A travel coach with a broken axel made closing the main gates impossible when they reached the city.

Aralt left enough people behind to haul the broken rig out of the way, gave the gatekeeper fair warning about the approaching manti, then pressed on, eager to get Lian to the added safety of the governor’s house on the far side of the city, near the harbor. When they clattered into the livery opposite the grand old house, Ruskyn Munro greeted them with a good-humored, sober salute. Aralt was impressed. Cori Jame, vryn talyn of the domain and in residence at Bethulyn, must have denied the overindulgent scout the keys to the wine cellar and forbade him to wander in the city. He suspected the promise of pie had been involved.

“We heard rogues coming this way,” Aralt said as he unbuckled his saddlebags. “You tangle with manti?”

“Tangled up a few,” Russ admitted, swatting Tabric’s teeth away from his backside. He shook his fist at the esri, snatching it back when the animal made to bite it off. “Shite! Leave off, you hairy red dragon. Gah!”

“Be nice, you,” Aralt scolded, giving Tabric’s noseband a yank. The esri head-butted him, then flattened his ears and continued to glare at Russ.

“Early for them scruffy-looking dog wankers to be stirrin’. And they’re hungry. I seen ’em munching on some dead thing, all nasty and happy.”

Aralt could still smell them as the she-kaio had smelled them, still felt the prickle of fur against his neck as hackles rose in response to the enemy’s approach. He swallowed deeply, patting Tabric’s sweaty shoulder before loosening the saddle girth and turning the esri over to a stablehand with a stern reminder about the animal’s temperament. The last thing he needed that day was a careless esri wrangler losing digits. “Any sign of Shirahnyn?”

Munro shook his head, sidestepping Tabric’s jaws again as the esri was led away. “Nope. My sword’s clean.”

He laughed. “Don’t get greedy.”

A commotion outside the esri byre drew their attention. Panicked esri clattered in all directions, unsuspecting riders and bystanders deposited ungraciously in groaning heaps. He was three steps across the flagstones when a single night-black manti dashed by a bathtub-shaped livestock fountain, three kaio in pursuit. They chased it within a sword stroke, nearly knocking his legs out from under him. He rocked on his heels, arms pinwheeling. His saddlebags hit Russ full force, knocking the unsuspecting scout on his backside. Russ yowled obscenities before scrambling after Aralt, sword drawn.

“Telta!” Aralt roared the archer’s name. Loosed arrows smacked the stones in quick succession, none of them finding their mark.

“What the jig!” she exclaimed, waving for Aralt to duck as she nocked yet another arrow. The beast wailed, darting between the legs of a loose esri before disappearing into a stack of newly delivered crates.

Aralt and Russ broke apart as frightened esri careened toward them, he to the right, Russ to the left. Scanlin and half a dozen others joined the manti hunt, closing in on the slitherdog now whining and spitting in its hiding place. They had almost surrounded it when Lian emerged from the stable, his hooded jacket swinging in one hand, his staff in the other. Oblivious to the danger, the boy stopped for a moment when Sirram mac Kenna ran to catch him up. They were deep in conversation, laughing about something, their heads close together. Not paying attention. Aralt swore under his breath.

When four hunting cats erupted from the barn behind them and headed toward the stack of wooden crates, the boys stopped, glancing about as if to ascertain precisely what was going on. The manti poked its head out, a fanged grin on its defiant, whiskered muzzle. The cats seemed to inflate as they crept forward, their lashing tails like chimney brushes. The slitherdog whistled, saliva sputtering between razor-like teeth. Its tail streaming behind it like a whip, the creature bounded from its hiding place; a tripled silver shadow dashed after it. At the sight of the kaio, the cats danced sideways, hissing and spitting, ridges of fur standing up even higher on their arched backs. By the blood trail left in the manti’s wake was evidence that Telta had wounded it. More archers loosed arrows, but their quarry hastened on, directly toward…

Blood and ashes! “Lian!”

