“Where there is faith, there is no need for explanation;

where there is none, no explanation will do.”

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

When the first-year student Aralt was evaluating dropped his weapon, he did not need to ask why.

It wasn’t the first time Lian had appeared in the practice arena with the stealth of a seasoned ranger, a talent which he seemed to possess in abundance. Their hands nearly touched as Aralt snatched up the clear crystal practice sword. Lian’s fingers closed on air, but for the amount of time it took in inhale and exhale, Aralt felt suspended, riveted by an almost imperceptible tone rising from the unTuned blade in his right hand. That simply didn’t happen. Crystal such as that used for common items—even weapons—lacked the characteristics to be Tuned. A good Jeweler would bet their reputation on it. If anyone else had noticed, they were polite enough—or fearful enough—not to comment. He performed several moulinets as Lian stepped clear; the crystal fell mute.

“This is no place for you,” he said, passing the sword to Kolarin as he led the way from the whispering group of adolescents. “Though, I suppose you did him a favor. We won’t waste any more time on swords if he drops one that easily.”

“I didn’t mean to—um…you know. I… Please don’t punish him on my account.”

“I assure you that was punishment enough.” He glanced over his shoulder at the shame-faced cub warrior. The others would never let him live it down.

“Gitom said Scanlin went to the village, but that I couldn’t go there on my own. Would you take me? Or…” He looked over his shoulder, then whispered, “Would you rather I stay in the house?”

“Stay in the…?” Yes, but it wasn’t going to happen. “No, of course not.” And no, he definitely was not taking Lian to where Scanlin was.

“Is it my clothes?” the boy asked, tugging at the baggy wool pullover he had paired with faded trews. Time and washing had diluted both from shades of blue to grey. He adjusted the tweed cap. “I picked these from the box Susa gave me. So that I’d look like I belonged. Did I lace the larrigans wrong? I asked Kateeri for help.”

“You did fine.” Lian was a right distraction no matter how he was dressed. “It’s just they—well, they don’t know you yet.”

“I’ve been to lessons with some of them.”

“I heard,” Aralt said.

Lian hung his head. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“Never apologize for being intelligent.” No matter how awkward it is being more insightful than the teacher. Or, in his case, belligerent. And bored. He had lost track of how many tutors his parents had engaged before sending him to study with Endru Kynsei. Even then he had not always been cooperative. “I’ve sent for a more…learned…instructor. A professor from Bethulyn who studied at Kyrrimar. She’ll no doubt be more familiar with the education you’ve already received and offer you greater challenges.”

Lian hunched his shoulders and sniffled. “Thank you?”

“In the meantime, we obviously need to find something to occupy your time—away from the practice grounds. Not that I think any of my troops would harm you, but you shouldn’t be wandering around. Given your station—”

“If you think so,” Lian said, trailing behind him, sniffling again.

When he was sure they were well out of earshot, Aralt asked, “Is it…is it well with you?” He had not found an opportunity to talk to the boy much since their uncomfortable reunion. Truth told, he had not taken time for any prolonged conversation. Avoidance seemed easier, and easy to justify given the demands of the swiftly changing season.

“No. I mean, yes. I’ve just been sneezing. Someone replaced the incense in your chapel with pepper.”

“I see.” No doubt the same pint-sized mischief maker that had piled snowballs in the ice locker and let a ravenjay loose in the house several weeks before. “Perryn will attend to it.”

“And the vesperals that were replaced with cookbooks? And all the candles are melted into stubs and there are pond woggles swimming in the baptismal font.”

Aralt waited for him to finish. “Anything else?” He hoped that the prayer ribbons adorning one wall had not been tied into bows again.

Lian shrugged. “That’s all I noticed. I was going to speak to the khiyerey, but I couldn’t find any clergy listed in your register.”

Aralt cleared his throat. That was because the garrison had no shepherd. The last one died…a while back. He could not recall quite when. Nice man. Older than the mountains. As he understood it, Scanlin had taken over much of the reading.

“I could just accompany Papa Grey to the parish kirke—”

Aralt raised an eyebrow in response. “He lets you call him ‘Papa Grey’?”

“I…guess. He didn’t say not to.” Lian went on merrily, as if calling Scanlin’s First Sword Papa Grey was the most natural thing in the world. “He said everything is in order there, and I haven’t been to town since—”

“No,” Aralt told him quickly, changing directions when he saw another group of cub warriors entering the yard. “I’ll have all your concerns seen to.”

“But you said I didn’t need to stay in the house.”

Aralt pressed on toward the stable. “That isn’t the issue.”

“You don’t have any clergy in this parish at all, do you? Aralt? Do you?” Lian ran after him. The boy’s voice fell to a whisper. “Are they unBelievers?”

“Not all of them,” Aralt muttered as he opened the stable door and shooed Lian in ahead of him.

