Aralt's gamble had paid off.

He was en route to the studio of master jeweler and renowned marathis-kenner Marica Su, when Lian, hair tousled and clothing speckled with dust and hay, emerged from the shadows and fell into step beside him. He couldn’t help but smile. Instead of trailing behind Aralt like a lost puppy or materializing in unsuitable places, Lian had shifted his focus to Keyva. As his presence had proved a distraction in more conventional classrooms and a suitable tutor had yet to arrive, Aralt reckoned the boy could do no better than in the company of esri. Jools had a knack for mentoring the young, and time in and about the esri byre provided structure to Lian’s day beyond roaming Sylvan Keep and religious observances that seemed as much second nature to the boy as they did to Scanlin Ross. Not that he was rigid in his devotions. Morning Song was evidently too early for consideration for a lad who often looked hollow-eyed when and if he took his place at breakfast, where he did little more than rearrange the meal before him. After having blessed it thoroughly.

“This is a Tuning studio,” Lian whispered when they reached the jeweler’s shop. Crystal chimes rang cheerily as the door clunked shut behind them.

“Indeed. If it can be forged of any sort of malleable crystal, Marica can craft it, repair it, or Tune it. Tonight, though, it is a Tuning.”

“A sword Tuning? Can I stay? Please?” Lian’s face wrinkled. “I thought receiving a Tuned sword was considered a great honor. You don’t seem very pleased.”

“It would be a great honor,” Aralt told him. For anyone else in the garrison. Scanlin waited inside, but the sword’s recipient, late to his own Tuning, rushed in behind them.

“Sorry. Me old gran says the only thing I’ll e’er be on time for is me own funer—oh. Syr Tremayne. Commander Ross. You’re both already here. And you’re here, too?” Deyr blanched when he saw Lian.

“It will be faster than sending for clergy in case it is your funeral,” Aralt pointed out.

Lian blinked. “I’m not—”

“Close enough.” Lian Kynsei was soul-touched. Fuss though they might, the clergy in Askierran would have to reconcile themselves to the notion that the boy would be kavistra, high priest of the nation. All the clergy from Askierran to the Northern Alliance would one day answer to him. Even if they didn’t, Aralt was enjoying the look of terror on Deyr’s face.

“Pay no mind to syr Tremayne’s dark humor, m’lad,” Scanlin said, ushering Deyr past. He lowered his voice. “I thought ’twas settled.”

Aralt grunted in reply. Whether he deserved it or not, Deyr Evarr’s five years of service entitled him to the finest blade his laird could bestow on him. Green marathis crystal, harvested from the mines in distant Leyth, would therefore accompany him, and he would carry it for however long he—or the sword—lived. As if Deyr Evarr needed anything else to brag about.

“You’d do better being Tevin’s benefactor,” Aralt told his First Sword.

“Tevin has no need o’ me. He’s already in his laird’s good graces.”

“Weakness for lost causes?”

Scanlin smiled, giving Aralt a sideways glance. “Not all o’ them have been lost causes.”

Aralt cleared his throat. “Well? Are we doing this tonight, or not? Lian? Will you watch a master at work?” And just maybe frighten Deyr into leaving, the task unfinished?

The boy tipped his head to the side, eyes narrowing. “It would be my honor, syr Tremayne.”

Aralt led them into the next room where the jeweler, dressed in her leather aprons, her long grey hair tied back in a loose braid, worked the last strands of a marathis crystal blade into the desired spiral pattern. Shimmering twisted blades in varying lengths and hues hung throughout the paneled workshop, and raw marathis and other varieties of high-grade gem fragments filled storage crannies along the back wall. In an adjoining room, fine jewelry and other items in progress lined the shelves and workbenches.

Marica tossed them each a pair of goggles. “Which one’s the victim?”

“You’re not deaf!” A progression of color washed over Lian’s face. He bowed, hands raised momentarily in the Shirahnyn custom before he seemed to remember where he was. He dropped clenched fists to his side. “Forgive me.”

