“’jharna ’shim serna.”

Origin unknown. Rough translation: “The hope of a second harvest.”

No promise implied, but rather hope for future success and a renewed chance for life’s continuation.

Additional explanation needed from the source.

notation found in the journal of Scanlin Ross, First Sword in Tyrian, Believer

The buckle on his baldric jabbing into his back was Aralt’s first clue that he was still alive.

He rolled into a fetal position, clenched fists pressed against his forehead as a lightning storm exploded against his eyelids. He was reasonably sure the pathetic moaning he heard was Tycho and not him, but until he could force his eyes open to confirm that the Shirahnyn had not fallen from the balustrade, he couldn’t be sure. Ascertaining that such was not the case, he tried not to be too disappointed. At just the last moment, Lian had released them; his last memories of their connection were stomach-churning vertigo as they cartwheeled into the murky depths of the fjord.

As much as it hurt to move, he dragged himself up. Between scratches of color, he could just make out Lian sitting cockeyed astride the waterspout. Had it not been for the creature’s wings, the boy would surely have fallen to his death. He hauled Lian onto the roof.

“I see you,” a voice hissed between lips drawn back to expose teeth, his ghoulish face bleeding into the mockery of a grin. “I see you, little fish.”

Startled, he pulled his hands away and stepped back. The voice returned, louder, this time inside of him, hissing, twisting like a hot knife. You know who your enemy is… His hand fell to where his brother’s sword should have been. The one he had relinquished downstairs. Damn!

Lian swayed, small hands clamped over his ears. “Get out! Get out of my head! You can’t touch me! I won’t let you touch me!”

Tycho grabbed his arm. “You mustn’t go near him.”

Aralt shook him away. The whisper of betrayal shattered and dropped away, blown like pollen, seeking to take root elsewhere.

“Lian,” Tycho pleaded, “don’t listen to him. Don’t let him extinguish the light. That which dwells within darkness cannot survive in the light.”

Lian sobbed, his body convulsing with every wracking breath. He drew his fingers toward his chest, first one hand, then the other, cupping them as though he held the most fragile thing imaginable. Like the tiny egg on the beach, dislodged from its nest by the uncertainties of life. The tiny egg Lian had set in place without prompting, without any hope of thanks for showing mercy. A glimmer of blue illuminated the boy’s tortured visage, bathing him in cleansing waves of light. His features softened as the color intensified, spiraling first around his fingers, then his arms, radiant tendrils flowing over every part of him. Streams of silver-laced cobalt divided into dancing stars growing ever brighter. Aralt averted his eyes from the living flame, his heart pounding. A melodic tone, purer than the keen of Tuned marathis, resonated between them, intensifying. Tycho fell to his knees, wrapping his arms about his head, rocking. Aralt could not tell if it was terror or ecstasy. His own knees buckled, yet he fought to remain in control, the hair on the back of his neck prickling just before a gust of wind rushed over them like a hurricane, scattering light like drops of water. Lian collapsed, his eyes gone white as all vestiges of hope extinguished. Even Aralt could not stand against the force of the wind now slamming into them.

Tycho, being nearer, reached Lian first, flattening himself as roaring thunder shook the kirke from rafter to tomb. He placed a hand on the boy’s unmoving chest, then his forehead. “The breath is gone from him.”

Aralt scrambled on hands and knees, the fierce wind whipping his hair into his face. His coattails snapped like wind-filled sails. All about them, prayer ribbons ignited, burning remnants fluttering like dying birds, falling to ash.

“He’s been cast into the depths to drown.”

“That’s impossible!”

“And what we just did wasn’t?”

Possible, impossible…with Lian Kynsei, both words lost their meaning.

“Lian? Come on, boy.” He rubbed his knuckles against Lian’s sternum. When that didn’t work, Tycho gripped the boy’s shoulder, driving his thumb into the hollow of Lian’s collar bone. Aralt cringed. The pain alone should have roused him.

“I tell you he’s drowning—with Pzak.”

“But he let go.”

Tycho met his gaze. “He let go of us.”

A final peal of thunder echoed across the sky, silence falling like an axe through the fiber of night. They were both startled when multiple watchtower bells rang a staccato warning. Deafening kirke bells took up the alarm a moment later.

“Go get help!”

“Do you forget I am a physician?”

He had forgotten nothing. “So was lonn Tirehl,” he snarled, stiff-arming Tycho toward the stairs. He pressed two fingers against the base of Lian’s thumb, unsure if what he felt was a pulse or wishful thinking. “Lian Kynsei, I swear by every saint…”

The splitting whistle of warning flares heralded the first volley of fire rain. He shielded the boy as a molten stream of fire lanced past them, dripping rivers of burning oil. Where it fell, pools of twisting flame shot up like ignited pools of everlight. Staying low to make himself as inconspicuous a target as possible, he dragged Lian into the relative safety of the observation dome. The boy made no sound; neither could Aralt detect any sense of nearness, the very thing he had been avoiding since his kervallys’s arrival. A sweeping, unaccustomed panic rattled down his spine.

“Don’t make me do this.” But he saw no alternative. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes, forcing himself to relinquish the barricade he had taken refuge behind for weeks. He reached within and without in search of the place they had met before. The place of dreams and shadows, and wind and wave. Where the sea flowed in every direction, forever.

