He woke to find the prayer candle Lian had placed on the ponderous claw-footed library table earlier melted sideways, the wax reduced to glowing ooze in its globe. He tried to shake off the nightmare, scrubbing at his face and pushing back his hair. He stared at his hands glistening with his own tears. Just then, he had no desire to remember the sea.

Clawing past eddies of pain and fury still ripe in his mind, he turned his attention back to the documents Alira had spread across the library table earlier. Called away to assist with her father, she had said she would return. Perhaps between the two of them they could convince Lian of the wisdom of remaining in Faerkirke.

Lian.

He seized on thoughts of his kervallys as a drowning man would a lifeline. Heaving himself out of the armchair, he shuffled between towering bookcases, fingers trailing along ancient volumes, the spines of which radiated unnatural sensations, one leading to another, and another, as if each remembered the passage of the soul-touched. Judging by the flick of pages on an open book left on the shelf, the patio door was open. He rounded a library case full of antique maps, hoping his nightmares hadn’t driven Lian too far. The night air smelled fresh, like spring rain and lilacs.

“Your tea is getting cold, Lian. Lian?”

Lian, however, was nowhere to be seen.

“I’m not going to die with a sword in my hand,” he muttered. “I’m going to die at the hands of outraged Believers when I murder their high priest.”

A flutter of wings announced Tycho’s ravenjay. It circled the terrace twice before swooping through the open door, shuddering down onto the back of a chair. The bird’s hungry beak plucked momentarily at russet-and-gold brocade while round eyes seemingly void of pupils scrutinized him. The feathered head cocked to one side when he reentered the room, green plumage fanning out like a fancy collar. Aralt glanced toward the fireplace. The bird mimicked him, tottering sideways as he reached for a poking rod. A feathered cap ruffled at the back of the bird’s head. It hissed.

Aralt’s fingers closed on the amber crystal implement. He grinned at Tycho’s feathered stooge. Stay right there, you little fancy lizard. I didn’t get my fill at dinner. The bird hissed again. He swung his makeshift club in the bird’s direction. Pzak squawked indignantly, wings beating the air in retreat. The winged fiend was hardly more than a fistful of red and green feathers.

“Get,” he jabbed at the bird again. Pzak chattered insults back at him, gripping Aralt’s weapon with sharp talons not a foot from his bare hand. It advanced, head bobbing, curved beak menacing. Dark liquid eyes that knew too much. He released the poker, watching the bird flap in surprise as its perch dropped out from under it. “Back to your master, you twisting little spy. Tell him I’m looking for him.”

* * *

When one of the whispering stable attendants assisting Tycho in outfitting the calico esri dropped the saddle in surprise, Tycho spun to face Aralt. He looked equally distressed. Guilty. The grooms crept away.

Aralt picked up the saddle and shoved it into the Shirahnyn’s arms. “Going somewhere?”

Tycho hoisted it into place, drawing the cinch around the calico esri’s belly. “As I tried to tell the noble jhernani, it seems plain enough that I am unwelcome here. Worse, that my presence is causing conflict between you and Lian. Though I have not been granted passage, neither have I been commanded to remain. I thought it best to leave during the night to avoid his wrath.”

“What about my wrath?”

“My offense is against Veryl of Alwynn, is it not?”

Nightmares still fresh in his mind fueled his response. “Your ‘offense’ is just being here.”

Tycho drew back. “All the more reason I should go. I have no desire to cause further conflict. If you would give Lian a message, I—”

“You expect me to believe you’d leave without telling him? Where is he?” Aralt circled the calico esri, examining Tycho’s gear. Nothing more than a single man traveling alone would require. He glanced around the esri byre. Keyva dozed in a nearby box stall, and Lian’s new travel gear and tack, the best Veryl could provide, was stowed in an adjacent cabinet.

“On my honor, syr Tremayne, he is not here. I told him nothing of my intentions. When last I saw him, he said he could not bear another session with the esteemed city elders but had agreed to hear the Lady Alira make a case for him to remain. There is no dictating to him, but for my part I told him this was wisdom.”

That, Aralt realized, had been hours ago. That Lian did not wish to endure any further contact with Veryl’s council did not surprise him. It had become as bloated with bickering fools as the rest of the Northern Alliance’s government. He did an about-face, leaving Tycho alone with his so-called honor.

“Who was with him last?” Tycho called after him.

He kept walking. I was.

