Up in the wheelhouse, the first mate piloted the riverboat while the skipper, Luka, sat feverishly working the shutters on the flash lantern. Rapid light bursts shone in the distance. The boat might have run aground on a sand bar for the amount of speed she was getting at present. Clearly, they had slowed for a reason.

“Make of it what you will, but they’re signalin’ for us to take the Little Kraeleen at the divide and not the Kraeleen proper. That’ll take us through fair rough terrain and then out to the Kell. A boat like this isn’t seaworthy, not even along the coast, especially if it’s high tide.” Luka rummaged through lunar charts and logbooks. He threw down his hat in frustration. “Her hull’s sagging as is, syr Tremayne. She’s tired. We stand a chance of bottoming out well before we get to Faerkirke if we don’t unload the esri soon. I don’t mind saying I don’t like it.”

He did not like it either. Where the Kraeleen divided, twin rivers ran nearly parallel for a league, the gap between the divergent tributaries widening by degrees until the larger stayed on course for Faerkirke and the sea and the smaller fell into a narrow canyon where it was fed by other watercourses before it too proceeded to the sea. A route for sport, not speed, and a perfect setup for an ambush. They might disembark, as Luka suggested, not only the esri but what was left of his company, and finish the journey on foot, but with wounded and in the falling dark? It seemed as foolish a gambit as going on.

“Seems we’re out o’ the kettle and into the fire.”

“My new motto,” he said, making what room he could in the cramped wheelhouse for Scanlin to join them.

“Don’t be in too much a hurry to have that banner made. Whoever is signalin’ may not know we’re loaded down with esri. Their instructions could be in earnest. With all the rain we’ve had, there might be good reason for the detour.”

“That or we’re steaming headlong into an ambush.” But which? Stay the course and take their chances or divert and almost surely steer into peril. He pressed his hands together and tapped his lips thoughtfully. “I believe I may have made a fatal error by taking the less-traveled path.”

“Don’t choke too much on the humility,” Scanlin said drily. “But aye. The River Warden might have sent word we changed travel plans. Could it be the Alwynns signaling?”

“From here? I don’t know.” He leaned over Luka’s shoulder to read the messages that had been pieced together so far. “Ask them to identify themselves.”

“Aye, sir. Should I tell them you’re aboard, syr Tremayne?”

“Aye,” he said carefully. “But only me. Say nothing about the rest of your passengers, ken?”

Luka worked the shutter. When no response came, he tried again. “Visibility is poor from here, and the mist isn’t helping. We haven’t much time to choose. And if we choose wrongly…”

“We don’t have the luxury of choosing wrongly,” he said, feeling a muscle jump in his eye. Paranoid is what Lian had accused him of being. The indictment lay heavy in his gut.

He waited, listening to the slowly churning paddles as the Sarajayne slogged forward. Luka’s engineer had discovered a hairline crack in one of the boilers, and they could hear the repair crew cursing in the steam-filled boiler room. They had already pushed the old boat harder than they should have. Even if the boilers didn’t explode, he would owe the pilot a new vessel by the journey’s end.

“Almost…almost. Yes, I think I have it,” Luka told them, scribbling down the repeating message. He scratched his head. “Huh. Not sure, syr Tremayne, but perhaps it’ll make sense to you?”

He held it up to the light: You might have sent word you were alive, Gareth.

Scanlin, reading over his shoulder, let out a laugh and slapped Aralt’s back. “No doubt who sent that message.”

“Indeed. Make for the Little Kraeleen,” he instructed. “Whatever Alira Alwynn has in mind, that’s the direction she wants us to go.”

“They must mean for us to draw into Kinara’s Landing,” the first mate said, rubbing his prodigious nose. “That’s quite an honor, Luka. Never been on the Alwynns’ private canal before. Think they might want some o’ them fireworks left over from Syth’s Eve?”

Luka swatted him with a fistful of charts. “Kinara’s Landing? It’s your job to think about things like that before the panic sets in. I’m sorry if I alarmed you, syr Tremayne. I didn’t consider we’d be going anywhere besides the city. Certainly not the governor’s country estate.”

Aralt assured him he wasn’t the only one to have been mistaken.

Luka took off his cap and slicked back his hair. “I’d better tell the lads to make themselves more presentable.”

Short of a dip in the river, Aralt didn’t think there was much any of them could do at that point to improve their appearance—or their smell.

* * *

A dark wedge high in the sky resolved into a bird as it descended, circling the riverboat before alighting on Tycho’s outstretched arm. The Shirahnyn stroked the feathered head, speaking softly before launching it back into the air. Aralt recognized the gaudy ravenjay from Sylvan. He had assumed the bird had perished, along with a sliver of his sanity. Riding those wings, sharing consciousness with one so at home in the sky, had nearly been his undoing.

“Let me guess. In addition to him being a physician, he’s also a bird whisperer?”

Lian made room for him along the railing. “After a fashion, I suppose. That’s Pzak.”

“Zahk?”

“Pzak,” Lian repeated in Shirahnyn. “He’s a friend of Tycho’s.”

Aralt rolled his eyes. His favorite name for a bird was “dinner,” but he held his tongue. Scanlin always put great stock in doing so, and he possessed greater skill in that area than he had lately employed. Time to remedy that. Lian, it seemed, was reading from the same page. They had achieved an uneasy peace since he had permitted Tycho to tend to his men, a decision which had split what remained of the company, no matter that their compatriots appeared to be on the mend.

