By the expressions of the carriage house staff, Aralt assumed Ruskyn Munro had already blundered into Sylvan Keep, a string of tall tales, half-truths, and superstitious nonsense trailing in his wake. Thankfully, Aralt’s steward was as attentive and unflustered as ever, no matter the late hour.

“K’talyn.” An apologetic grin creased Perryn marr Kenesh’s clean-shaven face. “I understand we have a guest. Perhaps the back door would be best if you’d like to make a quiet entrance. The talynt’e Enarra arrived shortly before sunset. He’s waiting in your study.”

“Is Verin here, too?” Aralt asked. It wasn’t like Elon to show up early for anything. Not unless Verin Alwynn had arranged to join him. In that case, though, the pair of them would have found it hard to resist a pint of whatever they could get at the Happy Badger.

“He is not,” Perryn said. “The talynt’e Enarra traveled alone this year. I did enquire if some calamity brought him to us early, but he assured me there was not. Some premonition about the weather, as I understand it. His accommodations are in order.”

Of course they were. He expected nothing less of Perryn.

He dropped the tailgate on their unlikely medical wagon and lifted Lian, still bundled in lambswool, out of the shallow cart. The light from Perryn’s lamp seemed to engulf the scene, framing every detail in a blaze of yellow and orange. Just as quickly it faded, as if the lamp itself had been extinguished. He looked up, letting go pent breath. Scanlin had taken the boy from his arms and moved off a few paces. Swallowing against a sick turn in his innards, Aralt squeezed brimming eyes closed, pressing his forehead into the crook of his arm. Under his grip, the rickety cart shuddered like a derelict building. Distance from Lian soothed his jangled nerves, and lung-chilling night air cooled him inside and out as they followed Perryn out of the stable and into a side yard. He glanced back once before ascending the steps, quickly discarding any notion of retrieving Lian’s bloodwood staff. It was safe enough where it was, and he was safer not touching it, given the bewildering circumstances.

“The generator broke again.” That explained the dark foyer. Perryn took a storm lantern from the table and adjusted the wick. “I’ve been assured all the magic will be back in the lamps before the Grand Meeting.”

Without the gaslights, ragged shadows haunted the great hall, bent and stretched by dancing candle flames. The staircase at the bottom of which Scanlin waited might as well have been a mountain. Aralt already felt drained of both strength and good sense. He stopped midway across the parquet floor, drawing himself up, preparing for the inevitable barrage he had come to expect in Lian’s presence. Instead, a warm stillness settled around them. He took another step, then another. Nothing. Nothing except that both Scanlin and Perryn watched him far too closely—Perryn indirectly, but Scanlin with a cocked eyebrow, an expression of curiosity usually reserved for cub warriors and children.

“Is the battle in hand, old friend?”

“Do you doubt it?”

A smile edged Scanlin’s lips.

“Thanks a lot, Grey. Your confidence in me is astounding,” Aralt said with a wry smile. No doubt he had given them more cause to worry in the past twelve minutes than in most of the years they had known him. “Perryn!”

His steward snapped to attention with military precision at the sound of his voice. When he spoke again it was softer, if not more relaxed. “Seems we’ve two unexpected guests tonight. I’ll see to Elon shortly. I need you to see to Lian Kynsei. Now.”

“Lian…Kynsei?” Perryn turned slowly toward the boy in Scanlin’s arms, reaching out a tentative hand to move aside the blanket, exposing a small six-fingered hand. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, syr Tremayne. I had no idea who… Russ said one of the Riahi knocked Deyr Evarr in a puddle in Sylvan. To be more precise, he said a fish.”

Aralt blinked. “Did he, now? It must be very painful to be inside his head.” He turned his attention back to the facts. “The entire village knows he’s here and news is going to spread rapidly to surrounding parishes. No visitors—not even the most pious Believer without my knowledge—present company excepted.”

“What o’ the clergy?” Scanlin asked.

Perryn was nodding. “Surely we need to send word to—”

“Especially not them. Not yet,” he amended, so as not to sound as heretical as he supposed he did just then. He veered across the hall, dark green greatcoat fanning out behind him. “Just see to him. Send for a physician only if you must. Post guards, Grey. Make sure they’re Believers. Make doubly sure, you ken? Perryn, you said Elon is in my study?”

