When Aralt entered the upstairs sitting room without announcing himself, Perryn whirled to face him, nearly dropping the tray he was holding. Recovering himself—and the cutlery, he inclined his head in greeting, but did not meet Aralt’s gaze. “K’talyn.”

“Perryn,” he acknowledged his steward. He leaned to the side and looked further into the room. “Grey. Am I interrupting something?”

“Took me a mo’ to find the striker box, is all,” Scanlin told him smoothly, diverting his attention from the obvious tension. “Normal folk keep them with the matches, nae proppin’ open a window.”

Scanlin replaced the fluted globe on the hearth lamp, then lit a thin taper, placing it on the window ledge on the far side of the room. An old Kierran host-custom, to leave a light burning thus. Judging by his condition, it had been a long while since anyone had done Lian such a kindness. Yet there he was. And it was all wrong. Instead of trudging through a northern winter, he ought to have been far south in Kyrrimar, engrossed in his studies and his beloved books, or exploring the rocks along the eastern shore at sunset. A pint-sized scholar, a fledgling poet, a historian, a healer. The lad’s plans changed with the tides. Aralt shook his head to clear it. His thoughts of Lian were trapped in past tense, when just through the next door the boy he had repeatedly told members of the klesia kaeli was dead…wasn’t. He never would have told them had he not believed it himself. If ever a time to rejoice at being wrong existed, it was now. Why then did he only feel a touch of sadness, and, more shamefully, inconvenience?

He looked at the tray in Perryn’s hands, savoring the aroma of what had been Lian’s supper. The household chef had assembled a veritable feast. Gitom possessed greater culinary skills than Sylvan Keep warranted.

“Is your training as a healer sufficient, or will you be sending for a physician?”

“A physician, syr Tremayne?”

“For Lian? We couldn’t tell the extent of his injuries earlier.”

“Oh. A physician. No, he…no, I don’t believe so, syr Tremayne. First Sword Ross and I were able to address everything.” Perryn glanced at Scanlin. “At least for now.”

“Good,” Aralt said slowly, noting the thin veil of deception still hanging between them. “Good. He’s asleep?” Please tell me he sleeps.

“He was when we left him,” Scanlin said matter of factly. “He said ’tis what he needed most, more than food or drink. Sleep.”

“You spoke to him?”

“Scanlin did.”

Aralt noted yet another look passing between the two of them. He did not care to feel outnumbered—and ignorant—in his own house. Nor did he want excuses. He trusted them too much to think them lying, yet something was amiss. He waved Scanlin to silence when he asked again. “Well? What is it, Perryn?” What aren’t you telling me?

“I…I’ve just…” His steward’s hands were white-knuckled on the tray. Perryn took a deep breath before finishing his sentence without further hesitation. “I’ve just never been in the presence of one of the soul-touched. I was taken by surprise by his…twelve fingers.”

Clearly that wasn’t all. It wasn’t like his steward to be so evasive—or tongue-tied.

“You get used to it,” Aralt said, carefully, mulling over the possibilities. Mulling over the sensations once more gripping him with confusion.

Twelve fingers bandaged to ward off frostfire. Twelve fingers extended, warding them away from closer examination. Twelve fingers edged by flickering blue light. He gripped the mantel above the hearth as the room spun. Scanlin gripped his elbow. Perryn took advantage of the moment to exit the room, taking Lian’s dinner with him.

“Thirteen levels down, Grey. I can’t think. Why—?”

“Mayhap tomorrow would be a better time to—”

“Mayhap you should tell me what the jig is going on. Don’t give me that shite about the striker box being out of place. Perryn knows this house top to bottom. I couldn’t move a thimble without him knowing about it.” If he even knew where he might find one. He considered for a moment that the soul song had finally touched them, too, set them off-balance. He wanted to believe he was not the only one. “You feel it, don’t you? His pain? His fear? It’s like the entire ocean crashing in under a thunderstorm. Sea Lords above and below. I’ve known Kynseis from the cradle on. I have never felt anything like this.”

Scanlin hesitated, cocking his head to one side. A lopsided smile, not unlike the sort one gives a bewildered child, creased his face. “There’s…something about him, aye. About all o’ them, as I recall. But I dinnae feel it as much as ye, it seems. Then or now. The lad near panicked when he woke, though. He dinnae know where he was or what we were about. Shook marr Kenesh up, is all, bein’ called to use his skills as a healer this night. Bein’ physician to one o’ Lian’s clan isn’t to be taken lightly.”

