“It doesn’t matter which branch you take in the road sometimes. Darkness to one side, despair to the other. What matters is that you continue the journey…”

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

Aralt marked the place where Lian sat, far above on a natural balcony carved amid dull crystal stalactites and stalagmites, accessed only by a narrow stair that passed between opulent travertine columns. Unknowing hands had rendered the slow growing crystal inert. What remained of the towering structure gave the impression of Lian’s perch being swallowed by a great serpent with luminous, rippling skin. Illuminated in the lamplight, living crystal formations in the recesses of the gallery glittered pink and ivory, dawn rising after a storm.

On the bottom step, Scanlin sat hunched over his journal, intent on words Aralt could only guess at. Unless the boy was going to fly, he would not pass unnoticed. He drew his pocket watch, winding it methodically. Time proved meaningless in that place of ageless wonder where neither sunlight nor moonlight marked the passing hours. Time. Their time to leave was nearly upon them. He crossed to where their travel gear sat in a pile, rummaging through hastily assembled duffels and a stack of collapsible shovels until he found his old marching pack, the one his First Sword had rescued along with Kynlan’s sword when the Aurora Dream II went down. The one Sirram, then Telta, had carried off the Sarajayne, neither knowing what was contained within. He withdrew his copy of the Four Books. Extra weight for which he had no need, and yet, as he placed one hand on the cover, it seemed to him a greater tragedy to leave it behind. He carried it to where Scanlin sat and placed the heavy tome beside his First Sword.

“Tell me when you get to the good part.”

He counted the steps to the terrace. Not so many as Mar Alvis, but enough to remind him of how much of a toll the past few days had been. The cave ceiling was crowded with translucent rose-colored formations that looked like a colony of sloth bats, their wings folded back as if at any moment they might slowly drop away to glide over the heads of the people below in search of fruit. Lian sat on the ledge beneath them, legs dangling. Against his better judgment, Aralt sat down next to him. The view was almost worth the discomfort.

“Do you believe it, Aralt?”

“Do I believe what?” he asked, wishing he had taken the time to get a pair of clean socks from his gear. The rest of his clothes were clean. Mostly. He tugged at his collar.

“That I’m kavistra.”

Oh, that. “Been talking to Shepherd Alinn, have you?”

“They want to Confirm me. Here. Now.”

“I heard.” He had assumed that was why Lian was hiding.

“It…wouldn’t be right.”

“If you say so.”

“Do you believe?”

“I’ve told you before, I’m not the best judge of such things. But it doesn’t really matter what I believe,” he said, looking down at the crowd of adoring people, clerics and laypersons alike. “It’s what they believe. It’s what you believe.”

“But it does matter. You swore an oath to look after a boy. If I’m kavistra, then your oath just got a whole lot more complicated.”

There was no denying that. He rubbed tired eyes. “As I understand it—and I don’t presume to understand it, you ken? —it’s a calling.”

“That’s how I’ve always understood it, too. Two of us can’t be wrong, right?” the boy asked, eyes twinkling.

“Well then? Have you been…called?”

Lian’s eyes fluttered closed. “Sometimes I think He called me before I was born. I just haven’t wanted to believe it.” Do you, Aralt? Do you believe?

He pushed Lian’s unspoken question aside, forming spoken words, wanting to keep their discourse on the outside rather than the inside. Inside…still hurt too much. He cleared his throat. “And now?”

Lian raised one hand, then the other. The living flame, the kyrrith anim, passed between them bright as starlight. He closed his fist, and the light was gone. “Now I don’t think I have any choice.”

“Did you before?”

Lian shrugged. “My father used to say we all have choices. I reckon some of them are bound to be right.”

“Well, let’s hope this one is, Kynsei boy, because if it isn’t …”

Lian hung on his every word. “If it isn’t?”

“Scanlin Ross is going to be really cross with both of us.”

Lian didn’t laugh, but he did smile. He pulled his feet up and wrapped his arms around his knees. He was wearing two different shoes. “You could be ksathra—”

“And you could sprout wings. I have no desire to govern Askierran. Why do people find that so difficult to accept?”

Lian didn’t look at him, but he was still smiling. “Because every time you say it it makes you more qualified for the position.”

“And you think I want that?”

Lian shook his head. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

“Good. Because I don’t—” He stopped in midsentence. He lowered his voice. “You think I’m being called to do it, though, don’t you? Don’t you think I’d know?”

“Like I know whether I’m supposed to be kavistra?”

“It isn’t the same.” He bristled at the notion.

“If you say so,” Lian replied, the words sing-song.

“I was perfectly content in Tyrian.” And it was true.

“Before I came. I’m sorry.”

He grimaced. “You’re sorry? For what? Being alive? You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“But I brought the Shirahnyn to the North.”

