It took a moment for Aralt’s eyes to adjust to the interior of the house after riding so long in the bright sunlight.

He lowered his rucksack to the tiled floor of the foyer and tried the nearest light switch to no avail. The last fire had dwindled to ash in the hearth, and the condition in his office was no better. An unsorted bundle of correspondence had been left on his desk. That wasn’t like Perryn. For that matter, it wasn’t like Perryn not to meet him unless something was terribly amiss. His heart skipped a beat. Sweet Creator, if lingering illness had assailed Lian…. But, no. Were that the case, he would have been met on the road earlier, and the sound of faint laughter would not be emanating from the direction of the kitchen. The smell of supper reassured him further. He checked the time, cursing the delay the merchant had caused him. As he neared the private dining room at the back of the house, he could distinguish voices: Perryn’s Lake District inflection, infused as it was by lowland influences; Gitom and Susa, squabbling over a recipe for Kierran sweet bread; and Scanlin Ross’s low, fuzzy brogue trying to clarify ingredients. Higher pitched voices meant the children were there, and mingled with them, a reedy alto with a completely different accent. Lian.

Aralt pushed through the swing doors, and the room fell silent.

“Syr Tremayne.” Perryn gathered himself as he stood, hastily setting aside his napkin. “I wasn’t aware you had returned.”

“Apparently.” The table had been set for an intimate gathering and, were he to judge by the assortment of empty dishes, been thoroughly enjoyed—without him. “I trust there’s more of whatever that was?”

Gitom and Susa exchanged worried glances before shooing their younglings away, gathering dishes as they fled. Aralt noticed that their daughter was slower to depart than her brothers, her attention firmly riveted on the guest she was being forced to leave behind. Perryn excused himself as well, alluding to household duties awaiting his attention. Even the large cat that had been sleeping under the table ambled out of the way. Scanlin was the last to take his leave, dabbing at the corner of his mouth before placing the table linen beside his empty plate.

“Fair winds, syr Tremayne?”

“Indeed. A minor magisterial delay at Port Burverr,” he said, slicing a piece of bread from the loaf on the table. “I didn’t expect to miss dinner.”

“Susa and Gitom will set it right, I reckon.” Scanlin rested a hand on Lian’s shoulder. “I’ll be off, then. No doubts the two o’ ye have plenty to say to one another.”

For a long moment Lian did nothing but stare, dark eyes inscrutable pools. He was still pitifully thin, cast-off clothing failing to fit properly on any part of his anatomy. At least his hair no longer fell in a tangled braid to his buttocks, and his face was no longer the color of a summer storm. A shaft of sunlight fell halfway across the room, warming the scene, but the central theme remained intact. Behold the half-starved Kavistra of Askierran! Behold the hope of the nation!

The sick feeling in Aralt’s stomach returned. He poured himself a glass of water from the ewer on the sideboard and lifted it toward Lian in a wordless salute. “Was this really all they could come up with for clothes? Where did Perryn even find those?”

“I found them. In a wardrobe,” Lian told him, self-consciously rearranging both the shirt and the waistcoat to no avail. “I fancied them.”

“So did my brother,” Aralt told him. “But he was twice your size. You’re fit to hang in the fields to scare birds, and I don’t think you’d be very good at it. They’d think you were a winter-stripped sapling. Gitom needs to feed you more sweet porridge and scones.”

Enough cloth had been piled in Lian’s chambers to outfit a dozen boys, and even had no tailor been available, the gaggle of children that had just vacated the dining room were constantly outgrowing one item of clothing or another. Even the younger boys possessed more substance than Lian.

“Are you going back out?”

Aralt cocked an eyebrow in question. “Why would you think so?”

“You’re still wearing your coat. And your sword.”

He shrugged out of both, folded his coat over the back of a chair, and let his sword down with a clunk on the table.

“No wine for you, I imagine?” he asked, taking two goblets from the cabinet, hoping the boy would not mind the tarnish winter’s disuse had caused. “Murith, then? Sweetwine is better for one your size. Or would you take tea? No?”

