“Walk with me, Gareth. Oh, but it’s Aralt now, isn’t it?”

It had been for nearly half his life, but he merely nodded and fell into step beside Alira’s father. He had planned on a stroll with her, alone, but he acquiesced, opening the gate to allow Veryl passage into the lush topiary garden on the Alwynn estate set on the hill above Faerkirke. Lian and Veryl’s youngest son, Camryn, had dashed into the hedge maze twenty minutes before, their laughter fading the further they went.

“The gardens began to bloom early this year, you know. Mother always loved them so.”

“Mine as well,” Aralt said. He was just tall enough to see over the first row of sculpted hedges beyond the entryway, with its rows of trumpet flowers and dragonheads and antique roses sharp with thorns.

“Now look at them.”

“Sir?”

Veryl paused to lift a tiny, wilted dragonhead. Instead of springing up, the plants ran along the ground, snapping heads turned every way except toward the sun. “The flowers, Aralt. Keep up. What’s coming in now looks like it came from hell’s root cellar and is looking for a way back. I suppose that isn’t all, either. We’ve had ships in the air ever since we received your first message. Now I have troops on the ground looking for your sneakshadow assassins. If they’re here, we’ll find them. Unless they washed out to sea. The witch can have them, then.”

“Indeed.”

“I heard kaio last night. Kaio! I suppose they followed you?”

He puffed out his cheeks. He could claim no such thing.

“And my rangers have reported slitherdogs as well.”

He definitely was not going to claim any responsibility for that.

“It’s always something with you, isn’t it? I never knew your father all that well, but you’re a lot more complicated than your grandfather. Must be the influence of your mother’s family.”

Which was to say the Alwynns and the Muirs.

“He was a good friend, your grandfather. I never saw enough of him after he married. My own fault for waiting so long. We might have had more in common. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Though, I suppose if I hadn’t waited I wouldn’t have met Alira’s mother or Kinara after Vika died.” Veryl paused, looking left and right. He chose left, then turned around and went to the right.

Aralt stepped quickly after him. “Forgive me if I’m out of place for asking, but was the scandal worth it?” Both of Veryl’s wives had been significantly younger than he. The first marriage had caused a stir. The second had nearly caused a war.

“Cheeky,” Veryl rumbled, taking confident strides fueled by the early hour. “But yes. I have no regrets. You have no excuse to wait so long. Alira has already chosen, you know. She’ll have what she’ll have. Too much like her father, I suppose. She…. Oh! Russ Munro showed his ugly face for half a minute yesterday with a lame esri. Did Alira tell you? Aralt?”

“Hmm?” He wrenched his attention from thoughts of impending matrimony. Playing catch me up with Elon. Nine children. Alira. Her children. His children.

“Russ Munro,” Veryl prompted.

“I take him with me like a bad habit.”

“Try drinking. Then again, if you’re going to marry my daughter, give up drinking. She’ll hide the bottles. She took his.”

“His?” Dozer’s?

“Munro. The man is a menace. Alira had his poor broken-down animal confiscated. He was last seen going into the Crooked Arrow in Olde Kirke Towne.”

“They’ll have thrown him out twice by now,” Aralt said. “He’ll come in through the cellar the third time, get tossed out again, and spend the night on the pier in that little cesspit by the fish market.”

“The Rat Spit Tavern? That’s still there? Bless me. It’s been on my list to close down for decades, but they keep paying their taxes. Vile place. Good memories, but vile place. Ask Teren Glynn sometime.” Veryl chuckled at some fond memory. “I remember the night your grandfather… Oh. But he’s gone, isn’t he? He and Marcynn both. Gone to Glory. Well, who knows where Marcynn went.”

An odd thing to say about a man who had been Kavistra of Askierran, he thought, but then Veryl Alwynn was almost as odd as he was given to understand Marcynn Kynsei had been.

“Did Alira find you earlier? She’s glad you’re here, you know,” the old man observed softly, as if measuring his guest’s reaction.

He cocked an eyebrow in reply, an almost imperceptible curve of his lips admitting that he, in return, was glad to be there. With her.

“Lord of the Sea and Sky, man. Would you just hang the wedding garland and put us all out of your misery?” Veryl laughed. Quite suddenly his expression changed, and he glanced around, letting go pent breath. “I’d be pleased to call you ‘Son’ before I die.”

Aralt found it difficult to tell his host that he would be pleased to call him “Father,” but it was too soon. Veryl, well into his ninth decade, had outlived Fharyl syr Tremayne, the man who had been named after him.