Aralt glanced at the open door. No one had used the adjoining guest room since his brother’s last days in Tyrian. Not even Elon or Verin. That pulse at his temple jumped again. “His injuries—”

“Will heal. In time.”

“Winter sickness?”

“Among other things.” Scanlin reached for his elbow as the room spun again. “Sit down, Wolf.”

He waved his friend away. “I’m fine. Go on, man. Just tell me.” Fear’s claws gripped him in his belly. Deyr’s idle threats were no comparison to the harm the Shirahnyn might have inflicted. He knew that. They both knew that.

Scanlin seemed to follow thoughts that meandered down dark alleys. “’Tis not a thing I can speak to. What I can say is it’s as if time stopped for him. He’s much as he was the last time ye saw him and yet…. I cannae explain it. He’s nae the boy I remember, nor the one I reckon ye remember, either. There’s no way to ken what state he’ll be in next time he wakes.”

Aralt forced himself to remain standing. Forced himself to continue breathing. The night was not improving. He reminded himself that Lian was safe now. Whatever had befallen him prior, he was safe behind solid walls, surrounded by a garrison full of Tyrian highlanders and lowlanders—any of which would draw crystal in his defense were Aralt to call upon them to do so. He would heal. He would remember himself. He would become whoever he was destined to become. Even…even if that was to be kavistra.

The pounding in Aralt’s head shattered his concentration.

“Get some sleep. I’ll keep the watch tonight,” Scanlin told him, kindness in his eyes. “You needn’t keep vigil.”

“I’m fine,” he said with decreasing conviction, dragging his feet toward the inevitable. The lies were really beginning to tally up.

The toy kaio they had found earlier stood sentry on a bedside table. Of all the things Lian might have carried away from Kyrrimar, it was one of the few gifts Aralt had given him. One of the old-timers he had served with had made it, refusing even token payment for his time. An honor, the man had insisted. An honor for it to be given to the young son of Kavistra Endru. The kaio’s curled tail was chipped and one ear was missing, but after years of boyish play it still showed its loving artistry, the sharply defined muzzle, the notched ruff of fur about the noble creature’s powerful shoulders. He palmed the tiny statue, running his thumb over the single ear tip. Long had it been since he had seen the real thing. The great silver wolves of the north.

A shiver swept down his back like a chip of ice melting down his spine. By the Seven, if he had to endure this sort of discomfort while Lian slept, what would it be like when the boy woke? He had been unable even to think straight earlier—like a warrior too besieged to know which weapon to draw or which direction to turn. He had never been so intensely uneasy around Lian or any of his clan before. Intrigued, yes. Mesmerized even, particularly by Lian’s father, Endru, whom he regarded as an uncle. When he was a boy, his syr Tremayne grandsire had entertained him with stories about the Kynseis and their ability to work the ancient magics, harnessing the kyrrith anim, energy left over from creation. Heresy, heresy, Aralt told himself. Gifts of the Spirit, not magic; not born of man’s will, but of the divine.

When a dark green drapery snapped in the risen wind, his fingers flashed to the hilt of his dagger. The toy kaio fell from his hand, clattering on the hardwood floor, spinning out of sight. At the same moment, Lian bolted upright, blankets scattering as he scrambled off the side of the bed with a scream.

“Let me go!”

Scanlin was at Aralt’s shoulder in a moment, the two of them scanning the shadows; aside from the billowing curtain, nothing was amiss.

“You’re safe, lad.”

“No! I…no….” Lian’s dark eyes darted back and forth, confusion shadowing his waxen face. He clutched at the collar of an ill-fitting cotton nightshirt that hung crooked on his narrow shoulders. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, and when he exhaled a ragged breath, Aralt could see the plume of air.

“I see what you mean,” he told Scanlin, feeling a twist in his chest to see his ward in such a state.

“Steady on. He’ll remember.” Scanlin exhaled a slow breath. “I’ll be just in the other room.”