“Murith is fine, thank you.”

He placed both bottles back in the cooler then extended a silver goblet toward his youthful charge, intending to frame a suitable, if belated, welcome. Lian didn’t give him the chance.

“They’re here, aren’t they?” Worry shadowed a face at once so familiar and that of a stranger. “They followed me.”

“Shirahnyn?” Aralt guessed.

“No. Well, yes. I mean the j’thirrin.”

Aralt took a stiff swallow of his drink and poured another. Heaven help them if shadow assassins were after the boy. He kept his tone level. “I can’t speak to that specifically, only that we have evidence of Shirahnyn passing through the region. A merchant was trying to sell starbead cloth in the market earlier, and we found other contraband in his belongings, but he hardly seems the type to be an operative for them. What do you know of the j’thirrin?”

Lian didn’t answer. Instead, he examined the scabbard and hilt of Aralt’s sword, tracing wolf’s-head quillons with delicate fingers. After another moment of silence, Aralt set the lad’s drink on the table and took a seat, weighing the numerous benefits of gentle interrogation. He tried one opening, then another. Lian remained impassive. None of his training had prepared him for this.

“The Shirahnyn call them Soulless,” Lian said at last. “They belong to Akahan.”

By the boy’s expression, the word tasted bitter, and he reckoned Lian knew more than he was saying. Not that he was saying much. That wasn’t how Aralt remembered him—not always. He calculated for age, for environment, for missing years brimming with dark mystery.

“Are you going to kill them?” Lian asked.

“Are you going to drink what I poured for you or just stand there and look at my flaming sword?” No sooner had the words left his mouth than he wished he could swallow them back. No one carried a weapon into the Kynsei home in Kyrrimar. To do so was beyond rude.

“Starbead cloth takes ages. They do it all by hand, not like milled cloth.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s beautiful. And expensive.”

“What about the slaves that harvest it?”

Lian tipped his head to one side. “Slaves? It’s a guild. They train from an early age to swim so deeply.”

Aralt took another sip of wine to hide his surprise. “Indeed.”

“Why are Shirahnyn goods contraband?”

“Old Tyrian law,” he offered obliquely. One he had never seen fit to revise. He wondered how they had gotten from j’thirrin to a guild of starbead harvesters of which he had no knowledge.

“Tyrian is a long way from the archipelago.”

“True enough, but there’s no little enmity between Askierran and lonn Tirehl’s faction. I realize he doesn’t speak for the nation, but what ill will remains has carried into much of the North, even further than this. You know all of this, surely. The question seems more one of what else do you know?”

Lian’s hesitation turned quickly to vague denial, and the boy made no further attempt to answer Aralt’s questions. Blazes. He had pushed too hard, too fast. But there was something the boy knew. Something he needed to find out for himself. Time to change tactics again. He took a sip of wine, then set the goblet aside. “Why did you ask about the—”

“Is the blade really green?”

“Aye. It’s marathis. You’ve seen it before.”

“Have I?”

“More than once. You will, no doubt, recall the trouble that got me into.” By Lian’s expression, he did. Aralt considered his next volley of words. “It would seem we are playing a game of words, you and I. It’s your turn.”

Lian did not need to be asked the question again. “The j’thirrin were following me. Can I have one?” He pointed at the sword.

“What? No. Tell me more,” Aralt tried again, keeping his tone neutral, even casual. Inside, though, his heart pounded. What the jig did Lian Kynsei want with a sword? Then again, he had to admit he would not want to face down adversaries as tenacious as shadow assassins without some sort of weapon. “It’s important that we know how many of them were following you.”

“All of them. I just want to be able to defend myself…properly.”

“That’s my job,” Aralt told him, then wished he hadn’t. No sense dwelling on past failures. He cleared his throat. “All of them would be how many? Enough to be afraid of, it would seem. How did you avoid them?”

“I hid,” the boy said simply. He ran his fingers along the sword pommel, then glanced at Aralt. “Otherwise, I think I should have gotten here sooner, don’t you?”

