When at last Aralt dragged himself to the third floor of the old house to check on Lian later that afternoon, he found the boy sleeping peacefully in the half-light filtered by the shutters. Shadows masked bruises, softening the brutal truth that lay hidden under mottled flesh. Dried flowers and the heady scent of herbs kindled memories of the drying shed he had often played in as a boy back home in Leyth. There, above his head, vines and leaves had twisted, fastened with a master gardener’s precision, a thousand organic mysteries hung in colorful bouquets, their scents rich and spicy on a warm afternoon.

A low rumble alerted him to the presence of a hunting cat. She brushed by him, investigating the room with her whiskers. The pair of kittens that had attacked Deyr earlier scurried out from under the bed, circling back in a tumble of fang and fur. Their mother’s eyes flashed like gold in the sun.

“Found them, did you?” he asked her, keeping his voice low. She rubbed the side of her face against his hand, and he let his fingers trail across her back as she wound around him. “Mind you don’t wake the boy, eh?”

The cat patrolled the perimeter of the bed, rubbing her cheeks on all four corners before leaping effortlessly to the top. She stood there, examining the newcomer, before settling beside him with a low, satisfied purr. She was nearly as big as he.

Aralt turned when Perryn brought fresh linens into the room. “Is it well with you?”

“Syr Tremayne?”

“You were out of sorts last night.” As were we all, he mused.

Perryn placed the bedding in a cabinet, closing it gently. He kept his voice low, his gaze skating across the room to where Lian lay buried in blankets. “I was. I’m sorry. And earlier…it was careless of me. I should have—”

If anyone needed to apologize, it was Aralt. Finding it difficult to do so, he merely said, “Even you can’t be everywhere at once.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Perryn’s mouth; he inclined his head before turning his attention back to their guest. “My uncle wrote to me about the Kynseis. I’ve heard about them all my life. I thought, were ever I to meet them, any of them, I would be prepared.”

Aralt wondered if the boy was awake, listening. “He wasn’t what you expected?”

“I don’t know what I expected, to be honest. Certainly not to see him this way. I’m sorry. This must be very difficult for you.”

“As you said. Unexpected.” Nothing more needed to be said. It wouldn’t do for Perryn to realize just how difficult it was. “Your uncle, Anlynn. I knew him. A good man.” A brave man. A man he had watched die.

Belatedly, he realized he had stopped talking and was instead standing in the middle of the room, lost in the very memories he would rather not revisit. His silence provided the perfect escape. For both of them. Perryn went into the dayroom. Aralt heard him speaking in low tones with Scanlin before he left, something more passing between them than he was privy to. Enough awareness brushed at the back of his mind to tell him that he might ken their secret, just then he did not want to know.

Where the room had previously been comfortable, if sparse, it was a riot of color now. Dozens of favors had been delivered to the house already: textiles, prayer candles, enough sweet bread to feed the garrison for a week. In the stable, Jools had been obliged to take charge of a fine little mountain poni. A herd of intricate mechanical critters crouched atop the chest at the foot of the bed as if awaiting their turn to tumble to the floor. At least a dozen stars fashioned of crystal and wood and jewel-grade metal had been pinned to the wall or hung by cord from the ceiling beams, and the largest—etched antler and bone if he wasn’t mistaken—had been propped against a chair. The Tyrian Believers had given generously, and seeing their gifts, knowing they were not a wealthy people, gave Aralt some satisfaction.

He inspected a neatly folded stack of fabrics, counting the number of blue tones. None quite what he recalled as Kynsei blue. The blue of heaven. He selected the darkest piece and placed it on top, smoothing a crease with the palm of his hand. When the boy shifted under the blankets, he held his breath, hands gripping the cloth. His kervallys merely sighed a bit of sleepy nonsense and turned over, face content. His kervallys. Aralt racked a hand through his hair and leaned against the bureau. What was Lian doing here, alone? What would he have Aralt do?