Aralt wished he had a viable excuse to prevent Scanlin from departing. The muffled thump of the closing outer door sounded far too final. He closed the shutters against the rain-scented breeze. Glass. He would have to have glass put back into that window. Until then he had forgotten the quarrel that had ended with it broken the night before his brother left Tyrian for the last time. The night a spiritual debate had turned shamefully selfish.

In the glimmer of the room’s firelight, Lian appeared much as Scanlin had warned that he would, wan and thin, and scarcely older than he had the last time Aralt had seen him.

“Syr Tremayne?”

So familiar, that voice, so certainly a remnant of his past. A sweet voice, for a dear child. That was Lian Kynsei as Aralt remembered him. Not this skeleton. Not this haunted youth with black hair cascading over his shoulders, a ragged fringe dropping over his forehead to obscure his eyes.

“You used to call me Aralt,” he answered finally. Out in the street he had. “Have you forgotten?”

Lian looked around blankly, his gaze coming back to fix on Aralt. He pushed his hair away from his face, revealing the angry red line of a gash above his left eye. He winced as his brows drew together, eyes narrowing as if he were not quite sure he believed the man before him was who he claimed to be. “You look…different.”

“Not so different, I should think. But…it has been three years, Lian. You’re in Tyrian. You collapsed earlier. Do you remember that?”

Lian shook his head slowly, then gave a half-nod before shaking his head a second time. Clearly, he did not remember, and as far as Aralt was concerned, there was no need to remind him. He knew only too well what it was like to have been sapped dry by life. And death. He bit back the volley of questions of how and where and why.

“Did I startle you?” Or was it the window? he wondered.

“The…window?” the boy repeated softly. “No…no…just…just a dream.”

Shivering betrayed him. It was a nightmare that had him shaking, not just the frigid air. Already the room felt warmer, but the howl of spoiled dreams rose in increments until the fear jangled in the back of Aralt’s brain.

Let me go! Sweet Creator…let me go!

Aralt stooped to add a log to the dwindling fire, its sweet sap fragrant on his hands. Let me go…. His own nightmares had struggled against the same chains. He resisted the urge to touch the scar hidden by his shirt, the wound of dishonor that hatred had left him to contemplate the rest of his days. Still facing the hearth, he nodded stiffly at Lian’s answer, well understanding such dreams. Time would make them weaker, shake their grip…some.

Are you sure?

The contact rose and fell in a heart’s beat, making Aralt’s pulse jump again with its impossible nearness. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply to recover some control and still his chaotic thoughts.

“Are you hungry? No? Water, then?” Several ewers had been placed on the long harvest table beside the door.

He poured a glass of shimmering water, drank it himself, then poured another one. Muffled voices in the next room bid one another “deep peace.” One of Scanlin’s handpicked night guards, reporting for duty. Deep…peace. The simple prayer resonated deep within him. Thank you, Scanlin, for sweet inspiration. He would wish the lad “deep peace” and then retire to either the library or his study on the opposite side of the house. Anywhere he could retreat from such raw emotion. Such intimacy. He drew another deep breath, searching his memory for an appropriate blessing. He might as well have tried to read the fluttering pages of a book falling from the roof. Sweet Creator in Heaven, Lord of the Sea and Sky…. Though the valley be like unto death…. Holy, holy, holy One…. Deep peace of the quiet earth to you…deep peace. Deep peace. Easily said, easily remembered.

He offered the glass of water to Lian. “It’s late, m’lad. You’re tired. We’ll talk again when you’re rested, ken? Deep…deep…” the words refused to form on his lips. “Deep…”

Lian stepped toward him, his face shifting slightly, distorted as through a shattered mirror. His delicate, webbed fingers reached for the glass…touched, penetrated, met the flesh of Aralt’s hand on the other side. A riot of color flashed before Aralt’s eyes then, gold and green, silver and blue, as if his very soul seemed to swirl up and out of his body and into a dizzying warm spiral with Lian’s.

And he remembered.

Aralt, a voice called—a man’s voice. Kavistra Endru’s voice, low and melodic. Aralt, do you understand what we ask of you this day?

Yes, Uncle. I understand.

The oath he had made, his pledge to be Lian’s guardian, echoed back softly over time, gently reminding him of their sacred kinship. He lifted his face toward the light, basking in the sweet warmth of the memory and Endru Kynsei’s approval. What he would have given to return to that time, if only for a moment, if only just to stand before the Kavistra of Askierran and feel the man’s strong hand on his shoulder.

