There was no jollity at meals, except where Flane ate. Morosely, the men stared at one another, and bent to their plates. A pall hung over the ship, bathing those who rode it.
Flane was different. He still laughed and jested, and spent the moonlit nights walking the deck with Aevlyn.
"What use to brood?" he asked her. "Our fate is written somewhere, perhaps in that great cave where dwells the All-High that the Princess Gleya told me of. He sits there and watches all our deeds enacted before him."
"I would like to go and peer over His shoulder to see our immediate future," the girl sighed, clinging to Flane.
"Seeing it would not change it," said Flane. "Not knowing, but doing and fighting every inch of the pathway through life—that's what counts!"
He looked at the blade with the seven stars in it, holding it up so that moonlight made it glimmer.
"This is what counts—holding a sword in your hand and using it to fight for what is right and just. It's like a key to your own future. When you hold it, you can't fail!"
Aevlyn pressed against him, whispering, "I wish I were of your race, Flane. You never admit defeat, even if you have already failed!"
Flane grunted, "Failed? Just because we didn't have time to raise that army at Moornal? We take a different path, that's all. It may lead to the same goal. Who knows?"