“Hope is rekindled from the ashes of our dreams.”

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

The Aurora Dream II rose like a second sun into grim skies over the Weeping Wall, her gleaming hull emblazoned with a pod of stylized fish streaming from stem to stern, swimming amid a sea of stars. That alone was advertisement enough to have her blasted from unfriendly skies, and it struck Aralt as particularly incongruous considering the other notable innovation her predecessor had lacked: short-range cannons. Even for defense, it was just another way to make war without having to look into one’s opponent’s eyes.

Russ had firmly refused to travel with them.

“I ain’t goin’ up there,” he had declared as they stood in the shadow of the gondola that morning, hands cupped around his eyes. “Not enough air.”

Aralt could only shrug. It wasn’t like he wanted to go aloft either. “Suit yourself. Ride the Wall with the drovers and our decoys. You’ll be two days reaching the river valley.”

“Won’t even be a day if I don’t make camp halfway down. Place gives me the shivers anyhowsy with all that, you know, God stuff scratched on the walls. You watch. Me and the Cherry Possum will be there afore ye.”

In the grave, certainly, Aralt thought. He could no longer remember how many red-ticked mares Russ had christened Cherry Possum.

“Have a care, Russ. You can kill a good esri on those trails.”

“Oh, aye, but she’s no more good than that dragon-headed, fang-toothed beastie ye be ridin’ all o’ yer life. Unnatural, how long that animal’s lived. Hope ye warned the drovers he sharpens his spurs with his teeth.”

“Just have a care,” Aralt told him when they parted. “And mind your manners when you reach Faerkirke.” The Alwynns were tolerant people, but Russ had a way of making even angels weep.

Later, as the ship moved away from the plateau at Taenerry Downs and rose above the tumbling falls, he hoped Russ had not strayed back into the market to obtain a flask of death juice, haggling for one or another wetgood with whichever stoic merchant he could coax out from under bright canopies pregnant with rainwater. In all, Taenerry Downs was not unlike a burgeoning port town: milling aircrew instead of boatswains, couriers and quarreling merchants all rushing to conduct business before the next spring deluge. A swift trade of holy relics had ended abruptly upon their arrival, but, as in other Tyrian marketplaces, the sale of star pendants was at an all-time high.

“Fair skies will see us to Faerkirke before the day has a chance to age, syr Tremayne.”

Aralt lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “This is fair?”

“It will improve.”

The pilot of the Aurora Dream II, Kress Mariah, was confident as ever. A thickset, sandy-haired northerner with a coarse, twisted mustache and an easy smile, Mariah was the only airship skipper Aralt marginally trusted. An azure neckerchief was twisted about his bullish neck, a six-pointed star, fashioned of shell and coral, clasped at the center. Despite inclement weather, Mariah was barefoot under billowing knee-length grey breeks, and the sleeves of his bright red shirt were knotted about his biceps.

“And what about this sort of sky?” Aralt wanted to know. He had yet to put on his goggles, but bursts of sideways rain put him in a mind to.

Mariah shrugged. “Mist is always heavy this time o’ year near the Wall. Still a sight smoother than sailing the Kell any time o’ year.” Only a handful of experienced marrs braved the tides, and Kress Mariah had sailed more than most. Fewer still had taken to piloting airships.

“This is different,” Aralt told him, eyeing the tumbling sky. He forced himself to unclench his jaw and relax his shoulders.

“Like the Feast night?” Mariah peeled back his goggles, lowering his voice. “Heard tell o’ your visitors. That storm swept in like a cat from unexpected snow.”

Lian appeared on deck just then, cloaked in a night-black coat that skimmed the polished deck. Somewhere on the narrow switchbacks descending toward the fertile river valley, his decoy wore the distinctive blue and black coat Susa had made. Seeing the boy drape himself over the burnished wood guardrail, without a harness, to gaze at the tumult of frigid glacier melt shimmering to mist long before it reached the Pool of Tears far below made Aralt’s stomach turn over.

“Strange workings that night.”

Aralt only nodded at Mariah’s words, staring straight ahead, wishing he had some landmark on which to fix his gaze. Lian spared him a glance.

I didn’t do it.

Never said you did.

You were thinking about it.

Rude child.

Are you going to be sick?

Aralt cleared his throat and directed his attention back to Mariah. “Aurora II, eh?”

The pilot grinned. “Dreams don’t die, syr Tremayne. She’s a magnificent machine.”

