“What we remember of an event and what actually happened

are not always in agreement.”

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

Forfeiting the Meeting stirred a pot equal parts concern and conspiracy but accompanying Elon back to Enarra gave Aralt time to think—and to plan. Not that the trip provided succinct answers to any of life’s new questions.

The crossing was ill-favored with wind and rain, but the return voyage over the dark expanse of Loch Bethu was made under a dazzling, lavender sky—warm, wide, and clear, promising an honest spring the likes of which had not been seen in generations. No incapacitating ice storms this year, Aralt mused as he disembarked the Bonny Bright, glad of the distraction. He needed something other than air sickness to focus on.

Snow still hugged the craggy peaks north of Port Burverr, where the threat of heavy weather remained in the brooding highlands. The mountains would brew at least one more howling blizzard before a thaw took hold and the lower reaches of the glacier receded for the summer. In the valleys below, though, eager, spinning windflowers already carpeted the rolling land with yellow bows amid tufted grass, and the first tender shoots of winter wheat graced the fields. Beyond the walls of the harbor town, where the strong scent of freshwater mussels and fish did not overpower the senses, the scent of spring would be intoxicating.

Ruskyn Munro was nowhere to be found. Aralt asked after him among the dockhands, sailors, and aircrew, and while everyone recognized his name—and half admitted to having seen him the night before—not a one could attest to his present location. Sila’s boiling spit. Not this again. Never timely, unless his very life depended on it, Munro had lately become quite the sloth. He would have fungus growing in his ginger hair ere long. Slinging his satchel over one shoulder, Aralt headed toward the livery, all the while trying to ignore the dip and rise of the boardwalk.

The port was quiet that time of day—a lull between the morning departures and the later day arrivals. Passing the Port Authority office, he paused to check the day’s posting. Five loads of raw lumber out to three different harbors, expendable meyr pelts (would that he could export the lot of the toothy buggers), brownroot ale, machinery to replace what had been lost when the refinery near Sylvan had burned, and crates of foodstuffs routed toward his newly formed garrison in northern Tyrian. With the highlands still locked in winter’s grasp, they would need to resupply before spring crept into the hills and glens.

His stomach rose nearly to his throat as he descended the office steps, an angry sick feeling washing up like a putrid tide. No amount of sailing time logged seemed to relieve his discomfort. Loch Bethu was bad enough, vast, and deep, more an inland sea than a lake. Sailing the Kell Sea, especially with spring approaching, was another thing altogether. Calculating the tides accurately required the experience of a rare breed of marr, seasoned sailors with a keen sense of how best to negotiate with what some believed was the living entity of the Kell. Aralt’s uncle had been such a one, not that his adventures had inspired Aralt to follow him. Not in that way. No. The voyage south to Askierran would be hell for him if they could not secure air transport. That, in turn, would be a different sort of hell.

“G’day, m’lord.” The gap-toothed esri keeper—a Sherbourne by birth, with that accent—grinned up at him. “I seen the Bonny Bright comin’ ’cross the canal and I’ve readied Tabric for ye. A right gentleman, that animal. Been a pleasure tendin’ ’im.”

“You’d be the first to say so but thank you.” Gentleman was not a word usually associated with his cantankerous stallion. The owner of that livery had twice petitioned for a spring breeding of his two best mares to Aralt’s flame-coated esri. Both were said to be dependable twin producers, a desirable trait in a broodmare.

“Is Russ Munro about?” Aralt asked.

“Oh, ’e is about, m’lord, surely.”

“But not at the livery?” Aralt guessed, trying not to let his irritation show.

“Nay, sir, nay, ’e is not. In town, I reckon.” The groom’s mop of copper hair, brighter and cleaner than Russ’s red locks ever were, bounced as the man nodded his head.

“I’ll come around shortly,” Aralt said, handing off his leather watchcoat and travel bag. The day was warm enough for shirtsleeves. He shrugged into his baldric and settled his sword against his hip. “Tell your employer I’ll have a look at your stock before I leave.”

“Aye, k’talyn,” the man beamed, obviously drawing a positive conclusion. His gait approached a merry jig as he trotted away.

Aralt flicked open his pocket watch, checking it against the clock tower at the center of town. Spot on. He was still ahead of schedule—a wonder when one’s travels depended so heavily on the winds. He tucked the vintage timepiece back into a vest pocket. A minor delay for the sake of the mares could be allowed. They would likely qualify among the better stock in the region. If not, the next generation would.

