Deyr was under siege.

A pair of shika kittens deigned it their mission to assist in the swabbing of the hall floor and had overturned a bucket of murky water in their feline enthusiasm. Curses flew between man and beasts as Deyr sought to retrieve the shaggy mop head. Momentarily victorious, he shook the mop at the young hunting cats, but that was only an invitation to sport and, as yet, he did not seem to realize he was outnumbered.

“You failed to assess your opponents’ strengths.” Clearly Aralt had been too long at his desk for such a distraction to prove so entertaining.

“They cheat!” By the look of Deyr’s swollen eye, they weren’t the only ones. Aralt did not even want to ask. As if sensing his unspoken question, Deyr rubbed his face gingerly. “Had me a fight wi’ a bucket, sir.”

“Indeed. Who hit you with it?”

Deyr appeared crestfallen. He pried a snarling gold brindled kitten from his trouser leg and held it at arm’s length as its littermate, a shimmering grey, gleefully tangled bootlaces. “Tevin Keely.”

“Hit him back?”

“Only once.”

As if summoned by his name, Tevin heaved open a door on the far side of the hall. “Syr Tremayne? There’s a band of folk at the gate flying burgundy and grey.”

Burgundy and grey? The colors of Kevarn. Shite.

“Perryn!”

He scooped up the kittens as he brushed past Deyr and headed for the stairs. He needed to don a fresh change of clothes in a hurry, and Lian’s room would be as good a place as any to deposit the furry rascals for the time being. He had a strong inkling that Ristaiel of Kevarn was not the sort to fancy cats.

“Perryn!” He was halfway to the third floor when his neatly appointed steward spun around the partially exposed upper balcony and headed down the steps two by two.

“I’m sorry, syr Tremayne. I was attending our guest; Kolarin’s instructing first-year cub warriors; Telta’s off duty today; and Scanlin is in Sylvan interrogating your prisoner as ordered. He sent word regarding k’talyn Ristaiel’s sudden departure, but the novice messenger handed it off to Munro. The entire House is a tangle of confusion. And,” Perryn added quickly, “that’s no excuse.”

“Damn straight it isn’t!” Aralt said, only a few degrees shy of furious.

“Shall I resign now or after Ristaiel and his company leave?” Perryn gestured toward the foyer as he swept past Aralt.

“Sila’s bride, Perryn,” he swore, changing directions, juggling kittens as he struggled to tuck in his wrinkled shirt. He calculated the time it would take to reach the wardrobe in his study where he was sure to find one or another frock coat. “Are my watchtowers vacant, too? Let’s just invite the Naharasii next time and Gitom can serve your head!”

“I understand it is a cultural delicacy.”

A roll of whooping laughter boomed down the hall, echoing to the rafters as Elon charged into view. He still hadn’t donned shoes. “Hah! Wolf! The old man’s got ye by the tail now.”

Aralt nearly dropped the cats when Elon produced a steaming pastry from behind his back and thrust it toward him. Mixed berry filling seeped through the delicate crust. He had been to the kitchens, the fiend!

“You’re wearing half of it in your beard,” Aralt told him, passing a wiggling shika kitten into Elon’s hands. He would have passed the other one to Perryn had his steward not already reached the entrance hall, his hand on the wolf-head door handle. He swallowed the oozing pastry in three bites, ignoring the tickle of stray cat hairs. “A fine pair of statesmen we make. I’ve neither waistcoat nor jacket and you’re barefoot and looking as rumpled and pleased as if you just crawled out of bed.”

“Aye,” Elon told him, the words followed by another infectious belly laugh, “but then I always look like this.”

“K’talyn Ristaiel.” Perryn bowed deeply, doffing his cap as the stocky governor of Kevarn stomped up the stone steps, heedless of slick footing. “Deep peace and a hundred thousand welcomes.”

“Don’t shut the door. I ain’t stayin’.” Before Perryn could respond, Ristaiel yanked off fur-lined leather gloves, slapped the steward in the chest with them, and stalked directly to where Aralt and Elon stood. He jabbed a gnarled finger at Elon. “You! I should ’ave known you’d be here.”

“Stop, old friend. I’ve tears in me eyes.” Elon offered his arm in friendship. Ristaiel swatted his hand away. The grey kitten swatted at Ristaiel.