Kervallyn implied too much when his charge would be the leader of an entire nation. Why had that never occurred to him before? How could he be a foster father to Lian when he was not sure how much a brother—or even a friend—he could be? How could he ever fulfill such an intimate oath—especially then, after the death of his own brother at the hands of the very Shirahnyn zealot who had invaded Kyrrimar? If only that had not happened. If only Kynlan had made it safely home to take his appointed place among Devailyn Kynsei’s closest advisors. If only Aralt had not delayed him, had not quarreled with him the night before they left, breaking the window he had yet to replace. Kynlan might have been a guiding force that fateful Syth’s Eve when Kyrrimar was besieged. So might he have been…had he been there.

Would that he could stop thinking about it.

He sorted through the prayer books and manuscripts resting atop the spindle-legged writing desk on the far side of the canopied bed, his hand passing over the toy kaio. Beneath it lay musical notation and sheets of ancient poetry in Scanlin’s unmistakable, sweeping hand. A thick, leather-bound volume dominated the space, open to a richly illuminated page. A copy of the Four Books. Of course. As if it could have been anything else. He turned pages randomly, admiring the craftsmanship.

The book gave him pause. He hoped he would not be expected to instruct the boy on matters of the Spirit. What a mockery of faith that would be. Teach him to debate, teach him history, teach him diplomacy and the subtle art of intimidation, perhaps. Teach him even to evaluate fine wine, but what meager offerings he could make in the realm of the Spirit were better left untaught. The Seven Sea Lords—oh, how he needed to put an end to such notions!—knew he had acquired a fine repertoire of epithets and culturally diverse curses, but the days at his mother’s knee learning the lessons of the Four Books were half-forgotten memories. With shame, he realized he did not even know where his copy of the holy books, with their elaborate illumination, was. He had never completed a second one. Once a rite of passage, an obligation to the preservation of history, he had lost interest after his military training began in earnest. Besides, what were printing presses for?

He sighed, leaving the book open to where he had found it. It occurred to him that wine was out of the question, too. Most Kynseis had no tolerance for it.

The floorboards behind him creaked. Belatedly, he realized Elon stood in the doorway, his brawny frame filling the space. He was examining Lian’s heartwood staff. Aralt had walked right past it without seeing it—or feeling it—beside the door. His jaw tightened for the briefest of moments. A fine way to start spring, he chided himself, easy prey for some sneakshadow assassin. Surely this boy would be his undoing.

He swept up a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table on his way out, closing the door softly behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tiny grey paw reaching out from under trailing blue tartan blankets.

“Sweet-talked your way past Grey, did you?” So much for banning even the most pious Believers. He scanned the empty room. “What did you do, tell him Sylvan Keep was under attack?”

“Ye don’t deserve that man’s loyalty.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.” Aralt put his hands on his hips. “He isn’t even on duty, is he? Who did he leave out there?”

Elon hesitated. “Let’s not be hurtin’ anyone, eh? I may ’ave led the guard outside to think that ye sent for me. Him bein’ a sensible sort, he let me in.”

Aralt frowned. “I thought you were at a pole-tossing match.”

“And I reckoned ye’d be joinin’ me.” Elon dropped into an imported woven cane chair, mopping at his brow with a muddied shirt sleeve. “Life’s heavy enough, is it? Such a fuss o’er one wee lad. By Ristaiel’s account I’d have thought—”

“—he’d be a Riahi.” Aralt sat beside the window. Plum-colored storm clouds withdrew rapidly over the horizon, leaving a glistening late winter afternoon under calm, lavender skies. He clasped two nuts together, felt their shells collapse even before he heard the crack. The meat was sweet and crunchy. “What did you expect? Fish gills and fins?”

“Whips and pins, man. Wolf’s got teeth today, I see,” Elon muttered, wrestling with one of his boots. A stone chip dropped on the hardwood floor with a dull clack. He placed it in his pocket. “Do Riahi even have fish gills and fins?”

“You’ll have to ask Veryl Alwynn. The old man loves to spin a tale.” Aralt snapped another pair of shells together. Crrrack!

