“It is a well-established fact that it is easier to hear than to listen.”

from the journal of Scanlin Ross, First Sword in Tyrian, Believer

Aralt woke with the seventh bell chime, regretting at once having nodded off on a bench in his study sometime after the fourth hour of the morning.

His fingers ached as he swept the cold floor for his blanket, only moderately startled when Perryn draped it over his shoulders. He muttered his thanks, wrapped himself in the scent of wool and wood smoke, and contemplated the futility of going back to what had at best been restless sleep. Without a word, his steward placed a bundle of correspondence on his desk, then bent to mend the dwindling fire and adjust the flue. The last time he had looked outside, the world had been transformed under a glistening dusting of snow that reminded him of the confectionery delights served during festivals and holy days. He could almost smell them. No. He did smell them.

A plate of freshly baked scones and a steaming cup of tea rested on one of the claw-footed tables crouching by the hearth. The aroma was enough to lure him away from any notion of sleep, and he abandoned the cold blanket for his favorite chair and the warmth of the fire. From that vantage point, he could just make out the figure of Deyr Evarr waiting outside, pale yellow hair plastered to a sober, unhappy face. The drizzle washed away the morning’s frost, freezing where it fell, firming into a near-invisible film of ice on the flagstone. Deyr would have been there since before Morning Song, by local military custom. Aralt selected a scone from the plate, waited until the young soldier caught sight of him through the window, and proceeded to enjoy his breakfast immensely.

Scanlin poked his head in. “If the rain nae stops, there’ll be none to witness the discipline.”

“If the rain nae stops, I’ll not be goin’ out on such a bitter morning,” Aralt mimicked him good-naturally, tossing him a scone. “I’ve served enough time under these conditions, haven’t you?”

“Aye, but tradition—”

Aralt picked up a second scone. “Just bring him into the hall. What? Grey, what good is the privilege of rank if I can’t bend the rules to my benefit from time to time?” Besides, errant or not, Deyr served him better healthy and pensive than hacking with the croup.

It took rather a while for Scanlin to recount Deyr’s numerous transgressions. For his part, the youth took his dressing down with uncharacteristic silence—only twitching fingers betraying anxiety. It all seemed entirely too formal to Aralt, but he saw fit to honor such customs. A First Sword’s duties included the admonishment of his troops, and an unbiased account of actions was crucial in determining the penalty. That Scanlin could manage to be unbiased where Deyr was concerned was a remarkable testament to his character.

The odor of wet wool and hastily oiled leather permeated the warm, still air so near the grand hearth. Deyr had been wise not to sport Tyrian’s colors of gold and green that morning. If stripped of rank, his scruffy poni forfeit, the young hothead could hike upland to his clan’s dwelling and vent late-adolescent frustrations on Tyrian hardwood for a change. The thought was ever so tempting.

When he had kept Deyr waiting a suitably long time—and polished off the last scone—Aralt clapped his hands. The sound echoed from the vaulted ceiling.

“Bravo, soldier. Last night’s performance has earned you a standing ovation. You’ll soon have us confusing the play for reality.”

“Aye, syr Tremayne. I mean nay, I mean…” Deyr rubbed at his forehead with his uninjured hand, pimpled cheeks flushing. In a moment his ears were red as a summer sky at eventide. “My gran would flay me arse if e’er I really done any o’ that. I had me too much o’ the brown root. Sir.”

Aralt lifted an eyebrow. Scanlin shook his head in obvious disapproval. Aralt couldn’t vouch for other regions, but such proclivities ill-suited anyone sworn to service in Tyrian and were frowned upon in most of the northern parishes.

“Ah. Thank you for clarifying that for us. So, you aren’t inclined to grab little boys after all. Instead, you plan to follow in the ale-scented footsteps of Ruskyn Munro? How admirable. I had no idea you had such lofty aspirations,” he said, crossing in front of Deyr, hands clasped behind his back. The moisture on Deyr’s face disappeared rapidly so near the fire, but embarrassment continued to spread across his narrow, winter-fair face. Not a handsome lad. Not at all.

“Nay, I don’t. I mean, I wasn’t…”

“No,” Aralt agreed, “no, of course not. You didn’t. And you no doubt realize that any lack of judgment on Munro’s part, barring offense or harm to this House, is his own, and life is punishment enough.”

The look of disapproval Scanlin gave him almost made him regret the callous comment. He shrugged. Russ Munro’s stubborn loyalty was to Aralt himself, not to Tyrian or any other domain. Call it honor, or pity, or simply youthful stupidity, Aralt had long ago intervened when those who saw little use in feeding the half-breed, camp-rat son of one of the company’s dishonored dead had conspired to indenture the boy to a disreputable miner as punishment for a crime Russ had not committed. It could never be said that Russ hadn’t returned the favor with undying loyalty. He had stuck to Aralt like a cockle burr in the breeches.

“You’ve been warned—I can’t seem to recall the number. Commander Ross?”

Scanlin gravely consulted his notes before shaking his head sadly.

“Oooh, Deyr,” Aralt made a show of mocking compassion, “clearly too many times.”

He closed the space between them, enjoying the invasion of the younger man’s personal space entirely more than he should have. Deyr, not yet tall enough to look his laird in the eyes, had no choice but to meet his gaze or lose any shred of remaining honor. The evident discomfort was reward in itself.

