Epilogue.

Something was poking Neana in the side. It turned out to be Sam's bony finger, jabbing at her like a bored four year old.

"Are you awake?" Sam asked.

"Are you trying to lose a finger?" Neana snarled, and stopped. She was shocked. Sam looked terrible; her face and uniform were covered in soot and her eyes had a sunken, haunted look. She lips, always colorless, now looked like bleached bone.

Sam retracted her finger and hung her head. "Sorry."

Neana sat up, and only then realized she was lying on a rickety cot. To her right and left, stretching from wall to wall, were two dozen other makeshift beds, many no more than a few padded blankets. Many of their occupants wore bandages, or groaned softly, or simply laid so still they may have been corpses. From the thin yellow light streaming in through the ceiling planks she guessed that she was somewhere in the lower deck, probably a cargo hold.

Neana yawned and cracked her knuckles. She felt surprisingly good. "I… How long was I asleep?" she asked.

A pretty, tanned young woman in a simple brown robe answered her question. "You were asleep for more than half a day. Considering your exhaustion, I thought it best to let your body set its own clock." The woman – Kiana, she remembered, the ship's chaplain – placed a hand on Neana's forehead. "It's a miracle that you've recovered this soon. I thought you would sleep for days, but if you awoke on your own time," she glanced at Sam, who looked carefully innocent, "then I guess it's alright for you to move about. I could certainly use the bed."

"A miracle," Neana whispered. She eyed the fat bronze octagon that hung from Kiana's neck on a chain, the symbol of the goddess Arawai.

Kiana gently touched her medallion, and smiled. Apparently, she interpreted Neana's hesitation as some kind of superstitious piety. "While Arawai may grant me the healing touch from time to time, no, Neana, I didn't have to use it on you. When I saw that your state was caused by a lack of energy and not by a mortal wound, I saved my own energy for those… less fortunate."

Neana studied the other wounded. They looked wretched. Few wore any uniform that she could see. "Where did they come from?"

"Seaside," Sam answered. She let her hair cover her face as she studied her soot encrusted hands. She didn't seem to want to meet anyone's eyes. "After the battle, we started pulling people out of the water. When we ran out of room on the deck, we started putting them onto other boats." Sam looked up. "We weren't the last ones out of the fog, Neana. They've been popping up at the edge of the town in handfuls all night long. Half of them are torn up pretty bad; some of 'em were just about gutted. They say that there are things in the mist even worse than the one we fought. Things with teeth." She shivered. "We haven't seen a survivor since early this morning. They must have finished them all off."

Kiana put a supportive hand on Sam's shoulder. "Why don't you get some sleep, Lieutenant. You've been attending to the wounded all night. We could all use a rest."

"Can't," Sam replied. She nodded at Neana. "Captain wants me to bring you to him."

Neana began to stand up before she realized that she could feel a draft. She was wearing a silk shift, and nothing else.

"It's one of mine," Sam explained. "We stowed your armor in the hold, and you weren't… uh… wearing anything underneath it but a gambeson, and your clothes are back on the Dire Kitten, so…"

"I'm not going anywhere in your nightie," Neana said.

Sam held up a brown knapsack. "I had Chandrasitar bring over some of your personal effects when she rowed over. There's a change of clothes in here."

"Chandra is here?"

Sam nodded. "She rowed over this morning. We'll talk about it after you get dressed."

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Neana stepped carefully over a moaning woman. The main deck was as crowded with civilians as the cargo deck was. Neana had to tread very carefully on the slippery floor, because Chandrasitar hadn't thought to bring an extra pair of boots. Her pink toes wiggled in a puddle: she hoped it was water, and not piss or something worse. Many of the civilians were wounded, seasick, or just too mentally scarred to take care of themselves.

"How many?" she asked.

"A lot," Sam sighed. "A quarter of the crew are missing, we think. It's hard to tell. Half the ­Kitten's crew ended up here, and half of our lot are on you ship. And Seaside… we'll never know how many of them didn't make it out."