“Aye, k’talyn. At least that’s where I left him—”

“Good man,” Aralt said, abruptly changing directions and heading toward the kitchen entrance under the grand staircase.

“But—where are you going, syr Tremayne?”

“Let him be, laddie,” Scanlin said. “’Tis a curious thing when someone returns from the dead.”

* * *

Outside, the rain had dissipated; a caressing breeze moved strands of hair into his face as Aralt scanned the barely discernible horizon, his fingers spread across the stone wall. He was not accustomed to retreating, but some battles required additional preparation. But preparation for what?

He turned his face into the wind. The night air smelled of spicy conifers and wood smoke and the heady aroma of approaching spring. He wondered what had become of Elon’s premonition about the weather. Once, Aralt had experienced such knowings himself—fleeting and unpredictable. Tantalizing. Terrifying. Inspired, as Endru Kynsei had counseled him, well out of hearing of any that might have made spurious allegations about the syr Tremayne boy’s Gift. Had it really been more frequent when he was younger? Memories could be so unreliable.

Not all memories…

A wash of perspiration cooled on his forehead. Cool like the wet shirt plastered to his body, like the drops of water still clinging to his hair. Not tonight, he told his nightmares. Not tonight, oh, not tonight. He rubbed the sweat from his brow, releasing a pent breath as he pushed away from the wall. A good run to the lakeshore and back was what he needed to order wild thoughts, but he dared not leave the estate. Not tonight. Running the wall would have to suffice. He had always been able to lose his worries in the rhythm of his beating heart and the slap-slap-slap of his boots against the ground. He told himself he was not running away. He had been telling himself a lot of things that night. What he wanted were answers. Out of what twisting Sea Lord’s pocket had Lian Kynsei come? And where was Devailyn? No doubt Scanlin would be on his knees that night, giving thanks to the Kynseis’ Creator for a miracle of such magnitude. He would light prayer candles and sing the people’s response to the Night Song. He would give thanks for answered prayer. Aralt…would not.

He blew warmth into chilled hands, rubbing them together. Even his ring, a circlet of ice on his right hand, served only to remind him of responsibility to a domain far away, in a land awaiting the return of their priestly prince. His grandfather’s ring, forged of precious metal, ornamented with the finest jewelry-grade marathis crystal and a crest bearing the six-pointed star and crossed swords denoting a defender of the Faith. His grandfather’s faith. His father’s faith. Not his. Not after witnessing the cost of Believing. And for what?

Lian’s mere presence only served to call up a horde of old ghosts he had left buried in time and memory. Seeing him in such haggard condition was like seeing the dead raised, and the only spirit Aralt had ever longed to see—against all reason and religious tradition—was that of his dead brother. Not that it mattered. Nothing brought back the dead.

If Devailyn Kynsei had not survived and no other worthy candidate could be identified, he supposed Lian would eventually be kavistra. How many vultures would fall upon the land then, promising to spread their wings over a fledgling ruler he would be expected to return to Askierran? He knew the Four Books well enough to know what would happen without proper guidance. Without the expertise of counselors steeped not only in matters of state, but in tradition. Woe befalls the land whose leader is a child.

He wanted no part in it.

Moonlight trembled through the haze, the night air as cold as a rejected lover. Foolish, he knew, to run so hard on the unyielding battlements. Not that it stopped him. He ran until winter-weary muscles began to feel the strain. Clouds of breath hung in the air; his shirt, damp before, was soaked. But he was no longer cold. Slowing, he felt his heartbeat decrease to a normal running pulse, strong and regular against his breast. No doubt the night guards were laying odds about what was eating at their laird this time.

He stopped where he had begun, feeling the brisk, damp air against his warm face. He searched the sky for the clouds and lightning he had seen earlier, but all he could see were two waning moons and stars too numerous to count. One fell, its spitting molten silver tail bright against night’s dark purple canopy. For a long moment, he leaned against the tower door, glad for the solid wood that supported him. Northern hardwood, silent and unyielding. He pressed both hands against it, drawing strength. A knowing he could not refute rose from deep within him, setting him once more in motion. His presence was required, and it wouldn’t do for anyone to have to hunt him down. Prepared for battle, he reached for the wolf-head latch.