“They say the world beneath Mar Alvis rivals the world above.”

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

On the Eighth Day, while Believers gathered under the vaulted dome of Mar Alvis, Aralt stood on the topmost level, scanning the ever-changing sky above Faerkirke.

Shafts of sunlight pierced the morning mist, striking like filaments of lightning, gone an instant later. Morning devotions drew to a close. He recognized the cadence of the benediction, the song flowing with natural rhythm, the words as surely a part of his upbringing as any could be. He had no illusions about his singing, but the music took root in his chest, pure melody resonating within him, the liturgy sung in an old dialect that elevated the words even higher. Lord of the Sea and Sky. He could not recall the last time he had raised his voice thus, but there, in that place of ancient mysteries, it was impossible to ignore the presence of something greater than he. He did not need to understand it to recognize it was real. Light pierced the clouds with sudden brilliance, forcing him to shield his eyes. He waited, breath pent, for the distant roll of thunder that never came. Neither did lightning. Daybreak’s palette painted the illusion of a spring storm, but naught else. Lian must be at peace. That, or the storms that seemed to rise from the lightning in the boy’s eyes were a fluke, pure coincidence. Lian was soul-touched, not a conjurer. Logic dictated that there was no correlation between Lian hanging out of a window on Syth’s Eve with his kilt nearly blowing about his ears and the preternatural storm wreaking havoc on a Shirahnyn airship. No, he decided. He didn’t believe that, either. The final note of a recessional fanfare was still echoing to heaven when he heard Alira’s light step upon the stone walkway behind him.

“Has it ended already?”

Alira’s nose wrinkled slightly at the query, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. She rearranged her dark green cloak, drawing it close about her neck. She had her hair down, auburn tresses unfolding in loose curls. “I rather think it is only beginning.”

He grunted a reply, intent on his weather forecasting.

“You could have at least sat in the balcony. I’m sure there was sufficient piety in the kirke to keep it from collapsing on your head.”

“I can see better from up here,” he told her absently, eyes fixed on the airship, red as a garnet, on slow approach to the docking tower on the other side of the river. Compact. Built for speed. A message runner, much like the Aurora Dream II, no doubt on its return voyage from Askierran. He turned his face into a bracing wind rushing across the fjord like a drove of long-fanged skipper fish, leaping the waves. Around him, strands of prayer ribbons, each with a story to tell, twisted and snapped. “How long does your shepherd plan to hold him captive down there? I’d have thought he had his chance to interrogate him on Syth’s Eve. Feast of Light. Sorry.”

“Wicked man. You are incorrigible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

When Alira drew a green ribbon from her pocket and tied it to the nearest strand, he did not have to ask who the prayers were for. She slipped her arm around his and squeezed. “The khiyerey have been charged by the clergy in Askierran to formally bear witness to Lian’s identity. Shepherd Alinn sees it as a sacred duty. It’s quite an honor.”

“As if there could be any doubt about who he is,” Aralt scoffed. More clerical chicanery. “You should tell them who he is. Better yet, your father. I’d like to see them argue with Veryl about that.” He would find it amusing to see anyone try to argue with Alira’s father about anything.

“We already have—much of the Northern Alliance has spoken for him, even talyns that haven’t seen him yet. Didn’t you realize? Your word is enough. Shepherd Alinn is a good man. He won’t be swayed by any…irregularities in other regions. If he is certain of Lian’s Calling, he’s prepared to lend his support if it is required. Honestly, I think he just wanted the opportunity to talk to Lian again. He knew Kavistra Endru. Lian didn’t object, and he’s perfectly safe. Scanlin and my father are both with them, and a dozen ranking Swords are nearby.”

“You’re not?”

“You’re out here.”

He encircled her shoulders, drawing her closer, resting his cheek against her head. Her hair was scented with honeysuckle and vanilla.

“Calling aside, I wish you would stay,” Alira told him. “You haven’t made much of a case for it since we’ve come to the city. He’ll listen to you.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t know him very well.”

“You could try.”

