Aralt lifted his gaze slowly, masking all emotion until he made eye contact with the intruder. Then he glared. One look at Ruskyn Munro’s pig-eyed flushed face told him more than he wanted to know, but if Russ had ventured down the adjoining hall from the public house alone, something was amiss.

“If you’ll excuse me, k’talyn,” Aralt addressed Ristaiel formally before shoving Russ out of the room. His nose wrinkled at the proximity of his old friend. “By the Seven, sotbuck, I’ll be dousing you in the river myself soon.”

“Moons ain’t right for no washin’, Wolf,” Russ told him, unsuccessfully wiping at the white froth clinging to his matted red whiskers. Apparently, cider was not the only thing left in the casks after all. “We gots rowdies in the street.”

“There’s a ranking Sword on duty.”

“Oh, aye, but I thought…”

“Don’t do that,” Aralt advised, poking him in the middle of the forehead. “You know it always gives you a headache.”

Russ scratched his head, hopeless confusion washing over his ill-proportioned face. His downcast, weepy eyes and flat nose looked all the more grotesque in the poor light. The liquor only made it worse. Hygiene aside, that was one ill Aralt had been unable to cure over their long years’ association.

“Listen to me carefully,” Aralt spoke slowly. “Unless the Naharasii have crossed the fjord and are burning villages and slaughtering babies, there’s nothing going on outside that my Swords can’t handle. Go get Commander Ross if you think the others can’t deal with it, but you’ll be the one to answer to Commander Rhianydd if you’re jumping rank and ignoring protocol. She doesn’t take kindly to that sort of thing.”

“Telta don’t take kindly to me nohow,” Russ whined. “And Grey’s wearin’ out ’is knees prayin’ this time o’ night anyhowsy and there ain’t no way I’m goin’ in no holy house after ’im, ’specially with it bein’ the Eighth Day. You’d think the Son o’ Peace was in there with ’im.”

“Maybe He is, Russ. But, since they’re busy, I suppose you and the on-duty Swords will have to handle your little crisis yourselves, won’t you?”

“But—”

“Go.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Russ’s teeth clacked in agitation as he bumped his way back down the narrow hall. Would that the stench followed. Ale and mildew and slow decay hung in the air. It wasn’t just there. At least a half-dozen buildings in and around Sylvan Keep needed attention, but laborers required revenue, and that time of year offered little in the way of either. He already had the families of the dead and injured refinery workers to cope with; the losses had been staggering. Sabotage, according to the foreman. Southern devils, whispered some. Naharasii demons, whispered others. In the days that followed, his rangers tracked a single Shirahnyn into the Eroka Foothills. Had it not been for his desire to know the truth, Aralt would have let the man perish from winter sickness. One more blemish on his soul.

From the outskirts of town, kirke bells tolled the hour. A hush fell over the town as voices and pipes fell equally silent. He could almost count down the prayerful seconds before murmurs again replaced prayer. A moment later, one never would have known the bells had rung. Tyrians were good folk, just not terribly pious folk.

Ristaiel stopped drumming his fingers on the table when Aralt offered to pour a round of good wine. He started again when a knock sounded at the door for a second time.

“Need to hold their hands, do ye?”

Aralt did not even bother to excuse himself, slamming the door as he exited. “I told you—”

Russ waved his hands in defense. “Telta and mac Kenna both said I need’s get ye.”

That brought him up short. Unlike his mangy scout, Aralt’s ranking Swords were not the sort to disobey orders. He scrubbed wearily at his face as he made his way down the dimly lit hall and into the noisy public house. Would that the day would end!

Domain colors mingled as a knot of curious soldiers and local townsfolk jostled for position on the boardwalk in front of The Happy Badger. Most sported Tyrian’s green and gold, but Ristaiel’s company, garbed in the burgundy and grey of Kevarn, were not without number. The rest, in their homespuns, greatcoats, and soft leathers, could have been from any parish in the region. Only one person he knew could provide entertainment cheap enough—and crass enough—to have so many men and women standing elbow to elbow, laughing their socks off: Deyr Evarr. As if that overgrown son-of-a-peat-farmer didn’t cause enough trouble on his own time.

The crowd fell away as Aralt descended to the boardwalk in search of his ranking Swords. No matter the inconvenience, they were right to summon him, especially after that last unfortunate incident. Deyr was lucky the cleric had not filed a formal grievance. The locals could blame any lack of spiritual consideration in the coming months on Evarr.

