A silence lay in the garden. The fight was over.
The men of Falga, still shining with Source-Life, hung their blades from uncomprehending fingers, the light beginning to leave their green eyes. Their skin looked dirty and dull.
Starke wasted no time getting down the galleries, through the slave quarter, and to the quays again.
Linnl awaited him, gently petting the obedient harp.
"It's over. The slaves will own what's left. They'll be our allies, since we've freed them."
Starke didn't hear. He was squinting off over the Red Sea.
Linnl understood. He plucked two tones from the harp, which pronounced the two words uppermost in Starke's thought.
"Crom Dhu."
"If we're not too late." Starke leaned forward. "If Faolan lives. If Beudag still stands at the masthead."
Like a blind man he walked straight ahead, until he fell into the sea.