He left the boardwalk, angling away from the harbor. His stomach still churned, but it was the leg wobbles he sought to ease. And there remained the small matter of Munro’s whereabouts. The secondary streets east of the market district had likely swallowed his appointed riding companion. Local tradition held that the Whistling Window brewed the best brownroot ale in Tyrian. Best. Aralt shuddered. A repugnant beverage, it nevertheless brought in a tidy revenue. Who was he to question the tastes of those who imbibed? He regretted letting Munro accompany him, but it was high time the man started earning his keep again. Besides, all his ranking Swords had been charged with other duties. Leine Baclan commanded Sylvan Keep in his place. To her, and to Aralt’s lieutenant governor, Cori Jame, had fallen the unenviable task of replying to the leaders of neighboring domains still trying to untangle Aralt of Tyrian’s sudden withdrawal as host of the Grand Meeting that year. They were up for the task and would say no more than was required. Perhaps less. Chiefly, mind your own flaming business you Nosey Netties. He relied on them further to handpick those individuals Aralt was willing to contend with at the Syth’s Eve celebration that he knew he could not weasel out of. While they handled the politics, Telta Rhianydd led the rangers in search of Shirahnyn stragglers, and Kolarin mac Kenna traveled south to Bethulyn to meet with the clergy there. Scanlin Ross was no doubt better equipped for such a mission, but Aralt could trust no one better to watch over Lian Kynsei during the boy’s convalescence.

The harbor town was more congested than the docks had been—noisier as well. Fair weather meant easy travel for homesteaders and nearby villagers, and Port Burverr had long offered opportunities for commerce. With Syth’s Eve fast approaching, the luminary shops were choked with customers looking for new lamps, slow-burning oils, and decorative candles. Likewise, the butchers, bakers, and sweetshop owners would be hard-pressed to fill all the orders in time. Not this year. Rumors of Lian’s arrival had preceded Aralt into Port Burverr, and now, several days after he and Elon had judiciously confirmed the news, six-pointed kavis symbols were everywhere—on the lintels of doors, painted on shutters, stitched into awnings and sailcloth and clothing. Stars, stars, more stars. The very heavens would be jealous. Lamp oils and beverages were tinted blue and bicolor candles, twists of blue and silver, crowded shop displays. Star-shaped pastries—dusted in sparkling blue and silver sugars—were all the rage. It all seemed a trifle excessive, but it beat the alternative.

Aralt climbed the steps of the city’s modest kirke, taking in the view the high porch provided. No need to check within or bother the resident shepherd. Munro would not be found within a place of worship unless carried in dead. Ten years before, he almost had been. In those days there had been no confectionery, no colorful flapping awnings, or candle shops. Just a scantly-populated shipping town, crucial only in its location as a port on Loch Bethu. All had been quiet when Teren Glynn led troops into the area, the depleted garrison anxiously awaiting reinforcements, but the enemy’s attack was swift and vengeful. Casualties were high; many were missing. Before day’s end, most of the old port had been burned out, leaving rows of dilapidated frame buildings smoldering under a heavy autumn sky.

Survivors took refuge in the stone kirke, uncertain of the night, less certain there would be a tomorrow. The prayers of the faithful ushered in the night even as the Naharasii set pools of everlight aglow at the outskirts of town—bonfires to ward away the spirits of the newly dead. He had seen men pray before battle before, had prayed himself, but never had their situation seemed more dire, or the Creator deafer. That night, he had crouched in the bell tower, watching the city burn, an arrow nocked in his crossbow. Below, possibly among the dead they had yet to recover, was Russ Munro, unclaimed son of one of Commander Glynn’s dishonored dead. Earlier, as the heat of the fire distorted their vision, Russ and Aralt had been back to back, swords flashing, crystal chiming with every blow. A berserker’s rage made Russ as much a danger as the enemy, and Aralt had been forced to put some distance between them. Something volatile ignited in a nearby building, spewing debris over the street, separating them for what he feared was the last time. Ever. Scanlin Ross came to relieve Aralt’s watch before the gloaming, but he did not leave. They pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, and awaited the dawn.

“Ye fought well against the Horror, Wolf,” Scanlin told him, calling him by the nickname he could not fail to like. “Commander Glynn saw ye. He’s well pleased.”

Little else could have made him feel good at that point. He only hoped he’d live to tell his father. Fharyl syr Tremayne had not been happy about his oldest son going to fight a war against heathen cannibals so far from home.

“Best take ye some rest whilst sleep’s to be had.”

“I’m not tired, Commander.”

“Ye will be.”

“What’s happened?” They were already outnumbered. The Naharasii had come up out of the ground, screeching and clicking, their faces hidden beneath flesh masks, a seething horde instilling panic even among seasoned warriors. Scanlin looked directly at him, speaking words with a gravity that pierced Aralt’s stomach.

“Maccure fell. He’ll nae take his place in battle today.”

“But…he’s Second Sword. He—”

Scanlin shook his head. “Nay, lad. You are Second, now.”