A drizzle of late-winter sleet left the air cool and damp. A few stars and what passed for moonlight shimmered through the haze. One of his ranking Swords, Kolarin mac Kenna, offered a grave salute, gaze shifting toward the offender in explanation and mute apology. Willowy, blond Deyr was in his element, holding court like some highborn Shirahnyn woman’s favorite husband, strutting through the slush like a fancy cock, his cronies doubled over with laughter. Aralt had to admit it was quite a performance. The Sea Lords only knew what colorblind clothier had provided the orange and purple miasma silk tunic and fabulously ugly feathered hat, but the result was astonishing. That he was drunk—or otherwise impaired—was a given.

“Asur’s ilai i’a zsussil suhrph,” Deyr hissed in sultry, pidgin Shirahnyn. He dragged a boy half his size into the guttering lamplight and licked his face. The groaning crowd of onlookers only encouraged Deyr. “Do as I please and I’ll grant you your freedom, arjheth.”

Deyr’s miscreant followers—the ones that had yet to notice Aralt’s arrival and flee—roared. One of them stomped in the nearest puddle, dousing the boy in icy muck. With a hissed reply—in Shirahnyn, no less!—the lad twisted into a defensive position, retaliating with a swift kick to his assailant’s shin followed by an elbow jab to the groin. Deyr sprawled on the flagstone, his hat floating away in a stream of snowmelt like a drowned chicken carried away by floodwaters. Jagged paths of lightning flashed briefly between the clouds, the peal of thunder merging with the sound of stomping boots; laughter rifled up and down the narrow street.

Telta Rhianydd, equal in rank to Kolarin mac Kenna, stepped aside to allow the boy passage down the nearest alley. He stepped forward again to halt his pursuers with a thin smile and three feet of twisted crystal that more than made up for her diminutive size. “Give me a reason. Please.”

When they backed down, Deyr was incensed. Still clutching at his wounded pride, he floundered through the mud and slush, crawling like a giant wounded crab.

“He hasn’t noticed you yet,” Kolarin commented.

“No, indeed,” Aralt agreed, though by now the last few cronies had; they beat a hasty retreat, aided by the lack of functional streetlamps.

“I’ll ’ave ye, devil fish!” Deyr screamed, wresting his sword from his scabbard. “Sila’s bride take ye and I’ll ram more than me wick up your arse for that, see if I don’t!”

Telta spat on him. “And do you kiss your old gran with that mouth?” Her gaze flicked to Aralt, and she sheathed her sword. “Forgive me, Commander. Sometimes I wish we cut out tongues for speaking such filth—and on the Eighth Day!”

Deyr’s choice of epithet was curious indeed, a crude regional amalgamation that might have drawn a greater response from the crowd had it not begun to rain. Aralt motioned Kolarin forward. “Time to bring down the curtain before Telta takes a trophy.”

But it was First Sword Scanlin Ross who stepped out of the low-lying fog to drive a bootheel into the back of Deyr’s sword hand. A few disappointed murmurs greeted the act. Ristaiel’s people, Aralt guessed, were bored and lingering on the dry porch, hoping for more. None of the locals would have expected he or his Swords to stand by and watch a drunken, insubordinate whelp chop the ears off a frightened urchin—or worse. Not that Deyr posed much of a threat, writhing in a puddle of muddy snow like an exotic beached sea-slither, his injured hand pressed to his chest, his other cupping wounds of another kind altogether. Aralt retrieved the fallen sword, tapping it lightly against the palm of his left hand. Even in the poor light, the crystal blade appeared to glow with its own incandescence.

“Taken a fancy to boys, have you? Won’t that play well in the barracks.”

Bloodshot blue eyes glanced up briefly before the youth lay back in sodden misery.

Aralt smiled at Scanlin. “Deep Peace, Grey. Eighth Day blessings and all that.”

“And also to you, syr Tremayne.” Scanlin was not smiling. Instead, he shook his salt-and-peppered head slowly at Deyr’s miserable display. He appeared as disappointed and embarrassed as a father might have. “Ye might have sent for me sooner.”

“You made it for the finale. That’s always the best part, isn’t it?”

“Often.”

“Impressive little battle scene, though. Inspired. Telta, track down the rest of the cast. Carefully,” Aralt suggested, pointing toward the alley. Unless the child had a notion to hide among crates of refuse from The Happy Badger’s kitchen, he would soon be backtracking.