“Eh?” Marica laughed, cupping a hand to her ear. “Nay. No need to apologize. ’Tis a common misconception, the nature of the art being what it is. Many jewelers hear. Many more lose their hearing—or worse—as do the miners who harvest the rarest crystal—if they aren’t careful. I’ve spent a lifetime being careful.” She beckoned them to the Tuning table and handed Deyr a polished wooden handle connected by a shining needle-thin crystal filament to the unfinished hilt of the blade.

“Heartwood,” Lian observed.

“Right you are,” Marica told him, busily arranging her tools. “We call it bloodwood in the trade. It delivers the truest Tune.”

“It would…”

“Is it well with you?” Aralt asked, seeing tension on the boy’s face.

Lian nodded swiftly. “I’m…fine. Please, continue.”

Marica bowed. “My honor, kavsa. Aye, I know the distinction. Are ye surprised one so far from Askierran would?”

“Relieved,” the boy told her, wrestling with his goggles. “Why is it done at night?”

Marica winked. “Ambience.”

The room’s occupants drew a common breath as the newly fashioned sword blade slipped slowly into its final quenching bath with a wet hiss that filled the room with steam. Aralt noted that every one of them touched damp fingers to parched lips in remembrance of the sea.

“Sila’s glisternin’ ball—oons,” Deyr bit back a curse “It’s a handful o’ fire.”

“Just don’t drop it.” It amazed Aralt how many young soldiers forgot what they were doing and let the conductor slip as the Tuning commenced.

As she worked her magic—trade, Aralt corrected himself, sparing a sidelong glance at Lian—Marica explained the process to her young audience, her voice barely above a whisper. All eyes were on the stabilizing crystal in the narrow vat. Drops of the jeweler’s quenching oil like liquid crystal beads trickled down the polished redwood tub and into a channel at the floor. Within moments, light raced through the twisted crystal, rippling within the cooling lattice of the sword like stitches of lightning racing across a stormy sky.

“Stop your fool dancing, grip the rod firmly, and breathe steady or you’ll nae make a true Tuning,” Marica instructed.

Deyr smirked. “My rod’s tremblin’.”

“You’ll do as I say, or your rod will be burned to a cinder. Have a care, lad. We can forge a new sword. There’s no tellin’ if your mother would be inclined to reforge you.”

“That’s a fact, ma’m,” Deyr said darkly. He licked parched lips. “What’s wrong wi’ him, uh, wi’ the, uh…”

“Keep to your own concerns,” Aralt told him, but something was amiss. Lian had folded his arms across his chest, his hands clenching shirt sleeves. Though Gitom’s wife, Susa, had made him additional clothing, he wore that ratty old black shirt as often as it was clean—or not.

Scanlin put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Relax, m’lad. Our candidate might be makin’ light o’ the affair, but ’tis an old and trusted art form.”

Scanlin might well have been absent for all Lian heeded him. Gold flecks in the boy’s dark eyes glittered like the internal fire of the spun-crystal blade. The warm room grew warmer still. “Aralt, tell Deyr to let go.”

“What?”

“It’s unstable. It’s going to backlash.”

“Marica,” Aralt said slowly, “humor me.”

The jeweler hunched over the vat. From where he stood, Aralt saw nothing amiss. The fine, green glow between Deyr’s hand on the conductor and the sword itself was unbroken, and the course of flow had not altered within the bath.

“I don’t see—wait. There. Sila’s Bride adrift in the ocean.” Marica cursed as she reached for her gloves. “Fifty years I’ve been doing this. Never gets easier when this happens. Let go and be quick about it.”

“Deyr!” Aralt barked, “That’s an order. Drop the conductor and step back.”

The young man’s face was awash with perspiration. Limp blond hair darkened with sweat. Though tendons stood out against the back of his right hand, he did not let go. His breath came hard as he stripped off his goggles and wiped the sweat from his brow with his free hand.

“Stop your theatrics, soldier. We don’t have time for—”

“Sure as there’s three moons in the sky, syr Tremayne, I cannae let it go!”

Verdant light wasn’t all that made their faces pale. Marica threw her gloves on the workbench as she rummaged for something else. Her apprentice, busy elsewhere in the shop until then, joined the search. Tools clattered to the ground as they emptied one drawer after another.

