Traitor's Moon

for good. Now that she knew the reason, she wasn’t so sure arriving with a decuria of riders was the best way to coax them home.
    She gripped the rail, willing those thoughts away. She had work to do, work that for at least a little while was sending her back to those she loved best.
    Two Gulls was barely large enough to merit the title of village. One poor inn, a ramshackle temple, and a dicer’s throw of shacks clustered around a little dent of a harbor. Micum Cavish had spent a lifetime passing through such places, wandering on his own or on Watcher business with Seregil.
    These past few years he’d stuck close to home, nursing his bad leg and watching his children grow. He’d enjoyed it, too, much to his wife’s delight, but this journey had reminded him just how much he missed the open road. It was good to find out that he still knew instinctively where to show gold and where to guard his purse.
    Five days earlier a mud-spattered messenger had ridden into the courtyard at Watermead, bearing news that the queen required his service and that of Seregil and Alec. It fell to him to talk his friends out of their self-imposed exile. The best news, however, had been that his eldest girl, Beka, was alive, whole, and on her way home from the war to act as his escort.
    Within the hour, he was on the road with a sword at his side and pack on his back, heading for a village he’d never heard of until that day.
    Just like old times.
    Sitting here now on a bench in front of the nameless inn, hat brimpulled down over his eyes, he considered the task ahead. Alec would listen to reason, but a whole troop of soldiers wouldn’t be enough if Seregil dug his heels in.
    â€œSir, sir!” a reedy voice called. “Wake up, sir. Your ship’s coming in!”
    Micum pushed his hat back and watched with amusement as his excitable lookout, a lad of ten, came scampering up the muddy street. It was the third such announcement of the day.
    â€œAre you sure it’s the right one this time?” he asked, then winced as he stood. Even after a day’s rest, the scarred muscles behind his right thigh ached more than he cared to admit. The wounds left on a man by a
dyrmagnos
went deep, even after the flesh healed.
    â€œLook, sir. You can see the banner,” the boy insisted. “Crossed swords under a crown on a green field, just like you said. There’s Queen’s Horse Guard aboard, all right.”
    Micum squinted out across the cove. A few years back, he wouldn’t have had to.
    Damn, I’m getting old!
    The boy was right this time, though. Taking up his walking stick, Micum followed him down to the shore.
    The ship dropped anchor in deep water and longboats were lowered. A small crowd had gathered already, chatting excitedly as they watched the soldiers row in.
    Micum grinned again as he caught sight of a redheaded officer standing in the prow of the lead boat. Old eyes or not, he knew his Beka when he saw her. She spotted him, too, and let out a happy whoop that echoed across the water.
    At a distance, it was easy to see the girl she’d been when she’d left home to join the regiment, all long legs and enthusiasm. From here, she looked too slight to bear the weight of chain mail and weapons, but he knew better. Beka had never been frail.
    As the longboat drew closer, however, the illusion dissolved. A mix of authority and ease emanated from her as she shared some joke with a tall rider standing just behind her.
    She has what she always wanted
, he thought with a rush of bittersweet pride. Just shy of twenty-two, she was a battle-scarred officer in one of Skala’s finest regiments, and one of the queen’s most daring raiders.
    It hadn’t given her airs, it seemed. She was out of the boat before it ground up on the shingle.
    â€œBy the Flame, it’s good to see you again!” she cried, throwing her arms around him, and for a moment it seemed that she wasn’t going to let go. When she did finally step back, her eyes were brightwith unshed tears. “How are Mother and the children? Is Watermead just the same?”
    â€œWe’re all just as you left us. I have letters for you. Illia’s is four pages long,” he said, noting new scars on her hands and arms. Freckles still peppered her face, but two years of hard fighting had sharpened her features, stripping away the last vestiges of childhood. “Captain is it?” he said,