“You’ve been missing for almost three years, Lian.”

Once more, grave silence met his words as the boy consulted his fingers, as if counting the seasons out for himself. “You have Tovvian esri here,” the boy said absently. “Finest bloodline there is. Your father raised them. He would have loved the brindled colt with the crescent moon on his face.”

Try as he might, Aralt could not make the connection, but he did his best to keep up. “That he would. Though he’s not much to look at this season. Good bloodlines, but if he doesn’t grow we’d need to stand him on a hay bale to breed him.”

Lian squirmed. “He might surprise you.”

“And he might grow wings and fly, but I doubt it. You still admire esri, then?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Aralt shrugged, working his boots off with his feet. They dropped to the hardwood floor with a thunk. “Some people are afraid of them.”

“Yes, well, people are sometimes afraid of what they don’t understand.”

Aralt wondered if they were talking about esri or about Lian himself. An esri sprouting wings was as likely as the boy ever attaining the great height of his late father. No sooner had the thought completed itself then Lian drew a sharp breath. Aralt cursed silently. The boy recoiled further. How easily he had forgotten, in the midst of all their banter. A careless thought like that probably resonated like thunder to one as sensitive as Lian was purported to be. He took another sip of wine, a long one this time, quieting his thoughts. It was only then he realized that the discomfort he had felt upon the boy’s arrival had diminished. Why had he not noticed before? He reined in conjecture lest he betray himself further. Knowledge of the esri suggested a public appearance. He wondered about the wisdom of that, and what effect it had had, but trusted Scanlin would not have put the boy into any danger. The household chapel would be filled with guilty Believers, come eventide prayers, and by the Eighth Day…. Perhaps limited access would not be inappropriate under the circumstances. Let the village kirke take the overflow the next time a shepherd rode into town.

“Forgive me, syr Tremayne,” Lian told him as he wrapped too many long fingers around the silver cup. The sweet drink left behind a faint purple mustache that matched a bruise at the base of the boy’s throat. “I forget my manners.”

“As do I.” Aralt balanced his goblet on one knee, running his free hand through his hair. “It was a long ride from Port Burverr.” And twice as long in Russ’s company.

“You’re hungry and fatigued from your journey, and I shouldn’t be wasting your time talking about esri.” Lian cocked his head sideways, scrutinizing Aralt with an annoyingly perceptive expression. The air rippled with static, with a keen awareness that defied explanation. He caught the faint scent of cinnamon and wondered what Gitom might be experimenting with in the kitchens. Lian returned his goblet to the table, executing a courtly bow before stepping backward to depart. “Your staff has been most kind to me. I should, um, leave you. To pray. For people and, um, their souls. Deep Peace to you.”

“And also to you….” Aralt said the words without even thinking. He noted Lian had not completed his departure, hopeful deep-set eyes glinting from beneath a shock of ebony hair. How big those eyes looked above sharply defined cheekbones. A smile edged Aralt’s lips, and he tilted his head slightly to the side, unable to mask his amusement but biting the side of his tongue to keep quiet. What sort of behavior was this for the next Kavistra of Askierran? Was this what he should expect from a lad who had lost his last chance to be a little boy? A Kynsei boy, he reminded himself, and one who might still be in the summer of his life when Aralt fell prey to the final winter.

Two could play this game.

“Come sit down, little crafty one.” Aralt pointed at the chair across from him. “You seem to have recovered your wits since last time we spoke. We should talk like adults, you ken? Would you rather go to my office? No? Come on, then. Sit.”

Lian obeyed. That was a curiosity in itself.

Aralt rolled up his sleeves and leaned forward. “Now, then. What is it you require of me, k’talyn Kynsei?”

“Require?” Lian asked, openly suspicious.

“Aye, require. You obviously don’t need a guardian any longer, if you’ve traveled so far on your own—eluding assassins, no less. A most impressive feat, m’lad.”

“Thank you, but…”

“Modesty suits one of your clan, of course, but in this instance you should be proud of your accomplishments. We would all like to know more about…how you fared. But there’s time for that, later. For now, tell me of your plans for the future.”