Aralt…

He startled when a chill tide flowed over his ankles, and the edges of the living dream began to craze, splintering inward until it shattered in the air around him. A frosty gust swept across the room again, snuffing the candles and whipping the fire into a crackling frenzy. Elon had arrived early to stay ahead of an impending storm; he could not have known it would be like this!

Aralt…

Water rushed against his feet then, silt and sand whisking about his ankles. He looked down, surprised to find himself barefoot in the surf. Time rolled back on itself until he was the boy he sometimes forgot that he once had been. A soft breeze played with his hair, lifting it away from his shoulders, twisting his unlaced shirt about his torso. He traced a line down his neck to his collarbone and to his chest. He was unscarred, this boy-who-looked-like-him. Unscarred and barefoot in a sea of dreams. He began to run. Faster, farther, the day a riot of joy. To one side, a windswept rocky coastline rose to heaven; to the other, eternal ocean. A low note rode across the face of the deep, driving him to take refuge on the uneven shore, but when he turned, the cliffs had vanished, and all he could see from there to the horizon in every direction was the broad expanse of the sea. Water churned as something rushed by, shimmering like a splash of starlight. He took up the chase, struggling in knee-deep waves, closing the distance between himself and his prey. Eyes like two onyx gems gazed up at him from beneath the surface of the water; slender six-fingered hands, strangely delicate, offering a flickering marathis gem that mirrored the color of his green eyes. Around him, the wind had risen. He smelled the storm in the air; instinct demanded flight.

Aralt…

He looked back down at the hands still cradling the green shimmer amid the calm beneath the storm. When he hesitated to accept the gift, ripples creased the smooth waters and the crystal slipped from webbed fingers, sinking in the rising depths, its descent marked only by the radiant green light. Too late, he thrust out his hand, broke the surface, closing on ocean spray that passed between his fingers. He sank to his knees then, chest aching with loss and the rapid pulse of his beating heart. A small hand reached to touch his face.

Whiskers, a child’s voice, delighted by the notion. You’ve grown your whiskers. Laughter fell like warm spring rain.

And for all that he would have fallen happily into the sea, swimming deeply, swimming free. But the stakes were much too high. More was required than he was willing to give. Deeper awareness flickered between them—as yet a mere silken cord bound them—and he wanted none of it. He lurched away, swiping at the water with his hands, sending waves in every direction. His reflection wavered in the shimmering emerald light, returning to the familiar, to the one he encountered each morning in the mirror. Then even that was gone.

The hardwood floor was cold. Aralt blinked, lost for a moment until he realized he was on his hands and knees, his head heavy, hair cascading over his shoulders. Overcome with the sort of fatigue usually born of sleepless nights, he lowered his head into the crook of one arm, his thoughts awhirl. Sweet Creator, what had Lian done?

He dragged himself to his feet lest Scanlin return to find his commander and friend in a heap on the floor. But his First Sword had not forsaken his post. Had not heard anything amiss. And the boy…? Lian had crawled back into the nest of blankets and pillows, shrouded now in candle smoke, fevered brow glistening with jewel-like beads of perspiration. The breeze from the reopened window rustled drape and bed curtain alike. The fire crackled, tongues of flame twisting shadows across plaster walls.

As before, Aralt closed the shutters, bolting them. He arranged the draperies slowly, smoothing green linen with trembling hands. The water glass lay just under the bed, and he stooped to retrieve it. The kaio toy rested within. He placed both items on the table, symbols of his intent. Lian would receive any manner of help required to return him to his homeland and into the care of those better equipped to guide him should the mantel of kavistra fall upon his young shoulders. For him to do anything less would be the gravest of insults. He would not, however, permit Lian to occupy that unnerving place so near to his soul. The place where only a brother dwells. And his brother, the dearest of his kin, was dead.

Whiskers…

He rubbed his beard absently. No wonder Lian had looked at him so oddly. He hadn’t worn one until his campaign to search for Lian began. Neither of them appeared to be what the other had expected. He was halfway across the room when he recalled his earlier intentions. This time, the words did his bidding. “Deep peace, lad.”

Would that he could find some for himself.