RR Chapter 18 Part 1

“Don’t be too hasty in your judgments, lest every secret failing of your heart be written on leaves and scattered on the wind.”

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

Black smoke coughed from a listing stack as a lone riverboat cut a churning wedge on one of the minor tributaries of the Kraeleen Valley River.

The steep trails leading into the pass that locals called Wolf’s Folly had kept them longer on the mountain than Aralt had planned, but after their encounter with the shadow assassin, he was determined to avoid more well-traveled routes. While clearly not one of the j’thirrin, Lian’s Shirahnyn companion did little for the company’s morale. Had it not been for their oaths, he was reasonably sure at least two of them would have bumped Tycho off his borrowed mount and sent him tumbling over a ledge without a thought toward asking forgiveness. To keep his own hands clean, he put as much distance between himself and the man as possible—and demanded Lian do the same. Emerging as far from the Pool of Tears at the base of the falls as they did required them to secure transport other than what the Alwynns no doubt had waiting for them, but the skipper of the Sarajayne seemed none too put out by whatever arrangements Scanlin made for the service of his modest paddleboat.

Furious, Lian paced the length of the hurricane deck, every other word punctuated with sharp gesticulations. “Tycho is a physician. You need to let him go so he can look at your arm. And let him tend to Kolarin and Tevin before they end up like one of them. You don’t know what you’re dealing with here. Tycho does.”

He concentrated on cleaning his brother’s sword. “Hand me the jeweler’s oil.”

Lian did so, but his tirade continued. “You saw for yourself that he has a kit full of remedies and surgical instruments. People don’t just carry those around. Do you have any idea how valuable those items are?”

Crystal gleamed in the lamplight as he inspected the blade and hilt. Years hanging above the mantel in Bethulyn had in no way compromised it. The crystal was breathtakingly void of any imperfections, a testimony to the craftsman who had Tuned it. For all it pained him, the sword’s song was as much a part of him as his own sword’s had been, the hilt warm in his hand. The overturned crate on which he sat, however, had seen better days. His backside was nearly as sore as his throbbing arm.

Lian put his hands on slender hips and shook back his hair with a huff. “Why are you so paranoid?”

“Not paranoid,” Aralt told him, setting aside the rag and oil. He tilted his head side to side, felt the satisfying crack. “Practical.”

“Just give him a chance. You’ll see. You can trust him.”

He snapped his fingers and pointed at the scabbard lying across another crate destined to be firewood. When Lian didn’t move, he sighed. “You expect me to trust him when he walks out of the shadows just like the Soulless and then burns one of them with some skanky potion? Give me one reason why I should.”

“I can give you a dozen.”

“I don’t need a dozen. Scabbard.”

Lian weighed it in both hands, waiting until they made eye contact before he lifted his chin. “All right. One reason. I expect you to trust him because I do. Like a brother.”

“Like a…? Hand me the scabbard.”

“Aralt—”

“Hand me the scabbard,” he repeated. It clattered to the floor. Aralt glared at his smug little kervallys. “Get away from me before you have two shiners.”

Lian spun on his heel, shoving past Scanlin as he stomped off toward the makeshift sickbay they had set up on the lower deck, sandwiched between burlap sacks of overripe taters and wooden boxes marked “flammable.” Sirram fell in behind him without a word. At least that part was going according to plan.

“Another dandy heart-to-heart talk, then? Thought ’twas goin’ well between ye.”

“Depends on the hour of the day. Grey, I swear, the more I get to know him, the less I understand him.” He bit back the rest of what would have been an ill-advised comment and changed the subject. “That Shirahnyn isn’t telling the entire truth. And neither are you.”

Somehow changing topics had not improved things. He picked up the scabbard, then cast it aside and jammed the sword into the floorboards. The crystal hummed. Aralt, his brother would have said, your temper is going to be your undoing one day.

“’Tis a fine way to treat a sword.”

“You didn’t tell me about Lian and the…thing on him. Now I find out you were covering for that twisting araketh.”

Scanlin made no attempt to mask his irritation after that. “’Tain’t the way o’ it and ye know it. Had I kenned what he was about, I’d have told ye straight up. I had nay idea who the fellow was, aside from bein’ a physician. I told ye that all along. He had few enough personal effects, but a med kit was among them, and Lian’s right about the value o’ what’s within. He knew too much o’ the art to nae be trained. You chose not to believe him or me. He never mentioned Lian Kynsei, nor did I. What sort o’ fool do ye take me for, Wolf? As for the rest, I’ll not speculate. Their ways are not our ways.”

“He isn’t old enough to be a fully trained physician.”

“And Lian Kynsei isn’t old enough to be kavistra.”