“You!” he roared at Aralt next. “I weren’t done wi’ ye when ye left me standin’ in town last night like a…”

His words trailed off as he seemed to suddenly notice how ill-prepared Aralt had been for his arrival. His gaze flicked from Aralt’s face to the squirming gold kitten, to Deyr Evarr on hands and knees in the middle of the floor with a bristle brush and hastily refilled bucket. That, at least, seemed to please him. Aralt seized the opportunity.

“You’re right. I did leave you abruptly. Please accept my apology. To what do we owe the honor, Ristaiel? You haven’t set foot in here since Teren Glynn went back to Askierran.” And Aralt had been appointed governor.

“He shouldnae left,” was the clipped response, ground past a tongue that seemed at war with the words. Rain dripped from the old man’s oiled greatcoat to pool on the tiled foyer. His mood seemed as gray as the late-winter sky.

“You’d do well to accept what hospitality ye can, ye cranky old water rat,” Elon cajoled. “This be no weather for travelin’ clear back to yer domain with the Grand Meetin’ so near.”

"Suits me well enough.”

Why did that come as no surprise? “And yet here you are,” Aralt said.

“Lian Kynsei’s nae safe here.”

From the corner of his eye Aralt saw Elon’s long face bend into a mockery of surprise. Amber eyes flashed as his bushy eyebrows lifted. He was about to say something Aralt would have laid wagers would provoke Ristaiel into a fit. Aralt cleared his throat loudly. Elon’s open mouth snapped shut, but he looked mightily disappointed.

“They’ll come for ’im, Tremayne. Ye know it well. The skies will burn, mark me words.” The Kevarn rounded on Elon. “Ye told him, no doubt.”

“Told me what? Elon? Now who’s keeping secrets?”

“About what? Rumors and shadows?” Elon asked, stroking the purring cub balanced along one muscular arm. The fuzzy little beast’s eyes were half-closed in contentment. “If there were any Shirahnyn in Enarra, winter took ’em—or blew ’em across the lake into Kevarn. Sorry if that’s been a bother.”

“Are ye such a fool as to think done’s done? It’s the ones ye ain’t seen ye needs worry about. Tremayne paints a pretty picture, but a kinsman o’ mine in Kitheria sent word that coastal alliances are breakin’. Civil wars and clan feuds high in the hills—even the clergy from the holy city are set one against the other. I hear tell that the Raemynns are raidin’ the Kitherian highlands again, the twistin’ heathens.”

Aralt curbed his laughter. “So now I’m covering a conspiracy in Askierran? There’s no end to my diabolical plans, is there? Don’t be a fool. There’s no war in Kitheria, man.”

“How in thirteen layers below would ye know? Ye ain’t there.”

“Nor do I live blindfolded in a dark cupboard. You were quick enough to remind me yesterday that I’m governor of both Tyrian and Leyth. I run couriers more often than some people bathe. I think I’d know if there was a civil war in Askierran, don’t you?”

Ristaiel snorted in reply. “What I think,” he growled, “is that ye don’t know as much as ye thinks ye does and what ye does know ye keep in your pocket. Now, lemme tell ye what I know. The boy ain’t safe here. None o’ the Seablood is. That’s why they left us ages ago. We couldnae protect ’em years back and cannae protect ’em now. It weren’t Shirahnyn in the before times, but Shirahnyn are here now. They’ve come to lead the Naharasii to ’im. Everyone knows the prophecy.”

“Are ye daft, man? Those be tired old tales, even for ye,” Elon scoffed. He turned to Aralt. “He means to say there’ll be a repeat o’ the Naharasii Horror in Alwynn-Muir in the time way back before—when the last o’ the Seablood livin’ in the North supposedly led Rosstafarr Alwynn through the underground rivers all the way to Kyrrimar.”

“Not to Kyrrimar,” Ristaiel said. “To Estevedyn—where the water flows whiddershins.”

“Ain’t the way my gran’s gran tol’ it,” Elon muttered.

And not the way Aralt had heard it told, either. No matter. It was just more superstitious nonsense. Next Ristaiel would spout the rest of the tired folktale—that the kaiathyn, wolf-brothers to the kaio and supposed forebears of the syr Tremayne clan, had migrated south, too, to protect the Seafolk from being eaten by pirates and the Seven-Sea-Lords-knew what else. Speaking of migrating, he wished Ristaiel would either stay or hurry his words and be on his way. Blowing rain and clattering hail now pounded through the open door. The Kevarni retinue outside stood like statues—cold and without humor.