The boy’s jaw dropped slightly when he saw the manti bearing down on him. In a fluid motion, he shoved Sirram to the side, dropping his coat as he rolled skillfully over his staff and under the airborne assailant that tumbled when it hit the ground, clawing for purchase on the flagstone. Kaio scattered around Lian in pursuit of their prey. Sirram scrambled for the cover of the stable. Two of the cats made likewise for safety. A third chased the kaio. The last cat seemed transfixed in place, gold eyes whirling. A glint of tell-tale red crystal in Lian’s left hand caught Aralt’s attention. A Shirahnyn dagger? Twisting Sea Lords, where had he gotten that? But it was gone a moment later, slammed back into the sheath hidden beneath the boy’s trouser leg. Lian reached instead for his staff, stiff-arming Sirram away when the other boy darted out of hiding and ran to his aid. A momentary lopsided grin played at Lian’s mouth as he rearranged his grip on the staff. A trace of blue flame spiraled from his hands. The low hum of the heartwood was unmistakable.

The manti darted with unnatural speed, snapping at one or another thing before leaping again. Aralt braced himself for the impact. He felt the resounding thwack! all the way down his spine when Lian smote the creature squarely in the head. But instead of dropping to the stone, it shattered. Patches of fur and fragmented bone ignited as they flew through the air. And every lamp ringing the yard guttered out.

Kaio and shika scattered as the smoldering remains of the slitherdog dropped like ashen snow around them, the remaining flames going out with a soft pft. In the fading daylight, Lian sat back on his feet, the staff smoking from end to end before him. Even from a distance, Aralt could once more see the ring of fire in the boy’s eyes.

“Shittin’ sorcerous sorcery,” Munro said, bending to retrieve an intact fang. He turned it over, sniffed at it, then slid it into a pocket before hurrying away, reciting nonsensical protection spells as he went.

Aralt ran to where Lian sat rocking, drawing ragged breaths, his face buried in his hands. When he looked up, the light had gone from his dark eyes. Around them, one by one, the gas lamps flickered back to life.

“Are you—?”

Lian’s gaze wandered to where Scanlin stood near the watering trough, motionless since the strike, then he looked down, eyes tightly closed. Was that…shame? “I’m sure…I’ll be fine…”

“You're a lousy liar,” Aralt told him, crouching down, taking care not to touch the smoldering staff. Or Lian himself.

The cats were nowhere to be seen, but the three kaio emerged from hiding to pace the square, noses pressed to the paving stones. They wandered from one singed tuft of fur to the next, sniffing wildly. Encountering Telta retrieving her arrows, they ran playful circles around her before returning to the smoking clods littering the ground. One, the smallest of the three, wandered ever closer, creeping forward on its belly toward Lian. Soon, all three had converged on the boy, whimpering, their wet noses poking the boy’s shaking hands. So close, Aralt could have touched them. He closed his hand into a fist. He didn’t dare. It just didn’t seem decent to pet them like mere dogs.

Lian struggled to his feet. He brushed absently at the ashes on the blue sleeves of his shirt, then bent to retrieve his staff. Charred sapwood flaked away under his fingers. Blood seeped from beneath his fingernails.

“You’re injured.”

“I’m fine.” Lian took a few faltering steps toward his fallen coat. “It goes away.”

“I should want to know why you know that,” Aralt said, “but I’d rather you tell me how a seventy-pound slitherdog exploded. But you aren’t going to tell me, are you?”

“Maybe. Later.” The kaio stood like statues, watching Lian’s slow progress, their long manes ruffling in the rising wind. They weren’t the only ones that were watching.

“Go on, he doesn’t need an audience,” Aralt chastised bystanders who quickly moved in every direction. Still staring. “You all have places to be, ken?”

For the first time, he noticed Cori Jame in front of the governor’s house on the opposite side of the square. His house, by rights. Cori had always been as at home in Bethulyn as he was in Sylvan. An amicable arrangement. She stepped down from the wide porch, hands on her hips as she surveyed the damage.

“Twisting swords, syr Tremayne. What have you brought to Bethulyn this time?”