For days he had been contemplating how he might make amends for their awkward reunion. He had made gestures he assumed Lian would appreciate, books being chief among them. A passion they both shared. He had granted almost unlimited access to the estate’s small library. As well as to Scanlin. No matter how much the household staff seemed enamored of the boy and willing to include him in whatever they were doing, Scanlin was best suited as a mentor. Kolarin had grudgingly assumed some of his commander’s duties this season—no matter the consternation demonstrated by cub warriors accustomed to a more nuanced form of training. Ultimately, Lian was Aralt’s responsibility—a situation he had been reminded of frequently over the past few days and one he still felt well out of his depth to remedy. What else could he do to connect without feeling he had to be the father he did not desire to be. Not. Yet. Not without support. Alira would know what to do. She always knew what to do when it came to this sort of thing. And when she did not, she’d set out on an adventure to clear her thoughts. Maybe she prayed. He supposed she did. Whatever it was, she usually returned refreshed and brimming with answers. He ran for much the same reason. Sky above and earth below, and the pounding of his heart. She did the same from the back of one of her beloved esri, her long hair streaming in the wind. He smiled to himself. It was another reason he loved her.

Esri.

There in the stable, beyond the eyes and ears of the curious, apart from any dissension brewing in Kyrrimar, a plan began to take form in Aralt’s mind, and he was well pleased.

“Come with me.”

Lian needed no coaxing. They walked the central aisle in companionable silence, a mismatched pair of footprints left in neatly raked sand. Stable mistress Jools poked her head from her cramped office situated in the hayloft. Judging by the state of her breeches and rumpled shirt, she had been mucking stalls alongside her stable crew. She hastily adjusted a paisley waistcoat and rolled her sleeves back into place, tucking wisps of long, dark braided hair back behind her ears. She spared a smile for Lian when he waved at her, offering Aralt a two-fingered salute before returning to what he guessed was a stack of invoices and inventories that would soon be on his desk. A harsh winter had depleted feed reserves, and with spring swiftly approaching, bringing with it younglings of all kinds, accommodations would need to be made.

Lian stopped at each byre in the foaling wing to watch suckling twins jostle for position until their mothers nipped them into place. Jools had fitted each with cinched blankets, warmth against fickle late-winter weather. A blue-merle mare in the end box stall sighed heavily, her tufted ears pinned back, tail twisting in agitation. She had kicked holes in all four walls.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” Aralt warned when Lian flipped the gate latch and waded into knee-deep bedding. “She’s likely to bite off your fingers.”

The esri lowered her angular, dragonesque head and took whatever it was he had hidden in his pocket, butting him gently before nuzzling his hair. Aralt leaned on the gate.

“Impressive. That mare hates everyone except Jools.”

“You would too if you’d been pregnant for almost two years.” The mare turned her head to watch as Lian stood on tiptoes to run his webbed fingers along her crested neck before gently probing her swollen belly. He pressed the side of his face against her rounded hip, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’m not sure, but I think she might be carrying triplets. Is that considered good luck here?”

“Only if they live,” Aralt said. Mortality was twice as high for anything more than the more common delivery of twins. He had best put Jools on notice. By the size of the mare, it wouldn’t be but a few days.

“They’re strong. She’s strong. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

Aralt led Lian to a separate paddock of adolescents behind the barn. Too young to breed, but old enough for training have commenced. Within, the crescent-faced esri colt Lian had taken a fancy to churned the ground into a muddy soup as he circled the pen, unbound crest hair streaming, tail carried like a shining banner. Aralt gave a sharp whistle. Three of the others spooked, tearing across the enclosure, snorting in agitation. Not so the brindled colt. He spun toward them on powerful hindquarters, head low, ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring. Aralt whistled again, and the colt whickered in response, pawing the earth with splay-toed hooves before sailing toward them in two long, powerful leaps that put half the seasoned mounts in Tyrian to shame. What he lacked in size, he made up for in style.

“Is this the one?”

“Oh, aye,” Lian breathed, his eyes burning with esri fever that made Aralt smile. “This is the one. He’s…magnificent.”

Lian offered up the remaining contents of his pockets. The esri devoured crumbled breakfast cake, fanged muzzle rooting between fence boards in search of more cached treats. Lian blew softly against the creature’s muzzle. The esri puffed back, whiskers twitching, understanding passing between them. Aralt leaned against the paddock rails, watching the two of them interact.

“Think you could handle such a slippery little worm?”

“Your father would have called it good sport,” Lian said lightly.

“He’s yours if you’ll have him,” Aralt replied, measuring the boy’s response.

Lian turned, dark eyes whirling wheels rimmed with gold. “You’re giving him to me?”

“You don’t want him?”

“Nay—I mean yes. I mean, I couldn’t ask…”

“You like the little poni better, don’t you? Keep your feet firmly on the ground.” Jools had been right about the gift animal being from fine stock. What she’d neglected to initially mention was that it was also the tiniest trotting beast anyone in the parish had ever laid eyes upon. “Well? Do you want this one? He’s yours if you’ll have him.”

