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The painted cottages merged into clustered masses of glowing white, luminescent in the mist against a velvety backdrop of heathered hills. Before them, the island grew more distinct as the ship sailed closer,but Donal could see none of the distinguishing features. Just a shape floating on the water, wreathed in clouds of fog.
    He became aware of Sef edging in close beside him. The mist shrouded them both and settled into their clothing, so that Sef—wrapped in a deep blue cloak Donal had purchased for him the day before, along with other new clothing—looked more fey than human. His black hair curled against his thin face—now clean—and his mismatched eyes stared out at the island fixedly.
    “It should not frighten you,” Donal said quietly. “It is merely an island. A place.”
    Sef looked at the eerie, silent blanket of sea-spray and morning fog. Even the crying of the gulls was muted in the mist. “But it’s an enchanted place. I’ve heard.”
    “Do you know the old legends, then?”
    Sef seemed hesitant. “Some. Not all. I’m—not from Hondarth.”
    “Where
are
you from?”
    The boy looked away again, staring at the deck. Then, slowly, he raised his head. “From many places. My mother earned bread by—by…” He broke off uncertainly. His face colored so that he looked younger than the thirteen years he claimed. His voice was nearly a whisper. “Because of—men. We—didn’t stay long in any single place.” He shrugged, as if he could dismiss it all. But Donal knew such things would never entirely fade, even with adulthood. “She died almost a year ago, and I had no place else to go. So—I stayed.”
    Donal heard the underlying note of shame and loneliness in Sef’s tone. “Well, travel befits a man,” he said off-handedly, seeking to soothe the boy without insulting him with sympathy. In the clans, the Cheysuli rarely resorted to emphasizing unnecessary emotions. “You are of an age to learn the world, and Hondarth is as good a place as any to begin.”
    Sef did not look at him. He looked instead at the Crystal Isle as they sailed closer yet. The fog thickened as they approached, wrapping itself around the ship until it clung to every line and spar, glistening in the brassy sunlight so muted by the mist. Droplets beaded the railing and their cloaks, running down the oiled wool to fall on the deck. Their faces were cooled by the isle’s constant wind, known to Cheysuli as the Breath of the Gods.
    “Will you still keep me with you?” Sef asked very softly.
    Donal looked at him sharply, frowning. “I have said I would. Why do you ask?”
    Sef would not meet his eyes. “But—that was before you knew I was a—
bastard.
”
    Donal made a quick dismissive gesture. “You forget, Sef—I am Cheysuli, not Homanan.” Inwardly he shut his ears to the voice that protested the easy denial of his Homanan blood. “In the clans, there is no such thing as bastardy. A child is born and his value is weighed in how he serves his clan and the prophecy, not in the question of his paternity.” Donal shook his head. “I care not if your
jehan
—your father—was thief or cobbler or soldier. So long as
you
earn your keep.”
    “Then the Cheysuli are wiser than most.” The bitterness in Sef’s young voice made Donal want to put a hand on one narrow shoulder to gentle him, but he did not. The boy was obviously proud as well as uncertain of his new position, and Donal had more cause than most to understand the feeling.
    He pointed toward the island. “Tell me what you know, Sef.”
    Sef looked. “They say there are demons, my lord.”
    Donal smiled. “Do they? Well, they are wrong. That is a Cheysuli place, and there are no Cheysuli demons. Only gods, and the people they have made.”
    “What people?”
    “Those of us now known as the Cheysuli. Once, we were something different. Something—better.” Like the boy, he stared across the glass-gray ocean toward the misted island. Finally it grew