Aralt was incredulous. “You don’t think I can protect my own kervallys?”

“Ye didnae even know ’e was alive until last night!”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Elon’s mouth fell open. “You’re Lian Kynsei’s kervallyn? Now who’s keepin’ secrets?”

Ristaiel barreled on. “Ain’t no one in the North can protect ’im. Not a one o’ us, together or apart! There ain’t a wall in these domains can hold back the Horror if they get it in their heads to come huntin’ one o’ the soul-touched. They’re twistin’ tunnel trolls! If the Shirahnyn give ’em wings…”

Elon could hardly contain himself. “The Shirahnyn? Equip the Naharasii wi’ ships?” he hooted. “Since when ’ave ye known the Shirahnyn to share anythin’ aside from a warm—”

Aralt backhanded Elon in the gut.

“—ships. I’d like to see that, I would.”

“Elon.”

“All right, I wouldnae, but—”

“Elon.” Aralt narrowed his eyes. “We’ve driven them back before, Ristaiel. They haven’t crossed the fjord in ten years.”

But the cost! Watchtowers had been raised in intervals from Alwynn-Muir at the mouth of the fjord to the south, clear up to glacial wastelands. Kevarn had suffered greater casualties during the last Naharasii invasion than had the rest of them—albeit Ristaiel had survived. The grisly fate of Tyrian’s previous governor, dragged to his death in his own family’s crypt, was not spoken of in polite company. After defeating their common enemy, the Northern Alliance had banded together in a resurgence of regional pride unseen for generations. Of those, two domains—Enarra and Alwynn-Muir—also claimed allegiance to Askierran from whence had come the liberating forces of the Five Armies, led by Teren Glynn. Without them, the entire region might still be embroiled in war. Suggesting that Kevarn also intended to pledge themselves to Askierran was risky, but Aralt was in the mood to gamble.

“Have you come to swear allegiance, then?” he asked. “Perryn, have Lian prepare himself for an oath swearing. We’ll declare it a feast day in your honor, Ristaiel.”

The old man nearly dropped his teeth. All eight or ten of them. He eyed Aralt with distrust.

“You’re not here to pledge your land to Askierran?”

“Said naught o’ the sort!” Ristaiel fumed.

“You won’t defend against the hostiles? You said yourself that—”

“What’s that to do wi’ anything?” He thrust out his arm and glared at Perryn. “And don’t ye go nowhere, boy.”

“May I at least shut the door, sir?” Perryn’s ears were as red as his hair.

“Nay! I’m not stayin’, neither.” Ristaiel snatched back his gloves and shook them in Aralt’s face. The ginger-haired kitten hissed. “Kevarn’ll take up nae arms ’gainst the Kynseis nor Askierran, but they cannae stay here. Not even one. They’re soul-touched.”

“And only heaven is blue. What of it?” Aralt snapped, then quickly changed tactics. Surliness aside, it was the most honest emotion he had ever seen the man express. Even Elon seemed to be surprised. “Wait, Ristaiel. Wait. I meant no offense about fealty, I merely assumed…”

Ristaiel nearly slapped him with the gloves. “You assume too much, Aralt syr Tremayne, and ye always ’ave. I know what I know, and the Kynseis be o’ the old blood o’ the Riahi, sacred an’ powerful. We cannae do right by ’em, but we respect power an’ tradition here in the North.”

Aralt ignored the implication. Trust Ristaiel not to let an opportunity pass for another slur on his heritage. Leyth, nestled in the heart of Askierran, remained the only domain in the region not to have officially sworn fealty to the Kynseis. Its loyalty was implied—by all that was holy, his grandfather’s standard bore the star of the faith—but not written in stone. Or blood. Could it be helped that his ancestors had a penchant for independence?

“I’ve no doubt kavsa Lian would be honored to speak to you about these matters, Ristaiel. You’d join Enarra and Alwynn-Muir and you know there are others. Perryn, summon my swiftest courier so I can send word to the heads of state in Askierran—”

“Stay right there, boy,” Ristaiel roared.

“Syr Tremayne?” Perryn implored.

Aralt lifted a finger. Wait. Just…wait. Ristaiel faced him squarely then, ignoring the pitiful mewling of angry, wet kittens.

