“’Tis a pity common sense were not more commonly employed.”

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

What had been a bustling spring fete at Kinara’s Landing unwound like Maypole ribbons.

Aralt rode full tilt into the faire, ignoring the bright skree of fiddle and pipes, the dancers twirling with abandon, the aroma of tarts and sweet wine and pie. One thought dominated: Lian. All right, two, he amended as he slid from Tabric’s wet back. Lian and that twisting Shirahnyn, Tycho; he only wanted to kill one of them.

He gripped braided leather tightly and gave Keyva’s noseband a jerk. The esri snorted at the rough handling, dark eyes ringed white with fear. His father would have objected to his methods, but he had no time for subtle persuasion. Keyva dropped his head in compliance, chomping his fangs all the while. Tycho swung down from behind Scanlin, spitting rapid-fire Shirahnyn dialect as a host of soldiers closed in, pinning him to the ground and stripping him of his weapons. They removed no fewer than six knives from about his person—one more than Telta had found. The beaded turquoise scabbard flew in one direction, the basket-hilt sword in another. The tang of blood-crystal on the parade grounds reverberated down Aralt's spine. Alira Alwynn emerged from the crowd, tartan skirts swinging as she ran.

“What’s happened?” she asked, breathless. Her hair was a tumble of russet waves against the upturned collar of her green brocade tailcoat. Silver stitching shimmered like fish just below the surface of a sunlit pool. “I sent rangers to the crash site but there was no sign of…. You’re soaking wet. Sweet Creator, is that—?”

“Aralt?” Lian’s reedy voice riveted his attention. “Could you give me a hand—?”

A hand? The boy wanted a hand? After that? Unaccountably, Lian had unleashed chaos like an exploding cork from a bottle of wine. A screaming whistle had nearly split their eardrums, the deafening blast followed instantly by a blinding white light as Lian seemed to pull the night sky down. Flickering lights had danced around him like multi-hued starflies against a bright purple sky. And now he wanted a hand?

“How’s this for a hand, boy?” He wrapped his hands around Lian’s sapling-thin arms and lifted him off Keyva’s back. Cobalt light twisted around his hands, cold like a mountain stream. The bright, clean scent of glacial waters washed over him. He waited for the sting of nettles, the creeping wasps, the granddaddy of all headaches. None of that happened. Why wasn’t it happening? “What the jig did you think you were doing back there?”

Lian had not used the heartwood staff to channel whatever source of power he was channeling that time. He had not needed it. It was as if he had used himself and the bloodwood had been his grounding rod. Aralt would not have thought it possible had he not witnessed it himself. Having witnessed it, he now struggled with the ramifications. None of it seemed good.

Dozens of people ran through the fairgrounds as news of their arrival spread, along with rumors of shadow assassins and peculiar lights, blue as heaven. The burning hull of the Sarajayne drifted into view as the first of the boat’s survivors straggled in. Medics bearing the wounded hurried by to load them into waiting carriages. A complement of Alwynn-Muir’s finest, resplendent in high-collared single-breasted blue jackets and broad-brimmed caps, fanned out through the yard. Gold piping and gleaming buttons flashed under dozens upon dozens of fairy lanterns strung above the field. Drums rolled like thunder. Melodic bells emanating from the parish sounded more like a call to worship than a call to war.

“Is this Faerkirke?” Lian asked, oblivious to Aralt’s questions. “It’s very festive.”

“Gareth.” Alira bit hard on his name—the name she preferred. “What happened? For the love of…Gareth, stop!”

Stop? He had not yet started! “Answer me, Lian! What the jig did you—”

When he failed to respond to her entireties, Alira tried the formal approach. “Syr Tremayne.”

“Vryn-talyn Alwynn,” Aralt growled her title back to her. A title she shared with her twin brother. “You’ll excuse me while kavsa Lian and I have a little chat about common sense.”

“Is that what this is? It looks like you’re trying to shake demons out of him!” Alira pressed closer. She smelled like every good thing that he, at that moment, did not. She lowered her voice. “What’s wrong with you? You need to stop this minute!”

Indeed, he did. Not that he gave a rat-dog’s arse about it. His head—ye gods and demons! There it was. A drum corps might as well have been playing in his head, his hands burned hot and cold at the same time, and from far away an insidious whisper twisted like a knife into his thoughts. And yet for all that, he had to admit there was something disconcerting about the way Lian sagged like a broken doll in his grasp. His grasp. His heart pounded. He was not the enemy. He would not be the enemy! With effort, he tried to pry his fingers loose, to no avail. The storm within him drove his words—nay, his every move. He punctuated each syllable with a shake.

“You—stupid—little—fool!” He didn’t stop until Alira sank her nails into the backs of his hands. If she felt the swirling energies, she did not say, but everything was suddenly louder, including her yelling his name.

