“Even that which dwells in darkness

can be illuminated by the light.”

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

Aralt’s waistcoat and breeches had almost dried by the time he took the final watch. The same could not be said for his boots. Even packing them with stones heated in the stove in the rangers’ dwelling had proved insufficient to dry the lamb’s-wool insoles, a discovery made when his stiff socks grew cold and wet. Rarely had he been so eager for the night to end.

“Did ye sleep at all?” Scanlin asked, giving him a long appraising look as they swapped places toward morning.

“Lian did,” Aralt said, hefting his baldric. The boy had been quiet, in any case, wrapped warm and dry inside the coat Susa had sewn for him. Telta made no complaints about the condition of hers when the exchange was made, though the boy looked crestfallen handing her the sodden garment. She assured him it had been due for a wash anyway. “Russ show up yet?”

“I trust he’ll be along,” Scanlin said, settling down in the dim light cast by the single candle in the niche behind the altar. A coil of smoke unfurled through a hidden vent.

Russ should have arrived hours ago, and they both knew it. “He doesn’t like this place, but he wouldn’t have ridden past during the night, either. I suppose he could have taken a side trail and overtaken the drovers. He always turns up eventually.”

“That he does.”

“Take what rest you can,” Aralt advised. He buckled Kynlan’s sword into place, ignoring Scanlin’s frown. “I mean to have us off the mountain and in Faerkirke before nightfall if we can get a boat that will transport all of us.”

“Ye’re fixin’ to take us down Wolf’s Folly to the narrow pass? That’s a hard trail for the uninitiated.”

“Precisely.” Few people knew that route as well as he. It decreased the likelihood of encountering any Shirahnyn—or anyone else. “Has it stopped raining?”

“As much as it e’er does this close to the falls, but the sky’s low. ’Tis but a short time until the gloamin’,” Scanlin said, masking a yawn with the back of his hand.

“You should have come for me earlier.”

“I intended that ye sleep.”

He could hardly fault his friend for good intentions.

“Kolarin’s gone ’round to wake Tevin and relieve the Watch o’er the esri, but all’s been quiet.”

“Even Tabric?” It seemed unlikely the tetchy old beast hadn’t bitten every other animal within reach, given the close quarters of the esri byre.

“The rangers mannin’ this station keep a store of dried hushberries. A handful was enough to calm even your dragonponi. Tevin’s on watch with ye, if ye want to have a go at him again about takin’ the ranger’s exam. This month’s caretaker chatted him up. Might be a sign.”

“Third time’s the charm, eh?”

“I’ve heard it said.”

“You didn’t put him on watch with Telta?”

Scanlin pulled a blanket around his shoulders and stretched out his legs. “I didnae want them only watchin’ each other.”

* * *

The wet stone of the terrace directly behind the waterfall glistened in the lamplight, slick and smooth like a patch of black ice beneath the perpetual mist. A ring of lanterns encircled the paved plaza to the left, swaying like will-o-wisps in the fog. The fire before which he had sat earlier was a saturated mass of embers and smoke, the smell of seasoned wood permeating the cool air. A plume of water vapor rose from the plunge pool he and Lian had fallen into. He could hear little over the roar of the cascade, but dark shadows darted from crannies in the rock face as nightfliers feasted on water squiggles and small fish carried over the falls.

He withdrew the protective hood from the flash lantern. It had seen better days but was adequate to signal the Watch at the stable on the far side of the wayfarers’ plaza. He waited for their reply, then operated the shutter again. A burst of code came back at him a moment before the crashing of the waterfall resolved into the sound of a dozen snorting esri clattering directly toward him. He flattened himself against the stone, inching his way toward the chapel entrance as the animals crowded into the narrow gap between the falls and the corridor leading into the underground shrine. Knocked from his hand by an esri vainly attempting to avoid a swift kick from Tabric, the flash lantern was reduced to bits of wood and polished mirror that flickered like stars strewn across the glistening flagstone. Through the milling crowd of confused animals, he caught sight of one of his men stumbling across the plaza, but it wasn’t until Kolarin collapsed almost at his feet that he realized who it was. He hauled the older man to unsteady feet, dragging him clear of thousands of pounds of sinew, tusks, and spurs. He yanked on the bell cord, calling his company to arms.