“You’ve nae right to broker any allegiance to Askierran,” the old fellow stated bluntly, setting his jaw. “Not when neither Leyth nor Tyrian belongs to them yet! Or is that the way o’ it? That’s what it’s always been. Hidin’ in the smoke until the day dawns there’s a Kynsei on your doorstep? Time’s come, has it? Ye fancy puttin’ the lad up as a kavistra poppet an’ takin’ the title o’ ksathra yourself.”

“No fool like an old fool,” Elon interrupted, stepping back and forth, presumably to prevent his enormous feet from freezing to the tile. Aralt tried to wave him to silence, but there was no stopping Elon once he got cranking. That day, he was cranking like a steam turbine. “Aralt could ’ave crowned ’imself king by now wi’ the support ’e has inside the Alliance and out. He’s friends aplenty here—and plenty more in Askierran. Face it, Ristaiel, people like Wolf a lot more than anyone likes you. As Arroth smiles on the worthy, Aralt, with a wee bit o’ political tinkerin’ and a few kegs o’ Leythan wine ye really could rule o’er the whole land from the Lake on down to the Gulf of Aerulyn if ye wanted.”

“If I wanted,” Aralt stressed, giving Elon another warning glance. It was all obviously ad-libbed conjecture on Elon’s part; clearly he had not received the latest news out of Askierran, that a bid to raise another into place to rule had been proposed. In any case, the last thing Aralt needed was a skittish northerner like Ristaiel thinking he was seriously considering such a grab for power. What, then? Ask a boy to head up a nation ten times the size of Tyrian? The letter in his bottom desk drawer made it plain that he wasn’t the only one that thought such a thing was foolish. “Hear me now, both of you. I do not wish to be ksathra.”

“I reckon that’s the best qualification there is,” Elon said. “Can’t trust a man who would want the job.”

Aralt glared at him.

“Aw, go on. Have a think on it, anyway. ’Tis a wonder the clerics ain’t named someone to the job already after all this time. Have they? Wolf? Sea Lords above and below, they have, haven’t they? Tell us, then. Or is it only to be shared once everyone’s here for the Meetin’?”

“Would ye shut yer great gob, Elon Verela! Matarel’s dam, man, but ye still talk as much as when ye was this tall,” Ristaiel said, holding out a hand at waist height.

“Then speak plainly what’s on your mind, you crabby old whistlepig,” Elon told him. “Or are ye just gonna spit at us and wait for somethin’ to stick?”

“Peace, Elon.” Aralt silenced his friend with a raised hand. He blocked the way when the governor of Kevarn made to leave. The wind and rain blew cold against his back. The kitten bristled, clawing up his arm. “Ristaiel, wait. Elon’s right. The Meeting is just days away. Stay. We can discuss this more in comfort. Over a glass of wine.”

“Are ye such a fool as that, Tremayne? Ye cannae hold the Meetin’ here. Not now. Not unless ye plan to have Lian Kynsei sit at the head o’ the table and ’ave yourself a twistin’ good explanation ’bout why the lad’s here at all.”

Aralt was getting more than a little irritated by Ristaiel’s dictating to him what he could and could not do, but he had the sinking feeling that in this instance the talynt’e Kevarn was correct. No matter how many of his fellow talyn received Lian with all due deference, questions would be asked, and suspicions would reign, and everyone would be asking him the same thing: Why did you tell us he was dead?

Before he would step aside, Aralt wanted to know one more thing. “Why this great concern for Lian Kynsei?”

Ristaiel was tight-lipped as a guilty youth caught in a tryst. He stalked back and forth across the small foyer, refusing to leave the wet stone for the drier interior of the house. He slapped his leather riding gloves against the wall, leaving flat, finger-like trails of dampened grit. Aralt noticed that Deyr had scrubbed his way across the floor. Their lively exchange would no doubt play well in the barracks tonight.

“War’s for men in the spring o’ their years, not the winter,” Ristaiel told them, ice-blue eyes daring either of them to argue with him. “Ye don’t come back wi’out bein’ burned. This ain’t another private war twixt ye and the Seven knows who, Tremayne. Go, if ye be ready to lead an army into the nether place, but mark me words, them what hates Lian Kynsei will pour acid in his footsteps.”

Aralt could muster no further verbal gambol to halt Ristaiel’s rapid exit. Having said his piece, the old man straightened his wool coat with a satisfied tug, flipped up his hood, shoved his hands into his gloves, and left in the pouring rain.