Ever attentive, Scanlin fell in beside him as he left the stable, matching Aralt’s long stride as he stalked back toward the house. His First Sword appeared hastily dressed, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his hair mussed from sleep. “Gone when ye woke up, was he?”

“Aye, how did—?”

“Telta reported that ye dismissed them hours ago.” He frowned. “I passed by before I retired. Ye both were takin’ a wee kip in your chairs, the tea cold on the table. Creator knows ye both needed to rest. I could write me a book o’ nightmares between the two o’ ye. I dinnae ’spect him tae leave. ’Twas past the second fifteenth hour and rainin’ to boot.”

“There’s no use blaming yourself.” Lian had eluded his guards enough times in Tyrian—including Scanlin himself. “Veryl kept telling me he had eyes on the boy. I should have kept a guard on him myself. Six guards. How did you know where I was?” Aralt asked under his breath.

“You’re none too subtle when your tail’s afire, Wolf. The night watch alerted the on-duty Sword, who alerted me. Thought he might steal awa’ with Tycho, did ye?”

“I’m still not convinced he isn’t.”

“Gareth!” Alira’s voice, breathless. She swept out of the house, cloak floating around her, her younger brother in tow. They were both in their nightshirts. “Gareth, wait. Camryn, tell syr Tremayne what you told me. Go on.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“You’ll be in more if you don’t tell syr Tremayne where Lian Kynsei is!”

“Aw, Liri! I promised not to. You don’t want me breaking promises to the kavistra, do you? Isn’t that like a sin?”

She put her hands on her hips. Aralt recognized that as a prime mother maneuver, and for all he wanted to demand the boy explain his part in Lian’s absence, he left it to Alira.

“You told me.”

“Aye, but you’re my sister,” Camryn said, squirming under their combined glares. “Besides, you caught me sneaking back in.”

“You were in the storm drain!”

“Not the main one,” Camryn whined. “I checked your logbooks, first. They hadn’t opened the gates yet. It was dry. Mostly. It was the only way to get over there.”

“Camryn Muir Alwynn, tell him this instant or so help me, I will tell Father that you were not only rude to Aralt syr Tremayne, but you also put the Kavistra of Askierran in danger.”

The boy blanched. “It wasn’t my idea. He asked how to get to Mar Alvis without anyone knowing. I couldn’t tell the kavistra ‘no’ about going to the kirke, could I?”

“There’s a chapel in the house.”

“He said it wasn’t big enough.”

“Did you ask him why?”

“Well, no. He’s the kavistra, isn’t he? He prays and stuff.”

“It’s a little late for Night Song, don’t you think?”

Aralt interrupted their sibling quarrel. “Camryn, why Mar Alvis? What was he doing?”

“He was up on the roof of the esri byre. I saw him from my window.”

“Why were you awake?” Alira demanded.

“Not important,” Aralt said.

“It is to me!”

“Am I not allowed to pee without your permission?”

“So, he was on the roof?” Aralt prompted.

“Aye. So, I went to see what he was doing because, well, because it was the middle of the night and he was on the roof and I thought it might be, um, fun.”

“Fun? You thought it would be fun? He thought it would be fun,” Alira stressed the final word. “I suppose you would have thought it was fun when you were his age, too? Is that what I have to look forward to after we get married? Reckless children?”

They all took a step back. Camryn sidled away from his sister and closer to Scanlin Ross, who had said nothing yet. Aralt reasoned he would have done the same had he so fierce a sister glaring at him. As for the rest, it was too alarmingly like a conversation he had once had with his mother to ignore.

“Camryn, what did Lian say?”

“He said he needed to get to higher ground, or a tall building, or aloft. I didn’t see as we were going to get a ride on an airship in the middle of the night, so I told him the highest place in Faerkirke was Mar Alvis.”

Aloft? Aralt exchanged looks with Scanlin. Not good. No, not at all.

“I’ll tae the airfield,” Scanlin said, “ye best gae to the kirke.”

That seemed backwards to Aralt, but he nodded.

“I didn’t take him to the airfield,” Camryn protested. “There was no way we were going to get past the night guard with everyone afraid Shirahnyn are going to fall out of the sky. I took him through the tunnels that run under the old wall of the city to get to the kirke. I’m sorry, syr Tremayne, but he made it sound really important.”

“Oh, I know what he did,” Aralt muttered, feet already in motion. The question, as always, was why?