“Is it not written, ‘Let your light so shine before men’?”

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

Scanlin’s name was not on the coming year’s service roster.

Aralt flipped pages, tracing the lists again, noting who had signed up earliest, already jockeying for their commander’s attention. He scanned the other papers on his desk, setting aside requisitions and year-end summaries. Additional personnel documents surfaced, but, no, that was not right, either. He checked the floor. Nothing.

“Perryn!”

He propped his elbows on the desk, lowering his chin onto entwined fingers as he surveyed the stacks. In addition to soldiers and rangers, he had field physicians, healers, carpenters, and military chemists, many of whom had taken up residence in the surrounding parishes, where their service to the greater community could best be accomplished. The military barracks at Sylvan Keep were already outdated, inadequate for the number of cub warriors and ranking Swords in his employ. The stables were likewise at capacity; esri-master Jools had stable hands double-bunking, and just that morning Aralt had commissioned additional buildings to be erected in the south pasture. Never had he imagined, ten years before, when he first glimpsed Sylvan’s dilapidated keep sagging like an arthritic old man on a cold rainy day, that the area would ever develop into a center of commerce and learning.

“Perryn!”

He shuffled pages again, but nothing changed. Most of his ranking Swords had signed together, the ink barely dry from one signature before the next had penned his or her name and title. Leine Baclan, Kolarin mac Kenna, Telta Rhianydd…. Scanlin’s name should have topped the list. He found Deyr Evarr’s name in cramped letters at the bottom of one page as if he had tried to hide his intentions to stay on. Tevin Keely’s slanted left-handed script graced the top of another. By custom, even Perryn had signed—all swoops and loops tying his full name and titles together like a line of poetry. For the third time, Aralt ran a finger down each page. Nothing. He shoved his chair back.

“Perryn!”

“Syr Tremayne?” Perryn had dressed for the coming evening, the buttons of his topcoat polished to perfection. The only piece of his attire missing was his hat.

“Scanlin’s name isn’t on this list.” Aralt tapped the top sheet deliberately.

“Isn’t it? Well, perhaps he’s waiting until tonight, sir. It is customary.”

“A hundred years ago, maybe, but I’ll be taking oaths into next week as it is.” He sat back, arms crossed. “Well, don’t you look dapper. I suppose I should get dressed as well.”

Perryn clasped his hands behind his back. “Syr Tremayne, your kilt and hose are laid out, but if you prefer to wear yesterday’s pullover, I doubt any of your guests will object.”

“Cheeky. I went running this morning.”

“Clearly.”

“I could replace you,” Aralt told him, shaking a sheaf of paper at his steward.

“Not easily, sir,” Perryn told him with a wry grin.

True enough. He looked Perryn’s stylish garb up and down again before it dawned on him why the man was kitted out so early. He pulled out his pocket watch, glancing at the mantel clock for verification. Both indicated it was later than he realized.

“You’re going to ask your young lady for her hand tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yep.” Perryn rocked back and forth on his heels, grinning fit to split his freckled face. When he did that, he looked his age—twinkling eyes and all. “Grandmother’s growing impatient. She said we’ve courted long enough. Besides, if I ask her tonight we could be married under the three moons this autumn.”

“And keeping with tradition I suppose you’ll hope to announce the next generation by Twelfth Night?”

Perryn blushed. “Next year, I should think.”

Aralt gave a short laugh that made Perryn blush even more. He shuffled papers into a semblance of order before signing and affixing his seal to each. The hot wax had the scent of pine about it. Perryn was still standing there. Aralt lifted an eyebrow in question.

“You’re sure you don’t need my assistance—”

As if the young man was going to be able to concentrate on anything else while contemplating a marriage proposal. Aralt doubted he could and he had been contemplating it longer than Perryn had. Something always seemed to get in the way. Chiefly, himself.

“Has—” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember the woman’s name.

“Wynter.”

