Candlelight flooded the chapel long after eventide prayers, but Lian had not been among the Believers dispersing for second supper. According to Scanlin, the boy had seemed distracted, desiring solitude. Nonetheless, his First Sword had remained at the door until Aralt arrived, only then departing, leaving Aralt to stand vigil—outside the chapel. He leaned against the wall, thoughts dropping randomly, like acorns caught in the wind. Something might come of his supposition in time. For now, it just seemed to crunch under his feet like shattered bits of marathis. He turned at the distant sound of uncertain footfalls coming down the hall. Not Perryn. Not that light, nor that uncertain. Marica Su turned the corner at last, her face, creased as it was with age, glowing with pleasure.

“Syr Tremayne, forgive the late hour, but young marr Kenesh said I’d find you here. Oh,” she cleared her throat. “Deep peace o’ the shining stars to you.”

“Deep peace, jeweler. Is it well with you? The shop—?”

“All as it should be.”

It might have been otherwise, had it not been for Lian’s intrusion.

“My apprentice and I managed to snag the sword from the vat—some trick, I’ll have you know, with the currents all aflow that way. It’s incredible. The entire pattern’s been altered—I’ve nae seen anything like it.”

Aralt’s hand slipped away from the doorknob. He led Marica down the hall, away from the chapel. “Altered? From the backlash?”

“Nay, not the backlash. That should have destroyed the internal matrix, ruined the sword. Nay, this is something else entirely. It’s completely changed. Syr Tremayne, I come from a long line o’ jewelers and harvesters and I’ve heard a heap o’ jewel lore, but I’ve nae seen sae complete a reTuning. The kavsa—the Spirit guard his every step—he stopped the backlash mid-flow with his bare hands and like that,” Marica snapped her fingers, “he reTuned the sword.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Apparently not. It is most assuredly reTuned—and never have I heard sae sweet a song. It isn’t meant for my hand, but…it’s the most remarkable thing I’ve ever seen. He reTuned it.”

“You don’t mean to himself?” Aralt asked, incredulous.

“Only one way to really tell…”

“No,” Aralt said flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“But syr Tremayne, it’s a miracle. Won’t you at least—”

“Shatter it,” Aralt told her. “Before the night’s out. You know what you have to do.”

“Oh, no, syr Tremayne. Not that. It’d crush my soul to shatter a weapon this beautiful.”

“That’s a small fortune in marathis,” Aralt reminded her. “Take it in payment for your services and the damage.”

“But—”

“No.”

Marica left dejected, but Aralt was adamant. He had other men and women worthy of good swords. This one was useless to any of them Tuned, and Lian would not, under any circumstances, be using it. Sweet Creator, what could that feel like? A sword Tuned to one of heaven’s servants?

Candlelight lent depth to the mosaic floor inside the chapel, plum-blue tiles shimmering like the sea, ebbing and flowing with artistic precision. All of creation was represented, from the birds of the air, bright with plumage, to sea serpents with long scaly necks and lashing tails. Around all of it wove an unbroken chain of stylized fish.

“It’s late, m’lad. Is it well with you?”

“He was frightened,” Lian said by way of a non-answer. He was lying on his back in front of the altar, gazing at the tiled ceiling. “Deyr. He doesn’t understand.”

He isn’t the only one, Aralt thought. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. Best make this as quick as possible. “He’ll get over it. Just don’t expect any thanks.”

“I’m not the one he should thank.”

“Perhaps not, but I wouldn’t expect any thanks in that area, either. He’ll need time to ponder this second chance at life.”

“Most people do,” Lian answered. Silence filled the space around them…then, in quick syllables: “You’re angry with me?”

“No,” Aralt said slowly. “But it was foolish, what you did. You couldn’t have known—”

“People do a lot of things without knowing. If you know, then it wouldn’t require faith.”

“Ah. Forgive me. Is that what you call it? From where I was standing it looked like foolishness at best, a suicide attempt at worst.”

Lian crinkled his nose. “Sometimes our only choice is a foolish choice.”

“Sometimes,” Aralt admitted. Satisfied that Lian was in no danger, he turned to leave. “If you’re well, let’s put out the lights and—”

“Wait.” Lian sat cross-legged on the floor, arms encircling his legs. He rested his chin on his knees. “Why does everyone—well, not everyone but… Why do they think I have to be kavistra?”

Stars and moons, here we go again, Aralt thought, preparing for another spin on the carnival ride. He contemplated taking a seat along the curved wall of the chamber. “You want to be a jeweler instead?”

“Aralt, I’m serious.”

“And so you are.” He shrugged. “That’s a question for Scanlin and shepherds, not me. Evaluating potential kavistras is outside my skill set. Based on what I saw tonight, it would be hard to convince people you aren’t destined for something. You saved a man’s life. Moreover, you saved the life of a man who tried to kill you not that long ago. That sort of thing has kavistra written all over it, don’t you think?”

“That wasn’t me,” Lian said quickly. “He won’t tell anyone, will he?”

“Why should he not? And this is Deyr Evarr we’re talking about. Once he sorts it all out”—assuming he sorted it all out— “it will become part of his repertoire, though I imagine he’ll leave out the part about passing out. And pissing himself.”

“But…he can’t. He shouldn’t. Tell him not to, please? You and Scanlin are his commanding officers. You can order him not to tell. At least, don’t include me in the story. That would be wrong.”

