A stack of split logs had been added to the wood rack in Aralt’s study while he was away and—yes, he had guessed correctly—the tea had been freshened; an extra cup and full pot stood beside it. Better still, hot bread, more scones, three sorts of jam, and something twisted with cinnamon had been delivered. Better yet, bacon. Aralt thought he had tasted the last of that weeks ago. A snatch of a hymn drifted down the hall as the door to the household chapel opened and closed. Given the hour, they’d been at it longer than usual. The two men exchanged glances, each daring the other to suggest they ought to be participating. Elon finally gave the excuse that he wasn’t wearing any shoes and closed the door before anyone saw them.

Aralt clicked his tongue in mock reproach. “They don’t expect me, but you? For shame. What would your wife say?”

Elon only grinned as he dragged a ladder-back chair from its place by the room’s single shuttered window, straddling it backwards. “Gave me the slip last night, ye did.”

“You’re early,” Aralt countered, sinking into his armchair. He blew across the steaming surface of his mug. Spiced tea reminded him of home.

“A premonition about the weather,” Elon told him, dismissing it with a careless gesture.

“Since when do you have premonitions? Or travel on the Eighth Day? Tea?”

“Aye. Black and strong. Hello, what’s this?” Elon stopped in mid-motion, snagging the wool blanket from the bench upon which Aralt had slept earlier. “Keepin’ secrets again, Wolf?”

Aralt shrugged, made a lame excuse about catching up on correspondence…must have drifted off. Perryn brought the blanket in. Lie, lie. Not even one of his better ones. He took advantage of the lull in conversation to concentrate on his mug and the plate of warm bread Elon slid across the low table between them. His guest took his seat again, extending calloused bare feet toward the hearth. He appeared to be missing the small toe on his right foot. Aralt thought hard, unsure why he had never noticed it before. Truth told, it was a wonder Elon wasn’t missing more pieces, having outlived half his compatriots during the struggles that had birthed the Northern Alliance.

“Who bit off your toe?”

“When did ye start carin’?”

“Those are teeth marks, are they not?”

“Ye be a desperate man if you’re askin’ for one of me stories,” Elon told him, wiggling the remaining toes grotesquely. “Have a care what ye wish for. Ye might just get it all—and more besides.”

Considering Lian’s arrival, Aralt had the sinking feeling he already had.

Elon set his cup aside and piled jam onto a piece of bread. “Stop changin’ the subject, man. Ye be makin’ me dizzy.”

Aralt smirked. “What were we talking about?”

Elon’s brows drew together, amber eyes flashing. “The weather?”

“Changes faster than the tides,” Aralt told him, which was true. “And you are early.”

“’Twas my lady’s wisdom, ye see. And a prayerful decision besides. She said I needed to make haste, so I did. Plenty o’ folk travel on the Eighth Day.”

Aralt’s nose wrinkled. “Indeed. I trust she’s well. You were expecting a child the last time I saw you. What is it now, eight? Ten? Your wife is made of sterner stuff than you are.”

“Nine, and well ye know it. Another boy born under the Red Star, just into winter. Unlucky as that is, the wee man’s healthy and strong.” Elon grinned again, tapping calloused feet in a little dance.

“Star ’casting, Elon? You?”

The Enarran shrugged. “The old ways die hard—and there are truths in a thousand mysteries. Ye do well to hearken to them if ye mean to ken this land—and her people.”

“Mistaken again, am I?” Aralt asked. He had nearly incited a riot two seasons before. Who knew finding a duck in a wheat field foretold a ruinous harvest unless it could be relocated to a pond within an hour?

Elon’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. He tapped the side of his nose. “In most things, ye be as right as rain. The Alliance ’as never been stronger. We’ll be in one accord if it takes dashin’ heads one to the other to get there. One day, this will all be Askierran.”

“That has never been my intention and well you know it.” Aralt set aside his mug. Warmth radiated through his belly and chest, almost making him forget that he had slept in yesterday’s clothing—which had already seen him through since Ristaiel’s arrival. “Wouldn’t that be robbing you of your sovereignty?”

“Not if we’re joined to Askierran. Ah. Ristaiel burnin’ the wolf’s tail again, eh? Where is that old glacier dog? Beds here not soft enough for ’is old bones? What’s ’e gonna do during the Meetin’? Pitch a tent on the moors and stuff a mattress with faerie farts?”

“He might just. The talynt’e Kevarn still won’t accept any offer to guest here—doesn’t quite trust me.” Aralt flashed a wolfish grin, rubbing the palms of his hands along the armrests. He drummed his fingers on the faded upholstery. “I don’t know why.”

“Does ’e know?”

“Not half of what he thinks he knows,” Aralt told him.

“I mean there be more than one guest in this house, and I,” Elon placed an indignant palm on his chest, “am the lesser o’ the twain by a nautical mile. Well? Tell me.”