“Has she arrived? Go on then—and delegate the evening’s responsibilities, you ken? We’re going to have as many guests as we might have done for the Meeting, but I’ll not have you neglecting your future bride. Wait. Where’s Lian?”

“In the garden listening to the chamber orchestra from Bethulyn practice. Shall I—”

“No need. I’ll find him when I finish here. Go talk to Wynter. And her parents.”

“You’re sure? It won’t take me but a moment.” Perryn tugged at his collar.

“I’m quite sure. You to your appointed task and me to mine and by night’s end, we’ll both have accomplished something significant, ken. Oh. Perryn, before you go.” He put aside wax and seal, drumming fingers on his desk. Perryn drew closer, expectant. “Did Scanlin say anything to you about this? About leaving Tyrian?”

Whatever Perryn had been expecting, it wasn’t what Aralt had asked. He recovered quickly, though. “He did not, sir. But the commander has been preoccupied of late.”

Hadn’t they all.

There was nothing for it. He would have to seek out Scanlin personally and put the question to him directly. The Seven Sea Lords knew Scanlin Ross understood the routine only too well after almost forty years’ attachment to one branch or another of military service. As much as Aralt hated to admit it, Scanlin’s time might just have come. That it coincided with Lian Kynsei’s arrival should not have come as a surprise.

Aralt lowered the top of the desk and turned the key before hand-delivering the rosters to his steward’s immaculate office. A final list would be circulated to collect the signatures of the as-yet-uncertain and late arrivals. By week’s end he would have received final tallies from his other garrisons and outposts. He glanced at the vintage timepiece on Perryn’s desk, an ornate heirloom with intricate brass gears and a clear, crystal face. He’d have just enough time to corner Scanlin before washing up. No doubt the pleats of his rarely donned kilt were meticulously aligned, the collar and cuffs of his dress shirt starched to uncomfortable perfection. He could do without the latter, but Alira Alwynn fancied the kilt. It was a pity she wouldn’t be there to enjoy it. Their letters had crossed, his entreating her to come to Sylvan, hers inviting him to bring Lian Kynsei to Faerkirke. Her father had planned a celebration of special significance and was playing host to many a mountain laird. He, in turn, had need to save face after forfeiting the Grand Meeting and passing it on to Mesil of Draemonna. Syth’s Eve provided that opportunity. He longed for her to be by his side, but such was not to be, especially with the old man not being at his best. Alira’s place was at her ailing father’s side and Aralt loved her too much to begrudge her that decision. He thought of Perryn and Wynter and then about the promise Alira had made to wait for him. He wondered how long she would.

***

In the walled garden at the back of the estate, the chamber orchestra huddled together under a flapping canopy as they rehearsed for the evening’s performance; dulcet tones of harp and lyre mingled with throaty horns and chattering teeth. Morning rain had given them cause for alarm, but it was drier now, if not as warm—or bright—as the local star ’casters predicted. A blanket of tumbling clouds confirmed his suspicions. It wouldn’t be the first time they had been driven into the main hall for Syth’s Eve. Spring wheat and wildflowers gave the surrounding countryside color, but as yet only a handful of garden perennials had begun to bloom, hardy lion flowers blazing yellow and orange, and dragon’s hearts the color of a sunset—pinks and royal purples dashed with crimson. Green tendrils of what would be flowering vines crept up the stacked stone wall, following the path past years’ growth had established. Susa and Gitom, lady and lord of the household kitchen, had established a modest greenhouse on the south side of the estate several years before, nursing coastal varieties through unaccustomed winter temperatures. Trusting the danger of frost past, they had returned the plants to the soil. Dozens had been forced into early blooms, and most of them looked thoroughly unhappy about it. A paltry showing compared to the festivals of his boyhood, where every flowering bush, tree, and bud would be unfurling in spring glory. It would have to suffice. No one looked at the gardens on a moonless night anyway.