“I…thank you, but…I can’t—I don’t—” the boy stammered, a nervous smile playing at his lips. “My plans?”

“For Askierran, aye. I have stacks of missives from clergy and chancellors in Kyrrimar and beyond containing countless questions that need to be addressed. You’ve had time to think about how best to reclaim what’s yours by birth and by rights. You are certain you’re intended to be kavistra?”

Lian’s tentative smile faded; he dropped the silver goblet, spilling sweet wine like blood. He leaned forward to retrieve the rolling cup, fumbling it again. One of the big cats rushed into the room then, warbling her concern.

“Kavistra?” Lian choked, steadying himself against the tabletop as he pushed back his chair. Denial flooded the room. “I am not kavistra!”

Aralt winced.

“Sit down, Lian. Come on, just sit. A jest, m’lad—and not one of my better,” Aralt said as gently as he knew how. Jest had turned to joust, and neither could claim victory. He reached an open hand toward Lian. “Now it is I who apologizes.” He hoped Lian appreciated just how difficult that was for him to admit.

Lian straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin. “And you don’t like it one bit, do you? I knew you didn’t mean it. Not really. Not so much as…didn’t my father ever tell you that you cannot deceive a Kynsei?”

“Can’t I?” Aralt smirked. Who do you think taught me?

“You were baiting me.”

“And what do you call what you did just a moment ago, little sneakshadow?” Aralt rummaged through drawers until he found the burgundy banquet napkins. He threw one across the table, and they began to mop up the spilled wine. “You haven’t the least inclination to leave me to my rest. Or my dinner.”

“Nay,” Lian argued, once again righting the cup. Splayed fingers displayed the digital webbing said to be inherited from ancient Riahi blood. “It isn’t so much you’re tired as you’re, well, you’re…slightly unwell.”

“Oh?” Aralt tossed the sopping linens into an empty water ewer before drying his hands. He topped of his glass. This ought to be good.

“You feel sick because you didn’t eat before departure,” Lian said, his words tumbling out of his mouth, “and that’s because if you had eaten you would have retched on board the ship, and you didn’t eat after you came into port because you would have retched at the livery, which would be unseemly for a man of your station. Doesn’t wine burn on an empty stomach, though?”

“I never told you…” Aralt’s words fell short after erupting unbidden from his lips. Damn clever, and damn sensitive little Kynsei! Crafty he had called the boy moments before—it was fitting. It always had been. He set the wine decanter down with a heavy clack, watching the light strike sparkles from the cut glass.

“I’m sorry.” Those words came too easily from Lian. He pressed wine-stained hands to either side of his head. “I’m not doing it on purpose. You…you’re different. You always were, but not like this. It’s—it’s like you’re talking even when you aren’t.”

“Do you—”

“Hear everything? Of course not! That would be obscene…” the words trailed off. Lian covered his eyes and drew his feet up onto the chair. He offered a muffled apology.

“It’s all right,” Aralt said. They both knew it was a lie.

As carefully guarded as he was in thought and speech, still he was a man of some impulse and always had been. Had Lian always been so aware of him—of his very thoughts? Aralt was astute enough to recognize Lian was everything his blood would have him be. Kavsa. Soul-touched. His parents called it a blessing. Watching Lian at that moment, tucked up onto a chair like a frightened shika, Aralt had his doubts. He took another sip of his wine. Tenyear, he thought, milder than the last of the bottle he and Elon had shared. And no, he wanted to say, good wine most certainly did not burn.

The boy gazed at him, eyes brimming with tears. Years stripped away, and he was the boy Aralt remembered. The boy of whom he had been so fond. “I am sorry.”

“You needn’t apologize for something you have no control over, Lian. Just remember that if a man doesn’t say something aloud, there is perhaps a reason,” Aralt told him, borrowing a phrase he had heard Endru say years before. He could not at that moment recall who was being chastised at the time.