He had no words to meet the news. True, he had aimed for Sword rank, had pierced the lower echelon, but he was only nineteen years old! At last, he nodded, knowing that he needed Scanlin’s counsel more than ever. “What should I do?”

“Tonight? I suggest ye stay on your knees.” And by that, Aralt knew that his commander and arms master—his fellow Sword—meant he should pray. He had rarely been one to disobey an order.

Their reinforcements arrived by way of seven ships from across the Loch Bethu: Elon Verela, talyn of Enarra even then and a vocal supporter for Tyrian’s liberation, led the armada which included a host of Tyrian highlanders who had been forced to flee their land earlier that year. The enemy fell back, and back, and back until Glynn’s forces gained the advantage through sheer numbers and some well-timed jiggery-pokery, driving the Naharasii into the tunnels they had dug beneath the fjord. The rolling of the drums became the thunder of Aralt’s heartbeat, the keening of the pipes his boiling blood. It had not been the last battle, but it had been a grand one, showing courage enough to rally many a native son to march under a foreigner’s banner, all for the sake of winning back their beloved homeland.

They found Munro the following morning, unconscious in the cellar under the crumbling timbers of the Whistling Widow, a dozen of the enemy dead around him. He hadn't been right in the head since. Not that he had been entirely right before that.

But there was no sign of Munro or his shaggy, red-ticked mare amid the throng that fine, bright day. Perhaps he was celebrating old times. Aralt sighed. If he had to go into any of the more disreputable drinking establishments to flush his old friend out, the wretched sot would be face-first in the vilest smelling manure heap Aralt could find.

A wave of shimmering fabric across the plaza caught his attention. Amid fluttering banners, windsocks, and sailcloth, the intricate blend of a dozen different threads and glittering starbeads proclaimed Shirahnyn! He had seen a thousand blends of tartan, paisley, stripes, and shepherd checks over the years, but only south of Askierran’s borders had he seen anything to match the chaotic blend of hues in the fabric now draped from a merchant’s awning, undulating in the warm breeze. Aralt descended the kirke’s front steps and headed into the crowd like a warrior into battle. People halted in mid-stride to allow him passage across the cobblestone plaza. The purveyor of cloth looked more than a little surprised when Aralt ripped down the offending material and thrust it under the man’s hawk-like nose.

“Where did you get this?”

“Eh?” the man blinked, grabbing for the cloth. His fingers closed on empty space. He adjusted a broad-brimmed hat that had fallen forward over his eyes. A curling mass of black hair spun about his protruding ears. “That’s fine yard goods you’re puttin’ in knots there, mister.”

Aralt flipped one end of the fabric over his shoulder and leaned against the counter. Starbead trim tinkled musically. “I asked you a question.”

“So? People been askin’ me questions all mornin.’ If you ain’t buyin’, let go the goods.”

Aralt flipped the fabric out of reach a second time. The children in a neighboring booth giggled and pointed. They had visited a luminary shop, their hands encrusted in blue and green wax gloves. “I can’t buy what you’re forbidden to sell, you ken?”

The man snorted in reply. He leaned heavily on the counter, jutting his chin out. Whiskers that refused to be a proper beard stood at every angle from his face. Aralt was reminded of Deyr Evarr and pitied the youth what he might have to look forward to as he matured. Maybe they were related.

“I’ll sell goods as I please, thanks so much,” the merchant sneered. “That’s me own private merchandise and you’ll have to cut it free ’fore I won’t try sellin’ it for every piece o’ jewel it’ll bring.”

When Aralt stabbed his dagger into the wooden table, the merchant squawked like a startled hen, the brim of his felt hat crumpling in his grip. He looked from the twisted green blade to Aralt’s green eyes, then back again. Too late, he realized his customer…wasn’t.

“Fool,” a nearby vendor cackled. “You’d best be more curt’ous to the governor when you’re breakin’ ’is laws. Deep peace to ye, syr Tremayne.”

The man blanched, choking down whatever he had been about to say like it was a mouthful of sand. His gaze shifted between the offending cloth and the marathis blade. He clutched his hat against his chest, fingers drumming as he struggled to make an apology. The children laughed harder. One of them flung a wax finger at the merchant. It plopped on the counter. Aralt glanced down briefly, taking in the ancient insult. Middle finger. An admirable, if offensive, choice.

“If m’laird likes it that m-much—” the little man stammered, keeping his voice low.

“Like has nothing to do with it,” Aralt assured him, twisting the colorful fabric into a tangled heap between them. The delicate keen of crystal could be heard as he slid his dagger back into leather at his side. He didn’t care who heard them. The more the better if this was more than mere happenstance. “Unless you’ve paid all your import taxes—and my predecessor was very rigorous about implementing them, as I recall—this is contraband.”