“Age is the least of that little fox’s worries.” By the scandalized expression on his First Sword’s face, his knew he had crossed an invisible line, and not for the first time. That was the problem with it being invisible. “All right, all right. Don’t say it. I’m just finding it very hard to keep perspective when I’ve lost that many good warriors in the space of time it took for us to change places on the watch. Another man died an arm’s length away, I have two injured, Russ is still missing, and what do we have? That Shirahnyn.”

“Had it nae been for ‘that Shirahnyn,’ we’d have suffered greater losses—including you. The Soulless came into the mountain. Cost him dearly, I reckon, but he did it anyway—as if the flames o’ hell were at his heels. For a moment I didn’t think we were goin’ to get him out o’ there.”

“For a moment I was afraid you were going to be too chivalrous to stab the bastard in the back.” Aralt rubbed gingerly at his wounded arm. The dressing Scanlin had concocted helped, but it ached from elbow to shoulder. “How are Kolarin and Tevin?”

“Who’s to say? In and out o’ fever. Hearin’ voices. Neither one seems to remember how they got here. Lian insists he can see it in their eyes, but I’ve nae the skill. Nor have we any way o’ testin’ their blood nor treatin’ them if it is. The poison wants more o’ its own. That’s what they say. It’s beyond me ken.”

“He keeps trying to look at my eyes, too. Don’t look so worried. I’m fine. Whatever it was, it just burns. I’ll walk barefoot into the nether place before I let Lian’s ‘friend’ touch me. There are good physicians in Faerkirke.”

“Aye. Fine as they come. At least one o’ them is Shirahnyn.”

He tugged the sword free and made a show of checking it again to avoid his First Sword’s disapproving gaze. “Do what you can until then.”

“Aye, Commander. Might I ask what you’re goin’ tae do?”

“If I tell you, are you going to try and stop me?”

“Depends on what it is ye have a mind tae do.”

His upper lip twitched. “Best I not tell you then.”

* * *

He threaded towering stacks of cargo the deck hands had shifted to take on passengers. Tycho was as just as he had been the last time Aralt checked, sitting cross-legged on the deck, arms bound behind him. Telta perched on a nearby barrel, daintily slicing wedges off a silver apple with her dagger. She stopped humming the song she had serenaded them with a few days prior when she saw him. He dismissed her with a crisp nod, then caught her gently by the arm. “You did well up there on the falls, keeping your head. It was difficult.”

“Aye, sir. Very difficult. But thank you, syr Tremayne.”

“There’s supper in the galley. When Tevin wakes up, he’ll be hungry.”

“Roast and mashies with fresh berries over ice milk?” she asked, a hopeful note in her voice.

He hated to disappoint her. “Beans on toast and some sort of greasy soup, but at least it’s hot.”

“With all these apples onboard they might have at least made fritters.”

He spared a smile for her. “Go sit with Tevin. You’ve earned it. Oh, and Telta? Talk to Lian, would you?” he asked, clearing his throat. When she gave him an odd look, he added, “He likes you.”

“Does he, now?” She looked pleased. “Aye, syr Tremayne. I’ll see what I can do.”

When she was out of earshot, he yanked the gag out of Tycho’s mouth. The Shirahnyn licked parched lips and worked his jaw back and forth.

“She has the courage of a moonbear,” Tycho said.

“And the patience of a saint for the deserving, but I wouldn’t trust my luck if I were you. She was at Kyrrimar. As was one of my wounded.” Let the man make of that what he would.

Tycho lowered his gaze. “And so, they have reason enough to hate any Shirahnyn. As, I suppose, do you. But Lian has so much more, yet he does not.”

He wanted to tell Tycho that Lian Kynsei didn’t have a resentful bone in his young body, but they both knew that wasn’t true, no matter how much the lad tried to hide it. Heart of a shepherd, wrapped in the unruly cloak of youth. Unfortunately, most of that resentment seemed focused on him that night. It made him regret every harsh word he had ever said to his own father.

“So, what now, syr Tremayne? Have you come to kill me? Throw me into the river?”

“Depends,” he said, prying the lid off the apple barrel. He selected one, large, smooth, and golden-white. It crunched between his teeth, the juice like sweet nectar on his lips. “Can you swim?”

Tycho pursed his lips. “Not well.”

Aralt stopped chewing. Where in the archipelago did Tycho hail from if not one of the many islands? He laughed bitterly. “Is that so? Huh. That would be too easy, though, wouldn’t it? No honor to be gained in such an easy death.” He resumed chewing.

“Drowning is not an easy death.”

“I suppose that depends on how long it takes.” Had Kynlan been dead before he was swept over the falls? The thought spoiled what little appetite he had. He pitched the remnants of the apple overboard.

“In our three years together, Lian Kynsei did not lead me to believe you were such a man as to commit murder.”

“You have no idea what sort of man I am, and neither does he.”

“No. He only has his memories.”

“Wait. Three years? Are you saying you were at Kyrrimar? Thirteen hells, why didn’t you tell us who you were in Sylvan? You never told me you knew Lian.” And Lian never told me about you.

