Below the sheer western wall, two dories drifted on the vast, rippled lake, sailors preparing green and white sails for a day of deep-water fishing. The water gates behind them opened again to issue a larger merchant vessel. Aralt knew her sail well. The Lassie o’ Marr would be sailing north, beyond Sylvan to Port Burverr, and from there across the lake to the harbor in Enarra. His destiny, and those that traveled with him, lay in the opposite direction. The Weeping Wall, less than an hour’s ride south of Bethulyn, marked the true beginning of their journey.

Scanlin and Lian would emerge from the local kirke soon, along with half his retinue and much of the household staff that had crept off to get a closer look at the boy rumored to be the next kavistra. The great old house, second only in fame to Mar Bethu, the city kirke, was oddly silent. Would that it was like this all the time. It would make relocating that much easier. He preferred Sylvan’s remote location, situated near enough to Loch Bethu to the west and their defenses from the Naharasii to the east to be practical, without the hustle and bustle, and general human contact associated with a city the size of Bethulyn. The trade-off meant a lack of cultural events, music, and theatre chief among them, but he had no shortage of books. And books, he found, provided ample entertainment, and made better friends than most people.

Shortly, as he listened to clamoring boatswains below, other sounds began to fill the air. Morning Devotions had evidently completed. Finally.

Deyr’s voice, a hybrid of late-adolescent whine and bravado, rose from the house’s inner court. Aralt had yet to decide the soldier’s fate. Despite his assertions back in Tyrian, Aralt doubted the young hothead knew what true repentance was, but he supposed anything was possible.

“You and your twistin’ spooks, Munro. It’ll nae gae well wi’ ye if ye gae through wi’ your daft plan.”

“Gots to be done,” was the nasal reply.

Not at the kirke, then. Not if he was with Russ. Further conversation was crushed under the rumble of too many voices and the bell chimes tolling the hour, but Russ’s maddening hee-haw laughter cracked the otherwise peaceful morning. Aralt hoped none of the city’s faithful were his heathen scout’s target that day. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

“I ’ope ’e flays yer arse, I do.”

“Shirrup, Ratface. Here they come. Hey, kid…”

Aralt turned aside at a sound behind him, the scuff of boots on the tower steps heralding a new arrival on the parapet. The tower door heaved open, and Scanlin stepped into the sunshine with a great, wide smile on his creased face.

“‘But, lo! the winter is past, the rain is o’er and gone.’ Deep peace o’ the flowin’ spring to ye.” His eyes, the color of the sky, glistened in the morning’s radiance, and his grey locks twisted like smoke around the collar of his red shirt. He was wearing his best waistcoat and a dark blue paisley cravat. No doubt he would have worn his kilt had he brought it with him.

“You’re in a good mood. Let you read from the Books, did they?”

“The khiyerey is an old friend. I studied with him years back,” Scanlin said, upper lip twitching in a half-smile. “In another life.”

Another life indeed. And one Scanlin Ross spoke little of, even after all their years of friendship. Aralt nodded in tacit agreement.

“I’ll be sure to acknowledge the shepherd for accommodating you. Lian draw a crowd?” He had hoped they would eschew the city kirke for the household chapel, but the boy had the way of one that might coax stars from the sky.

“Wedged in like wee croakers in a mud field,” Scanlin said, joining him on the curtain wall. He rolled up his sleeves as he leaned against the dressed stone. “Mar Bethu is a grand shrine, but ’twas nae built for a city such as this one has become. Word spread quickly, and there were people from parishes I’ve ne’er heard o’ pressin’ in from every side—just to get a glimpse or touch his sleeve.”

Aralt lifted an eyebrow. It had begun, then. Sooner or later, someone was going to petition the boy for a judgment, a blessing, even a healing. That was the gift he was given to believe Lian possessed, not this throwing of sparks like Marcynn Kynsei had been rumored to have done. As for the thunder, he had no answers. He wasn’t even sure he knew the right questions. He leaned against warmed masonry, hands joined before him. The cargo ship below drifted free of the water gate.

“I don’t like people having that much access to him.”

“Ye didnae say no.”

“Since when does my saying ‘no’ to Lian Kynsei make any difference?”

“I told ye all would be well. Telta tae one side, Kolarin the other. We lost Sirram in the crowd but most o’ the others were there as well. We’d nae let any harm come to the lad.”

“Aye, and in kirke not a one of you has a sword.”

Scanlin frowned. “’Twould be most unseemly.”

“What were you going to do? Fight off assassins with your bare hands?”

“I didnae say we had nay weapons,” Scanlin told him slyly, “only that we didnae have swords. Ye ken?”

Aralt assured his First Sword that their secret was safe with him. He had done the same on a few occasions. “Still, all those people, Grey? He hides when he’s feeling overwhelmed. How did he handle it?”

“With considerable grace. But he was lookin’ for ye. Said ye were awake.”

“Long before he was,” Aralt laughed. “I ran along the shore. You wouldn’t have wanted my company in a tight crowd after that.”

“By the look o’ ye, ’twould seem ye remedied that with nay trouble. I think he’d feel a trifle safer with ye there next time,” Scanlin gently coaxed.

