Long after the drovers and the decoy party straggled onto the mountain terrace located at the base of the first cascade, the rain spattered to nothing, and the sky unraveled into a loose tapestry of pink candy-floss clouds. Aralt wrapped his aching hands around a cup of bitter tea and watched the setting sun cast rays of white gold across the lavender expanse. Another few hours in front of the fire and he thought his boots might be dry. The chances of recovering his favorite coat were as slim as finding his sword.

“An empty baldric is a bad omen.”

Had anyone besides Scanlin had the nerve to say that to him, he was rather sure he would have knocked them into the plunge pool and held them under until they turned blue. His First Sword folded himself down near the fire, raising his voice that he might be heard over the roar of the water. By nightfall, all their ears would be ringing.

“No matter your differences, the two o’ ye were close. Mayhap this will serve?” Scanlin said, bringing forth a weapon that wasn’t Aralt’s, but might as well have been.

He recognized the wolf’s-head quillons of his brother’s sword immediately—almost a twin to his own. The same jeweller had crafted them, using the finest metals and marathis available. Kynlan had carried his weapon but a few years. To his knowledge, it had never tasted blood. He set aside his cup of tea, wrapping stiff hands around the elaborately tooled scabbard. Crystal sang as he drew the weapon. Numb as his body was from cold and the ebbing memory of nearly losing Lian in the falls, he could barely perceive the unique Tune of his brother’s sword. There. Just beyond his ken, beyond the misty veil of other memories best left alone. He drew a sharp breath, his eyes rolling back. He swallowed bile. Scanlin steadied him.

“Your blood's too hot for it to be easy right now. It’ll be strange in any case, but he would have ye use it in place o’ yours if ye can. I made certain it was retrieved before we abandoned ship. That and Lian’s staff. Naught much else was.” Scanlin looked older, somehow, as if the weight of the day had settled on his shoulders. “Vespers draws nigh. Dinner follows. I expect you’re hungry for at least one o’ those.”

He lowered his gaze, fingers tracing the etching on the blade. The ancient clan motto inscribed in a tongue now rarely spoken: Honesty and Honor, to which had been added Fearless in Faith. “I expect so.”

“He thinks it’s his fault, ye know,” Scanlin said, extending his hands toward the fire. Praying hands that bore the scars of many a battle. “The ship, your sword…even that poor blighter that took a header o’er the rail.”

Aralt lifted an eyebrow. “If Mariah threw him over, he was no friend to us. Please don’t remind me he was someone’s something.” Every one of us is.

“I’ll nay remind ye o’ what ye know to be true. No doubt the man was a villain, but Lian’s a sensitive soul, and nae warrior for all he soldiers on. Talk to him, Wolf. He’s need o’ ye, and methinks ye o’ him.”

He shook his head. Whatever solace Lian Kynsei found in the hidden chapel carved into a cave behind the waterfall, Aralt thought it best to leave him to it. What had transpired between them earlier was still too raw. “If anyone should go in there, it’s you. You’re better at that sort of thing. I’ve already addressed the survivors. There’s nothing can be done for the dead.”

“A funny thing, that. Comin’ from you. I’ve ne’er known ye to lay aside your dead so easily.”

“Grey, don’t. Not here,” he said, gazing across to the place where his nightmares had manifested an image he did not wish to remember. “Not after…that.”

“Aye, Commander.”

He closed his eyes briefly, fatigue weighing like a sack of wet sand strapped to his back. “Grey—”

But his First Sword was already walking away, doing precisely what he had ordered to do. “Ye’ve more than this day’s woes to settle, Wolf. Ye needs put whate’er business ye have with Lian aside before it makes a meal o’ ye.”

* * *

Twelve candles illuminated the interior of the Kirke o’ the Mist. High in the arched ceiling, white Peace Birds flew against a mosaic sky as blue as the moon lilies Aralt remembered from his mother’s garden, and a tangle of vines wove down pillars, crimson petals unfolding every arm’s length. Starflies and glitterwings, jewel tones in contrast with the limestone, seemed to flutter in the shifting light. Beneath his bare feet, a magnificent tree twisted gnarled limbs toward a single, smiling moon, and reclining under its golden branches, two creatures rendered in white lay side by side. One, a great cat, the other, a lambkin.