“Gareth!”

“Was I stupid…again?” Lian asked, thick-tongued as a drunkard. He squinted at Alira, grinning like an idiot. “Hullo. Aralt thinks you’re pretty. He’s right. You are. You’re gorgeous. Can I say that? I hope you don’t mind me saying that. Hullo, Scanlin. Don’t punch Aralt again. I’m fine. Really. Aralt, where’s Tycho? Can I have a cookie?”

“Do you think I care where that flaming araketh is?”

Tycho protested loudly at the insult, struggling against his captors. Aralt picked up every other Shirahnyn word. No…vulgar…insinuation…

Lian shook a finger in Aralt’s general direction.

“You have a filthy mouth,” the boy murmured, turning away from the verbal onslaught, an untidy shock of black hair spilling over his forehead. The bruise on his face looked worse than ever, a dark ring of mottled skin encircling one eye. As if Aralt needed reminding about the harm he had caused. Was causing. He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead, trying not to collapse into himself. Lian was still talking. “D-don’t let him k-kiss you with that mouth, m’lady.”

“Gareth, we need to get him away from here. We need to get both of you away from here.” Alira’s luminous green eyes beseeched him. Bewitched him. Her hands lay upon his, gripping tightly. How could he refuse her anything? He shook his head to clear it of any lingering fog. And splinters of light like spiders. And….

“D-did I kill anyone?” Lian mumbled. “I d-didn’t mean to kill anyone…”

He took a deep breath. “You could have killed yourself. Or wasn’t the threat of the Soulless enough?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick…” And he was. All over Aralt’s boots. Tremors followed in short order, his breath coming hard and fast, his thoughts a jangle that Aralt could not guard against. Let me go! Please! Let me go!

Alira gathered the boy against her, smoothing his hair. “Soulless? Here? Son of Mercy, is that what happened to the Aurora? We couldn’t find any of you. They brought me your coat!”

His coat? By the Flood, what did that have to do with anything? He shook great globs of what had been beans on toast from his boots.

“You weren’t wearing it!” Alira’s voice shook.

“I wasn’t…? Of course, I wasn’t wearing it. It went over the falls, woman. We both nearly went over the falls.” He pointed an accusing finger at Lian, then closed his fist, ashamed of the display of petulance. His attempt to harness words was equally unsuccessful. “My young friend here has a unique talent for spreading chaos. He’s bent not only on killing himself but taking me with him!”

“D-did not. You cut the line. I d-didnae do nothing and…and…”

“That’s not what I was talking about,” Aralt told him.

“Y-you were the one that d-didn’t help Tycho.”

“I was more concerned about helping you.”

“Nuh-uh. Y-you could hear them. Can y-you still hear them?”

“What? No!” But he did. Far away, a whisper in the aether. Son of Tremayne…

“Ooh, piss and pudding,” Lian exclaimed, eyes rolling back in his head. “You can hear them…”

“Enough! Both of you—and you,” Alira directed her words at Tycho next, “you’re noble-born, aren’t you? Only a son of one of the Seven Houses would carry a sword like that. And you wear the braid of Rhys Arondhi on your shoulder? You’re a healer—no, a physician. Oh, don’t look so surprised. I’m northern, not stupid. Wi’as huhrs a si’arphii’aphu uhr suhr as I’a ni’ar a ilais rsi’asuhar?” she asked, bringing Tycho up short. The Shirahnyn dropped his gaze, face flushing. She had spoken so quickly that she had lost Aralt after the first four syllables. “You bring shame to your Mother’s House.”

Alira directed her anger at him next, silently accusing him. She might as well have slapped him. Gareth Aralt Devailyn syr Tremayne. For shame! You didn’t think to send word that you had survived? I thought you were dead, you mutton-headed kaio!

He stepped back, lately-returned clarity reduced to a mind-numbing jangle of nonsense. At least the voice was gone. That terrible voice from his nightmares. He could do nothing more than watch as Lian crumpled to the ground, Alira with him. So unexpected were her thoughts inside his head, that he could only stare after as she stripped off her tailcoat and wrapped it around Lian’s slender shoulders. Embroidered stylized fish swam in cobalt blue thread from shoulder to elbow adorned the sleeves of her silk blouse. The boy curled against her like a frightened sea pup, bloody webbed fingers stroking her hair. “Pretty, pretty, pretty…”

“Can’t you idiots see this child is in shock?” She glared at him. Again. Her eyes were beautiful, but that look could kill! He could still hear her words, ricocheting inside his already aching brain. For shame! I thought you were dead!

Offering an apology just then seemed futile. Not that his tongue was working.

“Idiots,” Alira repeated as she pulled Lian to unsteady feet and steered him out of the mayhem.