Sure enough, an elbow-high waif dressed in layers of motley tatters darted from the alley moments later. No amount of reassurance would keep the lad from weaving and dodging through the diminishing crowd until he lost traction on damp flagstones, turned on his heel, and crashed headlong into Scanlin. His few belongings tumbled from a satchel, and a walking stick spun from his grasp, careening splendidly off Deyr’s head before clattering to the ground. The young soldier howled in salty protest.

“By my reckonin’, you’ll be awardin’ this one to the wee bairn.”

Aralt stifled a laugh. Trust Ristaiel of Kevarn not to miss out on a good fight. He was no doubt disappointed by the short duration of this one. While his most trusted Swords bent to talk to the lad now curled into a fetal position on the wet ground, Aralt considered Deyr. He was not one for public displays of humiliation, but protocol nonetheless demanded he take some sort of swift action.

“I’m beginning to understand why your father sent you to my predecessor. Just my luck I inherited you along with the rest of the garrison,” Aralt told him. He considered ritually shattering the crystal sword then and there—it made for such a spectacular punishment—and sending Deyr off with a swift kick in the arse in the sincere hope that the boy’s father did not have another young hothead at home to replace him with. “Since you didn’t accept our guest’s payment for your kind hospitality, you’ll meet me on the morrow for mine.” No refusal was possible under the circumstances. He had always liked that about the soldiers’ code.

Deyr’s blond head bobbed slightly in assent, gritted teeth his only reply as he struggled to rise, favoring his various injuries. His pride would take longer to heal. If he even had an ounce of it left in his miserable soul.

Aralt cast the weapon at Deyr’s feet as he turned away. The long crystal shaft fractured, and the sword sang its final song. By the chorus of gasps around them, everyone heard it. Stone-sober then, Deyr gaped at the ruined sword. It would take a healthy amount of part-time winter pay to reTune the weapon and make it serviceable. Replacement was more likely, and more expensive, even for standard weapon-grade crystal.

“Commander Ross, add ‘neglect of weapon’ to the charges to be brought up on the morrow. Go on then, Deyr. Pick it up and be on your way. Next time you won’t get it back, you ken?”

“Aye, syr Tremayne. On the morrow. S-sir,” Deyr stammered as he grabbed his sword and sodden hat and skulked into the mist.

A few dark shadows fell in beside him, with mocking whispers at their hapless leader’s predicament. His fellows, local timbermen and peat-farmer’s sons by the looks of most of them, had dispersed before Aralt could recognize more than two or three. Not a one had the makings of a leader, he mused. They simply struck sparks off one another and cajoled each other into stepping out of line. One day they would all step into harm’s way and forget to move.

The newcomer, on the other hand, had fire in his little belly to have stood up for himself against a mob of older boys. For all he was a twig-thin mite, the lad had dealt a wicked blow earlier. Dirty fighting to strike a man thus, but his assailant deserved worse. A dark-haired piece of a boy, he made no effort to collect his belongings, only tucked his head under one arm, his body curled around a threadbare travel bag like a cat around her brood.

“Back to your mugs, you lot,” Aralt dismissed the various onlookers. He wiped the fine mist from his face, grinning at Scanlin slyly. “So, old friend. What brings you to The Happy Badger on a holy day? You couldn't have heard the commotion from all the way over in the village kirke.”

“Nay,” Scanlin admitted, low voice catching ever so slightly. His gaze narrowed as he stooped to pick up a battered cup and a stiff woolen sock. “But the need seemed clear enough, somehow.”

Fair enough. Scanlin Ross’s convictions were firm, his assertions a lesson in sincerity and deeply held faith. If the Almighty spoke to him in prayer and said “get your arse to the public house,” Aralt had only to thank Him.

A thin trail of moisture bypassed his collar, touching off a shiver along his spine. He exhaled, watching the plume of breath dissipate. It was cold and wet standing there in just his shirt sleeves and jerkin, but he was better off than the boy. Ill-clad in worn leather boots and layers of soiled knitted tunics over intricately patterned trews, he was a sorry sight indeed.

“You must be hungry, little man. Come inside. You’re safe here.” When the boy did not respond, he tried again in the only proper Shirahnyn dialect he knew—the words tasted sour on his tongue. “Canu ehsevi. Yai’su ri’aussihi usu. No? That isn’t it, either is it? Are you injured, lad? No one will hurt you here. You have my word as talyn of this land.”