Scanlin had removed his baldric, just as they always had in Kyrrimar. He did the same, leaving his brother’s sword in easy reach on the same ledge. He had held it throughout vespers, watching the firelight reflect in verdant crystal, focusing on the Tune—so different and yet so much like his own sword—until his stomach settled. He put himself through the most basic of drills, moving with stiff, measured steps until his muscles warmed and he and the sword were in one accord. Marathis sang. By the time he finished, satisfied that he could use the weapon without undue discomfort, vespers had ended, and attendees had dispersed to their various duties. Entering the chapel, he could hear Lian softly singing. Sweet though it was, the boy did not have his brother’s voice.

“There’s a mosaic in the kavistra’s chapel at Kyrrimar that depicts a single moon,” Aralt said by way of conversation. It had not set well with him the way he and Scanlin had ended earlier. Not outside the shrine or prior to the destruction of the Aurora.

“I’ve seen it,” Scanlin said. “A long time ago.”

“That secret life you never talk about?”

“Ye should talk o’ secret lives.”

He sidestepped the comment and assessed their surroundings. The rangers’ quarters, carved into the mountain above the esri byre, was designed to house travelers in inclement weather, but the underground antechamber would likewise be sufficient for his entire company, and archers could be situated on the narrow balcony accessed from a staircase just inside the narthex. “We should bring everyone in here for the night. It’s dry, and there are stoves in the outer chamber to take away the night chill and keep the space bright. It would be easy to defend.”

“That it would, but ’tis a kirke, nae a fortress. And, pardon me askin’, but just who would we be defendin’ it from?”

He concentrated on the mosaics, still unsure about what he had seen earlier in the mist and shadow. Or who. He drew Scanlin to one side of the chamber, lowering his voice. “I’m not sure. I just…”

“What have ye seen, Wolf? I see it in yer eyes that ye have. Ye’ve kenned the future again—as ye once did, before Kynlan died.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I could see the future, I’d have known not to take the ship earlier and saved us all a lot of grief.” The fate of the crew remained unknown, but he had little reason to believe any of them had survived the crash.

“Ye had misgivings.”

“I had misgivings because I hate traveling by ship,” he said, any notion of speaking to Lian now forgotten. Seeing as they were alone, he confided in Scanlin, “I don’t know what I saw. Or if it was real at all. When we were in the water, it all came back. All of it. The panic, the blood, his face. I called him ‘Kynlan’ out there.” I wanted it to be Kynlan, if only for the chance to save him this time.

Scanlin gripped his shoulder. “Settle yourself a time. I’ll set the watch. We’re still waitin’ on Munro, and he’ll have the whole camp in a stir once he gets here. If ye needs this place defended, there’s room aplenty in the antechamber; them that aren’t sae comfortable here can rest in the bunkhouse. I’ve already spoken to the duty ranger.”

“Got it all under control, Commander Ross?”

“If not, I will soon enough. Tevin’s gone to fetch a cot for Lian, at least. The rest o’ us can make do. There’s a side chapel just through there.” A statue stood in the shadows of the alcove Scanlin indicated. Something with wings that was neither man nor beast. “Take it. Ye’d do well to get a wee kip.”

“With that thing looking down at me?” Aralt laughed. “The last time I slept here was after Kynlan died. Staying here wasn’t by choice, believe me. I was beat to hell myself after trying to find him, then climbing all the way back up. I crawled in here, out of the rain, in the dark. I lit candles and put them on the altar, just like I learned as a boy. I prayed. I waited. My brother didn’t come. No one came. I woke up alone. No answers. No miracles. Just cold, deaf stone. So, forgive me for not finding this place a haven of peace!” He rubbed at a pulse at his temple. Once more he found himself apologizing for the sort of outburst he should have outgrown.

“Ye needs say no more. Well I remember it—and you.” Scanlin’s words carried in the quiet space. It was at that moment that Aralt realized that Lian had fallen silent.

“By…the Flood,” he changed words mid-swear. He grabbed his brother’s sword and headed for the antechamber and the spring night beyond. “I can’t stay in here.”

Scanlin trailed after him. “Ye needs stay in here. Ye needs stay with him. Do ye nae see it?”

“And keep him from whatever he’s doing? No. He needs this space more than I do. It’ll make him feel better. I know that, Grey. And…I don’t want to take that away from him.”

“It isn’t for himself, Aralt. It’s for all o’ us. Even ye. Especially for ye.”

Deep in the hidden chapel vault, Lian began again to intone one of the night prayers, but all Aralt could hear was the sound of silent tears.