“That ’e does.” Elon replaced the boot and worked on the other one, grunting with effort. “When the poor blighter remembers ’is own name, Saints bless him. He’ll want to come straight awa’ after ’e gets wind o’ the matter. This is Marcynn Kynsei’s grandchild and if we’re to believe the tales, they were thick as thieves.”

“Believe it.” And not just them. They were only two of the four friends Aralt knew about. The others were Teren Glynn, and Aralt’s own grandfather.

“And so?”

Aralt shook his head as he rose to discard the handful of shell fragments he had created. He took a bottle of wine from the cooler cabinet and poured for them both. Elon tugged on his other boot as he stood, brushing his dirty hands together, then against his breeches.

“There’s a washroom just there,” Aralt pointed. “Or do you want to draw a bucket from the well?”

“In Kevarn they still do. After they break the ice. With their heads,” Elon told him from the other room. “The only flowin’ water in Kevarn comes from rivers. Think o’ the power they could harness from the River Flynn. The most advanced piece o’ technology I’ve seen in that domain was a hundred-year-old wind turbine. The old ways die hard in these parts, but nowhere as hard as there. Progress is slow—and Ristaiel’s a crabby old git—but nae a fool. Everything ’e said? Ye can depend on it. I shouldnae mocked him.”

Aralt swirled the wine around in his glass. “Nor I.”

Apparently satisfied with the degree of cleanliness he had achieved, Elon accepted the glass, sniffing the sweet wine with a broad smile. “Leythan wine? I’m honored, Wolf.” He hoisted his glass. “Deep peace o’ the flowin’ air to ye.”

“Deep peace,” Aralt returned the blessing. Cut glass sang softly as it touched. They each took a long sip. “He may not have his facts straight about a civil war in Askierran, but we could have a war on our hands if lonn Tirehl knows that Lian is alive. He may not have the numbers to take Alliance lands, but he’ll try to do what he did in Askierran.”

“Steal our souls?”

“More like set us one against the other. Or, worse, Askierran against the Alliance.”

“So, tall tales of Seafolk and the Horror aside, will ye to Askierran or to Alwynn-Muir?”

“Why do I have to go anywhere?” He hunched his shoulders. “If the clergy and chancellors are to have their way, it will be Askierran, of course. But Lian is better off in the North, as far from lonn Tirehl as possible. It wouldn’t have to be Alwynn-Muir—though they are one of the Cities of Faith and obviously they would welcome him. I could also move him to Bethulyn in southern Tyrian. We could protect him better there than here.”

Elon nodded his shaggy head. “Tyrian’s as fine a place as any and better than some. Bethulyn’s a city o’ Believers.”

“It is, but how can he stay here?” Aralt indicated the forested countryside below the casement with a gesture. He could hardly keep from laughing. “Tyrian is no place for one destined to be the Kavistra of Askierran. Shirahnyn or no Shirahnyn. I’ve got one locked up in town, did I tell you? I sent Telta to try and talk to him. Given their culture, maybe she’ll get more out of him than Scanlin. All they seem to talk about is medicine and remedies—which is more than I’ve gotten. He just looks at me. Not even that. He hardly looks at me at all. He won’t identify himself or his House, or account for his whereabouts, just denies he had anything to do with the gasworks burning down.”

“Ye don’t believe ’im?”

Aralt glowered. “Even his lies are lies.”

Elon topped off his glass and raised it in another toast before taking a sip. “Then ye be headin’ south. Not to Kyrrimar, though. To Leyth?”

“And play into the hands of pious naysayers, not to mention fall into whatever vile trap those rutting Shirahnyn snake bastards have dug along the way?” Aralt snorted at the mere notion, tipping his glass to his lips. “I think not.”

“Then what are ye goin’ to do wi’ the laddie?”

Aralt gave him a disgusted look. “I don’t know yet.”

“Could ’ave said that to begin wi’.”

“Shut up, Elon.”