“Kinara always said it was a good thing my mouth was so big, or else I’d have choked on my own feet by now. I’m sorry, Aralt. You must miss your father terribly. Alira corresponds with your mother, you know.”

Well, that explained a few things.

“We’ve invited her to come to stay with us. She has a lot of family here. So do you.”

“I’ll remind her when next I see her.” It wouldn’t be long, not once they secured a ship for the final voyage home.

They had come to another crossroads in the hedge maze. Veryl consulted the stone path, reading clues Aralt had yet to fully interpret. Every step brought them closer to the fountain at the heart of the garden. The last time he had wandered there, he had been chasing Alira. At night. She had been wearing his boots.

“Expecting someone?”

“What? No. Well, Lian’s got a knack for appearing out of nowhere. And I haven’t seen that pissing Shirahnyn since yesterday.” Tycho, he had noted, had not been among the Faithful at the kirke. Not even in the balcony. “You still have him under guard?”

Veryl waved a hand. “It didn’t seem necessary. He’s loyal to kavsa Lian. That’s enough for me.”

Aralt stopped. “You can’t be serious.”

Veryl’s eyes narrowed. “You’d have me defy my kavistra?”

He didn’t waste his breath reminding Veryl that Lian wasn’t kavistra yet. “As I understand it, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“If I could remember what I ate for breakfast I might remember what you’re talking about,” Veryl told him in good humor, head wagging back and forth. “Now which way? Come on, this way. No, turn around. I’ve got it wrong. Twisting old flesh. Sometimes I think it would have been better to die young. Few men who don’t boast Sea Blood live to see as many kavistras as I have.”

“You haven’t seen this one confirmed yet.”

“Pah. Hurry up, then. I’m not going to live forever.”

“It isn’t up to you or me. There are those in Askierran angling for Lian not to be Confirmed. Ever. I’d like to know where they think they’re going to find another one of his clan.”

“Estevedyn?”

“Have you got a map?” He wasn’t sure how to take the smirk Veryl gave him.

“You haven’t heard the most recent news, have you? Wait. Give me a moment. It’s still early enough in the day for me to get this right. Don’t ask me once the sun starts going down, though. I might be wandering around with my pants on my head. Twisting old flesh,” Veryl repeated, shuffling to a stop. He took a deep breath and lowered himself to a dragon-footed granite bench. “Teren Glynn’s aunt…no, his sister’s aunt—wait, that would be his aunt, and she’d be one hundred and two by now—well, one of them is pressing for one of their clan to be Confirmed. Yes, I laughed as well, but it isn’t as absurd as it seems. They claim to have Sea Blood—all the old coastal families do—but it must be generations back, during Gaelyn’s time. I didn’t pay that much attention back then. Not that it means they’re soul-touched, but they might be, so there you go.”

“I’ll defer to you on that matter.” Veryl Alwynn had walked the shores of the Kell Sea with Marcynn Kynsei long before Aralt had been born. The old man no longer remembered everything he once knew.

“They seem to forget the syr Tremaynes have it as well.”

“Do they?” he shrugged, rubbing his sore arm. The pain returned in waves at odd moments. As yet the voice did not accompany it. He tilted his head, listening for any sign of Lian and Camryn. “I hadn’t thought about it. I’m more concerned about Shirahnyn wandering around Faerkirke—and so should you be. I don’t trust him.”

“Aralt, I ken that you had a run-in with the Soulless, but I can’t detain every Shirahnyn that passes through the parish.”

“Since when?”

“Since the doctor that’s keeping me marginally sane is from the southern islands, I happen to like him, and I really like not raving like a lunatic, which is what I was starting to do. Besides, we brokered trade agreements with several of the Seven Houses. I’ll have five ships from the south above my airfield day after next. Or the next.”

“You did what? When?”

“Cheeky. As if it’s any business of yours, Aralt of Tyrian.”

“We share a border, Veryl of Alwynn. I had a ship slinging fire rain on us on Syth’s Eve.”

“Syth’s Eve. Bah.”

“You know what I mean.” The whole North called it that. Half of Askierran as well. “Even the old ballads talk about lighting candles on Syth’s Eve.”

“To keep away the spooks, maybe. ’Tisn’t why Believers light them.”

“I’ll not argue with you,” Aralt told him.

“Damn well best not—I won’t let you marry my daughter.” They both had to laugh then. As if Alira would allow either of them to barter her. “Trust me. Whoever that was, it wasn’t one of these merchants. No. They keep to themselves. Not a single ship has ever changed course. Wherever that ship that attacked Sylvan came from, it wasn’t one that docked here. If you want them diverted, I’ll have Alira talk to the Ship Master.”

