A multitude of frightened people, yapping dogs, and a brace of spotted hunting cats congregated in the antechamber. The crowd fell silent as Aralt carried Lian into their midst; whispers of concern for the injured young kavistra became a rising crescendo. In moments, blankets and medical supplies were on hand, and he left Lian in the care of at least four shepherds, three physicians, a healer, and a Sherbourne star ’caster the others could not seem to dissuade. Etched shards of bloodstone and black pearl predicted a swift recovery. Roused from their sleep, an assortment of soldiers and city guards ducked back outside to direct even more civilians into the kirke. He sidestepped a passel of children more in a panic over their missing dogs than the danger brewing outside. Scanlin handed him Kynlan’s sword.

“We’ve special dispensation, circumstances bein’ as they are.” His gaze left Aralt for Lian, bright eyes narrowing. “Precisely what be the circumstances? Be it well with him? Be it well with ye?”

He ground the heel of one hand against his aching head. How was one to know? “Find the ranking Sword here and find out what’s happening out there. We need to assemble whatever troops we can find. Bolted doors and storm shutters aren’t going to be enough to hold back seasoned shathamarrs.”

“Sky pirates?” Alira gasped, then lowered her voice. Too late, the whisper spread through the crowd, and the wailing began. “Are you sure? But if it’s only the one ship that was in Sylvan…”

“I’m more concerned about the Naharasii horde they brought with them.”

“Sweet…” Alira gathered her wits about her and tried, to no avail, to neaten her windblown auburn hair into a tight braid, preparing as might some legendary shieldmaiden. “We’re going to need weapons. More weapons. You there—bring me a sword.”

“M’lady?”

“You heard me. Bring me one.” She turned back to Aralt. “You’re sure it’s…them? They haven’t crossed the fjord this far south in ages. You knew, didn’t you? You and Father knew this was coming and didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t,” he protested. More to the point, he had not believed. He watched her plait her hair, looping it, pinning it. “I didn’t know you had sword training.”

“Not much,” she told him, buckling the belt she’d been given. Her hand passed over the hilt of the shortsword. “But I’m not going to just let them walk in now, am I?”

A low drumroll of thunder boomed, the air charged with the energy of an approaching sea storm. He wondered how much of it was Lian’s doing. Throwing sparks!

Apprehension pinched Scanlin’s face upon his return. “Pools o’ fire rain are spreadin’ in the outer court. I’m told there are secure chambers ’neath the chapter house. As many as can will be diverted there. There’s one ship, to be sure. Seems likely it isn’t alone, but the skies have gone dark. They came in low, just above the water, but ’tis said there are other small vessels.”

“More like dinghies, full of…passengers.”

Scanlin nodded grimly. Alira seemed unable to speak. Aralt turned her to face him.

“Are you all right?”

Nervous laughter edged her voice. “Now I know why you hate it when I ask you that. I’m…fine. What can I do?”

He stroked her cheek. “You are your father’s face here, and the people trust him. They trust you. Do what you can to help these people stay calm. In the absence of your father, they’ll look to you. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “I can do that.” When the ground shook again, she fell into his arms, their faces so close their lips nearly touched. “I thought it was thunder before, but that felt more like…” They said the word together. Earthquake.

“Help!” someone screamed.

“They’re here! They’re here!”

With deep regret, he wrenched himself away from Alira’s embrace in time to see a capsule of liquid fire split open on the mosaic floor, driving the assembled into the many side chapels. He ducked for cover, dragging Alira with him. Even in the poor light, he counted no less than six invaders on the magnificent spiral staircase he had lately descended.

“There’s fighting on the roof!” a soldier shouted from across the room.

“Go,” Alira told him. She had drawn her sword. “Go. Do what you must. And come back to me.”

“Secure the doors,” he yelled as he ran to intercept Scanlin. He stopped the clergy from prepping hand-pumped water squirters. “Don’t use water on it. It will only spread.”

“It must be Shirahnyn up above,” Scanlin said. “Naharasii will give this place a wide berth.”

“Small miracles?”

“I reckon there are fewer o’ them if there’s only one ship. This way—hurry. We might overtake them if we can reach the third tier afore them.”