“Your father’s councilors have been trying for days. Besides, the people of Askierran expect their high priest to live among them.” But in everything he did, Lian seemed determined to overturn tradition. The most vocal of the chancellors and clergy had all but demanded the boy be returned to Askierran and without haste. As if he were some sort of stolen relic that Aralt had found himself in possession of. The language was polite, rejoicing to welcome a soul-touched son home, but he suspected that their pledges were less about guiding than molding this unexpected young kavistra according to their own vision. He wished them luck.

As for those that maintained Lian would never, could never shepherd Askierran. Well, he wished then luck finding someone that could.

“He understands that it is his decision? That he could remain here?”

“I believe so,” he said. “He lit enough spirit candles in the last few days to roast an esri. Lian Kynsei has a mind of his own.” Even if what he wanted seemed to change like autumn weather. No doubt he had a conscience—and compassion to spare. Aralt had witnessed firsthand the grace with which Lian had conducted himself upon visiting Kress Mariah and his crew. He had moved through the hospital ward fluidly, riding the wake of their need. Where words could not convey his gratitude for their assistance—or his sorrow for their loss—he gathered hands in his, speaking as eloquently with his eyes as a trained orator might with his lips. Their responses were equally remarkable. It all pointed toward the inevitable: It appeared Lian would be kavistra. His presence would continue to inspire and comfort. His word would be law. The naysayers had best get used to it. And I had better learn to accept it.

“And you? Do you want to stay?”

“Do you doubt it?” He pushed back her hood that he might see her more clearly. Tears like diamonds glistened at the corners of her eyes. He stroked her cheek. “What is it?”

“You’ve been so quiet since we got to Faerkirke. Something’s bothering you—something more than my father’s condition, more than Alliance business,” she amended. “I’ve seen it in your eyes. I’ve seen something you’ve not given words to. Tell me. Have you seen the unseen, Gareth?”

Her question caught him off-guard, and he dismissed it with a turn of his head; his hand dropped away from her face. Above their heads, ribbons unfurled in a tapestry of prayer.

“I think you have,” she said. “And I think it frightens you.”

Precognition, Endru Kynsei had once told him, was a gift more than one syr Tremayne was said to have possessed. Gift, indeed! Arguably, it was a useful ability for a commander of armies. Or a hideous curse. Kavistra Endru had been right on both counts.

“No one is meant to see the future.” Memories of the past were difficult enough.

He drew his grandfather’s timepiece from his pocket, winding it carefully. The watchmaker had only just returned it to him after a thorough examination and with obvious disapproval flashing under angry eyebrows. As if nearly drowning had been his intention. Black hands moved smoothly through time. He touched the smooth glass cover, gently ticking off each hour. One, two, three…

Alira was not about to let him escape. “But you have.”

He didn’t answer. He had only ever got strong impressions, when it happened at all, and not often anymore. Not since Kynlan had died and vivid dreams and moments of clarity turned to ash in his mind. And yet…yet images of Lian had begun to take form, bright thoughts invading his dreams; glimpses of tomorrows he could not firmly dispel as fantasy.

The second hand chased fleeing moments in circles. Soon the faithful would fill the streets. Seven, eight, nine…

“Aralt, when you’re given a gift of the Spirit, you shouldn’t ignore it.”

He crossed his wrists on the railing, leaning his head against his forearms. “What gift? I can’t force the future to give me satisfaction. I didn’t even know Lian was alive. If I had—” I never would have stopped searching.

“And now?”

The pocket watch ticked softly in his fist. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

He snapped the watch closed and slipped it into his pocket.

It was her turn to touch his face, the back of her hand pressing gently against the stubble of beard on his cheek. “What is it? What have you seen?”

He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “I don’t need to see the future to see you.”

“You could be here, with him. With me. Don’t say it,” she told him, her fingertips on his lips. “Every scenario we’ve discussed since you arrived has risks, but the most prudent thing seems to be to remain here. Doesn’t he think we can protect him? That we wouldn’t give our lives to protect him?”

Aralt thought of the Aurora Dream II, spinning like a cyclone into the falls; of the Sarajayne, ushered into the harbor cloaked in flame. “That’s precisely what I think he’s afraid of.”

He wiped the tears from her eyes and pressed his fingers to his lips, then hers. As one they whispered the ancient prayer for the sea.