A man of many talents, Scanlin had relinquished sword and small pipes alike for a wooden flute and joined an animated trio. The horn, a nasal, reedy thing, skipped along beneath the flute line, the bass strings a rhythmic thrum-thrum below them both like a musical buoy. Horn and string faded until only the sweet tone of the flute carried the melody to its conclusion. A pause for breath and the entire ensemble chimed in with an inspiring lilt that Aralt recognized as one he had danced to with Alira during the Short Month. How she had laughed, her eyes shining, her unbound hair floating as they spun. Flowing skirts rustled, sweeping the floor. When he placed his hands upon her waist to lift her, he did not want to let her go.

Sing me a new song

Sing me a moon song

Sing me a true song

My love.

Winter is gone now

Fields all flow’r now

I’ll make ye a bow’r now,

My love.

Twelve days of soul-searching for some, merry-making for the rest. Each night a dance or pantomime or other entertainment, an entire season steeped in nostalgia and culminating in gift-giving. On the eve of the twelfth night, he had given Alira a music box much like the one his father had presented to his mother when they were courting. She had given him her promise to wait another season for a proper proposal. He sighed. There’d be no one for him to dance with tonight—unless Perryn’s spritely old grandmother put him up to it.

During their next break, Scanlin put aside his flute and made his way across the garden. Given his rank, he was entitled to wear a kilt made of his family’s tartan, but he wore the local blend instead, his having been lost during their last voyage to Askierran. A lot had been lost that year. It was only then, as the other musicians dispersed, warming their hands with mugs of mulled wine, that he spotted Lian sitting on the far side of the garden near the harpist.

Scanlin seemed in good spirits. “What would ye hear, syr Tremayne?”

“Hmmm. What about Teren Glynn’s old favorite. ‘Ho, Boys, Let’s March On,’ was it? ”

A smile, but only barely. “Ah. Gone o’er the roster, eh?”

“Missed your name somehow, First Sword Ross. Won’t Leine Baclan be surprised to learn she’s being promoted.”

Scanlin sighed like a man maneuvered into explaining something for the hundredth time. Aralt followed him to the far end of the garden, away from the orchestra and optimistic household staff setting up torches, tables, chairs. Children dodged adults, Gitom’s five rascals chief among them, the youngest one toddling on baby-short legs. At last, Scanlin found a place in the sunshine and seated himself on a granite bench. Standing gave Aralt more authority, but he hated lording his position over his old friend. He sat beside Scanlin instead, silently watching the proceedings. When a ball landed at their feet, Scanlin picked it up and pitched it across the yard to its embarrassed, pint-sized owner.

“Good arm.”

Scanlin laughed. “Me brothers and their friends ne’er thought so. Come to think o’ it, neither did me sisters, but they found fault in most anything we lads did. We played often, before the war with the Raemynns.”

That was an age and a half ago. Before Aralt had even been born. A time Scanlin rarely spoke of, even after their long friendship. He leaned forward, forearms balanced on his knees. Kith and kin and long ago. Scanlin longed for home. Spring did that to him sometimes, too. So much to remember. So much he wished he did not remember.

“A letter came from me sister.”

Aralt waited for more, guessing the obvious. “Your mother’s asking for you?”

“’Tis a long time comin’, Wolf. At the rate I’m goin’ I’ll nae return home ’til I’m a bent old man and o’ little use to her—if she’s even still alive. Time’s come for another callin’.”

“You’ve been a soldier your whole life, Grey. What will you do? Become the village piper and put your hat out?”

“Might if I have a mind to. I’ll gae back to carpentry, I expect. I still remember a thing or twa.”

“You remember more than that. The cradle you made for Susa was no trifle.”

Scanlin nodded his head in grateful assent. “Lucky for me, the wee bairn came late.”

“There is that,” Aralt laughed. The crafting of the cradle had taken almost as long as the gestation. “No doubt you have as much a talent for it as you have for music, but there’s time enough to change professions.”

“Not if I’m dead. I’m needed home now, Wolf. Kyrie wouldnae ask elsewise. She and Duncan have done more than their part. We’re the only three left.”