“I doubt you would have believed me, syr Tremayne. Your esteemed First Sword, perhaps. We spoke more than once. Not, however, about that.”

“You still expect me to believe it was just about medicine?” he asked, not bothering to mask his anger. He adjusted the lamp on the nearest pole. They had been lit all over the boat, illuminating the mist rising from the river as the air cooled. Best to keep them trimmed and burning in the face of the unknown. At least it was no longer raining.

“I begged no favors,” Tycho told him, shifting, then settling with a sigh. He looked no more comfortable than he had before. “He might have believed me and pled my case, but not you. Not then. We are all one in your eyes. Whatever dRiish did to you—”

He rounded on Tycho, hands closing into fists. “You call him ‘dRiish’? What are you, kin?”

“And if we are? What then?”

“I’ll think of something,” Aralt assured him.

“A man has no say about who shares his blood and, where I come from, no say in what role he will be required to fulfill for his House.”

“What about the role he plays in attempting to subjugate an innocent population?”

“Be patient with him, Tycho,” Lian said kindly. “He doesn’t understand yet.”

Mother and Son! He bit back the oath, tilting his head back to stare into the sky. Could no one keep track of this boy? How had Lian slipped away from his guards on a bloody ferryboat? Telta called out for the young kavistra, her voice high and light. Made for singing. Sirram was likewise calling. Lian looked over his shoulder but didn’t answer.

“Do you ever do what you’re told to do?”

“I have rarely known him to,” Tycho said as the boy knelt and, without asking permission, cut his friend’s bonds with his red crystal dagger. The Shirahnyn’s fingers traced the bruise still clearly visible on the boy’s cheek. His face twisted slightly. Lian caught his hand, kissed his palm, a custom Aralt had never embraced.

He felt something twist in his gut at their display of easy camaraderie. Distrust bled into resentment. Heat rose through his fingers when he grasped the hilt of his brother’s sword, as if a fire had ignited within the pommel stone, the resonance of the crystal harmonizing with the jewels in his ring. In the dark recesses of his mind a voice whispered: you know who your enemy is…

Lian tilted his head as if he too had heard the murmur, but the only clear sound was the rear paddle dipping, dipping, dipping into the cold water. The boy looked up at him. “You hear them, don’t you? Aralt? If you can hear them, they aren’t far away. We may not have much time.”

“What do you propose, kavsa?” He asked with a mock bow. “You seem to want to be in charge, little man. Tell me what you want to do.”

“I want…I want to save Tevin and Kolarin. I need Tycho to do that. They’ve both been infected. It’s in their eyes. There’s no medic on a boat this size, and Scanlin doesn’t have the right medicines. Do you?” the boy asked Tycho.

The Shirahnyn flexed his wrists, nodding. “Precious little, but it is yours, of course.”

Lian looked up, eyes harder than Aralt had ever seen them. A flicker of gold flame danced in place of his iris. “This is your command, syr Tremayne, but unless you want them to lose their souls to Akahan, you’ll let Tycho see to their wounds. If you don’t, you won’t get them back. Would you like to explain to Telta and Sirram that their loved ones will walk in shadows until their flesh falls off their bones? Well, would you?”

He should have known better than to give the stage to Lian. The boy had as much a gift for drama as Deyr. Still, it was a masterful performance. In that moment, the hysterical, traumatized boy on the beach near Bethulyn exited the theater, replaced by one brimming with confidence. Such a one might one day garner the respect of nations. Such a one might indeed be kavistra.

He crossed his arms and leaned sideways against one of the lamp posts. Looking directly as Lian just then was too hard. “We’ll be to Faerkirke before the night’s gone. The physicians there are no doubt equal in skill to…your friend.”

“It could be too late. You’ll be looking for a way to kill them by then, not save them,” Lian said, just as Sirram and Telta arrived from opposite sides of the ferry. Such words elicited a panic he did not want to see in his company; that Lian had chosen the ones he did made it all the worse. “It might already be too late.”

Telta remained in the background, fighting for composure, but young Sirram’s bottom lip quivered as he stepped forward. “Syr Tremayne, shouldn’t we at least try? My gran always said you judge a man by his deeds, not where he comes from.”

So, he had to admit, had his. Both of them. He jammed Kynlan’s sword back into the scabbard. “Fine, then. But ask them first.”

“I already did,” Lian said, taking Sirram by the hand as he left. The older boy looked a bit taken aback at first, but he made no argument, dutifully following his friend. Tycho trailed behind them like a sworn man—or a servant. Aralt wondered if that was what he considered himself. Lian apologized to Telta as they went by. He couldn’t make out her reply, but she touched the boy’s face.

“Syr Tremayne?” she said after they were gone, a tenderness still in her voice, “the skipper’s asking for you. Should I, ehm, tell him you’ll be a moment?”

He nodded stiffly. A moment. But no longer. He couldn’t afford it.