“Precisely how is he to leave you out of the story, Lian? I don’t understand.”

“Only the Son of Peace should be given the glory,” Lian told him.

Aralt resisted the urge to say that the Son of Peace hadn’t been the one with His hands around a Tuning filament, but he was reasonably sure Lian already had an answer for that, and, yes, he was quite sure that the boy’s agitation was giving him a headache. He rubbed absently at his temple.

“If it’s that important to you, I’ll have a word with Deyr, but I doubt I can keep secret what happened tonight. Surely you know that people are talking about you. And, yes, they are saying you are kavistra, or will be kavistra. There is no other, Lian. Unless you know where to locate more of your clan to,” he struggled for the right words, “propose a candidate.” He had yet to share with the boy that some among the klesia kaeli had already done that.

Lian fluttered a hand at him. “No one can tell you you’re kavistra; you have to just be kavistra.”

“I’ll take your word for it. If you are, I trust you don’t want to leave your birthright to a three-legged araketh that worships a fire-breathing, scaly snake god.”

Lian winced at the sexual epithet, and Aralt made a mental note to work on his vocabulary. Were it not for the prayers of the righteous, the foundation of the house should have caved in.

“Akahan doesn’t breathe fire. And not all Shirahnyn are—you know.”

“Arakeths?”

“Well, they aren’t.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Do you know what I think?”

The headache had entered Aralt’s right eye like a hot iron. “I assure you, Lian Kynsei, I try very hard not to know what you think.”

The boy ignored his sarcasm. “I think you know a lot more than you say.”

Aralt considered telling him that most people do, but he could smell a trap. Lian crawled toward him, pausing to poke the eyes of a grim mosaic sand viper winding around the Tree of Life before sitting down to examine his fingers. According to Perryn, it had taken two hours to remove crystal splinters the size of grains of sand.

“I thought you were going to come back.”

“Excuse me?” Aralt looked at him through one eye. The other hurt too much to open.

“I thought that when your soldiering days were over, you would come back, and we’d have all sorts of adventures. We only rode to Linishael that one time. I wanted to go further north—to the mountains, to see the snow. You said we could build a fort, and go sledding, and hunt. You said you’d take me to the ruins of the old observatory and that we would explore the Old City. But you chose a different life. Without me.” Lian bit his lower lip and turned away. “Never mind. It was a long time ago. We aren’t the same, you and me. We’ll never be the same.”

Sure as there are three moons in the sky, Aralt thought, no one ever is.

“I wasn’t much older than you are when I became your kervallyn,” Aralt told him, considering his words carefully. With effort, he was able to open both eyes. “I was not yet a soldier, but everyone knew what my intentions were and how much I wanted to make my own way, away from my father’s domain—including your parents. Your mother was gracious, but I knew she wasn’t particularly happy about it.” Neither was his. No one was happy with him after he accepted the governorship in Tyrian, his silent statement that he would not be coming home. “I wouldn’t presume to advise you about the religious part of being a kavistra, but politics are frequently a form of combat, something I have some experience with—on and off the bargaining table. Experience I wouldn’t have had if I’d—”

“Come home?”

“No one ever specified it was a requirement. But back to the point. I can help you. If you want my help. And if you are to be kavistra, at least the foundation for a strong government is already laid in Askierran. You may have some weeding to do in that garden, but your clan worked hard to create a stable center from which the nation would expand.” Like the symbol of the kavis star. The rays representing a radiance inward to a core radiating outward. There was beauty in that concept. Order. Unity. He tried to soften his tone. “Your Creator has gone to a lot of trouble to keep you alive, lad. He must be saving you for something, ken?”

“Why do you do that?”

Aralt dabbed at his eyes. Both were burning now. The lightning bees might have been preferable. “Do what?”

“Call the Creator mine—I mean, the Kynseis’? I’ve seen the banner in your office—and the crest on your ring.” He narrowed his eyes. “Aren’t you a Believer?”

“My grandfather’s ring,” Aralt answered obliquely, twisting it around on his finger.

The vaulted ceiling soared above him, the plaster sparkling as candlelight met crystal-centered kavis symbols. With but a single flame to light the room, the ceiling shone like a clear night sky. He knew. He had entered the chapel that way more than once over the years. Somehow it never became habit.

“I trust the chapel is more to your liking?” He thumbed through the nearest vesperal. He had evicted the amphibian life from the font himself.

“I sort of liked their chirping.”

“There’s more for them to eat outside.”

“And more to be eaten by.”

“Do you ever shut up, Lian Kynsei?”

One by one, Lian snuffed out pale blue tapers, licking his long, narrow fingers between each sizzling pinch of a burning wick. Watching him shuffle around the room, his clothes too big, his frame so small, his black hair a mop of youthful disorder, Aralt thought again of how young the boy was to start a life that demanded he be the backbone, and the soul, of a nation.

“Aralt,” Lian asked, his fingers resting on the altar, the light of the last glowing candle reflected in his dark eyes. So much for getting the last word. “If I want to return to the coast, to Kyrrimar, and present myself to the clergy, you’ll go with me?”

“Do you doubt it?”

“And if I don’t? If I just want to be Lian?”

“I don’t see as there needs to be a distinction, but if you don’t want to go, I will defend your choice. Yes. You can be a marathis-kenner if it suits you.” Or a stable boy.

Whatever Lian was going to say disappeared behind a satisfied smile as the last candle winked out, untouched.