“Don’t get me started,” Aralt said. He’d rein the boy in before promising himself into attending public worship services every time they were within a stone’s throw of a parish kirke. “We’ll not be staying long enough today for another appearance.”

“Travel on the Eighth Day? Surely we could take our rest and set out on the morrow—or after Tevin arrives with news from Askierran. And he’ll be needin’ a good kip afore he moves on. Or will ye add him to our ranks?”

“I thought he and Telta…”

“Ach. Love’s a fickle master at that age.”

Too well he knew it. He recalled his dreams, how Larissa Kyncaid had appeared in the place of Alira Alwynn. Larissa. First love. First lover. First heartbreak. He exhaled, casting off memories to the sea of forgetfulness.

“We need to press on to Alwynn-Muir. I already sent word. We can take our rest in Faerkirke. Just don’t drag Lian off to worship at Mar Alvis tonight. The city’s too big. There’s too much risk.”

“In Faerkirke?” Scanlin laughed. “One o’ the cities o’ faith?”

“Even so. I want everyone in the saddle before the next bell. The ship’s hired and waiting for us.”

“’Tis too soon, Wolf.”

Aralt put up a hand. “Don’t, Grey. I don’t want to argue. Not this morning, ken?”

Scanlin regarded him with concern. “Seems your dreams were as bad as Lian’s.”

He wondered if they had been one and the same. “Bad enough.”

“Bethulyn?”

Aralt nodded. Another reason not to move the governor’s household. So many memories of spoiled yesterdays. He concentrated on the lake below. The great ship had filled its sails with a healthy wind, moving rapidly out of the harbor. More fishing boats floated into view, gaily painted prows bobbing on the waves.

“’Tis your command, but as I’m your First Sword—and your friend—I’ll have me say. Another day or twa will scarce make a difference and might be the balm to what ails ye.”

“Me? I’m not the one you should be worrying about. I’ll be fine. It’s already arranged. If the skies are fair, there’ll be a ship rendezvousing with us at the Wall.”

“Ye hate ships.”

“Damn straight,” Aralt muttered. But they had their uses. “I was thinking we should split up. In case we have more unexpected visitors.” Not that any patrol had reported anything amiss.

Scanlin was nodding. “’Twill slow the esri wranglers down on the trails, but ’tis a good plan if I cannae put ye on another path. They’ll hold the ship for ye, Wolf. What say ye? For Lian’s sake if not your own.”

“That was quite a little performance he put on with the manti. I suppose…we could delay. For his sake.” The image of the boy’s bloody fingers superimposed on another image of bloody hands, and Aralt felt time shift ever so slightly. He anchored himself to Scanlin’s words lest he be swept off course.

“Had I nae seen it with me own eyes, I’d have called ye all liars. The physician that examined his hands last night and again this mornin’ called it a miracle.”

“What do you call it?” Aralt wanted to know, pinching off the blur of images. Lian’s hands, another’s hands below the surface of the water, six fingers, Lian’s hands again…

Scanlin shrugged. “Miracle sounds right to me. Aralt, be it well with ye? Are ye all right?”

“Right as rain.” If a hurricane could be called rain.

The sound of sword chiming against crystal sword saved him from Scanlin’s next question. He almost laughed when they each touched the hilts of their weapons, but the sound gave him a chill. Only marathis rang that brightly. They moved toward the sound as one, pace quickening as the inner courtyard opened below them. Deyr’s protests resumed with vigor, and he wasn’t the only one complaining. Cori Jame and two of Bethulyn’s ranking Swords were likewise haranguing Russ Munro. Against the amber of herringboned flagstone, he saw Russ unaccountably sparring with Lian, and in Lian’s left hand…Kynlan’s marathis blade.

Sila’s whips!

Sweet Creator!

Aralt and Scanlin exchanged glances as their thoughts collided; both cleared their throats and made for the nearest stairs with the same thing on their lips.

“Munro!”

Russ must have been giddy from a night’s foray into the unsuspecting countryside, looking for trouble as usual and finding an unwitting pawn. Left to his own devices, it seemed unlikely to Aralt that Lian would have taken the sword from the equipment awaiting departure in the hall. No, this had Russ’s grubby fingerprints all over it, and by the look on his First Sword’s face, he wondered which of them was going to inflict more harm on the audacious scout.

Someone had taught Lian something, but if it was merely dueling etiquette he was at a double disadvantage. Even drunk—and surely Lian would decline a drunkard’s challenge—Russ’s instincts and reflexes could overcome his inexperienced opponent; were one of his berserker rages to erupt, nothing would save the boy. Within moments, Lian was disarmed by a sloppy but effective chest-high turn of Russ’s blade. The stroke sent the boy sprawling into Deyr and Sirram’s arms, his shirt torn, the marathis sword jangling across the stone.

Aralt took the last steps to the flagstones at a run. Cori Jame handed him the sword. He brandished it at Russ. “Sila’s bloody bride, Munro. What the jig do you think you're doing?”

“Nothin’,” Russ told him, tripping over his own feet in an attempt to escape.

Aralt hauled him back into line by the shirt collar. “Not so fast.”