"And Captain ir'Arth?"

"She's alive, thank the Host. Or thank the Flame, I guess. Whatever. She looked pretty bad, but it was mostly superficial. It'll be a while before her hair grows back, but she's conscious, and giving orders. She and Captain Klein had a palaver while you were under."

Neana exhaled a fearful breath. "Good. What about the others?"

"Jaken is the only officer we lost. We thought your First Bow and your bos'un were goners too, but Lt. Katra and Ensign Moira came out of the mist just before midnight. Poor Katra's pretty bad – it looks like something took a bite out of her leg – but she's healing. Kiana went over to see to your wounded last night." Sam smiled. "She said Moira wouldn't stop asking after you."

Neana smiled, one of her rare genuine displays of pleasure. "Good." She liked Moira. The shy shifter, along with Sam and possibly Captain ir'Arth, were the only people she considered friends.

They found Klein on the Forecastle. He had dragged a folding table up there and was busy studying a sheaf of maps. He didn't glance up as they approached, but said, "Lieutenants."

"Sir," they saluted.

He scrawled something on the back of what looked like a cargo manifest and held it up. "Sam, run this over to Tarn and tell him to have someone row it over to the Kitten. We need to get this crew situation sorted out. I don't like being surrounded by people I don't recognize." He looked up at her and worry creased his face. "And after that, report to your bunk. Take a nap. You look like the dog's breakfast."

"Yes, Boss," she smiled dully and trotted off.

Klein turned back to his notes and maps while Neana stood patiently at attention. Time passed. Her bare feet began to ache. After a while, she coughed pointedly.

"Why the hell are you still standing, Lieutenant?" Klein pointed to one of the barrels arranged around the table. "Take a chair." Neana, irritated, sat down. With deliberate care, the Captain pulled up a square of blotting paper and laid it neatly onto his parchment. He removed it and studied the results. No smears. "I'm not ignoring you, Mrs. Tacey, I'm calculating provisions. We have one hundred and sixty seven officers, seamen, and marines to feed, as well as over three hundred refugees. Somewhere, I have to find food and water for them all. Frankly, it'll take a bigger miracle than that spectacle last night to pull it off."

"No disrespect was meant, sir."

He put down his quill and looked at her. Neana was shocked. Like Sam, he was worn and haggard. His one eye stared out of its socket as if from the depths of a well. Neana wasn't good with human ages, but he looked as if he had aged a decade in one night. "I don't know how Alexia runs her ship, but here we don't stand on formality. Not for the officers, at least. You don't need to end every sentence with 'sir', and you can call me Klein or Captain. My First Bow, for reasons known only to herself, calls me Boss." He grinned: a bright, feral smile. "Some of the men, when they think I'm not listening, refer to me as 'Mother', but somehow I don't think the second word is 'Bear'."

"Uh… yes, Captain Klein."

"And I'm sure as hell not going to keep calling you Mrs. Tacey." He wiped a hand across his brow. "A lot happened while you were asleep, Neana. I'm not sure where to begin, so I'll take it in the order it occurred. Now, you probably know that both Alexia and I have… certain methods of contacting our superiors in order to send reports and receive orders, even over great distances. For reasons of national secrecy, we've always kept the exact nature of these methods secret." He laughed bitterly. "I guess it doesn't matter now. " Klein mused in silence for a moment. "A few hours after the attack, after I'd finally managed to kick enough asses to start things moving, I tried to send a report in. It didn't work."

Captain Klein removed a fist sized object from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. It was a smooth, lusterless purple stone. Neana picked it up and studied it. Closing her eyes, she probed it with her fingertips, tasting for magic. She felt a faint listless echo. "A whisper stone. It's used up," she said, and dropped it on the table.

