The late afternoon sun shone warm and bright as Aralt and Elon drank their wine in silence. Now and again, the sounds of roaring laughter drifted up from the pole-tossing match as someone fumbled the towering caber. A curious sport, Aralt mused, relic from earlier days in a land far from any they knew. Tyrian’s forests provided some of the finest lumber for it, though, tall and straight. The lure of such an audacious challenge had been great, and Aralt himself had grappled with his first caber within weeks after the company he was attached to arrived in Tyrian. He learned quickly that one fumbled a good many cabers before making even a passable toss. Rather like his first days as governor.

“Thoughts adrift again, Wolf? Should I send out a lifeboat, lad-o?”

“Too much on my plate, I guess.” His mother used to say that when he had taken on more than he bargained for. Thus, he had heard it frequently. He thought of her more and more since his father’s death. Worried about her. Missed her. Missed…home.

“Would any o’ the Houses in the League o’ Mothers—”

“Matriarchs.”

“—Matriarchs, raise a hand ’gainst lonn Tirehl were he to lead forces to Askierran again?” Elon asked. “Akahan ain’t exactly a household deity among more…polite society.”

“They didn’t do anything before.” Aralt took a long swallow, swirling the last mouthful of amber wine around in the glass.

The Matriarchs and nobility he had encountered while they searched for the Kynsei brothers shared a particular distaste for lonn Tirehl and the followers of Akahan, but they were an insular people he did not well understand, nor could he recommend anything about them. He and his retinue had been almost universally treated with suspicion and disdain. Eunuch warriors and foppish statesmen alike wore arrogance like banners, barring their entrance to several cities governed by the ladies and princesses of ruling families. Where they were allowed passage, girl-children were routinely hidden from their eyes, and often only the lowest-ranking officials—typically men—actually communicated with them. He admitted it wasn’t under the best of circumstances, but he had not been impressed by their supposed peaceful and enlightened culture that had produced so many fine surgeons, astronomers, and botanists. Why, lonn Tirehl himself had been considered one of the most renowned Shirahnyn physicians of their time, studying Kierran medicine at Kyrrimar when Liana Kynsei died in childbirth. If only Aralt had known. He might have warned them. He took another deep swallow of wine, staring at the bottom of his empty glass, waiting for the memory to fade.

“You’ll be needin’ troops aplenty for such a campaign. I’d be pleased to gae wi’ ye on the journey to Askierran. I’ll muster me best and meet ye in Alwynn-Muir.”

“The land journey with an army would take weeks, Elon. And even with help from the Alwynns I can’t transport that many by air. Thank you, but nine children need their father. I won’t take you from them. Besides, I’ll need you here to keep Ristaiel company if I leave again. You know how much he misses me.”

“Like a thorn in the side, aye. Are ye seriously gonna let go o’ the Grand Meetin’? If ye close Tyrian’s doors without an explanation, the honor passes to the next domain in line. Your beard will be as grey as mine before the Meetin’ returns to Tyrian—unless it’s handed to ye by another talyn, and ye know how often that happens.”

“What choice do I have? Ristaiel’s right. If I reveal that Lian Kynsei is here prior to the Meeting, half the domains in the Alliance will think I’m up to something. If I don’t reveal it, and they find out—and they’re going to find out eventually—then what? Ristaiel’s already in a panic. Can you imagine the reaction of the mountain lairds? Or your neighbors to the north? We’re barely on speaking terms with the Sherbourne. I could pass the Meeting to the Alwynns—”

“Oh, that won’t look suspicious at all.”

“Then you.”

“Hasn’t been long enough since last we hosted. You know the rules.”

“Hang the rules,” Aralt said. “I need to talk to Veryl Alwynn.”

“He ain’t the only one ye needs talk to.”

“Oh, you are begging for a broken jaw, man.” Aralt playfully shook a finger at him. “Leave my relationship with Alira out of this.”

“Oh, ’tis a relationship again, is it? That’s progress. My wife will be well pleased to hear that. Alas. I hear hearts breakin’ from here to—”

“Meddler,” Aralt muttered. He leaned back into the window frame, pulling his knees up almost to his chest, his fingers laced together in front of his shins. Another successful toss brought additional cheers from below.

“I saw the way ye danced wi’ Alira Alwynn during Twelfth Night. The Short Month was far too short for the two o’ ye. When do we hang the weddin’ garland?”

“We are not hanging the wedding garland,” Aralt told him. “And you are not going to spread rumors—about that or about what I do about Lian. I don’t even know what he wants to do yet.” Or what he wants from me.

Elon sat back, obviously disappointed by the lack of information. Thus thwarted, he shifted back to the original topic. “Meetin’ aside, if ye are to go to Askierran, wait until after I finish with our lad, Harlyk, and his twee birthday party so Verin and I can go with you. Do that at least.”

“I’ll consider it.” Just then, Aralt wanted only to surrender to the warmth of the casement. He’d slept only a handful of hours, and those badly on the bench in his study; the warmth of the sun and the crackling, low-burning fire had nearly lulled him to sorely needed sleep.

Elon turned in his chair, head tilted to the side. “Did ye hear somethin’, just now? It sounded like music.”