A squad of soldiers and as many armed citizens, half of them in their nightclothes, fell in behind Aralt as he heaved open the door. Finding the passage clear, he led the charge up the narrow staircase.

“I wish Telta was here,” Aralt said, pressing his ear against the ponderous door when they reached the third floor. When Scanlin gave him a critical look, he shrugged. “Clean arrow strike. Less messy than this is about to be.”

“Less messy? Is that all ye can say is ‘less messy’? Sweet Creator, Wolf. This is a kirke!”

“I know it’s no place to fight a battle, old friend, but they’ve brought it to us. Remember that.”

“True enough.” Scanlin brandished his sword. Marathis keened long and low. “Let’s be about it, then. And pray we’re not outnumbered.”

“Now who’s full of optimism? Pass the word. On my mark. Subdue if you can, kill if you must. I don’t need to remind you they’ll only do one of those.”

A dozen Shirahnyn mercenaries, their ash-white hair sewn with feathers and starbeads, awaited them on the balcony. Finding themselves outnumbered, half fled upwards toward the roof, but not before employing the last of their burning oil. It lit the scene like skyrockets on a celebration night. Those remaining were quick to retaliate with swords and throwing discs, but none matched the inhuman speed of the shadow assassins, and for that Aralt was momentarily thankful. When the ground shook, more violently than before, chunks of masonry crashed around them. Friend and foe alike toppled to the floor like toy soldiers.

“Syr Tremayne!”

An arrow sliced directly over his shoulder and into the man nearest him. The Shirahnyn clawed at the shaft. Aralt spared him the agony of slowly bleeding out. Other arrows found their marks as Telta came into view, shooting from her knees as the steps beneath her crumbled. She leaped deftly, landing with the grace of a deer. Kolarin and what remained of their original company followed suit. Not a one with the style Telta had exhibited.

“Commander Rhianydd. Good of you to join us. Kolarin! You look like shite, man!”

Kolarin scrambled down the steps, sliding in the rubble as the ground continued to move. “Sorry we’re late, sir. We had to get a lift, but the roof is secure for now. None too pretty, I’m afraid, but secure. Kavsa Lian?”

“Downstairs. Are you all here?”

He shook his head. “I left Tevin and Sirram with the talynt’e Alwynn. He’s none too happy about being forced underground.”

No, Aralt didn’t suppose he was.

“We meant to take you out of here, but the ship couldn’t risk mooring.”

“How many Shirahnyn ships are there? We saw only one.”

“Aye, but she’s painted black as pitch and running dark. The pilot that brought us in says she’s wicked fast for all she’s spewing fuel, but she can’t have brought a complement large enough to invade Faerkirke.”

“That isn’t the invasion we need to worry about.”

“Syr Tremayne?”

“The Naharasii? How many are they?”

By the looks on their faces, that was not a question they expected.

“Naharasii?” Telta spat as she retrieved her arrows. She managed to do even that with a certain degree of elegance and a respect for the dead. “I hate the thought of them. Isn’t the fjord too wide to tunnel under here? It must be miles—”

“They took a more direct route,” he said.

A flash of color in the corner of his eye resolved into one of the fallen Shirahnyn rising from the floor, pushing aside his fallen comrades in a bid to escape. He didn’t make it more than a few steps before Aralt had him pinned against the wall. He was hollow-cheeked and pale, even for a Shirahnyn, his hair, the color of cinders, twisted into the braid of one of the seafaring clans. A rare breed of marrs they were, braving the Kell Sea’s wicked tides. That lonn Tirehl had managed to retain their allegiance after the fiasco three years before surprised him. Perhaps it was Laracae to whom they were loyal.

“Lay aside your weapons.”

The shathamarr answered in his own tongue, blood and spit mingling on his lips. A maternal insult.

“Lucky for us my mother found favor for all three of her sons,” he answered. “Now lay aside your weapons and tell me where Laracae is.”

“Wolf, we haven’t time for this,” Scanlin cautioned.

“We need information, and our friend here is going to give it to us, aren’t you?”