“He’s nae convinced,” Scanlin observed. He added a chunk of what might have been bread to the collection of oddments in his hands.

“Who would be, after a welcome like that?” Aralt rolled the boy’s fallen staff back and forth with the toe of his boot. It issued a low hum, an unmistakable melody. For a moment, time ceased all motion in the shadows and the flickering lamplight. Even the rain seemed to stop, suspended in midair.

“Heartwood,” Scanlin uttered the word like a prayer. It began to rain again.

The boy’s rattling shudder ceased abruptly at the mention of the word. He lifted his chin briefly, then as quickly looked away. In that moment Aralt noted the fine lines of a face so very unlike the rough-boned local boys, and despite his garb and long braid sewn with starbeads, neither did he resemble a Shirahnyn. Even beneath the grime, his skin appeared too fair, his hair too dark, and his eyes…

“Gots big ole eyes like a fish boy, Wolf.” Russ’s ripe scent preceded him. “Throw ’im back. He prolly belonged to, ye know, one o’ them what we found after the fire.”

“Damn, Russ. You’re going to start a war if you aren’t careful.”

“Ye what? Why?” Russ looked himself over, then sniffed like a hunting cat at the boy. “Smells like fish to me.”

Aralt snorted. The only place Russ Munro had ever seen one of the fabled Riahi was on the tiled mosaic in an infrequently visited bathhouse. “Try again, muttonhead. Use your brain this time. Here then, lad. You’re Kierran, aren’t you? Where are your people? Where are you from?”

He took a cautious step forward, fearful that the boy would bolt like a nervous skeer in search of a tree. When the boy looked up again, Aralt could clearly see his eyes, large and deep-set; dark, like pools of midnight water. Gentle eyes, like those of his kervallyn. Even after three years, the very thought made him hurt inside.

“Oh, hey,” Russ drawled, dancing on the spot. “I gots it, I gots it. Ye been hidin’ one on us, ain’t ye? Got off the Kyncaid girl, right? That’s why her brothers tried to—”

The fistful of slush Telta lobbed into Russ’s face freed Aralt from both the idiotic question and the painful memory of what had happened at Kyrrimar. How he had arrived too late. Far too late. And Larissa Kyncaid? There was no sense in revisiting either subject.

“None of mine,” he said absently, watching Telta shrug out of her dark green watchcoat and drape it over the boy’s shoulders.

“Don’t pay any attention to that ginger cur over there, laddie,” she told the lad gently, tucking a brunette wisp behind one ear. “Come inside, as syr Tremayne said. The night’s only getting colder. And wetter. Sweet Creator, you’re a sack of bones. Are you hungry?”

“Leave him be, Telta,” Aralt told her as he climbed the steps to the public house. “He’ll be along in his own time if he wants a hot meal and a place to sleep.”

It was a small courtesy given the poor reception. In the morning he would have someone investigate the situation and send out rangers in search of stragglers. He silently hoped the winter had not brought another orphan to his door. He rubbed his hands together, eager to dry himself off in front of the fire.

He grinned at Scanlin. “Grey, care to show the piper inside how it’s supposed to be done? I haven’t recognized a tune all evening…”

“Aralt…?” a small voice asked, speaking flawless Kierran. “Am I truly none of yours?”

A child’s voice. A familiar voice, lost to dreams and nightmares. He gripped the doorframe. No. He would not give in to foolish desires. What, then? The lad knew him, or recognized the green eyes that identified Aralt’s clan to anyone with that accent…but to address him thus and not by his surname? He snagged a lamp off the nearest light pole and made his way back into the street. The lad recoiled from the flame, but not before lamplight struck a spark of gold in his black eyes and a six-fingered hand emerged from twisted woolen rags to shield his face.

Telta gasped. “Syr Tremayne…”

Scanlin swallowed deeply. “Wolf—”

The boy brushed a fringe of dark hair from his eyes. “Don’t you…don’t you…know me, Aralt?”

He froze, the staff of living heartwood lying at his feet. He stared at the boy. At his hand. At his eyes. A bright flash like silver in the moonlight caught Aralt’s eye, and he stooped to inspect the item lying partially submerged in a muddy puddle. He grasped it between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it into the light. A toy kaio, one of the great northern wolves, carved from persimmon. A toy kaio identical to the one he had given his kervallys years before.

“Sweet Creator,” Scanlin said softly. “Lian Kynsei.”