“You’ll save your gift for drama for the stage, soldier, or find yourself relieved of all duties, privileges, and citizenship in this domain. You aren’t here because we need you at this garrison. I don’t need you in my service at all—not when I have a dozen equally promising five-years who at least make an effort to master the art of propriety. You’re still here because we’re marching to the tune of tradition, allowing you a little more and a little more and a little more rope. You can weave either a net or a noose, but I’d advise you to pick one soon because you’re near the end of the line.

“One more vulgar public display, one more insult to my honor as your Commander and liege, one more even vague rumor of such, and I’ll escort you to the northern border myself. Do you ken?” He would not repeat himself, not to this immature toastwit. Either the stupid boy would grasp the seriousness of the situation or Aralt would send him off with a swift kick, pay and honor forfeit along with his mangy mount. It wasn’t his favorite, but with so many mouths to feed, poni stew went a long way.

Deyr’s pale eyes grew wide with the realization that he had, at last, come to the edge of a very wide abyss with no bridge in sight. The threat of northern exile was not lost on this one. Deyr knew full well that beyond Tyrian’s borders he had small hope of sanctuary in neighboring lands, were any to discover the reason for his banishment. That left glacial wasteland to the north, Alliance territory west of the great lake, or east across the fjord and risking his life among the hostile Naharasii. For all his bravado, Deyr would be lost without kith or kin or liege, and he apparently knew it.

“How long do you think you’d even last with real Shirahnyn?” Aralt asked as he stepped away, indicating the youth could stand at ease.

Deyr almost collapsed with relief, droplets of water spattering to the warmed flagstone with a hiss as he shook his head. “I don’t rightly know, but there was a merchant across the lake when we was deployed to help with the blazes and he told me I could pass with the right clothes and enough o’ the language to get by. I thought if I could, I…well, I…”

“You what? Could be a spy?” Aralt suggested.

“Aye.” Deyr grinned. “He said a Shirahnyn ship put down in Ardorryn’s borders. Right there, by the palace. On the river.”

“An airship?”

“Aye.”

“On the river?”

“Aye! Biggest one anyone had ever seen anywhere.”

“And no one outside of Ardorryn noticed this behemoth making the skies its own?”

“I guess not. I—” When Aralt pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, Deyr hurriedly went on. “No doubt he was a lyin’ snake, syr Tremayne. Full o’ lies and…lies…um.”

Aralt withheld a derisive snort. The young self-styled king of Ardorryn wouldn’t know a Shirahnyn from a tall, exotically plumed bird. By the glint in Deyr’s eyes and return of color to his pocked, sharp-featured face, he was silently rehearsing his scathingly hilarious Crown-Me-King-Harlyk imitation. That Deyr had a gift for drama could not be ignored. The more outlandish his subject matter, the better his performance, and Harlyk Graftmeer was nothing if not outlandish. For what it mattered, Ardorryn’s childish talyn was his uncle’s favorite kinsman and chosen heir, and barring some tragic accident they would be suffering his sniveling presence in the Northern Alliance for years to come. Despite any misgivings, Ardorryn’s chancellors and magistrates were not about to risk losing their coveted positions by instituting consensus policies.

The next bell-toll—executed with a flourish Aralt had not heard since boyhood—signaled breakfast. He took the opportunity to dismiss Scanlin. Left alone with the laird of the land, Deyr looked suddenly worried again. There remained one final matter to discuss.

“Do you know who you threatened last night? In my domain? In front of me?”

Deyr opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Still, nothing came out.

“Well? Do you?”

Deyr gulped like a pond woggle, the color draining from his face. For one so gifted for the stage, he was having a difficult time with his lines. “They’re sayin’…um…well…that he’s one o’ the soul-touched.”

“That he is. And brother to the missing kavistra. In fact, his entire clan has dedicated themselves to the service of their God for more generations than you can count.” Aralt turned his back on Deyr, conscious that he was probably making the younger man very uneasy by doing so. He extended his hands toward the fire, intent on the play of licking, twisting flame. The green marathis gems in his ring glowed warmly. “I realize some reasoning is required here, but given that long history, what do you suppose awaits him in Askierran? Hmmm?”

Deyr nearly choked on his answer. “Uh…bein’…the…next kavistra?”

“Remarkable deduction, Deyr. You’re wiser than you thought you were. You won’t forget this little gem of wisdom, you ken?”

Deyr assured him that the lesson would not be forgotten. Ever.

“Excellent. You’re out of uniform, soldier. Amend that. Is your hand broken?”

“Not much.”

“Best news you’ve had today. Now, clean up this muddy lake on my floor.”

With visible relief, Deyr hurried away.

“I knew there was a reason I traveled when I did.”

Aralt consulted his pocket watch. “A bit early for you, isn’t it?” Days too early.

Elon yawned mightily as he sauntered down the steps dressed only in trews with patches on the knees and a wool overshirt a few shades lighter than his skin. “And miss the local entertainment?”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Entertained me. Talk a man into his grave after askin’ ‘im to dig it, ye can. That rat-faced rascal deserved far worse.”

Aralt shrugged as he motioned Elon to follow him. “The floor was wet enough.”