The pirate’s head snapped back and forth as two of Faerkirke’s guards stripped him of his weapons. A stream of bloody saliva trickled down his chin. Aralt caressed his cheeks with the edge of his sword and asked again. His reply was in the same Shirahnyn dialect.

“Make my death swift as is your way.”

“You think I’ll give you the satisfaction of an easy death after what you’ve done here? What about my shirrasah? My battle honor?”

The Shirahnyn coughed and spat. A cloying sweetness, the scent of tantyri, wafted about him like a vapor. “Kierrans have no honor. You worship the empty sky. Your souls are candles, easily extinguished.”

“You think so? Shall I introduce you to the one that holds the flame in his bare hands? See what you think of his soul.”

“Wolf.” Scanlin urged him to put an end to their dialogue.

Aralt’s sword flicked away from the shathamarr. “I have a better idea. Let’s put you on the street. Go back to your master and tell him you failed. How would that be? How easy a death would he grant you? Or would you rather try your luck with your new allies?”

The Shirahnyn ran a tongue over his bleeding gums, his grey eyes shifting. “This is a holy place. I could ask for sanctuary.”

“Oh, yes,” Aralt purred, his nostrils flaring. He leaned in closer. “You could ask. But I won’t hear you until you tell me where Laracae is.”

“He isn’t going to tell you, syr Tremayne.”

Aralt spared a glance for Tycho. “Come to set another of your friends free? Not another step. Telta? This time you can take a trophy if you want.”

“I tell you he would rather die at your hand than betray dRiish, and in this place, dRiish wears Laracae’s face.”

“What about you? Can you tell me? You seemed clear enough about what was going on earlier.” He didn’t care how it was accomplished or what discomfort it caused.

“I would rather not sully myself to do so.”

The response made the shathamarr laugh, but his jeering dissolved into fear when Tycho turned toward him. “Stay away from me, lost one,” the sky pirate hissed.

“Or what, you poor creature? Look at you. At the blood on your lips. At how your hands shake. When did food last stay in your flat belly? By evening the earth-tremors we have felt will be nothing compared to what your body will endure as you fight to even breathe. He feeds you courage and you lap up the poison like a dog after his own vomit.”

“Away from me! I despise you!”

“And I pity you.”

Aralt left his squad in charge of the prisoner and led Tycho to the balcony rail. Sirens continued to wail outside the mighty kirke’s walls, firefighters and warning bells and alarms of every sort cracking the night like an egg.

“What the jig was that about? I don’t give a ratdog’s arse if he’s a tantyri addict. I want to know where Laracae is. Or are you protecting him, too?”

“Protecting Laracae? No, syr Tremayne. You misunderstand me. He has no idea where Laracae is. He did not expect to still be alive. Unless you plan to feed his addiction, he won’t be for much longer. A swift death would be a mercy.”

“Says the physician.”

“Says one who knows what it is like to suffer withdrawal from the sacred root.”

“You survived.”

“As did you.”

“I was never…”

“No. But you know what it is to want to die, then realize something greater wants you to live.”

He turned away. The shathamarr had collapsed, sapped of the last of his strength, his breathing labored. It would have been one thing to cut him down in a fair fight. To slay him now, especially in that place, did not sit well with his conscience. “Bring him.”

Kolarin and Scanlin hauled the unfortunate man to his feet. What happened next took them all by surprise. The shathamarr bellowed like a wounded moonbear, threw off his guards with inhuman strength, and barreled straight toward Aralt and Tycho, making no attempt to retrieve his weapons or defend himself from the rest of the company. An arrow found its mark in the man’s back, and he sprawled into their arms. They scuffled by the railing for only a moment before the banister, damaged in the earthquake, gave way, and the Shirahnyn fell to the rotunda below, his only expression one of surprise.

Tycho gazed down on the dead man’s body, shaking his head. “Would that you had honored your mother.”

“You’re right. I don’t understand you. He’s one of your own.”

“Him? Hardly. Just because we share an ancient ancestry, or the color of our skin, or our hair, our eyes, does not make us brethren. He has chosen his master and I have chosen mine. Pray for his soul if it pleases you. I have not yet learned how.”

That made two of them, even if Aralt wasn’t sure he wanted to admit it.