“The real gift is found in our ability to surrender foolish notions,

and rely on what the Spirit intended for us all along.”

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

Aralt jammed the bottom drawer of his desk shut and turned the key. Much as he desired to maintain control over the situation, news of Lian’s arrival would spread quickly, and he had yet to frame a suitable reply to the last round of letters from the Kierran clerics, let alone the letters Perryn had placed on his desk that morning. The complexity of where Lian fit into the political and clerical hierarchy of Askierran had grown exponentially.

One of the few remaining members of what had been Devailyn Kynsei’s inner circle, and one who previously served under Kavistra Endru, had finally conceded that Aralt was correct. Devailyn was lost to them, and it was high time the klesia kaeli accepted the ramifications of the end of the priestly line that had served the nation for generations. Moreover, he asserted that even if Lian Kynsei were still alive and somehow returned to them, the boy would be deemed unacceptable to be Confirmed due to his age and delicate constitution. Polite language aside, it seemed clear enough that the chancellor, one Aralt remembered only as a dissenting voice at the time of Devailyn’s Confirmation, thought little of Lian, and less of the family than one in his coveted position aught. Those charged with advising the kavistra and upholding the faith would convene soon and certain among them were maneuvering for the election of another to the secular position of ksathra. Ruler of the Nation. Clearly, he had someone in mind, and it wasn’t a Kynsei.

Aralt leaned back, rotating the key between his fingers. It appeared a game board was being assembled, and he and Lian were to find themselves prime pieces in the match. Here he was about to submit to the humiliation of telling them he was wrong. Pure and simple. He was wrong, Lian was alive, they were coming to Askierran…and now Askierran did not want him. Correction. Certain elements did not. He was certain the greater population of the country would embrace their young leader and accept his Calling, if called he was. That was beyond Aralt’s ken and better left to those accustomed to interpreting signs from the divine. His task was to protect Lian, get him home, and prevent him from being taken advantage of. Any that wished to do so would find in him a formidable opponent.

He slid the top drawer out and reached in to dislodge the recessed panel, slipping the key into its hiding place. It snapped into position, and he ran his fingers over the smooth, false bottom, satisfied. He sorted through the remaining short stack of correspondence, giving his attention to the letter he had begun to his mother prior to winter’s Twelfth Night festival. She had written to him twice since then and it would not be long before another letter landed on his desk. Maeri syr Tremayne would have received the same message he had regarding the right of ascension, days prior, and would no doubt have issued a scathing response of her own before contacting him with her concerns. For all she was as fiercely independent as his father had been, maintaining the sovereignty of Leyth which shared three borders with Askierran, he knew that her love for the Kynseis ran as deep as her faith. She needed to know Lian was alive, and she needed to know before anyone else in Askierran did. She would be able to identify whom Aralt could trust to support the boy. Intercepting her letter with his own would require the services of his swiftest courier, and he sent for Tevin Keely.

“Syr Tremayne?”

The angry youth Aralt had encountered in Kyrrimar three years before had matured into a young man of unwavering integrity, a fleet-footed envoy whose prowess with a blade and gift for finding people who did not want to be found elevated his status among messengers and would make him an excellent ranger if only he were to accept the commission. Tevin still wore his brown hair in a Kierran style, modest length above his shoulders, the long fringe swept to one side. The puckered scar of a burn sustained at Kyrrimar creased the left side of his face from cheek to chin, making him look older than his years.

“That was fast even for you,” Aralt said, looking past him toward the hall. “Did Perryn…?”

“With so many rumors afoot, I assumed you’d need me to make for Askierran, sir. I checked the flight roster. There isn’t a ship due anywhere in Tyrian for days, but I can arrange passage in Faerkirke after delivering your next letter to Alira Alwynn.”

“Have I become that predictable?” Aralt drummed his fingers on one of the other missives Perryn had deposited on his desk that morning, the one written on fine parchment and addressed with a flowing hand. “I suppose I have. But you’ve only just returned from your last trip down the coast. Have you and Telta—?”

“I can be ready before the 15th hour,” Tevin assured him a little too quickly. Where he hadn’t avoided Aralt’s gaze before, he did then.

