The story so far: When a small freighter founders on the jagged rocks of Sea Lion Cape, two strange eggs wash ashore.

One // Two

Midsummer 1212 AL (Ten Years Later)

“You are in no shape to go haring off into the wild!” Artema Santinetta, on her feet with fists balled at her sides, shouted at her father. Her toppled chair lay on the floor behind her.

Eyes downcast, an unkempt Adon Santinetta sat at the head of the dining table, his shoulders stooped and his hands clutched in his lap. His gray hair had seen little of his comb for days, and he had let his mostly white beard grow long over the past several months. His stained undershirt and wrinkled pants were the same clothes he had worn yesterday and the day before.

Before he could reply, his dark-haired, sixteen-year-old daughter continued, pointing at him. “Look at you, Father! Your clothes hang off you! You’ve lost a lot of weight and most of your strength! You’re not ready to go back to work!”

“I’ve got to do something!” Adon insisted, his voice gruff from disuse. “You’re right—I am wasting away!—but that’s why I’ve got to try. I can’t just sit here anymore, thinking . . .”

He had been “thinking” since mid-winter, half a year ago. Bitter cold and later ice and snow had settled over Palisade, and during that cold snap, his beloved wife Cassindra had fallen ill with a virulent fever. Over less than a day, despite being warm and dry and under the care of the court physician, she had worsened and died. Although many in the capital had contracted the illness, few had succumbed to it, but she had, never mounting a defense. When asked why the fever had taken her life, the court physician could only shake his head and suppose that she must have had an unknown weakness that the fever had aggravated.

Like nothing else he had experienced in his life, her death had crushed Adon. For months after her funeral, he did nothing, not even care for himself. He barely ate. By turns, he felt broken-hearted, abandoned, numb, cheated, angry, and guilty. He had refused most visitors, rarely left his house, and spoke only to Artema and her older brother, Thesis.

Knowing and loving him, the king, Lorens III, had let him grieve, sending him notes and gifts regularly. He sent for Thesis every week to hear news of his “uncle,” and grew increasingly concerned. But after half a year of inconsolable sorrow, Adon had rallied over the last few days and announced himself ready to return to duty, writing a letter to the king of his intention. During dinner, he had informed his son and daughter that he had sent it.

“Why didn’t you ask us before you sent that letter?” Artema demanded, roping her brother into the argument. He sat in silence on the other side of the table, incessantly rearranging his cutlery, his plate, his glass, and flattening a wrinkle in the tablecloth with his hand while refusing to look at his father. He glared at her for a long moment before distracting himself by refilling his water glass.

“When did it become necessary to consult you before I do anything?” her father demanded in return, though there was more regret than heat in his words. “I noticed the wind change in the way I feel, so I acted. I’m ready.”

“No, you are not!” she insisted, her eyes sharp and dark under a lowered brow. “Who has cared for you every day since Mother died? I’ve held your hand for hours and let you lean on me as you wept. I’ve nursed you through sickness and weakness and despair. By the Shepherd, I’ve watched you shrink and shrivel up as you lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling for days at a time! I think that kind of care and devotion deserves at least a little consideration!”

She began collecting the plates and silverware. “I think I know your condition better than you do!” she shot over her shoulder as she took them into the kitchen.

Adon sighed. “Look. I’ve come to realize that I need to work, to focus on something other than . . .” His voice trailed off.

“This is what I mean!” Artema said, striding back into the room. “You can’t even say her name or that she died! The wound is too raw still.”

“I can say my dear Cassindra’s name,” he said, proving it. “I can say she died. I am just . . . lost without her. Life means nothing without her.” He paused, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the tears that came so easily to his eyes. Without opening them, he finished, “I need to set a fresh course, to do something else, to be somewhere else, or I think I’ll go insane.”

“You’ve already driven us insane!” she spat. “Do you realize that you stare at nothing for what seems like hours? When you’re like that, you don’t notice when one of us comes into the room. You don’t hear us when we speak. We usually have to shake you out of it! You did it just this morning!”

“I was thinking,” he mumbled.

“That’s what you always say!” she snapped, breathing hard. “But the house could burn down around you, and you wouldn’t notice! What if you get out on the plain somewhere on your horse, and you fall into one of these spells? He might get spooked and throw you and break your neck!”

“Renegade would never do that,” he contended.

She threw up her hands. “I’m not even sure you could handle Renegade right now! You’ve lost so much muscle.”

“I don’t have to manhandle him,” Adon answered. “I trained him better than that.”

“That’s not the point!” she said, undaunted. “There are a thousand things you have to do on a trip that you’ll have trouble doing in the state you’re in. If I know you, you’ll try to do too much and end up getting sick! Who will care for you then? Mast? Bandrick?” She chuckled grimly, shaking her head.

“The crew always takes care of one another,” he said. “You know that.”

“Oh, you have an answer for everything,” she fumed, picking up a dish to take to the kitchen. “I’ll finish washing up and go to bed. You’re not of a mind to see reason.”