“Not that. The shirt. Your brother’s shirt.” The embroidered collar twisted in his fingers. “I shouldn’t have worn it.”

“It’s just a shirt.” But they both knew it was a whole lot more.

Lian played with the sticky goblet next, turning it around and around in his hands. “I’ve always known.”

“Known what?”

“Why you mostly traveled by esri.”

“I like esri,” Aralt told him, his tone cautioning the boy again to mind his words. “I am—uncomfortable—on ships.”

Lian lifted an eyebrow in imitation of his host. “Hasn’t Perryn given you a remedy? Oh, you doubted…oh. I’m doing it again.” Lian swallowed, sinking back by degrees. “You were going to take me for a night flight over the Kell Sea. Why would you do that if you dislike airships so much?”

“Why does anyone do anything they don’t want to?” Aralt asked him. And why am I having this conversation with you right now?

“Because you made a promise?”

Indeed he had. And a night flight off the coast of Kyrrimar was the least of them. It seemed as good a time as any to address that fateful night. He drew a slow breath and exhaled. “Just so. And I would have done so if—”

“We could go now.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere. On a ship. Right now.”

“Nay.” Aralt shook his head. “We could not.”

“But—”

“I have no more desire to do so now than I did before!” The rise in pitch was unintentional. Lian could not draw back any further than he already had, but his thoughts hurled at Aralt, washing over him like a wave.

I used to call you my brother…

Aralt flinched, troubled by the intimacy of the thought, but Lian looked away, cheeks flushing. It was just as well. His head was beginning to throb. He rubbed damp eyes. The Aralt that Lian remembered had not been so guarded. So evasive. So self-conscious about something as trivial as travel sickness. Face it, Aralt told himself, you’ve become a bloody grown-up. The Aralt that Lian remembered would have relished every moment with his oath-brother, especially after such a long separation as they had endured. This Aralt, the one he suspected he was becoming without realizing it, seemed incapable of relishing every moment. He could not forget the ship voyage, nor the contraband Shirahnyn cloth, nor the mounting threat of j’thirrin, nor the mystery surrounding Lian’s disappearance and journey. He was not sure he even should forget about them, even for a moment. Before he could assemble his thoughts or speak again, though, Lian excused himself, saying he really did have prayers to attend to. The cat gave Aralt a withering look before trailing after him.

Aralt looked up when Scanlin slid a loaded plate across the table. “That could have gone better.”

“You were out there the entire time, weren’t you?”

“Far enough awa’ to be polite. Not sae far as not to come were I needed.”

Aralt wanted to tell him that he had been needed, all right, but it was a little late. He stirred the contents of his plate with a fork. Beef tips and gravy. Someone had had a successful hunt. He shoveled some into his mouth. “You could have warned me he was so…whatever he is. I hardly recognize him as the same boy, Grey. Has he said anything about Devailyn? Were they together?”

“He’s nae said.” Which was an answer in itself. “He’s more questions than answers.”

“So it seems.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Stay with him, will you? I don’t want him to be alone.”

“’Tisn’t me he wants for company tonight. Not really. What ails ye, Wolf? Why—”

“I don’t know!” The fork clattered on the table. He drew a calming breath. “I don’t know. I don’t think he likes me.” I don’t think I like him.

“Give him time to ken who ye be. Take the time to know him in turn.”

“He’s different.” Aralt could not put his finger on it, yet the fact remained.

“As are we all,” Scanlin told him as he left the dining room. “But what’s in the heart remains.”

Aralt bent his head into his hands, the image of Lian’s dark eyes lingering before him. Expressive eyes filled with a boy’s hopes and needs. And fear. Dark eyes turned into green ones, the face his brother’s as Kynlan vanished in the spray of the waterfall halfway down the Weeping Wall. He shook with the pain, squeezing his eyes tightly to banish the visions. But Lian was still there, his image fractured by the mists of time. The aroma of cinnamon had faded. The clock in the hall chimed. Gitom and his family would be on their way toward the little chapel at the heart of the manor house, waiting for Scanlin and Lian; it was that hour of the day, after all.