Tell him, Aralt thought. Tell him what, precisely? He leaned back and studied the ceiling as he contemplated. Soot highlighted the intricate bas relief, bringing swirled knotwork into sharp focus. So much remained unfinished in Tyrian, and now another duty called. No, he corrected himself, an unfinished duty demanded completion. He could not pretend it did not exist. To do so was a terrible breach of trust—a trust Liana and Endru Kynsei had placed in him when he was but a boy himself. What would Lian have of him now? His sword and command against the Shirahnyn that had led the attack on Kyrrimar? That hardly seemed their way. The Five Armies hadn’t even been engaged three years before. Commander Teren Glynn could not lead troops against an enemy that had seemingly vanished, only guard against that enemy’s return. Aralt knew full well he would be expected to lend his personal protection as Lian’s guardian, but what did that entail? Leave Tyrian in the hands of his lieutenant governor or abdicate his lairdship entirely to live at Kyrrimar? He hated that the thought rankled so. He and his father had nearly killed themselves searching for Lian and his brother three years before. Not wanting to do his duty was shameful. The question of kavistra aside, Lian was a lonely, frightened boy who had survived his household’s holocaust and whose only known kin, by oath if not by blood, was Aralt and he needed to get used to it.

“What did you name him?” Aralt asked Elon at last. “The baby?”

“Aralt.”

“Elon?”

“Nay. I mean, we named him Aralt.”

That caught him up, but he tried not to let it show. “Used all your family names, have you? There’ll be civil war in Enarra for decades with all those headstrong children. You know what Kavistra Marcynn told my grandfather after my uncle up and left? ‘You shouldn’t have named him after me.’”

“I’d rather worry about that than me blood dryin’ up.” Bright eyes like chips of gold twinkled with mischief. “Ye’ll be playin’ catch-me-up for decades.”

Aralt laughed. “I didn’t know it was a contest. But thank you. I’m honored.”

“You’re wel— Ach! There ye go again, haulin’ me like a fish on the line. Young marr Kenesh has been runnin’ the steps since ye came in last night,” Elon observed. “I knew somethin’ was afoot. Not that he’d tell me.”

“I’m glad to hear it. He’s a good man.”

“Aye, indeed. But a trifle young for so much responsibility as comes wi’ this house.”

“Age isn’t necessarily an indication of ability.”

“A lesson ye taught us all a long time ago, Wolf,” Elon said, looking him directly in the eye. Few did it with such ease. Jewel-green eyes bespoke a heritage almost as ancient as the Kynseis’, and perhaps as far removed from the mainstream of humanity if one were to embrace hearth tales. He was as much a literal Child of the Wolf as Lian was a Child of the Sea. The latter seemed more likely, and the Four Books bore it out, according to some scholars. Others believed that the Books were a source of esoteric knowledge and mysterious histories of another time—and, Aralt had long suspected, another place. The place of the fabled Ark that sailed between the stars.

He glanced out the window at the dreary sky. “It wasn’t my intention to deceive you last night.”

“Hah! Then it’s true? The lad’s here? A Child o’ the Spirit under this very roof. Ye should ’ave told me.”

“One of us needed to sleep,” Aralt pointed out. “Are you telling me you would have, had you known?”

“Why would I want to? I should ’ave known somethin’ was afire when ye didn’t come to see if I’d helped myself to your favorite wine. I thought it was Ristaiel plantin’ a chigger in your breeks.”

“Done’s done, Elon.” He wrapped both hands around his cup, savoring the warmth. “I meant no disrespect, old friend. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He wasn’t sure that was improving.

“Well enough. But, Creator above, Wolf. It’s been nigh unto three years. Where’s ’e been? Was ’e alone? Is ’e injured?” Elon’s dark face grew stony when Aralt failed to answer. His cup clacked as he set it aside. “Sea and Land. They didnae take the knife to ’im?”

“No. Tinari’s grace, no,” Aralt assured him. Any first-year cub warrior worthy of his sword knew that Shirahnyn warriors were skilled at insult, imaginative with torture, and castration remained a favorite treatment of prisoners. Deprive the enemy’s House of daughters to carry on their name, and sons to carry their memory into battle. “He’s thin and winter-bitten, but I’m told he will heal. That’s all I know. On my honor as a talyn and a gentleman.”

Neither of them spoke for a very long time.

The green and silver banner above the map table stirred against the stark plaster wall. Designed after the crest on his grandfather’s ring, the wall hanging had been presented to Aralt by his former commander, Teren Glynn, at his inauguration as talyn in Tyrian. The silver thread of the central kavis symbol glinted against the dark green background, the six points of an elongated star with crossed swords reminding him of the pledge his ancestors had made to the Kynseis…and the one Teren Glynn would not let him forget. His own. The banner twisted again, almost wildly, just as the draperies in Lian’s rooms had the night before. He rose to check frosty mullioned windows, only to find them closed, so he turned his attention to mending the fire. It was becoming more difficult to heed Elon. The man was still talking. Still. Talking. Yes, yes, uncommon visitors in the north, sightings of Shirahnyn had increased, and their presence almost always signaled trouble. He murmured assent, his attention returning to the green and silver banner, his ears sensitive to a distant whisper. Words he could not quite make out.

Shirahnyn.

