While Alira apologized to a bewildered Shepherd Alinn for their intrusion at so late an hour, Aralt borrowed a lamp and ascended to the observation dome on the roof, arriving just as a curtain of clouds drew back to reveal the night sky. Beyond the beveled glass of the dome, Lian sat astride a magnificent waterspout, a winged esri with a serpent’s tail, most of it overhanging the building’s edge to an extent that made Aralt’s teeth hurt. He had to be cold, exposed as he was to the stiff wind that snapped rows of knotted prayer ribbons like fish on a line. He wore only shirt and trews, as if he had departed the Alwynns’ home in as much haste as they, compelled by unseen forces as he had been in Tyrian. Or had he fled so as not to be consumed by shared nightmares that might ignite more than either of them could cope with that night?

He exhaled softly into chilled hands, pressing the warmth between his palms. A curtain of mist drew across his vision until he could see no farther than the open window’s diamond panes. Tycho arrived, silent as a cat. Alira had reminded him enough times in the last few days that courtesy cost him nothing; that didn’t mean he had to be nice.

“Upon wings, we rise above the darkness.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt at the poetics, confining most of his attention to his kervallys keeping a self-appointed guard against the unknown. Whatever he was waiting for this time could not be good.

“Am I again anathema, and not to be spoken to? You are a man of contradictions, syr Tremayne.”

He intended to keep it that way. “I reserve judgment until I know what I need to know.”

“You’ll forgive me for not realizing judgment was being withheld.”

“Where’s Scanlin?”

“Mending fences with the khiyerey. There has been some news from Askierran.”

Some news. Not good news, just some news. It would be unwelcome news when they sent word Lian was considering elevating Faerkirke to the heart of Askierran.

The fog ripped open long enough to suggest Lian was still out there, white shirt glimmering like ghost-breath. Had he donned Kynlan’s black shirt, he would have been all but invisible. A flash of red rose from the boy’s outstretched hand as the ravenjay Aralt had contemplated eating earlier flew off in the direction of the fjord. Tycho flipped a window latch, pushing one panel of clear mullioned glass outward.

“Pzak. I summoned him earlier, yet he did not come.”

“He was in the library,” Aralt told him. “How did he find Lian all the way up here?”

“It is a puzzle, is it not? Unless he was called.”

“What sort of answer is that?” he asked, impatient. “And don’t tell me ‘you don’t understand.’ I’ve had more than my fill of that from Lian. I want answers.”

“Then why have you not gone out to him?” Tycho cocked his head. The motion, a rapid flick that sent pale hair spiking about the narrow face, reminded Aralt of the way the bird had looked at him, feathers ruffled about a sharp beak.

He rattled the locked door in demonstration. He hadn’t thought to stop for a key. How Lian had gotten through… No, there was no point in wondering.

“Lian! Open the door.” He rattled it again, debating how much damage he would do if he were to break the glass. “Stubborn boy.”

“Most stubborn. And stealthy to have come here alone. Or was he not alone?”

“Not precisely.” He did not wish to provide an explanation or implicate Camryn Alwynn. Thankfully, Tycho did not ask for one. The lad would have enough guilt to deal with if something were to transpire to injure his new friend.

“I have accompanied him the better part of three years and in that time have never known him to tolerate a servant, no matter the benefit. In my land, one with such standing would never be alone.”

“Kierrans cherish their autonomy,” Aralt replied, bridling his distaste. “Haven’t you been enjoying yours?”

Tycho’s pursed lips would have been answer enough. “The Alwynns have been most courteous.”

“Were you mistreated in Tyrian?” He recalled what Lian had said, accusing them of putting his friend in a cage. A cell, surely, but not a cage. And not in a cellar which would have violated Shirahnyn custom. What sort of man did Lian think he was?

Tycho hesitated. “I would not call discourse with Scanlin Ross mistreatment.”

“And all that time, you neglected to mention you knew Lian Kynsei.” Three years…I have accompanied him the better part of three years. And when he hadn’t? What then? Where had Lian been? And with whom? Lian said he trusted Tycho like a brother, kissed him with the fondness of one dear to another’s heart. Aralt rattled the door again to mask the mounting turmoil he felt inside.

“Perhaps he cannot hear us. This wind could lift a ship to great heights.”

“He hears us. Lian!”

“May I?”

He flicked a hand. Tycho raised his voice. The dialect was not familiar, but it was clearly Shirahnyn. Lian’s reply was in the same language.

“How many dialects does he speak?”

“Several, but only three or four of them with mastery.”

Aralt raised an eyebrow. Languages had always come naturally to Lian. He had been envious of just how naturally. “Well? What did he say?”

“‘Try the other door.’”

They broke apart instantly, he moving sunwise, Tycho anti-sunwise around the dome, meeting again on the other side. Aralt yanked the door open. By the time they reached the waterspout, the mist had reclaimed the scene, rising like a swell. The light from lamps set at intervals along the wall dimmed as it fell, fracturing into mere candle wisps. The cool air on his face, and his hands gripping the curtain wall, reminded him of rare nights at sea. Were it not for Lian’s precarious perch, it would have been easy to lose himself in the undulating fog playing like silent waves against the building, until the very floor would begin to dip and roll, along with his stomach. Between swells he could barely see Lian astride the winged esri, sojourning forth like some legendary hero of old. Another gust sent ribbons snapping, the air currents reminiscent of those he had experienced in Tyrian the night the skyship appeared. Reminiscent, but not the same. Not at all.