From so far forward in the bow that he might fall into the river at any moment, the leadsman sang out ever-changing depths. Quarter Less Three! Half Twain! Quarter Three! According to the first mate, the river ran deep there, especially in the spring, but it was reassuring when the readings came up “no bottom!” The crew, oldtimers to a grizzled man, gave a cheer.

“Lian,” he began, unsure where his words would take him.

“Me too,” Lian said quickly as if he had been waiting.

“I don’t have to say anything more?”

“You won’t, so no. I’m sorry I’m such a burden to you. I never intended to be,” Lian said, concentrating on his fingers. A glint in the light suggested he had embedded glass in them, no doubt from the broken flash lantern at the wayfarers’ haven.

“Looks like you’re next in line for the infirmary.”

“I'm sure it will be fine. I was more concerned about the others. I spoke out of turn, though. It was disrespectful of me. I was thinking about Tevin and Telta and everything they lost at Kyrrimar. I didn’t want them to lose each other, too. Dev…wouldn’t have liked that.”

“Everything they lost? What about what you lost?”

Lian didn’t answer that. “And I don’t know what Sirram would do without his cousin, Kolarin. Besides their old great-gran, he’s the only family Sirram has left. That’s why she sent him to Kolarin. I don’t want anyone else to die. You understand that don’t you?”

That he did. Only too well.

“Tevin and Telta can take care of themselves, and if you want to help Sirram mac Kenna, quit running away from him when he’s supposed to be looking out for you. In fact, stop doing that to all of them. I’ve lost too many good people already; I don’t need another liability on this journey.”

“Sirram’s not a liability. He's my friend. I...I'm glad he's here."

"You have a funny way of treating your friends"

Lian seemed to fold in on himself. "I'll do better. I promise. Just don't overlook him. He’s devoted to serving you, and he’s a faithful Believer besides."

“tHe’s an inexperienced junior ranger, and the only reason I agreed to bring him was that Kolarin asked me to, and in all the years I’ve known Kolarin, he’s never asked for much of anything. He’s convinced his cousin has a gift for trail lore, but the way you evade him I’m beginning to think I should have left him in Bethulyn with Deyr.”

“Russ is the liability," Lian muttered. "You didn’t leave him behind.”

“Russ usually does what I tell him to.” He fought the urge to laugh when Lian lifted an eyebrow in response. “All right, he does what I tell him after a fashion. I’ll admit he’s an acquired taste.”

“Like worms?”

“More like your friend, Tycho,” Aralt told him, gaze shifting.

“Tycho’s a good man.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep trying to make him into a villain. Do you see now?”

“I’ll concede he seems to be a competent healer.”

“He’s more than that; he’s brilliant. Really. Give him time. You’ll be impressed. We’ll need one on our journey together.”

Aralt rubbed at his temple. The pulse in his eye had returned. This time he could not blame it on Lian. Not entirely. He scanned the riverbank, not crediting his own perception. Ghosts and whispers, whispers and ghosts, never had he been so concerned about things hidden in the dark.

“‘Our journey together’ ends when we get to Faerkirke. After that, he’s on his own—assuming Veryl of Alwynn gives him leave to depart.”

“Why wouldn’t he? And why should he leave? You don’t expect me to let you send him away, do you? I just found him again. I thought he was dead.”

“I expect you,” Aralt lowered his voice, reining them both in before the storm brewing between them leapt to the sky, “I expect you to respect my decisions—and abide by the decisions of our hosts. If it’s in the stars to make him your personal physician when you become kavistra, go right ahead.” If he lives that long. If any of us live that long.

He massaged his temples. The pulse there had quickened, his mouth dry as a flour mill.

Son of Tremayne…you know who your enemy is…

He glanced down at Lian, but the boy was too busy talking to have noticed what Aralt could not fully credit was there.

“In the stars? Oh, wouldn’t that go over well? A kavistra practicing star ’casting. Not even Marcynn did that.” Lian frowned. “At least I don’t think he did. Did he? Aralt? You’re old enough to remember him, aren’t you? Or should I ask Scanlin? He’s older than you are. Aralt?”

He exhaled, lowering his aching head onto his crossed arms. Flakes of red paint dropped like autumn leaves from the creaking railing. From the front of the boat came the cry: Half Twain! Ma-rk Twa-in!

“You’re worried about the Soulless, aren’t you?” Lian leaned forward as well, hands clasped; their shoulders almost touched.

“You aren’t?” Aralt shifted to the side. Lian watched his every move. “If they’re here, the local rangers will flush them out and…place them under arrest.” Veryl Alwynn would face down a Naharasii horde before he let anything happen to Marcynn Kynsei’s grandchild. “You’ll like Faerkirke. They’re Believers here. The clergy have already recognized you for who and what you are based solely on the testimony of the shepherds that came to Tyrian. Whatever else they thought about the Lighting that night, they’re willing to support you. The Alwynns will do likewise.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Tycho’s bird nearly parted Aralt’s hair when next it swooped in to alight upon its master’s arm. A chill swept up his spine. Lian straightened, twitching head to foot as he shivered.

“Aralt?” What is it?

“I don’t know.” But I aim to find out. He moved across the deck, searching the gathering shadows even as tightness gathered in his throat.

Scanlin came to his side, signaling to the others on deck. “Commander?”

“They’re here,” he said hoarsely. “They’ve found us.”