“Right. Next plan. Can you move your feet? Good. Back up very slowly toward me. Keep going. Keep going—pull until the strand breaks. When it does,” Aralt shot everyone a knowing look, “we give the floor a big kiss. Marica, how long?”

“Not flamin’ long enough. I’ll try to draw the current,” she said, edging from behind the glowing vat, a pair of double-weight gauntlets tucked under one arm, a charred length of bloodwood in the other. She shooed her apprentice out of the way and snagged a crystal-spattered leather face shield from the low ceiling, slapping it on in preparation. Aralt could barely see her eyes through the clear crystal visor.

The air sizzled around them, the contents of the vat evaporating as sparks surged through the humming marathis. Scanlin pushed open a door, kicking the hinged doorstop into place. Cool air turned the warm mist to icy spray. Patterns of frost formed on the vat only to melt and reform again.

Deyr’s eyes rolled back, hard breaths rising from his lungs. “Seein’ two o’ everythin’ and none o’ it looks good.”

“You’re doing fine, soldier.” Aralt pried the younger man’s goggles from his clenched fist and fitted them back on his face. The smell of fear permeated the room. “Another few steps and you’ll have the makings of a great story. We won’t even tell anyone that you pissed your pants. Keep moving.”

“Won’t—do me—no—good—dead—Commander. Tell me Gran—”

“Tell her yourself, Deyr. Come on, boy. You don’t need to dance, just a few more steps and the filament will snap,” Aralt told him, fully aware that it was easier said than done and risky to boot. If the strand held, or the current could not be diverted, Marica would be forced to shatter it with a fracturing rod. More dangerous than a clean break, it nevertheless would work, though the degree of backlash through the conducting filament was impossible to calculate. He had seen some ugly results over the years, usually the result of illegal Tunings with inferior crystal and unskilled jewelers.

Deyr shook his head roughly, his face wet with fear-sweat and tears. “S-syr Tremayne, I c-cannae move. Matarel’s twistin’ twin brother! Me hand’s afire!”

“Marica, now! Scanlin, get Lian out of here.”

“Wait—don’t do it like that!” A ripple of light spiraling through crystal reflected waves of green across the boy’s face as he slipped free of Scanlin’s grip, ducked past Aralt, and cast his goggles aside. Marica’s instrument stopped mere inches from the glowing filament. She looked beseechingly at Aralt.

“Lian, get back!” Aralt’s hand closed on air, his heart beating a wild rhythm against his chest. Deyr’s knees were buckling. Time. They needed more time.

“Come awa’, now.” Scanlin sounded far calmer than Aralt imagined he felt. “Leave it to Marica, lad—she’s done it before.”

“It’s too late.” Gold ringed Lian’s dark eyes then, and there, in his hand, danced a spiraling wisp of blue living flame. “Don’t you see? It’s too late!”

Deyr whimpered a child’s prayer for deliverance as the heartwood conductor smoked in his hand. The smell of charred flesh mingled with that of chemicals. Ugly had just gotten uglier. Before anyone could stop him, Lian closed his hands around the shimmering crystal thread.

Aralt lunged after him. “Sea and land, boy. What are you doing?”

Scanlin yanked him to the floor just as a flash of clean, bright light twisted around the gleaming green filament until the latter was encircled from the conductor in Deyr’s bleeding hand to the vat of flow, a verdant core enveloped by stitches of heaven’s blue light. Tongues of fire swam three times sunwise around Lian before tracing a pattern around Deyr’s arm. The young soldier’s eyes went wide with deepening terror. At almost the same moment, the light pulled back from both directions, converging on Lian like a second sunrise. Aralt shielded his eyes. Beside him, Scanlin was on his knees, tears streaming down his uplifted face.

Deyr’s anguished cry resonated with every piece of crystal in the studio as he was thrown backwards, body convulsing. In sweltering silence, tinged with the cool whisper of night air and the inexplicable scent of cinnamon, the crystal filament in Lian’s hands dissolved into star dust; the wooden conductor clattered to the floor and turned to ash.