“Lian?”

“Have a care,” Tycho said. “Surely you know not to touch him when he—”

“You seem to know an awful lot about—what are you looking for?”

“His staff. It isn’t here. By heaven’s gate and hell’s eternal flame, it isn’t here!”

“Who should have a care now?” Aralt muttered. “He doesn’t take it with him everywhere he goes. He didn’t even use it at the river.” Not at far as he could tell.

“He should have,” Tycho snapped.

“You stopped him from using it on the Wall,” Aralt reminded him.

“The light was in his eyes. He would have killed the j’thirrin that wounded you. I could not permit that. For his sake,” Tycho added. “He disregards and disobeys his family’s creeds. It cannot be tolerated.”

And just where he had learned that? Certainly not at his mother’s knee.

“Lian, stop mucking about out there. Why did you come up here? You put Camryn Alwynn in a hell of a compromising position. That’s no way to treat a friend. Lian? Lian Kynsei, I swear to heaven—”

“Wait.” Tycho leaned forward, hands on the wall, eyelids fluttering closed. At once pale eyes snapped open again, and he staggered back. His hand missed the curtain wall by mere inches, enough to send him shambling like a drunkard. He collided first with Aralt, then one of the other statues. One wrong move and it was three hundred feet to the sculpted garden below. The idea was ever so tempting. “Sweet Alvis of the Kynseis.”

“Whips and pins,” Aralt swore. “What's he doing now?"

“What I forsook in deference to his god,” Tycho gasped, offering no further explanation.

“Lian, look at me!”

The boy swung himself around backwards on the waterspout. Gold rimmed his dark eyes. “I can see them.”

“Who? Just tell us and we’ll—”

“I can see them. They’re almost here. He’s almost here.”

“All right, you can see them,” he said, trying not to look down as he reached out to pull his kervallys to safety. The wind twisted his hair around his face and ruffled his shirt sleeves. “I hear you. Come inside and explain it to us. You have to explain.”

“No time. No time.”

“Lian, whatever you’re doing, you need to stop, you ken? Remember what you said? That you would warn us? That you wouldn’t take matters into your own hands? I wasn’t listening to you in the stable. I’m listening now. Lian? I’m listening now.” He wrapped his fingers around the boy’s forearm. The wound in his left arm burned. “Come away from the ledge.”

Tycho grabbed the boy’s other arm. “Little prince, you mustn’t do this…”

“Look.” Lian took hold of them both. Then he whispered the Name above all Names, and Aralt felt the ledge fall away.

* * *

The air tasted sickeningly sweet.

Above the mist, the sky spread out like an unending sea, lonely in its emptiness and awesome in its expanse. Onward, upward, like a bird in flight, Aralt felt air moving past his cheek. His racing heart beat against his chest like a blacksmith’s hammer, spreading warmth through his body. He cast about for Lian but could not see him. Nor could he see Tycho, and yet both were there, with him, and he with them in an uneasy accord that left him exhilarated and terrified all at the same time. Crowding apprehension into a forgotten corner of his brain, he concentrated on the fragile cord that united them, embracing the glory of a predawn morning and the unaccustomed ecstasy of flight. They burst into a dark violet sky, starlight and moonlight shimmering at the periphery of his vision. Darker then, darker, the air filled with the scent of a man-made storm rolling like thunder over the fjord toward Faerkirke.

Look…

Above the bottleneck leading toward the dread Shika’s Teeth and the open sea to the south, Pzak showed them the shadow moving above the face of the deep, belching a trail of greasy smoke and foul gases that lit up the sky in ways Aralt could not have imagined. The world spun as the ravenjay descended, cutting the gloom with silent wingtips. Blink, the world to the left. Blink, the world to the right. All of it ablaze with gradations of color to which he could put no name. He struggled to make sense of the eerie scene unfolding before them, pockets of unnatural fire scudding through the mist. The stench of toxic, highly flammable fuel was stronger there, the images more recognizable but no less incomprehensible. Tangles of coarse rope and rotted netting bound floating islands crowded with individuals crouched with silent intent. Hungry, wretched refugees from a forgotten, desolate land come to reclaim what they had long maintained was theirs.

Above it all, safe in the camouflaged gondola which once had boasted Akahan’s hateful visage, stood Laracae. Tall and thin, his hawkish face the very image of his uncle. And he was looking directly at them.

I see you, little fish. I see you all.

Aralt twisted under such direct scrutiny, unable to sever the bond that held him. Blood and ashes, Lian! Put an end to this!

A moment later, he wished he could have closed his eyes to the spinning world. The ravenjay careened to one side, wings beating a hasty retreat as a monstrous scavenger bird, ridged beak outstretched, snaked through the mist like a sand shark from his desert nest. The harbor lights directly in front of them cast a spectral glow through the fog, like a corps of will-o’-wisps rising from some vast grave bog. The enemy ship moved steadily toward the sleeping parish, a vile pestilence in tow.

On Pzak flew, heart thrumming under the shadow of winged death. Aralt kenned what it meant to be prey more intimately than ever. When the scavenger shortened its wingspan, diving with a shrill battle cry, he fought to free himself from the vision.

Lian, let go!

Pzak keened as the heavier avian struck.