her eyes and nodded, tears spilling down her chest.

"If you truly must, let go of your guilt, and keep her memory. As Jerald did," said Coris. Arinel nodded again, wiping her tears,

"There may be another I must let go." Sniffing, she turned to the Blue Mountains. Two lands and two seas lay beyond them. Klythe was so, so far away.

"If only I were a dragon. I could've gone after him myself," She lamented weakly.

"And what if you were lost yourself?" scolded Coris sharply, startling Arinel. "He sailed there for the woman he loves. What do you think he'd make of losing you?"

Arinel shivered as the truth in his words pierced her like shards of ice. More tears tumbled down her cheeks as she seethed in helplessness and guilt. Coris lowered his eyes, ashamed.

"I can offer little in solace or promises," His voice softened, his gray eyes full of sorrow as he held hers, "We've lost many, and we may lose countless more. I can only hope Klythe understands Latakia takes priority. I'm so sorry."

Coris held out his handkerchief, and sat silently by her side as Arinel sobbed into it. When Arinel surfaced, she found him staring transfixed across the road again. This time, however, Meya caught him spying. She held his gaze briefly, then moved on as if he were air. Coris trembled.

"She needs time." Arinel croaked, sniffling. Coris nodded.

"I know. I'm just afraid it would be a lifetime."

He trailed away. Arinel shifted uncomfortably as she recalled,

"I struck her once, and my fury was far less earned. I haven't apologized." She mumbled shamefacedly.

"Yet, she's unafraid of you." Coris pointed out. Arinel tilted her head,

"She expected it of me, but you'd never punish her for insolence, would you?" She shook her head, sighing, "You've always forgiven her reckless schemes because all's well ended well, and you had only your death to worry for, but that's changed."

A pause of silence. Coris hung his head, agreeing,

"Freda gave us trials to test our bond, and we shattered." He sighed, crumpling in on himself, "One may yet hope to mend, in time, through fire, bonded by gold and silver. So Jayri said, but broken trust isn't crockery."

Arinel had no words to comfort him, faced with such an undeniable truth. She rested her hand on his bony arm as he wallowed.

Suddenly, the sound of galloping hooves beat towards them from the gates. As Arinel spun around, Coris sprung to his feet. The Hyacinth guard tugged the reins to halt her mare, then dismounted and rushed to the Baroness.

"Milady, Lady Hyacinth requests you return at once."

Sylvia blinked in confusion, as her husband was very much present. Yet, even as Baron Kellis hurriedly strode over to take his command, the guard plowed on, panting, eyes wide and haunted,

"The King's herald is here. His Majesty demands your presence at his Royal Council in Aynor. To answer the question of The Axel."