“That which we do not understand must not

be given the power to conquer us.”

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

Follow the river, Aralt.

He rarely disobeyed an order. Would that he had listened that day years before.

A canopy of hardwoods provided shelter from the downpour as he urged Tabric down the steep footpath strewn with bones. The Naharasii had lined the way with skulls set over pools of everlight, their bright eyes guiding him to Kyrrimar. Red leaves unfurled in a riot of spring snow, then exploded into white light that melted into desert as he ran down the dark corridor into the garden. Gaelyn’s Fountain beckoned. He began to scream…

That wasn’t the way it happened.

The slate upon which his dreams were written washed clean, the images dripping into the fog settling around him like a tired man’s cloak, cast aside at the end of the day. The stars shone pink. The smell of antiseptic, poultices, tantyri brewing. Tycho’s voice. That wasn’t meant for you.

Concentrate.

The river, flowing, leaves spinning lazily from swaying branches. Commander Glynn’s First Sword, Scanlin Ross, expected him to return by second moonrise, and he was not going to disappoint his weapons master. The “enemy encampment” he had been sent to scout wasn’t what they thought. They were refugees, homeless men and women camping in the foothills. They needed food and medicine. The report of a hostile incursion was nonsense, and he was going to break Russ Munro’s nose for misrepresenting the situation.

That was right. That was the way of it, all those years before. The highlands of Kitheria, not Kyrrimar. Refugees, not rebels. That was the message he needed to deliver. Never delivered.

Tabric’s ears swiveled at a noise in the pines, his muscles rippling. He rolled the bit between his teeth, clacking it against the fangs to either side of his mouth.

“Dump me again and see if I don’t put you in a stewpot myself,” Aralt told his esri. They had reached an uneasy accord, he and the stallion. He doubted he would ever understand the beast as well as his uncle had, but life in a stable was not what the old fellow deserved and Aralt needed a reliable, fierce mount if ever he were to ride into battle. Besides, he liked the challenge. And the double blaze that ran down Tabric’s dragonesque head. He snapped closed the pocket watch his grandfather had given him, pleased with his own cleverness at finding an alternate route. He patted the esri’s neck and urged him forward. “This way is faster. There’s no one there.”

But there was. It was the last time he failed to trust his mount’s instincts.

A noise like morning, like the door of the summer kitchen at home rattling, like the sounds he had heard made between men and women deep in the night when they thought no one could hear. Sighing. Satisfied. The trees were alive then, bark splitting, faces elongating, red crystal shining. Shirahnyn.

Mother and Son and the Seven Sea Lords besides! Shirahnyn? Here? Starbeads glimmering, blinding him. On every side, crystal blades like the ones he had seen in Teren Glynn’s personal collection stole the light, returning it like blood. Tabric kicked aside the first man to come at them, then the second. The third and fourth dropped from the branches, pulling Aralt from the saddle. When Tabric ran, their laughter rang in his ears. He drew his sword. Marathis flashed in the half-light filtered through the forest. Green like life. Like his eyes. They stopped laughing then. A fifth man, a sixth…he lunged past them, running, falling, tumbling down the incline into last year’s nettles. The forest spun around him then, the sky erupting in a downpour of sleet and feathers and glittering starbeads as numerous as the stars, and he remembered. He remembered it all.

The smell of sodden earth was sharp enough to taste. His hair, wet from the sudden storm, tangled about his eyes and nose. Wear it in a tail, the other young soldiers told him. He dismissed their advice. He wasn’t a girl. He was a man. Almost a man. Almost…he drew a sharp breath when he couldn’t move his limbs. What sort of honorless whore-boys hit a dueling man from behind then tied him hand and foot? Feigning unconsciousness, he listened for any familiar words amid their strange dialect, wondering what aliens from south of Askierran’s border were doing in Kitheria, and what they wanted from him. He didn’t wonder long.

Groping hands rolled him onto his back, pinning his bound hands beneath his tailbone. He fought to hold a pent breath, but it was no use. They had to know he was awake. He had no doubt given himself away when he woke up and found himself trussed up like a pig. He opened his eyes.

The man gazing down on him was tall and lean, a sharp-featured Shirahnyn in the autumn of his life. His shirt and trousers were fine cloth unevenly dyed red and sewn with the harvest of the sea—starbeads and pearl and bits of coral. A man of means with an appreciation for Shirahnyn fashion. Gold chains dotted with gems dangled from a clip on the man's left ear, and his hair, the color of ash and bone, hung about him, unbound. That meant he had severed ties with the House of his mother, and it made him extremely dangerous.

“The cub wakes,” the stranger murmured in Kierran. “Cub is the right word, is it not? Or should I say ‘wolfling’?”

The accent was nothing like the slurred sibilants mimicked by the others in Teren Glynn’s company. His speech was as carefully chosen as his attire. Nearby, another warrior, his long braid sewn with feathers and beads, rummaged through Aralt’s courier bags. They would find nothing of value, as he had already delivered the messages. He hoped they would lose interest in him quickly.

“Does your kavistra know that Teren Glynn sends children on a man’s mission?”

Aralt held his tongue. He was not a child, and they both knew it.

“A bashful buck,” the stranger told the others; the comment elicited disdainful laughter. “But why? Why would one so…fine…keep silent? Is it because he is surprised to live? He should be, after killing two warriors of such repute.”

His first blood! Or had Tabric, a more seasoned warrior than he, crushed their heads under spurred hooves? His heart leapt at the thought either way, but he forced himself to look away. Let them believe he had killed a dozen men. A hundred.

A broad-shouldered man with three braids woven into an elaborate coil at the base of his neck spoke next, his words an angry guttural rush that defied translation. Aralt fixed his gaze on a clod of muddy earth not two arms’ lengths away as he tested his bonds again. He needed to think quickly. Think quickly, before they—

“Jhinti finds offense with you, arjheth. You killed his mother’s favorite son. He would have your blood on his loins before he killed you.”

Aralt couldn’t mask his revulsion. Being dead might have been preferable.

“I reminded him that shirrasah is not gained by death. At least, not by an easy death. Are you worthy enough to bring me honor?”

The question sank in his stomach like overripe fruit. Russ Munro’s sordid tales of the Shirahnyn had never meant a thing. Until then. He set his jaw, determined not to break down like the child he was accused of being. Arjheth! Little boy! Indeed. He would show them what it meant to be a Kierran warrior. But that very resistance would bring his enemy honor. He swallowed bile.

“Who are you?” he asked, wishing fiercely that he were in a better position to fight. His numb fingers fumbled against the bonds to no avail. Above, scudding clouds moved across the lavender midafternoon sky. It was still well before moonrise. He would not be counted as missing. Not yet.

The Shirahnyn clasped one hand over his heart. “You wound me, son of Tremayne. Am I truly so forgettable? I trust Endru Kynsei has not forgotten me.”

Kavistra Endru? Know this vile man? Aralt searched his memory even as he searched the hawkish face. He dismissed the notion that the man was hauntingly familiar, refusing to allow fear to dictate his thoughts.

“I don’t know you,” he snarled. I don’t want to know you, you despicable gutter-drinker!

The man stepped across Aralt’s body and bent down to whisper in his ear. “You will.”

* * *