He wanted to tell Veryl it was too late for that, but what was the point? The best decision the old man had made in recent years was to place Verin and Alira in charge. Now, if only he would allow them to be in charge. Alira, he knew, had little heart for politics, albeit she was capable. Her interests lay elsewhere. He had never paused to ask Verin. With elder siblings residing in other domains—or dead—Verin seemed as destined to govern Alwynn-Muir as Aralt was to govern Leyth.

When Veryl did not get up, he settled himself on the bench. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Forgive me, k’talyn, but you need to seek your son’s counsel on these matters. And your daughter’s.”

“I do. I do. It may not seem like it, but I do. It’s all become…so much more complicated. Or is it me, becoming the fool people say I am?”

“I haven’t been much of an ally, have I? Or even a friend. I owe you more than I’ve ever given.” Veryl had been instrumental in winning favor from the rest of the Alliance after Teren Glynn had appointed Aralt governor of Tyrian in his place.

“You’ve had a full plate.”

More like a broken plate.

“Dozer of Morvoren is proving more able than his predecessor. What was his name? Pennyfool?”

“Penafull,” Aralt said. “As if you’d forget your wife’s father.”

“I’d just as soon forget the old duffer. He never liked me. Neither much does his kinsman on my city council. Egotistical little man, always scheming. Alira barely tolerates him. Verin doesn’t. But he had deep ties to the community.

“Elon’s been a friend to us for decades, of course, and his mother before him. What a rascal he was! Not everyone in the Alliance thinks I’m losing my mind. Even if I am.”

“That doesn't excuse my lack of attention, and now look what I've brought you.” He cracked a smile.

Veryl slapped him on the back. “Yes, look. And we can refuse you nothing. We can refuse him nothing. Our offer of sanctuary is not made lightly.”

“You can refuse if you want to. But thank you. What you’ve offered is no trifle. If only Lian knew what he wanted to do. It’s a heavy yoke for one so young.”

“I’m almost more concerned about what you want to do.”

He looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Tycho isn’t your enemy, Aralt, but you do still have one. And he is enemy to Lian, to us, to all of Askierran were he to know Lian still lives.”

“I’m sure he already does. And if he doesn’t, he will soon enough. If he ever returns to Askierran, I’ll see to it that he doesn’t leave.”

“What are you going to do, challenge him to a duel and the victor takes the country? Don’t be daft. You can’t do honorable combat with the man who gave Endru Kynsei ice-burns and made it snow in Kyrrimar the night he burned the city! He’s filled himself with some unholy thing, Aralt. Even a foolish old man like me knows that you can’t battle a demon with a sword—not even a marathis one.”

“Can’t I?” Aralt cut in. He rose from their shared bench, ready to continue their walk. “I think that one will bleed, don’t you?”

Veryl was in less of a hurry. He rapped the bench, directing Aralt to sit once again. “Listen to someone’s counsel besides your own. Just this once.”

“I’m listening.”

“Are you?”

He sank back down. “Satisfied?”

“Mayhap. If you listen.” Veryl tented his fingers, tapping lightly against his lips. He closed his eyes and Aralt braced himself for a tale of epic proportions. “Since those days with Marcynn Kynsei, I always knew that the borders of Askierran would reach here. I raised my children to believe it, too. Endru’s death probably kept it from happening sooner, but here we are, with his son. Marcynn’s grandson. Gaelyn’s Promise.”

“I don’t understand…”

“No, I don’t suppose you do. But you will. You’ll have to before…” Veryl’s words trailed off, then came in a rush, as if this might be his only opportunity to express them, and to miss the chance would be the most unfortunate thing to happen in his long life. “This is Faerkirke, Aralt. My ancestors should have named the domain that, but someone had the audacity to name it for himself and the rest of us have been too proud to change it. Mar Alvis was raised over the place they say Alvis Maehr anchored the Ark. We have so much history here, we can’t keep track of it all. What better place for Lian Kynsei could there be outside of Kyrrimar? Let this place be consecrated. Let him secure his position before trying to go into that cursed mess along the coast and risk both your lives when the Shirahnyn return. Because it isn’t if. It’s when. They will come for him. Lonn Tirehl will come for him.”

“They could as easily come for him here,” Aralt said soberly.

“I’d like to see them try—”

“No, sir. No, you wouldn’t.”

“These are our skies, and we will defend them!”

“I have no doubt of that. I just meant—”

“I know what you meant. You are his kervallyn. Call for his Confirmation now. Let Faerkirke be his sanctuary. Let him begin the kavistra’s work here. We would be honored, and we would protect him. What you see with your eyes isn’t all of what Faerkirke is. We have our secrets.”