He slapped the haunches of the nearest esri to drive them clear, leaving the rest of the work to Tabric. Members of his traveling party that had sheltered within the kirke emerged, blinking with sleep, lanterns swinging before them to light the scene. No one stirred from the direction of the ranger’s quarters.

“Is it well with you?”

“Someone knocked me into the shallows. I nearly went over the falls,” Kolarin gasped, slicking back dark hair. A gash cut across his cheek, following the line of an old scar, a reminder of their days fighting the Naharasii. They all had them.

Aralt could see nothing clearly in the mist. “Did anyone—”

“Aye,” Kolarin said, tone bitter. “I heard them yelling. Someone…something walked out of the night like a phantom. By the Seven, it was fast. Set the esri loose before we even realized it was there. Tevin went after it, the little fool.”

A slight intake of breath betrayed Telta’s anxiety. She slung her quiver across her back. “Syr Tremayne?”

“We’re not hunting in the dark,” he told her.

Her face was pinched with worry. “But, if it’s the Soulless…”

He turned Kolarin over to the care of others as he formulated a plan. “Fergus, get him inside. Scanlin, stay with Lian. Four of you—stay with Lian.”

Several esri, their coats slick and glossy in the lamplight, milled outside the hall entrance, spurred hooves crunching the remains of the flash lantern into glittering bits. Fog billowed across the plaza, blurring the line of sight. Then, one by one, the lanterns went out, until the only thing Aralt could see was a ghostly figure in the predawn light.

“That’s Tevin. Sweet Creator, syr Tremayne, that’s Tevin!”

He held Telta back as his courier staggered in their direction, his face lost in shadows cast by a veil of scudding clouds eclipsing the moonlight. When Tevin fell, not ten paces from where they stood under the archway leading to the kirke, they could see the knife protruding from his back.

“Syr Tremayne,” Telta’s voice wavered.

He stilled her with an upraised hand, all the while searching the gloom. “Breathe. Listen.”

“But—”

After another painful moment he nodded. “Get him.”

They dragged Tevin into the antechamber and Telta inspected his wound, her small hands fluttering across his back like starfly wings. “He’ll be all right.”

“No, he won’t. Not if it really was one of the j’thirrin.” Lian slid between them. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his hair was mussed from sleep. “That’s a black-ice blade—like black marathis, but not as pure. All it takes is a scratch…”

Telta withdrew her hands. “Poison?”

“The j’thirrin always use poison. Diviner’s poppy, and kitaberry, and things that aren’t even natural. It’s how they—”

“I’m all right,” Tevin said, groggy and hoarse. He winced when Scanlin removed the knife from his shoulder and applied a compress. Now he spoke between gritted teeth. “Syr Tremayne, I had him, I swear. I don’t know what happened.”

“He is not all right.” Lian backed away, his heartwood staff in hand. “Neither is Kolarin. Stay away from them.”

The color drained from Kolarin mac Kenna’s face. “Kavsa, you know me. I’m not the enemy.”

“Not yet. Not until they come back for you. I’m sorry.” His wide eyes would have been comical under other circumstances. “Aralt, I’m sorry.”

“Lian, you’re mad. You know these men. Just stay put, would you? For once? Just stay put.”

“No. No, you don’t understand.” Lian ran after him down the long hall toward the plaza. His voice was barely audible over the sound of the waterfall. “You don’t understand. He’s found us. Lonn Tirehl has found us.”

“He’s a thousand miles away.”

