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curving stair above them, waiting. Ancient Gildas and Tilian, who was no longer young, were among them; for days on end, they had made the arduous trek down the stone stairs to fill the basin of the sea-mirror at sunrise and sundown. How many years? One might suppose they would be glad of their freedom, but they looked dismayed.
    “My people.” Although he spoke quietly, Hyacinthe’s words encompassed the tower. “This day, I go forth to break the geis and leave the island. If we succeed, I will not return. Know that all things in this tower are yours, to distribute as you choose, saving only the contents of the library, which shall be held in keeping for Phèdre nó Delaunay of Montrève. Although this exile has been bitter to me, you have served long and well, and I am grateful for it. I leave you with my thanks.”
    “Fair my lord!” Old Gildas’ voice emerged choked. “Surely, thou hast need of thy sea-mirror-aye, and thine acolytes to attend and fill it!”
    “No, Gildas.” Hyacinthe shook his head. “It was wrought on Third Sister, and will open its far-seeing eye nowhere else in the world. Elsewhere, I must needs construct a sea-mirror anew, in its own place of vision. Let this one remain here, as a reminder.”
    “Prithee, how shall we conduct ourselves?” someone said wondering, setting loose a flurry of anxious queries. “What shall become of us? What shall we do?” The questions fluttered around the stone walls of the tower, beating on nervous wings. Hyacinthe’s brow darkened, storm clouds gathering in his eyes.
    “ Live !” The word fell like a thunderclap, silencing them. I shuddered at the power that emanated from him in waves, a charged odor like the air after lightning has struck. “Live,” he repeated, more gently, in his echoing tone. “Live free of this curse, fish and hunt, grow crops and herd cattle. Build boats and sail to the mainland, trade and prosper. Make music, write poems, dance. Find one another in love, lose one another in sorrow. Live .”
    No one spoke as he descended the stair, parting to make way for him. I saw how their eyes followed him-fearful, calculating, avid and forlorn by turns. Not until we reached the door did anyone utter a word.
    “My lord!” It was Tilian who called after us, daring and defiant. “And if thou dost fail, my lord? ’Tis no secret thou has tried it before; didst do so this very day. We, who have attended thee these long years, know the truth of it. Why shouldst succeed now?”
    Hyacinthe turned, staring at the man until he turned pale. “Because this time,” he said, “I am not alone. You have served power a long time, Tilian, and come to relish the taste of it. Listen to me now when I tell you: Do not pray for my failure. Because this time, Rahab will come in the fullness of his might and ageless wrath, and my power is to his as a bucket of water is to the ocean. And if we fail, his anger may raise the seas and drown the isles of the Three Sisters, and when the fish nibble at your flesh and the crabs scuttle through your bones, you will not have to worry about how to live without the Master of the Straits to attend.”
    There were no further protests.
    I waited until we were outdoors and the bright sun had chased the crawling chills from my flesh to ask him if he believed it.
    “Yes,” Hyacinthe said shortly. “Why do you suppose it terrifies me so?”
    Well and so; the lives of hundreds of innocent people rested in my hands. I clutched my skirts, concentrating on descending the long stair, my breathing coming shallow and labored-not with exertion, this time, but with fear. Below us, Elua’s Promise bobbed at anchor in the center of its tame whirlpool, laden with cargo too precious for words.
    It would be better, I thought, if they were gone from this place.
    “Can you send them away?” I asked him.
    “Beyond Rahab’s reach?” His mouth twisted. “No such place exists upon the seas.”
    “Out of sight, then. Surely it would be safer.”
    We had gained the promontory. Hyacinthe gazed at the ship, then at me, shifting the case he held under one arm, containing the pages salvaged from the Book of Raziel. “It may be so. They will not thank you for it.”
    “I know,” I said. “Do it.”
    “Quintilius Rousse!” Hyacinthe’s voice echoed off the cliff walls, resounding across the harbor. “Raise your anchor! You are journeying beyond Rahab’s gaze!”
    Across the shining waters, I heard the cries of protest and