“I know you do.” He drew a deep breath, wondering if he should tell Veryl just how frightened Lian was of the notion of being named kavistra, how emotionally unstable the boy seemed at times. Would that unnerve a Believer of their shared faith, knowing their high priest was fallible, flighty, even frightened of the demands his position required? A position he had never asked for. Why couldn’t they all see that what Lian needed was to just be a boy? “What about the clergy who have already refused to Confirm him? They don’t believe he’s intended to be kavistra.” Neither does he.

“Do you?”

“I am not the right person to ask.” I never was.

“You’re the only one whose opinion really matters. Askierran has been governed by a council of representatives from the individual domains since Devailyn Kynsei went missing, but no one has been elevated above the others. Yet. Make no mistake, some desire it. Lian is your ward. You are his kervallyn, and as such are entitled to the title of ksathra. Lian’s parents knew what they were doing when they chose you. The support would be overwhelming. The Spirit will guard him, but you’re the closest thing he has to family. Until he comes of age, you should be regent.”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head and waved his hands in protest. “No, no, no. I have no desire to rule Askierran. I came to Tyrian because I didn’t want to govern Leyth simply by means of inheritance, and you see how well that worked out.”

“If that so? Then, let them elect another.”

He bristled at the mere notion of someone else taking such power. Someone that might not have Lian’s best interests in mind. “Let them try.”

“Aye, well there you have it. Planning your life is a sure way to make the Spirit laugh. If you wanted to be ksathra, then I’d be worried. It’s as much a calling as being kavistra. Just because you don’t want to hear it doesn’t mean you stop listening—and if you do, the second call may be a branch falling on your stubborn head. At least consider what I’m saying. Then remind me tomorrow if I forget and I’ll tell you again. Twisting old flesh. It’s better in the morning, you know. By tonight? Pants. Never mind that. There are already some calling for you to—”

“And as many making it plain they don’t want Lian or me. Ask Ristaiel.”

“I already got an earful from him after he left Sylvan.”

“You what? He came here? That’s how you knew about me giving up the Meeting isn’t it. That meddling old whistle pig. He can’t bother to come to Askierran’s aid, but he can inform my neighbors about my private business.”

“Well, don’t fault him for that. Saints and sinners, Aralt. Have some pity for the man. His wife had just died. His own House was in turmoil.”

“His wife? I didn’t even know he was married.”

Veryl cupped his hand to his eyes and sighed mightily. “Of course he was married! Fifty-odd years. Twelve children, most of them dead years back when there were incursions from the Naharasii. Did you ever think to ask?”

To his shame, he had to admit he had not. But he recovered quickly. “Ristaiel’s never been one for idle talk.” Unless it was to insult him.

“I’ll tell you the same thing Ristaiel told you. Lian Kynsei needs protection, and by all that’s holy, we will give it to him. For all I love Askierran—and Kyrrimar—this is where he should remain.”

“Ristaiel seemed to think he couldn’t be protected in the north.”

“Not in Tyrian. Not in Kevarn. It’s different here. And the situation has changed, has it not? Well?”

Aralt admitted as much. And it grew more complicated by the day. At last, he said, “You know I can’t make this decision for him. But…what you say has merit.”

“Merit?” Veryl fumed. “At my age, I was going for wisdom.”

He needed time to consider. And to speak to Alira and Verin before implementing their father’s plan. “I will speak to Lian again.”

“Will you?”

“Do you dou—Yes. I will. I swear it.” Better yet, he would employ Alira’s assistance in the matter. He suspected her powers of persuasion would go further with Lian than would his.

Veryl pushed himself up. “Right, then. My memory may be bad, but my hearing is fine, and I hear boys and splashing, and where there are boys, there is bound to be trouble. If they’re in my late wife’s memorial fountain, they had better have taken off their shoes…”

Aralt followed, hands clasped behind his back. The mention of the fountain brought back memories that took the edge off his worries. At Kyrrimar, in the walled garden where antique strains of roses had been cultivated for generations, Gaelyn’s Fountain was a focal point. On cool winter mornings—rarely cool enough for more than a dusting of frost, soon evaporated under the glow of the sun—the pool steamed with hidden secrets. Round and round he had traversed the fountain rim as a boy, first a cautious shuffle to establish the width of the wall, then, certain of his steps, he ran. Round and round he went, increasing his speed before launching across the garden, leaping sculpted hedgerow to climb into the arms of one of the ancient silver apple trees. He remembered vividly how he would complete the circuit, race back toward the pool’s edge, gather himself to mount the wall without missing a step, without teetering, without slipping. He remembered even more vividly the day he missed his stride, or the rim was wet after a rain shower, and he had spun on one heel, arms flailing as the tingling mist met his body and he plunged in like a boulder loosed in a landslide. Gaelyn’s Fountain did more than drench him head to toe; it drenched him inside, too, a baptism of liquid fire that he had not been prepared to endure. When Endru drew him out, sputtering, confused, all the man had said to him was It isn’t your time.