“Import taxes? Here? It’s but cloth, syr Tremayne, and fine stuff at that. Look at all the work what gone into it. Look at the vibrant hues! These are deep-water starbeads harvested from the temperate zone around the archipelago province of—”

“Paid a lot for it, did you?”

“Paid more than…” He let his words go. Vendors and patrons on every side had closed in to hear more about it. Not just the children were laughing.

“You know, if you’d said your dear old gran had woven it herself in the fashion of the South, it might have been the end of it. Too bad. Where did you get it?”

“I’m a travelin’ merchant, syr Tremayne.”

“You’ve been to Shirahnyn lands?”

“Ain’t traveled so much as that. I acquired it on the sunrise side o’ the Lake…” the man sputtered.

“Where?” Aralt brushed fingers on his knife hilt again.

“Ardorryn!”

Aralt recalled what Deyr said about when he was in Ardorryn with the fire brigade. Rumors of a Shirahnyn ship moored in the capital. “Ardorryn is known for a lot of things, merchant. Weaving starbead cloth is not one of them. Who sold it to you? When?”

“I don’t know! Before the last snow, some cycles past now.”

Aralt wiggled his fingers for more information

The man’s nostrils flared at the interrogation. He ground the words out. “Another merchant, I tell you. I don’t remember his name. I meet too many—”

Aralt’s blade slid upward.

“A merchant!” the man squeaked, dropping his hat. One of the children darted forward, diving under the table after it. “By the six points of the Star, I swear it.”

Such was not an oath to be taken lightly. The gathered crowd took to muttering amongst themselves, giving Aralt time to consider. It seemed unlikely that a Shirahnyn had managed to infiltrate some small town so well as to have gone unnoticed, but then he wouldn’t have anticipated Shirahnyn burning down a northern gas refinery, either.

“This merchant. I suppose this merchant just took this out of his packs and shook it out for you to see? Are you sure he wasn’t wearing it around his perfumed blond head?”

“He was an Ardori, I tell you. Owns a curiosity shop near the riverfront in Beggar Town.”

“That’d be Ognir Nonnel,” a neighboring vendor offered. “’is brother’s the grave digger in Gillemy parish. Comes by all sorts o’ curious merchandise in ’is business.”

It was Aralt’s turn to blink in surprise. Disgusted groans punctuated the air around them. Open trade with the Shirahnyn was suspect enough, given the political atmosphere of the last few years. Buying a dead Shirahnyn’s clothing seemed somehow sinful.

“Ooowee,” yodeled an all-too-familiar voice as Ruskyn Munro clumped into the crowd. The faint odor of brownroot clung to him like too much cologne, but his pale eyes were bright chips without a trace of red. He grinned at the merchant. “Ain’t this a perty sight.”

“You.” The merchant wagged a finger at Munro. “You mighta warned me.”

Aralt felt his pulse returning to normal. His errant scout had not been quite as errant as he thought.

“I tol’ ye to warm a kettle o’er this when I seen it yesterday.”

“You didn’t say why. Eh? Hey! Who took my hat?”

“Sorry,” Munro clucked apologetically, shooing the children—including the one wearing the hat—past them to the safety of the market square. The hat was soon whizzing back and forth over the heads of the busy crowd. Munro took the merchant by the arm. “Kin I run ’im in all wrapped up in his bangly grave cloth to save time?”

“Grave cloth? But, they burn their…” He looked up at Aralt. “You wouldn’t…not for this…would you?”

“Wouldn’t have your life? More like your vendor’s license, unless you can demonstrate to the local authorities that you weren’t familiar with city ordinances,” Aralt told him, stroking his beard thoughtfully, pitching his words more to Munro than to the merchant. Ginger locks bounced in agreement. “Of course, they are posted plainly at the Port Authority office as well as at the local magistrate’s office, and there is the small matter of the contract you signed when you leased this space out. You did sign a contract, didn’t you?”

“It’s hereabouts, if you’d just let me…syr Tremayne? ’Twas an honest mistake, I—”

“Explain it to the magistrate. Russ? I’ll be at the livery.”

“Haves it, yeah?” Munro wrapped the length of cloth about his head and looped it across his face like a Shirahnyn lady’s bridal veil. He waggled the fringed end seductively.

Aralt shuddered. He wondered how many sea-hives had been pried open by young slaves to get those starbeads. How many drowned in the process of harvesting them. The merchant was right about one thing: he’d have taken in a small fortune once he had found a buyer that knew the value of cloth such as this.

“Doesn’t suit you, Red,” he told Russ as he walked away. “Just don’t give it to Deyr, you ken?”

Russ grinned. “Give?”