He met her halfway, gripping her forearm in greeting. She was head and shoulders shorter than he, but her hand was as strong as her gift for statecraft. Appointing her as his lieutenant governor had been one of his more inspired moves. He glanced over his shoulder, unsure whether Lian was going to join them or collapse in a heap on the flagstone. “I take it my courier arrived on time?”

“When is Tevin ever not on time? If the winds favor him, he’ll be back from Askierran any day. You mentioned guests, but I wasn't expecting manti or…kaio. At least not on this side of the wall. Seriously. What just happened here?”

“Just a little sport, Cori. You need to get out more.”

“Thanks, but I’ll stay inside if you’re hunting rat-hounds in front of my house. The cats won’t even eat them. Not that there’s anything left.” Her eyes, one brown and the other blue, were trained on the boy. “Doesn’t look good, syr Tremayne. You do know the local clergy is coming for second supper, right?”

“He’ll be fine.” He found the garrison’s ranking Sword in the crowd and told her to double the watch until further notice. Then, he hailed Kolarin. “Take a squad with you and see that the kaio get safely out of the city—and that there aren’t any more rogues wandering the streets. Take your kid cousin with you if he isn’t stuck to the ground.”

“Precisely how are we to do that if they don’t want to come?”

Aralt shrugged. “Try the butcher shop.”

Russ reclined on the front steps of the house, tossing the fang he had recovered up and down. “Yer pet Riahi looks like ’e’s gonna puke, Wolf.”

“Go in the house and get ready for supper, Russ.”

“Nah. I was thinkin’ I’d go find me something to do that don’t involve—” he wagged a hand in Lian’s general direction, “—prayin’.”

“Prayer’s on the menu tonight, sotbuck. In. I understand there’s pie.”

Russ smacked his lips. “Pie?”

“There’s always pie. Besides, we’ll want to see your little trophy.”

Russ squinted at the fang pinched between his fingers. “Think it gots good magics in it?”

“Undoubtedly. Go scout desserts and report back.” Aralt hauled him off the steps and shoved him through the open door, filling the gap of time it was taking Lian to reach them.

He noticed it took effort for Kolarin’s squad to not stop and assist the boy. Sirram hunched his shoulders as he passed, head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Kolarin would need to sort him out and belay any feelings of lingering guilt. As a companion, Sirram was a good choice. As a guard…Lian got the better of him too often. Both boys needed a talking to. He looked for Scanlin, but his First Sword remained in the middle of the square, right hand clutching his star pendant.

Lian shuffled to a halt at the bottom of the steps. Blood fell like tears. Aralt waited in silence, respecting the lad’s courage to fight the obvious pain—it reminded him, in a rare likeness, of himself.

“Do you need assistance?”

Lian used his staff for support. One step.

“Nay, syr Tremayne.” The answer was straight and painfully formal. Another faltering step. The kaio whimpered. More blood, and the sky began to weep.

What tremendous fortitude, he thought, observing the taut muscles in the boy’s neck and jaw. He ushered his lieutenant governor in, then held the door and his silence until Lian had crossed the threshold and stood swaying before them, clutching his staff. It seemed a bit late to make formal introductions. Scanlin soon joined them, awaiting orders with practiced patience; only his eyes betrayed him. Yet surely he must understand, must remember a similar scene years before when another boy—named Aralt—struggled to prove his strength.

Lian’s large onyx eyes were clouded. A trickle of blood had dried above his lips, just as it had on Syth’s Eve. Whatever he had done—however he had accomplished it—it had exacted a price. Endru Kynsei had told Aralt many things, but never that the Gifts of the Kynseis, born of the Spirit, cost a blood price. It went against everything he understood. Once more Lian’s eyes held that sorrowful look. That haunting, tormented, longing look…

“Aralt?”

“Aye, lad?”

“Was I being stupid again?”

Aralt drew a breath, counted to five, let it out. “You were being…resourceful.”

“And I didn’t have a choice, did I?”

He caught Lian under the arms as the boy collapsed, fighting the urge to let go as the combined sensations of fire and ice raced up the backs of his hands.

“We always have choices, Lian. That doesn’t mean there’s always a good one.”