Klein nodded. "Only works a couple of times before it needs to recharge. Normally, I pick it up, say the name and rank of the person I need to speak to, and it glows. Then I make my report real fast, before it goes dark. After that, I wait. This time, it didn't glow, no matter whose name I said." He picked up the stone and flipped it over, showing her the glyph carved in the bottom. "House Sivis. This little bauble has an effective range of five hundred miles, or so I was informed. If it isn't broken, that means that there isn't a functioning House Sivis outpost within five hundred miles."

"That's impossible," Neana said. "The city of Making is only a couple hundred miles away. Sivis has a chapterhouse there. You can't set your drink down without accidentally using a gnomish scribe for a coaster in Making."

"Indeed." Klein pocketed the stone. "Well, that got me curious, so we tried other methods. Alexia and I got your friend Chandra to use her…" He tapped his forehead, "mind tricks. Telepathy. You know how she does. She put herself in deep meditation and tried to make contact with Admiral Stark in Metrol. He's our operations leader; if something has happened to him, it's happened to the whole command corps."

Neana shivered. She remembered what Chandra's "contact" could feel like. She pushed an image of writhing worms out of her imagination. "Did she find him?"

"We're not sure. Her eyes rolled back in her head, she pitched over screaming, and then she blacked out for an hour. So I'm guessing not."

"Is she all right?"

"She's up and about. And complaining about her accommodations. You could call that back to normal, I suppose. But she refuses to talk about what happened. Says it was 'indescribable'. When we told her to try again, she refused. It took mine and ir'Arth's direct orders plus the threat of court-martial to get her to say yes, and even then only if we agreed that she could try to contact someone else instead. This time, we tried to get in touch with Admiral ir'Matast's Northern Fleet. And we were successful."

"Good," Neana breathed. She stared past the Captain, into the remnants of Seaside. The town was still covered by a sheet of thick gray fog. Piers jutted out from the mists like bony fingers reaching into the sea. It stretched to the edge of the land in either direction; in the shallow crescent of the harbor, Neana felt encircled by the fog. She had begun to fear that the entire world was now covered by the mists. "She's okay?"

"If you call the middle of the siege of Flamekeep okay. She's alive, at any rate." He paused. "Neana, she already knew about the mists. She said they rolled up on her east flank last night, covered the entire bank of the Brey River. When the refugees started streaming out of the mist, she sent a cutter scouting in each direction, to see how far along the river it stretched."

"How far?" Neana felt something tighten inside her guts. She knew the answer already.

"One of them made it almost to Lake Brey before the fog let up. The other stopped reporting back. Neana…" Captain Klein put both palms flat on the table. "The mists stretch from coast to coast, north to south. We don't know about the eastern border yet, not for certain, but if Chandra can't reach Admiral Stark, it must have spread at least as far east as Metrol. That's less than a hundred miles from the border. We have to act under the assumption that the mists cover the entire nation of Cyre."

Neana's mouth fell open. No words came out.

Klein nodded wearily, and she suddenly recognized the look in his eyes. Defeat. "Cyre is gone."

Neana tried to wrap her head around it, but it was too big. Nations did not just disappear, especially not one of the Five. Klein's words sat in her head like a mountain of dread, and she pondered them numbly. Gone. She tried to find a perspective where they made sense. Cyre was gone. Too big. A nation was an abstract idea, lines on a map. Her village was gone. Well, that had been effectively destroyed decades ago by the elves. The orphanage where she grew up was gone. No luck there, she barely had any feelings at all for that miserable hole.

Metrol was gone. Whitehearth was gone. Tronish and Making and Lorne and Eston were gone. House Cannith and its great Creation Forges were gone. The Imperial Cyran Academy of Magic was gone, along with every wizard she had ever been apprenticed to and every student she had ever studied with. Brunin Dorak, the old dwarven man-at-arms who had taught her swordfighting for a silver a day, was gone. The girl who had been her first kiss was gone. The secret shrine to the Fury underneath the ale house in Kalazart, where the faithful left little sacrifices of gold and incense, was gone. The coffee house where she had first met Sam was gone. The bookstore in Jarp, where the owner always set aside a volume of the newest mystery stories from Breland because he knew she liked them, was gone.