“The Alwynns are generous patrons.” Alira Alwynn, in particular, had a fondness for flying machines. Not a passion he shared. His paternal grandfather, no doubt, would have approved wholeheartedly. Of the machine and of Alira.

“I got me the best ships north of the archipelago now—on the water and in the air. Say what you will about the Shirahnyn, but they’re the finest ship-crafters this side of Devils Canyon. She’s all spun-crystal construction under her skin. They say it can’t be Tuned, but you’ll hear her sing if I take her high enough—and she runs clean fuel, not like those fart barges we flew in the early days. I’ve made the coast run a dozen times now, even at high tide. She’ll take whatever blows in over the Kell Sea.”

“Runs on magic, does she?”

Mariah lowered his goggles and gave a two-fingered salute across the deck to Lian Kynsei. “Let’s call it prayers. If you’re to go on, to Askierran I mean, I’d be pleased to take the contract.”

Aralt couldn’t think of anyone he would rather make rich. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

They wouldn’t proceed anytime soon if he had his way, but of late he found he was not in command of the situation. The remnants of Devailyn Kynsei’s inner circle had lately convened, made additional appointments to the wider Assembly of Faith, gathering representatives from numerous domains across Askierran. What wasn’t put into polite correspondence his mother had made plain in her last letter—a letter he would have missed had they left on the Eight Day as he had planned. Despite the growing support of clergy in the north who earnestly attested to Lian Kynsei’s identity, those that had governed Askierran for three years had reached no consensus. First their pleas for the return of the kavistra, then, presented with a candidate, they hesitated. As far as Aralt was concerned, they were a gaggle of learned old fools if they continued to deny who and what Lian was. Then again, he mused, Lian seemed a trifle confused on the matter himself.

“There’s more o’ ye green than your eyes. Is Perryn’s remedy nae workin’?” Scanlin appeared warm and dry in his greatcoat. With the hood drawn around his goggles, he looked like a great grey owl.

“I haven’t lost my dignity yet.” He glanced over his shoulder.

“Lad’s gone below where it’s dry as toast. Did he nae talk to ye? He seemed of a mind.”

Not so much talked as… Aralt shook his head. “He hasn’t said much since we left Bethulyn.”

“Has he nae? Why, pray tell?”

Aralt released a pent breath and made a weak stab at humor. “Did he nay tell ye?”

His answer was crossed arms and drumming fingers. “He dinnae need tell me.”

“Then I suppose I needn’t tell you, either.”

Aralt adjusted his goggles, avoiding his First Sword’s glare. The arrival of Tevin Keely with news from Askierran had provided ample distraction when Aralt and Lian dragged themselves back to Bethulyn, soaked to the skin. Had it not been for the courier’s presence, he was reasonably sure Scanlin would have done more than slapped him after seeing Lian’s swollen face. It had been well past time for ice.

“I cannae but guess what passed betwixt ye, but spent as ye both were, I suspected ye washed your differences out with the rain. But here we be,” Scanlin said, turning his palm upward, “and it’s still rainin’.”

“He brings it with him. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“A lot o’ cheek ye have, syr Tremayne. ’Tisn’t like ye, to strike a child, and this one—”

“Ah, yes,” Aralt said, bringing his hands together in heavenly supplication. “The wee bastion of peace that will lead the nation.”

“I’ll be havin’ none o’ that,” Scanlin warned.

“If you’d heard what was said on the beach in Bethulyn, you’d have clocked him as well.” At Scanlin’s grimace he amended, “Well, you’d have thought about it.”

“Had ye thought before ye acted…” Scanlin lowered his voice as crew members moved by to ascend into the ship’s envelope. “Had ye thought before ye acted, the Kavistra o’ Askierran wouldnae have the imprint o’ your right hand on his face. I shoulda knocked ye clear into the next parish for layin’ a hand on one o’ the soul-touched is what I shoulda done.”

And now we come to it, Aralt thought. Scanlin had a way of pinning the tail quite firmly on the esri’s behind, and he deserved every bit of the tongue-lashing. He would have felt better had he not been trying not to pitch his breakfast overboard.

“Aye, you should have. So, why didn’t you?”

He never saw Scanlin’s fist coming. Unprepared as he was, the blow sent him staggering, dislodging his goggles. He clutched at the railing, battling a sudden flash of vertigo followed by seizing the rail and spewing the contents of his stomach into the wind.

“Why didn’t you do that before?” he wheezed. But the reason was only too apparent. “He told you not to, didn’t he?”