* * * * *

Less than a week later, the feeble light of dawn seeped through the white curtains that covered the windows of the Santinetta’s front room. Artema stood near the front door, staring blankly at a hillock of travel bags at her feet. I’m forgetting something, she thought. Something important.

Loosening the leather strap she used to tie her hair, Artema swept her wavy hair back and tied it into a ponytail. It was the third time she had done so in the past quarter-hour. She wondered if she should just braid it and forget it, but before she could act on the thought, she remembered her father had suggested she pack a coat just in case, despite it being the height of summer. Taking a long, woolen coat from her closet, she added it to her growing pile of gear.

Two days before, King Lorens III had summoned a thin but freshly bathed, groomed, and clothed Adon to his secret study under the palace and given him new orders. For the seven years prior to his wife’s death, Adon, as the king’s agent, had tirelessly done his royal cousin’s bidding, gathering information and solving problems across the length and breadth of Margonne and beyond. He had enjoyed his work, and now he wanted nothing more than to get back to it.

Wincing, Artema recalled that evening of argument, wishing she had not been so harsh. Before that, she had never spoken that way to her father, and she could not imagine doing so again. I snapped. Having nursed him through the worst of his sorrow, she knew the state of his body and mind, and both were frail in her estimation. I thought all that hard work would go for nothing. He would leave before he was ready and die on the road. They had gone to bed that night still seething at each other’s stubbornness.

The following morning, after a night of tossing and turning on his bed, Adon had apologized to his daughter and proposed a compromise: He would accept the king’s next assignment if she would accompany him. That way, she could look after him and warn him if he was overextending himself, or nurse him back to health and well-being if he faltered on the road. Ashamed of her uncharacteristic vehemence the night before, Artema had accepted the compromise with a tight hug and a murmured apology.

Remembering it, she grinned. In the end, I got what I always wanted, she reflected. Joining her father on one of his adventures had always been a dream, but before, her parents had both objected, insisting she was too young.

Always practical, her mother had once advised her to learn a few skills so she could contribute something to the crew, advice she had taken to heart. She could now cook meals, mend clothing, drive a wagon, and ride a horse. For his part, her father had taught her how to use a whip, and she was a decent shot with a bow and surprisingly accurate at knife-throwing.

As a benefit from her months of tending her father, she had learned a great deal about nursing. Wanting to learn even more, she had sought out a local Leitan herb-woman to teach her the basics of helping the sick and injured. Taking courage one morning early in the last month of Adon’s leave, she had knocked on the court physician’s door to ask for his advice on assembling a kit for an excursion.

When the doctor had offhandedly mentioned her visit to the king, Lorens had ordered him to put together a fully stocked physician’s bag for her at the crown’s expense. “Make sure it contains everything that you would take on an extended journey into the wild, and make sure Miss Santinetta knows how and when to use all of it!” So had begun her nightly reading of texts and daily visits to the physician’s chambers for her accelerated medical education. She had even accompanied him on his rounds during the last week.

Tugging the leather strap out of her hair, she retied her ponytail. She recognized her nervousness. She had woken far earlier than necessary, rushed through her preparations, and now she waited impatiently for Adon to return with a “surprise.” He could not come quickly enough.

Some minutes later, hearing the jangling of a harness, she flung open the front door and ran to the street. A huge smile lighting up his face, Adon sat in the seat of a white, open-bed wagon pulled by two large, light-gray donkeys. With skills built over many years, he turned it around in the narrow street to face the way he had come, ready to be packed and driven out of town on his new assignment.

Artema opened the gate and stepped up into the seat, embracing her father. “This is the best surprise ever!” she gushed. “My very own wagon! And what beautiful donkeys!”

“They may be the best part,” Adon said, still grinning. “Those two were certainly the most expensive!”

“They’ll match Mast’s donkeys, won’t they?” she asked. She climbed down to run her hands along the animals’ flanks and necks.

“They do!” he said, nodding. “I think they may even be related to his somehow.” He watched her for a moment as she got to know the pair. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“No,” she said, confusion etched deeply on her face.

“Well,” he said, scratching the stubble on his cheek, “it means, one, the crew gets another wagon, which we have wanted for some time now. And, two, since it’s really your wagon and these two are your donkeys, it can only mean you are one of the crew.”

She beamed and ran to hug him again.

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A note:

It was during the months after Cassindra’s death that Thesis Santinetta assumed control of the day-to-day management of the Santinetta family business, at least the non-shipping side. He possessed a natural aptitude for the intelligence business, and he was particularly good at making connections between seemingly disparate pieces of information. The firm’s founder, the always-intriguing Tiena Santinetta, had died at the age of 89 just six years before. However, her son, Mardans Santinetta, had tutored Thesis in the trade for several years and still made himself available whenever Thesis had questions. The family was unanimous in its belief that the family business was in good hands.

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