A god-borne zephyr brought Xarl’s ship—bearing the Furies of the Forbidden Archipelago—within sight of Memory. As their ship contended with the violence and waves of the Winedark Sea, above them, another type of ship, manned by the Goddess Herself, brought hurricane-strength winds in its wake. He could hear the throb of its god-wrought Engine, the mechanisms of power that hailed from another planet. All caution had been thrown to the wind now. The Goddess interposed more directly than ever in mortal affairs.

  The Furies were adept sailors. They had navigated the runnels and rivers and inlets of the archipelago all their lives. But they had never crossed the Winedark Sea, nor set foot upon another continent. Still, they did not smell of fear. They plied their skills without faltering or remonstrance. He admired that. They were more like him than any other humans he had encountered, more so than even other theronts who’d crossed his paths, albeit that was a rare occurrence.

  Memory loomed larger and larger. It was a behemoth of black woods and brooding secrets. In the far, far distance, Xarl’s keen eyes could discern the vague shapes of towers and mountains, but they were phantasmal, unreal.

  He had never been one given to poetic flights of fancy. He had never been one to think very much at all. He had been given a life by Master Lucan, whom he had always called Lord, and he had been content with that life—to punish flesh in exchange for comfort, food, a place in the world. But now he served The Lady, she who was beyond all others. The mist had been cleared from his sight. He had beheld the ruinous glory of dead-flesh-living. The horror had sank into his soul and somehow purified it, the way that burning alcohol cleanses a maggot-ridden wound. He could not go back to the way he was.

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  Overhead, the sky-ship crackled and thundered. The winds picked up—eager. Their nameless ship—its sailed full-bellied with the gale—listed and dived and crashed as it shattered waves like a sword shattering a cerulean shield. Land was in touching distance now.

  He knew not what waited for them in Memory. He knew only The Lady demanded he go. If there were those he must kill, then he would kill. If there were those he must save, he would save. And when it was done, she would show him her face again, and she would take him in her ship heaven-ward, to the glowing palaces of the truly blessed, to Nyshala and the mount of Gladness, where heroes dwelt forever.

  Xarl smiled.

  The ship came to ground, and he leapt from the prow—like a god borne on the winds of magic.