“Music? No,” Aralt said, stretching his back. He swung his feet to the hardwood floor, suspicious that Elon was up to playing matchmaker again. Could a man not dance with a woman at Twelfth Night or Midsummer without someone hanging the wedding garland? He wondered what Alira would think of such talk…found himself troubled to realize she would embrace the idea as warmly as she embraced him. Worse, he didn’t dislike the notion himself. Just not now!

“There it is again. From the other room.”

The other room where Lian lay sleeping.

“You haven’t a subtle bone in your body, Elon. If you want to see him, just say so.”

“Ye shut the door on me earlier.”

True enough, Aralt had to admit. But Elon was not one to be deterred. It was easy to forget what a novelty the Kynseis were to others. Why, they were just people, like any other people. Uniquely gifted, yes, and endowed by their Creator in ways that often defied explanation…even alien, to the uninitiated…but people who laughed and ate and made babies in the natural way. To refuse Elon an introduction, however brief, would have been most discourteous, so he nodded his assent, reluctantly leaving the narrowing shaft of sunshine at the window.

The large cat stretched out on the bed warbled as they entered, yellow eyes flashing with curiosity for their intrusion. The bedcovers had been sloppily turned back, and the boy…. Aralt stepped past Elon, pulse quickening. The green drapes at the open casement twisted in the afternoon breeze. Before the window, its wide, tall back to them, sat the ponderous, carved armchair that had been on the other side of the room. A tangle of plum and white tartan blanket spilled over worn red upholstery, and between the stubby wooden chair legs Aralt could see one foot dangling free.

Tucked into the crook of the lad’s right arm lay one of the shika kittens, a puff of pale fur like a rain cloud against a curious plaid night sky. The other kitten sprawled sleepily on an edge of blanket on the floor, rounded belly rising with small, contented breaths. Lian’s left hands lay curled against his chest. That was one difference. Aralt counted six slender fingers, marking digital webbing. The swelling from frostfire had decreased already, the angry blisters healing at an unnatural rate.

“Lian?” Aralt spoke softly, reluctant to startle the lad from his peace the way he had the previous night.

Black eyes fluttered open, his gaze shifting from Aralt’s familiar face to the taller man beside him. Lian blinked, his head lolling to one side. A wave of ebony hair fell across hollow cheekbones mottled with bruises. Aralt wondered how he had found the strength to creep out of bed, let alone drag the chair across the woven rug to its present location.

Elon was uncharacteristically silent. Incredibly, he lowered himself to one knee. That seemed to get the boy’s attention, and he unwound from his nest enough to peer into the new face before him. The kitten stretched into motion, yawning its way into a vigorous purr.

“Kavistra.”

Aralt cocked an eyebrow at the title of honor Elon bestowed so freely on the boy. A Believer, Elon knew the distinction between one that was soul-touched and the one that was elevated above all the rest. Never had he seen Elon bow to anyone. Lian had said nothing; he had simply looked at Elon with his deep, large eyes and the man had…melted.

“No…no, I’m Lian,” the boy told him, voice fuzzy with sleep. “Devailyn is kavistra. And you’re Elon of Enarra.”

“Aye. How…?” His gaze flicked briefly to Aralt and back.

“Aralt told me. He wrote about you. In letters. To me.”

Elon drew back his shoulders and lifted his chin. “He wrote about me?”

Lian nodded, yawning without shame. “He said you kept the Faith. I knew I’d like you. Deep peace to you.” His eyes fluttered closed.

“Deep peace, sullivan,” Elon said softly.

Little dark-eyed one. Fitting. Born to a northern clan, the boy might well have inherited such a moniker. Aralt watched as Elon touched Lian’s arm, squeezing it in a fatherly manner. Too late to warn him. Elon was staring at his hand as he stood up. Aralt didn’t have to ask why.

“Is it well with ’im?” Elon whispered.

“He’s exhausted, Elon, that’s all,” he found himself whispering back.

“I thought he was fifteen.”

“Not until Midsummer. It’s…what he’s been through,” Aralt said, unable to explain. “And he’s a Kynsei. You know they’re different. Fifteen…it’s still young for them.”

“Aye, if you say so. Well, no matter. He should still be abed.”

That, Aralt imagined, would require additional contact in the form of picking him up. “He looks comfortable.”

“Nay, nay,” Elon continued to look at his hand. Aralt half expected to find it had changed hue or shape. “The gloaming comes soon, and ’is hands look due for a new dressin’. I’ve a recipe that’ll help take the color out o’ those bruises, too. I’d be honored if…?”

Aralt gave a half-bow, secretly thankful that Elon was willing to move the sleeping boy. He attended to the window, pushing aside the faded drapes to close the shutters. The bright afternoon sun squeezed into a twisted ribbon, then winked out. Both kittens were awake now, scampering under Elon’s feet as he settled the boy back into bed. He snapped his fingers at Aralt and pointed at a brown tedibehr propped up atop the bureau. Aralt tossed it over. It apparently satisfied whatever requirements were demanded of it, and Elon tucked it alongside Lian. Aralt ran his fingers lightly over the tartan blanket resting in a warm tumble on the chair, felt a tingle like a low current race up his arm. He watched as Elon folded six-fingered hands under the quilt, pausing to smooth the fringe of hair away from the fading gash on Lian’s forehead. So easy for a stranger. So hard for the one who had been named kervallyn. He did not understand why.