All gone.

"Are you sure?" she demanded. "There could be survivors inside. The mists might not have completely covered the interior…"

"Perhaps," he replied. "But if they're inside the mists, we can't reach them. Admiral ir'Matast has already made several attempts to scout the interior of the mist. Her search parties all failed to return. Her wizards' attempts at scrying showed nothing but that damn grey fog no matter where they looked."

He grasped her shoulder. It might have been an attempt at comfort. "Look, I'd like to hope it isn't true as much as anyone, but we have to operate as if Cyre is gone. Because if it's true," he swept an arm to indicate the small fleet of salvaged ships that had managed to escape the docks of Seaside, "then this, along with Admiral ir'Matast's fleet, may be all that's left of Cyre."

Neana shook her head. It was still too big. She had a feeling that it might always be too big; that she might never really understand what had happened last night. It would take weeks to accept, and years to sink in.

"The Admiral has ordered us to rendezvous with her fleet," Klein continued. "She's withdrawing the siege and decamping at Throneport. It's still neutral territory, and we hope that the Throne Wardens will grant us sanctuary until we figure out what the hell is going on. Unfortunately, half the continent lies between us and the Northern Fleet, and the Dire Kitten is going to be half-crippled until we fix that mast. I can't wait on her; I've got a few hundred refugees to look after, and they'll be starving if I can't get them to civilization soon."

Klein shoved a stack of papers out of the way and gestured towards a huge map of the continent. "I have two options. I've already made up my mind on one, but I'd like a third opinion." He pointed. "To get to Thronehold, I'm going to have to circumnavigate half the continent. The western route is five hundred miles longer, and takes us past the Demon Wastes and the damn goblins, not to mention Breland and Aundair, who, as far as I know, we're still at war with. We won't find any friendly ports until we hit the Shadow Marches, two thousand miles away. The alternative; the eastern route takes us through Valenar's seas," Neana's fingers clenched involuntarily, "to Q'barra, which is as friendly a port as we're like to find. I should be able to drop the civilian fleet off there. Past Q'barra is Lhazaar, where we might meet some disorganized pirate resistance, but I doubt it. Then, if we can make it past Karnath, we'll be safe."

"What about the Kitten?" Neana asked. "Where will we be?"

"Captain ir'Arth will stay here, at Seaside, until she gets her ship fixed. We have the materials to make repairs, just not the time. We've talked it over, and if she can cannibalize the harbor's wooden loading towers to make a pulley system, she ought to be able to patch it together in a few days. In the meantime, the Bear will lead the civilian ships east, into Valenar waters. We'll be slowed down by the civilian ships, so Alexia should be able to catch up with us after her ship is repaired. If everything goes as planned, she'll meet us at the southern tip of Valenar, assuming that it isn't also covered by these damned mists. Then we'll sail to Q'barra, and damn any elves that get in our way."

Neana nodded slowly. "It might work. If we can really get the Kitten repaired that quickly, both ships together should be able to punch through any Valaes Tairn resistance. The elves have a shitty navy, despite all their fancy swords. We'll probably make it."

"I'm glad you think so, because you'll be leading the charge."

"Sir?"

"You're coming with me," Klein explained. "My arcanist is dead, and I need someone who knows a spell from a hole in the ground, in case we run into any more of these damned mist creatures. Alexia might know about this magical crap, but I don't. I could also use another sword arm." When Neana started to protest, he cut her off. "That wasn't a request, Lieutenant. Besides, I would have thought you'd be eager for the first crack at any elves we run across, from your reputation. You'll get plenty of fight, where we're going. If the elves haven't been massacred by the fog, they've just woken up to discover that their western border has been replaced by a gaping pit to hell. They'll be buzzing like hornets."

Neana considered. A sick smile twisted her face. "Yes, Sir."