Elon said the word again, and Aralt swallowed back bile. Thrice he had tangled with them personally, and thrice he had been burned. The mere thought, even a casual mention of them, fanned the flames of rage which remained within him, low-burning but volatile. Hatred. Admit it, Wolf, you hate them, and one in particular. Merejh dRiish lonn Tirehl, that vile snake that had fled beyond the Sea of Bones after presiding over the slaughter in Kyrrimar. Certainly, he was the root of the present evil infiltrating the north like a slow poison. That was his way, sowing seeds of a fateful harvest. Then they knew. They knew Lian still lived. The implications of that…

“Wolf?” His friend smiled knowingly at him when he turned around. “When did ye last sleep, man? This matter—Ristaiel and all—can wait until the Meetin’.”

“Would that I had the luxury,” he muttered. Would that he could escape old nightmares. He took the glazed teapot from the footed metal trivet and poured out a fresh cup, watching the delicate plume of steam rising from the spout. “Has Harlyk said anything to you about Shirahnyn in his domain? Merchants, maybe? He’s a pompous little twit, but he ought to ken the danger.”

“Nay, but there’s a powerful bad rift ’tween our domains e’er since Lillanattie Noleni and her kin took refuge in Enarra after Nublef seized power and put that ninnyhammer nephew o’ his on the throne. She’d ’ave made a fine talyn—and might still. Haven’t heard the last o’ that. Harly-boy’s bound to flap his painted lips when I go down for his birthday celebration this spring.”

“His birthday?” Aralt choked on the word, feigning indignation. “And he didn’t invite me? I’m hurt. Devastated.”

“Come wi’ me. Not a one o’ me kin wants to. They’re castin’ dice o’er it.”

He sneered. “I’ll be sure to wrap up something sharp and pointy for him and hope he falls on it.”

“Not if I give ’im one first. If there be more Shirahnyn west o’ the lake than there ever are, it’s the best-kept secret in the Alliance—and Harlyk isn’t known for keepin’ secrets. The little mooncalf wants everyone to know everythin’ ’e’s up to whether or not we give a fat ratdog’s arse. We heard they were this side o’ the lake—in Kevarn.”

“Ristaiel said as much. That’s why he came, even if he spent most of the time arguing about borders. Truth told, I thought he was exaggerating until our refinery blew. My rangers located a few dead after that. Fewer of them than our own.”

Elon exhaled a long breath. “I wondered why the lights weren’t workin’. That’s a mighty big explosion when those go up.”

“It’s still smoldering. It’s going to take a long time to put things to right. But we only found a few. And no ships,” Aralt said softly, worried by the implications. “We’ve detained the only one that was alive. Grey says he’s a physician and wasn’t involved, but it makes no sense. If they are infiltrating the Alliance, where are the rest of them? And how did they get here?”

“The mountain’s a harsh mistress in winter.”

“It is that.” Aralt thought of Lian, ice-burned and half-starved. The lad could not have journeyed so far alone nor managed the steep switchbacks up the Weeping Wall at the southernmost borders of Tyrian—could he? Aralt wondered again about Devailyn. And his fate.

“They must ’ave brains burnin’ with crazyweed to wander the north country when even locals freeze in the winter,” Elon muttered. “Crazyweed. Must be.”

“Likely,” Aralt said, softer still, running a hand through his hair to keep from touching the scar on his chest. The one lonn Tirehl had placed there, lest he forget their encounter—or the promise of the next. Twice tangled, twice burned…. He wrapped both hands around his warm cup again, watched tendrils of steam spiral up like will-o-wisps only to evaporate in the air.

“Only a Child o’ the Spirit coulda slipped awa’ from them vipers.”

Aralt inclined his head. He still could not fathom how Lian had escaped. The moons had completed several cycles while he and his father led the search, crossing Shirahnyn borders, risking strained diplomatic relations with the Houses of the Seven Matriarchs, most of whom denied involvement with the attack. The rest simply refused to talk to them. While not openly hostile, even the more communicative of the governing Houses resisted requests for information. The most influential of the Shirahnyn Matriarchs spat on Aralt’s boots at the mere mention of lonn Tirehl. She spat in his face at the mention of the serpent-god, Akahan, to which lonn Tirehl was devoted. A most unpleasant woman, she nevertheless gave them her assurance that no province in her league had possession of either the missing kavistra or his young brother—nor had they any interest in preserving what they termed an inconsequential boy-child from someone else’s clan. They had too many of their own.

Only one of the Matriarchs showed true civility, but even she, a witness to the savagery at the Feast of Light, offered little hope. When political upheaval between Tyrian and Kevarn forced Aralt to abandon what had, of necessity, been an ill-executed campaign, he reluctantly left further expeditions in the hands of his father, nagged by Scanlin’s conviction that Hralav’sha Marehl knew more than she had revealed and that Lian Kynsei still lived—somewhere—even if Devailyn did not. For Aralt, believing the boy dead had been easier than believing he was a captive, spirited away to places unknown, and all that implied.

“Thoughts in the wind.”

Elon’s words sliced into his preoccupation; not for the first time that day he was caught off-guard. He blamed it on lack of sleep. More lies.

“Best settle what’s hauntin’ ye, Wolf, lest ye go for the enemy’s throat and slit yer own by mistake.”

How easily Elon’s arrows found the heart.