“And Camryn Alwynn brought them to Faerkirke? The two of you really do have grandiose notions about how powerful you are, don’t you? Stop blaming yourself. Shirahnyn were already in the North.” He did not elaborate. He did not have to. Lian knew. By that juncture he had begun to wonder what Lian did not know. “There are a lot of people that are very glad that you’re alive—more than those that aren’t.”

Lian turned his head sideways, his dark eyes wide. “Are you glad?”

“Do you doubt it?” But by the look on the boy’s face, he did. Still. Aralt pushed himself away from the ledge and stood. “Stop doubting it.”

Lian swayed to his feet, steadying himself on a stalactite before turning to look down on the people who would have been the first to give him the honor of his office. Would have given him a home.

“You’re going to fall,” he cautioned. He was surprised the tired boy had even managed to climb so high.

“Yes, I am. And you’re going to catch me. But not until we’re alone.”

Lian stepped out on a thin ledge of limestone then, chin lifted with courage. Dignity. When he was grown, still slight of build, crowned with a mop of unruly black hair and a beard on his boyish face, his bearing would exceed dignity, would border on something much greater. His eyes, dark pools ringed with gold, would melt a thousand hearts, would heal a thousand souls, would… Aralt blinked away the images of tomorrows he was yet unprepared to see. His heart beat a wild rhythm against his chest.

“Is it well with you?”

He fought to quell the uneasiness in his stomach. “After what we’ve been through? What do you think?”

A twist of a smile was the only answer.

“Are you done yet? I think everyone sees you’re alive and well and foolish as ever…”

“You have no idea.”

“Tell me you aren’t going to walk on air,” he said, ready to pull Lian to safety. Ready to catch him were he to fall, to follow him even into the thirteenth level of hell—and fearful that he would be required to do just that before their journey together ended.

“I’m not going to walk on air. Who walks on air, anyway?” Lian turned to face his kervallyn. “Aralt, in Tyrian, at the lake…forgive me for what I said.”

Shame washed through him at the memory of that day, but he was more concerned about the drop to the cave floor awaiting Lian were he to misstep. Sirram was pointing. Alira was running in their direction. Scanlin was climbing the stairs two by two, the holy texts Aralt had given him tucked under one arm. What did it look like to those below, seeing the two of them standing as if on the edge of a knife?

“We don’t have to do this right now.”

“But we do. It needs to be said while there’s still time to say it. Because we both know how life can change in a moment, and before we go any further, I need to know that you forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” He struggled with words that needed saying—just not then. Not with people closing in on them. Quickly then, before he lost the nerve. “I should be the one asking for forgiveness.”

Lian cocked his head quizzically. It reminded him of Tycho’s bird. “Whatever for?”

“At the lake. What I said. What I did—”

“You were angry. We were both angry. I was beside myself and you needed to—”

“Needed to what? Control the situation? I’m a grown man. A soldier. A disciplined soldier. At least I used to be. I once told you that discipline comes from experience. I…lacked discipline that day. There’s nothing you said that warranted my response.” And so many reasons he should have done just the opposite.

Sympathy shone in Lian’s dark eyes. “It’s forgotten.”

“I haven’t forgotten!” Nor did he think he ever would.

“Well, you should. You’re the one that says ‘done’s done.’”

“Fire and ice, Lian! I’m trying to apologize. I’m trying to say I was wrong. I want to make it right. I’ve been trying to make it right.” Not just that day at the lake, he realized. And for all that, he despaired he had failed.

“You made it right at Mar Alvis.” The boy’s words riveted his attention. Gold flecks in black eyes twisted like flames. “Now let me make it right as well, because if I can’t make it right with my kervallyn, my best friend, how will I ever make anything right with anyone else?”

Again Aralt found himself unable to speak.

“We…are friends, right?” Lian asked.

“You’re my kervallys.”

“But you said—”

“Are there three moons? If there are, you have your answer.”

“And you forgive me?”

“For what? For being honest? It’s a trait I value. Why should I forgive you for that?”

“Not that. The rest—”

Lightning splintered over the plum-dark waters of his memory. He and the boy stood beside the Great Lake called Bethu, icy rain pelting the beach. The jagged spires of the Kosantyr rose into the sky. The Six Brothers of half-forgotten legends. You don’t deserve the honor that was bestowed on you. They never should have trusted you. Lian screamed at him. You never loved them. You never loved me! Lonn Tirehl was right. You just wanted to be important. Now that it comes to it, you spit in my face. You spit in my father’s face, too!

Kynlan’s face appeared in blood-churned water then, his lips pleading the words Aralt had heard over and over in his nightmares. Let me go, Aralt. Let me go, or you’ll lose us both.

The tide of regret rose around them, separating them. Waves of sorrow threatened to drown them both. This time he refused to flee. Through a mirror of raindrops shimmering blue, blooming green, six fingers reached for the distant shore.

Aralt grasped Lian’s hand, pulling him to solid ground. “The rest was just so much thunder.”

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