"Good. I'm also stealing Alexia's navigator, Chandra, to keep you company. I need someone who can read a map, and, more importantly, I need someone who can keep me in touch with the Admiral if the situation changes."

"You're stripping the Kitten to the bone, Sir," Neana protested. "No First Sword, no Kalashtar witchcraft, and she lost a lot of marines. What if she gets attacked before she meets up with the rest of us?"

"I know," he replied. "I know. But I need to bring my full strength to bear in the front. Alexia agrees with me. We have a lot of civilians to defend." He sighed. "It's done. Go fetch your belongings and say your goodbyes, Lieutenant. After that, you'll want to reconnoiter with my First Sword and hammer out your duties. You've met him before; his name's Razze. He's a half elf, like you." The corner of Klein's mouth twitched. "I'm sure you'll have a lot in common."

"Sir?"

"Technically, you outrank him due to seniority, but since this is his ship and these are his men, that probably wouldn't be a smart point to press. I'm sure you'll work out a compromise."

"Yes, Sir." Neana said darkly. This was shaping up to be a perpetual headache. "Permission to go, Sir?"

"Yes. No, wait. One last thing." Klein had already begun poring over his papers again, scribbling notes. He didn't look at her. "With two extra officers on board, we're going to be tight for space. And since propriety forbids you bunk with Razze or Tarn, and we can't have officers down with the crew, both you and Chandra will have to share a room with one of my people. I'm putting Lt. Chandra with Ensign Kiana, because my chaplain is a selfless, patient, god fearing woman who should be able to tolerate one insufferable Kalashtar. That puts you with my Changeling. Do you have any objections to bunking with Sam?"

"Sir?" His voice betrayed nothing, his stance betrayed nothing. He wasn't even smiling. Nothing marked this as anything but the most honest and innocent of questions. Nevertheless… "You knew?"

"I know everything, Mrs. Tacey." He didn't so much as glance at her. "It's why I get to wear the big hat."

"How long have you..?"

"Since the beginning. And then I tried very hard to un-know it. Military relationships and officer fraternization are a nightmare on morale. It breaks the chain of command and fills the average enlisted man's mind with improper notions. Especially when it's two female officers doing… whatever a Changeling and a Half-elf do together; I'm sure I don't want to know. If I knew about it, I'd have to take action." He focused his one good eye upon her. "I'm saying this once, and then we're going to ignore it forever, do you understand me? It's not my problem unless you make it my problem. If it becomes my problem, we get to have a whole other conversation. A much nastier one."

"Yes, Sir," Neana rasped weakly.

"Good."

"I'll just… go fetch my things, then."

"Give my regards to Captain ir'Arth, Lieutenant."

"Yes… Captain Klein."

She left. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard him shout for her. She trudged back over to the table. "Sir?"

"I almost forgot to ask," he replied. He settled back into his folding campaign chair, and looked her up and down. "Did you have family in Cyre?"

"No Sir," she said flatly. "My parents died when I was very young."

He nodded absently. "Well, Sam did. You knew that?" She nodded. She had, and had forgotten. "They were close, I think. She doesn't handle grief well. You… seem to be much more acquainted with it. Here's my request: don't let my First Bow go to pieces on me."

"I'm not very good at comforting, Sir." she protested.

"Do your best. I need every one of my people. They're irreplaceable, especially now."

Neana's mouth was suddenly dry. That made it hit home, somehow. "I'll… see what I can do."

As she made the long walk across the deck, she felt a tiny piece of the mountain of dread break off, and sink into the depths. Every piece made it more manageable, but it also made the grief more vivid. Cyre was gone. A whole nation had been orphaned. She looked at the refugees littering the deck and the seamen going about their duties mechanically as their minds were elsewhere. She saw the same deadened look on every face. They were going through the motions of their jobs, because it was easier than doing nothing.

They had been cut loose from the world. Nothing would ever be the same again.