At the approach of adults, laughter turned to conspiratorial whispers. All that was left behind when he and Veryl reached the fountain were wet footprints. Veryl caught him by the arm before he could follow.

“Laughter on their lips, trouble in their pockets. Leave him be. Let him be a boy. I’ve got the eyes of nine guards on the pair of them and archers you can’t even see. Unless one of these statues comes to life and carries him on wings, we won’t lose him.”

Aralt ran a hand over the shoulder of a marble winged-esri. The pigments on individual feathers had begun to flake off. He had noticed artisans working on statues throughout the city upon their arrival. “That boy could walk through a seasoned company of warriors without being noticed if he had a mind to.”

“So could his grandfather. He managed to steal Kavistra Gaelyn’s boat and take us out on open water, sailing us to Illyn Arranach. I told you that, didn’t I? He didn’t want to be kavistra any more than the boy seems to want it, but it will be as the Spirit moves.”

He stared at his reflection in the pool. “I can think of a dozen reasons why he wouldn’t want to drink from this cup.”

Veryl’s reflection came into focus beside him. “Remain here. Let him find just one.”

He thought about that day on the shore of Loch Bethu, Lian clutching his hands with a fierce determination. He would overcome the vulnerability or at least master it, but it wasn’t going to happen overnight. Whether he liked it or not—or understood it or not—the lad needed him. Needed his oath-brother. His kervallyn. A headache nudged at his temples again. He blamed it on the bright sun, but when the sound of footsteps brought back only one boy where two had left, he knew it wasn’t going to go away.

Camryn panted like a dog as he handed his father a message. He had evidently run the whole way. Veryl held it to his head like a magician, then cracked the seal.

“Well, will you look at that?” Within the letter was a gilded card. An invitation to Harlyk’s birthday luncheon. “How convenient.”

Too convenient.

“How sweet. He even addressed you as Aralt of Tyrian. Hrumph. He wants something.” Veryl frowned. He took the invitation, fumbling for the spectacles in his pocket. They slid down his nose. “It better not be my youngest daughter.”

“He wants me to show up with Lian so he can make accusations. Or not show up with him. The result will be the same. Even if I left right now—”

Veryl looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “You can’t take him there, Wolf. The mood toward those of the faith is dark.”

“Alira said as much. And that you’ve taken in travelers.”

“More like refugees. Something wicked is going on in Ardael.” Aralt noted that he had not called the city Harlydael.

“Can I go, too?”

They both turned toward Camryn and asked, in unison: “Where’s Lian?”

“Esri byre. He said his head hurt, that the light was bothering him, so he went to see Master Tycho’s calico. Are you really going to let him take it, Papa? Alira said whoever abandoned that esri should be skinned alive.”

Aralt raised his eyebrows. “Did she really?”

“Not in so many words.” Veryl folded his glasses. He patted about his waistcoat to find the case.

“Oh yes she did! And more words besides. The ones you say not to use.” The boy grinned. He was several years Lian’s junior, but at least six inches taller—and the spitting image of his late mother. “She was fierce mad. Almost as mad as she was when syr Tremayne—”

“Off you go, lad. We’ll be along in a moment,” Veryl said, spinning the boy around and sending him on his way with a push. He looked at the invitation again, holding it out at arm’s length. “I’m too old to have a son that young.”

“Apparently not.” Though the thought did still boggle the mind.

“All right. I wasn’t when he was born, but I am now. Verin or Alira will end up raising him unless he goes to live with my older daughter in Leyth. They’re near to Linishael. Fine city, Linishael. Haven’t been there in a dog’s age.”

In truth, he had been there when Aralt’s father had been laid to rest in the marathis caves north of the city. It seemed unnecessary just then to remind him. “It’s a good place to grow up,” he said. “But don’t be in too much of a hurry to find Camryn a guardian. Lian Kynsei may want you as an advisor. Consider it. You could go to Kyrrimar. Think of it as Marcynn’s revenge.”

“Hah! I’ll endure this flesh a while longer for that. Come on. I’ll show you a shortcut to the stable,” Veryl said, folding Aralt’s invitation and tucking it into his pocket along with the letter that had been delivered with it. Half an hour and four course corrections later, they were out of the hedge maze.