“I see.” Aralt made it a point not to interfere in the personal affairs of his soldiers and staff as long as their affairs did not interfere with the running of his household, and those two were nothing if not discreet, even when they quarreled. Both were native to the Kierran lands, he from Kyrrimar City, she from Linishael like Aralt himself. He considered his next words carefully. “I understand they’ll be igniting the everlight pools on the moors tonight.” Once the stench burned off, it did have a certain ambiance about it.

Tevin cleared his throat. “Commander Rhianydd isn’t one for the local traditions concerning winter’s end prayers and all that talk of spooks and such.”

Aralt lifted an eyebrow in question. Commander Rhianydd rather than simply Telta? That boded ill for romance. As for the rest, he couldn’t have agreed more. “There isn’t much entertainment in this part of Tyrian, I’m afraid. Unless you count Deyr.”

By Tevin’s expression, he clearly did not.

“I see we’re in agreement on that. Oh, Tevin,” Aralt said, staying his courier with an outstretched hand. “Shut the door for a moment, will you? What are they saying? About last night.” About any of it.

“That one of the soul-touched, kavsa Lian, is alive. And that you’ll be leaving Tyrian, sir, both of you.” Tevin paused. His voice shook just slightly when he went on. “My first allegiance was to…the kavistra.”

He had almost said “Devailyn,” just as he had the night they met in Kyrrimar, fires burning around them. Aralt waited, but his courier said no more. Not once in three years had he ever heard Tevin elaborate on that topic.

“I had hoped you’d accept the promotion to ranger this year. You have five years in, between Kyrrimar and here, and you have a talent for the trails as well as locating people. I’d like to put that to more use. You deserve a Tuned blade more than any other five-year man I have in the garrison. But I’ll release you from service,” Aralt told him, marking his reaction, “if you wish to return to Kyrrimar.”

“Thank you, syr Tremayne. I’ll…I’ll ponder that in the coming days.” Tevin drew a shallow breath. “Is there anything else, syr Tremayne?”

Aralt cupped his chin in one hand, drumming his fingers on one cheek. Tevin’s blue eyes were clearly troubled. “Do you want to see him before you go?”

Tevin shook his head. “He won’t remember me, syr Tremayne, and I don’t want to remind him why neither of us is in Kyrrimar.”

“Fair skies, then,” Aralt wished him. Belatedly he added, “And deep peace.”

“And also to you, sir,” Tevin replied, doffing his cap before retreating from Aralt’s office.

When the door was closed, he broke the seal on Alira Alwynn’s letter and lifted it to his nose. Starflower. Her entreaty to join her family for the rapidly approaching Syth’s Eve festival was the most recent of three. If he didn’t reply quickly, her next one would be made in person, from the bow of an airship hovering above Sylvan Keep. Knowing the Alwynns, they would arrive early for the Meeting and stay on if invited. And invite them he would. It would give him ample opportunity to assess Alira’s elderly father’s state of mind—a topic of great concern throughout the north. Once heralded as a keen Alliance statesman, since entering his ninth decade Veryl Alwynn had grown increasingly forgetful and had, of late, come under heavy criticism from an outspoken minority. He had governed the land of his birth longer than most of the neighboring talyns had been alive, no doubt annoying more than a few. A vocal supporter of Kavistra Marcynn in the days before Marcynn’s only son, Endru, held the title, he had continued to embrace a special relationship with that distant land in subsequent generations. A part of the kingdom, though apart from it, he had always said. In that he was not alone. Others did the same, Elon of Enarra chief among them, but not with the intensity or authority of Veryl Alwynn. Were the old man to step down, a seamless transition in leadership was essential. Alira and her brother, Verin, needed Aralt’s support—and he was determined to provide what assistance he could. The cares of the day melted away as he read the letter, lingering over each word, so carefully chosen, each a reflection of her. He could derive little regarding Veryl’s condition, only Alira’s fervent hope that they might be together during the Feast of Light. Only Scanlin—and Tevin, no doubt—knew how much he desired the same. Or how difficult he found it to tell her. He took parchment from his desk drawer and dipped pen in ink. Struggle though he might with matters of his heart, it would not do for such faithful Believers as the Alwynns to learn of Lian Kynsei’s appearance from anyone else. Before he had even finished writing Alira’s name, a commotion outside the door grew from mere distraction to a tumult of activity and he was forced to abandon his task to investigate.