“Mutton head.” Scanlin cuffed him in the back of the head. “Would that ye had a home I could send ye to.”

“Aw!” Russ’ head wagged back and forth. “Not in front of everyone an’ all.”

“You should have thought of that before you—not so fast, you,” Aralt barked at Lian as the boy made to scurry away. “I ought to…” the rest of the sentence died on his lips with so many eyes trained on his every move. He could not stop his thoughts. I ought to thrash your hide, kavistra or not!

Lian turned around slowly, hand clutching his torn shirt. Do your worst. Everyone is watching.

“Whoa, lads! I jus’ wondered, uh, if it’s been put to rest, ye know?” Russ said, waving his sword at the boy. Then he seemed to realize what he was doing, and he sheathed the blade in a hurry. His pleading looks to Deyr and Sirram were wasted as the two youngsters folded their arms and, as one, turned their backs on him. Russ pointed. “It were Deyr’s idea. He said the spooks might need some exercise.”

“Exorcize, ye toastwit,” Deyr muttered. “Not exercise.”

“He wasn’t the one with a sword in his hand this time. And quit with the talk about spooks! You sound like a superstitious child. ‘Can’t sleep, the spooks are gonna eat me!’” Aralt taunted. “And you two. Turn around and stop laughing. I’ll have words with you both for just standing by, and that’s after I leave you to Commander Ross for an hour or twa!”

“But, syr Tremayne, I dinnae do a’thing…”

“Shut up, Deyr.”

Sirram twisted his hands together. “I’m sorry, Commander…”

“Well you should be, mac Kenna. Kolarin thinks the world of you, boy, but Lian keeps going astray under your watchful ranger’s eye. How the jig did you pass your exams? I already regret bringing Deyr. Don’t make me regret bringing you.”

Sirram hung his head in shame. “Aye, syr Tremayne.”

Deyr huffed in indignation. “I’m sorry as well…”

“Shut up, Deyr!”

Don’t be angry at them for what I did.

“You shut up too, Lian!”

No one spoke for an uncomfortably long time.

“Aw, Wolf. No ’arm’s done, yeah?” Munro drawled, his voice thick with his muddled accent. At least he wasn’t inebriated. The mop of unevenly cropped red hair above his close-set blue eyes gave him the eager look of an unruly but inoffensive homely child. “Everyone kens that a dead man’s sword is unlucky if it ain’t reTuned or broked up; some hell-pesky spooks might move into it…”

Spooks, indeed. Aralt flicked the tip of the spun-crystal blade under his scout’s twice-broken nose. Perspiration dripped down his back as he took a calming breath, lowering the weapon. Someone—he suspected only Scanlin would approach him at this point—silently handed him the sheath, and he jammed the two together without even looking.

“What if you’d ended up like the manti?”

Russ’s freckles stood out against his pasty face. His square jaw dropped open, then clacked shut as he swallowed. “Ye wouldnae—would ye?”

“Not intentionally,” Lian mumbled, wiping bloody fingers against an even bloodier shirt. There would be no wearing that to worship again.

Bloody fingers…

“Thirteen levels down and dropping, Russ. Look what you’ve done.”

“I’ll see to it,” Scanlin said quickly, but Aralt waved his First Sword away, intent on Lian’s condition himself.

“Leave me be,” Lian told him, avoiding his gaze. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

Ignoring the protests, Aralt gripped both of Lian’s wrists in one hand to keep the boy from shielding the bleeding wound. With a sigh of disgust, he flicked the torn shirt aside to reveal the narrow slash trickling blood from collarbone to breastbone. Lian squirmed under his grasp, protests increasing. Too late, Aralt realized why.

There, smeared in blood over the boy’s heart, lay an all-too-familiar serpentine scar. He pulled his thoughts into clearer focus. Scanlin was busy chastising idle onlookers and turning away curious latecomers, but he made no attempt to avoid his commander’s accusing, angry look.

Aralt turned back to Lian. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“What else don’t you really want to know?”

Aralt straightened stiffly, swallowing back bitter memories of his own ordeal at the hands of lonn Tirehl. Capture. Ridicule. Torture. His first lesson in hate. He had endured the indignity of being carved like a festival roast to give his enemy glory, to increase the Shirahnyn’s precious battle-honor, his shirrasah. But he had been a young warrior, prepared to give his life at least in theory. For Lian, a Child of the Spirit, to bear that mark upon his body was sacrilege.

Something changed in the boy’s visage. Unspoken words of sympathy murmured at the edges of Aralt’s mind, gentle waves, blue as heaven.

“Stop it, Lian!”

The boy flinched at the rejection. Aralt refused to be sorry.

“Sirram,” he pushed the lad’s name through clenched teeth. “Take Lian into the house and summon a physician. Don’t let him out of your sight, ken? Sit on him if you have to.”

“Aye, sir.” It was barely more than a whisper.

“You,” he grated at Russ without even giving his shamefaced scout the courtesy of a glance. “I ought to break your nose again, you addle-brained slug.”

He squared his shoulders as he moved across the plaza, shoving his way through the gathered crowd to reach the nearest pedestrian gate and the isolation of the long stretch of beach beyond the city walls.