For a moment Aralt thought the boy was going to leap into his arms with joy, but instead, Lian clambered right up six fence rails, hooked one leg through the top two boards, and hung precariously over the inside of the corral. Aralt grabbed the boy’s ankle to provide stability. He gritted his teeth as something akin to buzzing bees traveled down his arm, but they didn’t sting. The three other esri made their way back over, no doubt lured by the scent of the cake and oblivious to Aralt’s discomfort.

Lian yammered in excitement. “I—I want to ride him. But he’s really going to be mine? To keep? Forever? Like you’ve had Tabric since you were young?”

Aralt tried to release the tension in his arm without releasing the boy’s ankle. “Huh? Oh, you remembered that?”

“Of course. You told me all about him. First, he belonged to your uncle. Then to you, because no one else could ride him. Don’t you remember? I rode with you that one time, all the way to Linishael. You told him to be nice to me or your father would put him in a kettle…”

“…and the kavistra would eat him for supper,” Aralt finished. “You cried.”

Aralt was grateful when Lian slid both legs over the fence rail, gripping with his knees as he hung upside down. He slowly let go and the bees vanished. He shook his hand. Lian seemed nonplussed, hanging there, the esri nibbling his hair.

“I was six years old, and you didn’t have permission to leave Kyrrimar City with me. Tabric nearly tossed us both into the river. That didn’t make me cry. I laughed. I’m sure I laughed. I remember laughing.”

“Oh, you laughed all right,” Aralt told him, remembering how cold the water was when he, alone, landed on his backside amid flowering rushes and slimy yellow-lace algae. He spent the next hour scraping muck from his ears and trying to catch his recalcitrant mount as Lian squealed with delight. When they were both in the saddle again, Lian wrapped his small arms about Aralt’s sunburned neck and made him promise that they would ride again when next Aralt visited. That they would always be friends. And he had promised, for what else could he do when faced with such a bright, trusting child? His kervallys. His oath-brother. He returned the following year, but not under the best of circumstances.

Lian’s smile fell away. He pulled himself upright. “Have I said something wrong?”

Aralt shook his head roughly, reminding himself to breathe, banishing memories he was determined not to let ruin the moment at hand. “He’s called Keyva, if that suits you.”

“Keyva,” Lian repeated, tracing the crescent marking on the colt’s forehead. “Like the moon.”

“It was in the sky the night he was born.” Aralt pointed at two others. “Neither the big sable filly nor the spooky red merle hiding behind the rest of them have been promised to anyone if you fancy one of them more. No? Keyva, then. You seem…well suited to each other. We’ll see the leathersmith on the morrow to fit you with gear. And then I’ll point you to the nearest river—where you can remember your baptism when he dumps you.”

“He won’t dump me, will you, my friend? No. What? Shhhh. Don’t tell Aralt that,” Lian whispered, sparing him a sly glance.

“Where did you learn so much about esri?”

“Same place you did.”

“My father.” Lian had spent a summer with the syr Tremaynes after Endru Kynsei died. Shattered, the boy had hidden, first physically, then behind a veil of silence, refusing even gentle Devailyn’s entreaties. Long days in and around the stables at Linishael had helped him find his voice again. “He put you and Valryn both to work, didn’t he?”

“Your brother did more work than I did, but aye. I think…I think he wanted me to see that life had not ended. Not all life.”

“That sounds like him,” Aralt said. Not that a stable full of younglings in any way compensated for the kind of loss the boy had suffered. But it would have been Fharyl syr Tremayne’s way of communicating their shared sorrow. A way to celebrate creation. A way to worship and to grieve. Esri and not politics had been his father’s true passion. His delight and his solace. Endru had been his dearest friend. Aralt knew what it felt like to lose his dearest friend.

“I heard that he died,” Lian said softly, cupping Keyva’s muzzle between gentle hands as a tear slid down his face. So quickly he went from joy to sorrow. “Your father, I mean. I…I didn’t say so before, but I’m sorry, Aralt. I loved him. Not half as much as you, but…”

“Love’s not a competition.” It always surprised him to hear himself say something his mother might have said.

“He was a good man.”

“That he was.” Aralt nodded soberly. There could be no finer epitaph. Gone too soon, and yet not as soon as he would have had it not been for Endru. On impulse, he reached out and took hold of the boy’s arm, risking bees infused with lightning. Lian drew back, as if stunned both by the physical contact and the intensity of Aralt’s gaze. Aralt was no less surprised to be initiating the contact. “I want you to understand that if I’d known you were still alive I would have kept looking.” I’d still be looking.

“You’d still be looking,” the boy repeated, as if he were trying to convince himself. But the unspoken fact lingered in the air between them, the joy of the afternoon evaporating as Lian slid back to the ground and walked, then ran, away.

You weren’t there.

Aralt slammed his fist into a fence rail, scattering the esri. He did not know how, but he would prove to Lian that that would never happen again. Not ever. Not while he drew breath.