Lian?

A torrent of fear assailed him, tumbling him in the darkness that moved swiftly across the face of the deep. He called Lian’s name again, struggling against the tide, searching. A crest of choking brine struck him full-force, eroding his vision, sweeping him out to sea.

“Gareth? Sweet Creator, what happened?” Alira’s words snapped him to reality, a lifeline cast into the raging sea.

He gripped her hand on his shoulder, savoring the warmth. “He barely has a pulse.”

“Give him your breath.”

He tilted his head, registering her words, remembering a time long before when he had seen it done. A partially submerged breakwater, the rushing tide, a small child dragged in the undertow. Endru Kynsei, the strongest swimmer among them, plunging into the salty spray. Memories of yesterday clashed with today, illumining glimpses of tomorrow. The flash of light on the same sea wall below the towers at Kyrrimar, the sound of laughter welcoming home a wayward son. He squeezed his eyes tightly against too many images laid one over the other. The night’s mood had changed further, intruding on memories. Pealing bells woke Alwynn-Muir’s military machine from long years of slumber. Streams of liquid death fell like flaming tears. Already he could smell the city burning.

“We need to go downstairs and get Scanlin.”

“There isn’t time. I passed Tycho on the way up. Why did you send him away?”

He tried to tell her he did not trust the man, did not trust any of them, but she wasn’t listening to his excuses. He looked down at Lian’s unmoving body, his pale face, the face of the child he had once called little brother. There was nothing for it. He parted Lian’s lips and exhaled deeply, forcing the boy’s lungs to expand, concentrating on Alira’s prayer and not the chaos in his mind.

“I am lifting a little drop of water

In the holy name of the Father;

I am lifting a little drop of water

In the holy name of the Spirit…”

“This is not going to work,” he told her. “It could be worse for him if—”

Alira tightened her grip on his left arm. The pain eased under her touch. “I am lifting a little drop of water…”

But the boy remained unresponsive, the thin line of his lips turning blue. He pressed Lian’s yielding breastbone, alarmed by the ease with which the boy’s body sagged under his weight. Endru would have known what to do. By the Three Sisters shining above, his own father would have known what to do! His kervallys would be a mass of broken ribs and bruises by the time Aralt was done with him. If he woke up at all. Again Aralt bent to share his breath while Alira prayed, her whispers choked with tears. His own chest ached with despair. He had only just found his oath-brother again. Three years and countless miles for this? An ignoble death as one of the great cities of the Faith burned around them? No! It could not all be for naught. Not after the sacrifices of Anlynn marr Kenesh and the folk in Kyrrimar. Not after his father put himself in an early grave, all to find the boys he counted as dear as kin. Not after Kynlan had died, all for his desire to stand at Devailyn Kynsei’s side. And what had he done when it was his turn, when Lian was standing right there in front of him? Run away.

He was done running away.

With a deep breath, he dove headlong into the whirling confusion of wind and wave and the hopeless sinking of his soul.

He stood on a precipice overlooking the sea, the cold wind buffeting him.

Lian! He shouted into the storm. It isn’t your time!

An unrelenting tide rushed hard against the eroding shore. He set his jaw against the onslaught.

Lian! Come back with me! It isn’t your time. I won’t lose you again.

A pinpoint of cerulean light ignited far in the distance. A question. Aralt? Aralt, where are you?

It—isn’t—your—time. Come back! Do you hear me? Come back…in the Creator’s name, boy! Come back!

He heard Alira’s voice long before he could see again. When he could, she was rolling Lian onto his side as the boy sputtered, emptying everything left in his shocked system. When she began to remove her cloak, Aralt stayed her hand, removing his long coat. His new coat, fresh from the tailor that day, the best leather ornamented with silver wolf’s-head buttons. Her gift to him. Her promise to wait. Another promise he did not deserve. Together they spread it over Lian, wrapping him in the warmth it provided. Alira continued to minister to him like a dutiful mother, gentle hands smoothing dark hair from an ash-pale face, her voice low and calm, reassuring him—reassuring them both—until Lian lay in a shivering heap, feeble gasps escaping his lips.

“Watch out—watch—watch out—watch out…”

“Hush. Hush. You’re back, you’re safe.” Alira grabbed Aralt’s hand when another flaming projectile shattered a window near enough for them to feel the scorching heat. “We need to get downstairs. Gareth? We need to get to safety. My family….”

She looked frightened, but when Lian moaned, all fear left her face, replaced only by her immediate concern for the boy in her arms.

“We probably shouldn’t even move him, but we can’t stay up here. Can you carry him?” Her hand felt cool against the side of his face. “You’re breathing so hard—is it well with you? What did you do?”

“I’m fine,” he said, lifting Lian. His eyes burned again as color fractured and spun, sending waves of nausea through him. And that’s the last time I ever do something like that!

Lian’s words washed against the shore of his thoughts. Do…what?

“Gareth?”

“I’m…fine,” he repeated, grating his words through clenched teeth as his heel slid off the top step and he nearly toppled down the steep stairwell. Alira’s expression threatened to call him a liar, but she didn’t argue. Together, they descended into chaos.