“But his eyes are here…”

The darkness shimmered as a tall figure appeared, first in silhouette, then stepping with no more than a sigh from shadow to moonlight as if birthed from the very depths of the night. His expressionless face mirrored pale moonlight, his eyes molten silver chips sunken into skeletal sockets. Tattered clothing hung about his frame like garments on a corpse. The knapped edge of a dark blood-crystal sword glinted wetly under fractured moonbeams. Aralt swept Lian behind him and drew his brother’s sword, his left hand palming his dagger as he backed his entire company toward the antechamber. His sword hand spasmed at the contact with a strange blade, but he held firm, stilling his heart, stilling his thoughts, allowing himself to become one with the sword. Scanlin had predicted they were enough alike. He clung to that belief. The stranger lingered at the threshold.

“Get back. Everyone, get back. Shirahnyn won’t go underground. Lian, tell me this is underground enough.”

“He isn’t just Shirahnyn,” the boy breathed. “He’s j’thirrin.”

“Come from the shadows, have you?” Aralt asked the shadow assassin, signaling for everyone to move into position. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Telta scramble up a narrow staircase to a balcony under the waterfall. “We can see you now.”

The man remained in the entryway, hollow-cheeked and slack-jawed. His lips moved slowly, forming his words in heavily-accented Kierran. He looked directly at Lian. “And I see you, little fish.”

Lian brandished his staff like a weapon, the heartwood harmonizing with the keen of Kynlan’s sword. “You can’t stop them with swords.”

“And I suppose you’re going to stop them with a big stick? Oh, no. Don’t you dare,” Aralt said when blue light flashed from Lian’s fingertips and spread like lacework along the surface of the staff.

A grotesque grin spread over the warrior’s gaunt face. He crossed the threshold.

“Nay, Soulless one,” Scanlin challenged, stepping up beside Aralt. “You’ll nae be takin’ your sword into a place o’ peace.”

The Shirahnyn executed a feint toward Scanlin, then barreled into Aralt, knocking him back a few paces. He pushed back. The man was deceptively strong, for all he looked like a weathered field poppet. And without fear. Or honor. At least not the sort of honor he subscribed to.

Crystal song reverberated down the hall as they engaged the enemy, flickering light casting shadows and scattering color, a kaleidoscope of green and dark red shot through with veins of blue. When Lian attempted to intervene, Tevin pulled him aside. For a moment, Aralt thought the boy was going to strike his courier with the staff, but he wiggled free instead, tripping over Kolarin in the process and sprawling on the ground. The assassin laughed and lunged, dancing a morbid jig, sword arm extended.

“Come to me, fish.” The warrior stretched out his hand, chest heaving, his breathing rapid and hard as if every inhalation was a struggle. “Come to me, or they will all die.”

“Not today,” Aralt said, maneuvering him until he was surrounded. But the warrior paid no heed, and he swore, knowing that Scanlin would be loath to strike a man from behind. He hoped his First Sword would make an exception for one of the Soulless. “Grey!”

Using the close quarters and sheer strength to offset his opponent’s balance, Scanlin slammed him face-first into a stone wall. Blood crystal fell to the ground, and Aralt kicked the sword aside. When their assailant rounded on him, Aralt ran him through, shoving him backward until the roar of the falls was in their ears. The cloying, sweet scent of tantyri made it hard to breathe.

“Aralt!” Lian cried, “don’t let him touch you!”

He yanked edged crystal from his opponent, and the assassin crumpled like a bag of bones…then rose like steam, his reanimated corpse sucking a lungful of air through clenched teeth, his blood steaming where it fell. As if pulling them from the ether, the j’thirrin produced two throwing discs. The first one shattered against stone, but the second found its mark in the forehead of the man who had stepped up beside Aralt. Two more weapons appeared in the assassin’s hands. Aralt wasn’t fast enough the second time. A burning sensation exploded in his left arm. A latticework of light spiraled the length of Lian’s staff casting shadows as the boy charged forward.

“Lian, no,” Scanlin gasped. “That isn’t what the holy flame is for. That isn’t the path for you.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy told him, “But it’s too late. I told you I’m not the kavistra. I’ll never be.”