“They said, ‘Go to the country house for the fete, Father, it’s so peaceful,’” rumbled Veryl Alwynn, elderly patriarch and talyn of the domain that bore his name. A rueful grimace creased his already wrinkled face as his daughter walked away, Lian clinging to her like a child to his mother. He snapped his fingers, and Tycho was dragged away after her. “Put him in a room somewhere. No. Put him in the dairy barn and have him start churning butter. That’ll keep him busy. And post a guard. I’ll see to him myself later.”

“K’talyn Alwynn, I didn’t see you,” Aralt stuttered, feeling like a foolish youth. He quickly composed himself, tugging his waistcoat into place. His pocket watch dangled on the chain, and he tucked it into his pocket before running his fingers through his wet hair. Nothing could be done about the puke on his boots.

“One of your grandfather’s gadgets?” the old man asked.

“Sir?”

“Your timepiece. It looks like one of Valairyn’s creations. Tells the moon phases?”

“Yes,” he said, watching over Veryl’s shoulder as Alira spared a glance back at him before bundling Lian into a carriage. He should be with them. He wanted to be with them. He heeded Veryl. “The moon phases. Of course.”

“Of course.” The old man pointed toward the departing carriage. “And is that Marcynn’s grandchild?”

“Lian…aye,” he admitted, bracing himself for what he reckoned would come next. Rarely did Alira’s father fail to disappoint.

“And you had your hands on him? Dust and ashes, man, what is wrong with you?” Veryl hollered into his face. His breath smelled of strong tea and licorice, and Aralt took the dressing down with all the dignity he had left. “You didn’t like the boat I sent so you burned up a derelict loaded with…”

An explosion rocked the harbor. Fireworks shot into the air, popping and crackling.

“You don’t lack for style, do you? Where’s the skipper?”

“Luka,” he said, searching the faces of a dozen bedraggled survivors shuffling by. “I'm not sure.”

“Luka? Luka,” Veryl mulled over the name before turning to one of his geriatric aides. “See if you can find the fellow. It looks like he’s going to need a new boat, courtesy of Tyrian. What happened to Mariah’s ship? No one could tell us.”

“Sabotage.”

“That skinny Shirahnyn boy they just dragged away?”

“What? No, not him. But I don’t trust him. He still has a lot to answer for.” He tore his gaze away from Alira’s departing coach as Scanlin stepped lightly on the tailgate to accompany them, Lian’s staff—by all that was holy, was it a kavistath? A symbol, nay a celestial conduit in the hands of a kavistra—in one hand and Aralt’s travel pack slung over his shoulder. He forced himself to heed Veryl. “There were j’thirrin on the Wall. I lost seven and I have wounded. The crew of the Sarajayne suffered losses as well.”

“J’thirrin? Here? What other gifts did you bring me? Wild animals and cannibals? Thunder and bat shite, boy. There’s a physician at the house. Two on some days. Relax, they tell me. In the country. Nice and quiet. We’ll have a ceilidh when Aralt arrives. This isn’t a ceilidh! There are Soulless? Here?”

“No, not here. On the Weeping Wall. Well, back along the river…”

“Well, are there or aren’t there? Make up your mind. Have rangers search,” he told another aide that looked equal in years to his talyn and moved half fast. “Drag the river if you must. Soulless in Alwynn-Muir? What else have you brought me? Slitherdogs? Kaio?”

Aralt thought better of answering in the affirmative.

“That’s one of your grandfather’s contraptions, isn’t it?”

He blinked. The pocket watch. “It is.”

“Thought so. Had me one. Not sure which of my children walked off with it. Probably Alira, so she could take it apart to find out how it worked. Always wants to know how things work. What about you?”

He hesitated, unsure how to respond to the old man’s rambling.

“Is it well with you? What about the boy? The boy…” Veryl said, words trailing off. “Marcynn’s grandson…”

“We’re both fine.”

Veryl looked at him blankly. The remaining guards accompanying the elderly talyn in the absence of his aides exchanged worried glances.

“We’re fine,” Aralt repeated. “Both of us.”

“That you clearly are not,” Veryl said, snapping back from whatever reverie had taken him. When the old man gripped Aralt by the elbow of his injured arm, the twinge of pure pain further cleaned his head of the voices he did not wish to hear. “We need to get you to the house. See the physician.”

“I’m… fine. Two of my people—they’ve already been taken away. Veryl? You said no one could tell you what happened to the ship? Did someone see her go down?”

“What? No. Yes. We got word from the River Warden. Rangers found Kress Mariah and a few of the crew, all in a bad way. Very bad. Weren’t you on the ship? How did you survive? Weren’t you bringing Marcynn’s grandson to see me?”

“Aye, of course.” Now it was he guiding the old man gently toward a waiting carriage, much to the relief of the attending guards. “Alira’s gone ahead with the boy. I’ll explain everything on the way.”

After which he understood clearly that he would be explaining it again.