“Mayhap,” Scanlin said, massaging the knuckles of his right hand. “But I’ll have me a front-row seat when Alira Alwynn kens the truth o’ that. It’ll take more than a wedding garland to put that to rights.”

“You’ll need a basket to pick up the pieces,” Aralt admitted. Truth told, he was glad for the scolding. Scanlin’s reprimand stung far less than his guilty conscience would each time he was forced to look his handiwork in the face. Judging by the color, it would be some days yet.

Scanlin pushed his goggles up and sighed. “’Twould seem I’ve been your First Sword too long. There was a time when ye heeded me words.”

“I still do,” Aralt assured him, scanning the deck again to make sure Lian was still below and had not been privy to what had just happened. Dry as toast, Scanlin had said. Would that he could partake of the comfort. The motion topside was bad enough. He worked his jaw side to side and wiped his mouth. “Believe me, Grey. It’s refreshing to talk to someone I understand.”

Scanlin studied him in silence. He hated when his old friend did that. Next, Scanlin would say something profound.

“Pity. Rain or shine, you’ll nae have these days again—and that lad will nae need ye the way he does right now. Few people get the second chance either of o’ ye been giv’n. What ye do in the comin’ days will impact Askierran for generations. And will change your lives forever.”

Like that.

“Don’t put that load on my shoulders, Grey. I have no intention of becoming ksathra—either by appointment or force. I am quite content governing Tyrian—and Leyth. And don’t get me started about torn allegiances. When it’s time to step down from Tyrian—or hand the reins to Cori Jame,” he said carefully, “I’ll do it. As for that lad and where he ought to be—”

“Will ye now? Step down?”

Aralt grimaced. A trickle of rain had penetrated his cowl and ran cold down his back. “If Lian is to be kavistra—and that’s still a big if—I will…probably…likely…all right, probably be required to leave Tyrian to be more readily available—if he even wants my counsel. More likely he’ll appoint you, and it will have been an admirable choice. I expect you to say yes. In any case, even if he returns to Kyrrimar, my relocating to Leyth won’t make me any sort of regent.”

“Won’t it now?”

Aralt moved further aft to avoid crewmembers about their business and his own troops as they emerged from below to take in what remained a poor view of anything beyond mist and waterfall spray. Lian was not among them. “No, it won’t. That is not the oath I swore. It was never implied that Lian would be kavistra or that I would be anything more than an oath-brother. If it had been…” If it had been, he was quite sure he had no idea what he would have responded when asked. He scrubbed at his face. Yes, he did. He would have answered in the affirmative. Always. He would never have even paused to consider the ramifications. Had not paused.

“No doubt he needs his kervallyn—mayhap more than anything else,” Scanlin said. “Shame he only has that ’bout half the time.”

“That’s because I don’t even like him half the time. And I’m relatively sure the feeling is mutual. He said it himself. It isn’t the same. We aren’t the same.”

Scanlin cuffed him lightly. “Daft man. As if anything—or anyone—stays the same. ’Tis a lesson you ought to have learned by now. Try to ken what I’m sayin’ to ye, Wolf.”

“What are you trying to say?” he asked, checking his pocket watch, wishing he could hurry time as simply as adjusting the hands on the dial.

“That ye might begin by layin’ aside the mournin’ clothes. Your brother Kynlan is dead. Your brother Lian is not.”

Aralt let go a long breath. Even at their present altitude he could hear the rushing water that had carried his brother to his death. Let go, Aralt…let go or you’ll lose us both.

“What would you do, in my place?” A place for which Scanlin Ross had always seemed far better suited.

“Ye remember the bell tower? The night ye became Commander Glynn’s Second Sword? Your orders haven’t—”

Aralt…hurry!

The urgency of Lian’s thoughts was enough to drive Aralt into motion. He turned away from Scanlin’s earnest face, making his way to where several of the crew had gathered on deck, their conspiratorial posture a clear indication that something was amiss. When the engineer’s mate bolted toward the bridge, Aralt followed, gripping Scanlin’s arm as he went by. “Find Lian.”

A low rumble like distant thunder rose from beneath the deck, the accompanying vibration traveling throughout Aralt’s body. He steadied himself against one of the capstans. Above, a twisting keen shot through the superstructure of the envelope. The merest loss of altitude might as well have been a deathly plummet for what it did to his already twisted gut. Uneasiness that had nothing to do with his dislike of flight settled in his stomach.

“Everyone topside!”