Aralt groaned, turning his face to the leaden sky. He couldn’t abide the thought of Scanlin not being there. Especially now.

“Can we at least negotiate a partial year? Wait, hear me out. Lian’s fond of Telta, but he spends more time with you than with anyone else—aside from that colt of his. And you understand the—” deviousness— “workings of the klesia kaeli more than I do. I’m going to need that. Besides, I couldn’t ask for a better sword to guard his back while I walk ahead of him.”

Surprise shone in blue-grey eyes; a tentative smile followed. “Did ye think I wouldnae gae with ye? You’ll not be rid o’ me that easily.”

“I think,” Aralt smiled back, realizing he had an angle to play, almost guilty to use it against a friend, “that such a journey may be too dangerous for…civilians.”

“Civilians,” Scanlin repeated.

“Rumors of soulless assassins,” Aralt said, almost singing the words. “Could be risky.”

“Is that so.” Scanlin pursed his lips, slowly shaking his peppered head. “Aye, then. I suppose a list is yet bein’ passed about? Or would ye have me pen me name in with the others? Very well.”

“Is it such a punishment, Grey?” he asked, clapping his friend firmly on the shoulder.

Scanlin brushed Aralt’s hand aside with a laugh. “What? Continuin’ service to a Leythan upstart that jumped rank? Ask me another silly question.”

Aralt grinned his most wolf-like smile in response, then, with Scanlin’s position secured, changed the subject. “You’ve had your eye on Lian?”

“Both, as I can. Took a shine to the harpist first time he heard her play,” Scanlin said, keeping his voice low. “’Tis a blessin’ she’s nae shy. Not even our wee lass, Kateeri, could draw him awa’ once the music started. She’d be here with him were it not for Susa havin’ need o’ her.”

Aralt followed his First Sword’s gaze to the harpist so intent on her music and the boy so intent on her. He watched the boy, the harp, the movement of the musician’s hands across the strings. Warm tones rolled like waves through the garden, full and mellow and joyfully sad. Like the endless tides of the sea. The connection came unbidden. Why hadn’t he thought of it before, especially with the Feast of Light at hand?

The harp sang…

“Devailyn,” he whispered.

“What’s that?” Scanlin asked. The ball had landed at their feet again. Scanlin pitched it back.

“`The harp sang.’ That’s what Perryn’s uncle said at Kyrrimar before he died. The harp sang. Dev Kynsei was playing it the night of the attack.”

Scanlin bowed his head, grey locks falling about his weathered face. He brought his hands together prayerfully. “Aye, o’ course. Lian could no more tear himself awa’ from this than a shepherd be led from a kirke on the Eighth Day. And we both missed it. I’m gettin’ old. What’s your excuse?”

“How are we to know what that boy’s thinking? He hasn’t said a word to me about his brother—or that night in Kyrrimar when… Sweet Creator, he’s hardly said a word about any of it,” Aralt pointed out, though the truth provided scant comfort. He tapped his fingers on the bench. The aroma of the feast being prepared made his decision to honor the traditional day-long fast mighty difficult. The sun passed behind clouds again, and he held out one hand. Was that rain?

“He’s hard to read, that one,” Scanlin agreed. “As many phases as the moons combined.”

“We haven’t enough moons in the sky to account for the way he shifts.”

“Oh, peace. You’ve seen it before, Wolf. He keeps it tucked awa’ oft times, but he’s like a broken soldier without e’en the benefit o’ years or trainin’.”

Aralt did not like the sound of that. He had seen too many warriors reduced to mere shadows of their former selves.

“In time he’ll find his way back to himself.”

“Fire and ice, Grey. How is he going to do that?” Aralt asked. Another ball landed at their feet. It was his turn to throw it back. It went over the far wall, much to the delight of the children who shouted and waved their hands in the air before chasing one another to the nearest gate, kilts flipping. They called for Lian to come with them, but the boy remained transfixed by the harp.

“He doesn’t belong here,” Aralt said. “But he doesn’t belong in Kyrrimar with no kin, and what’s left of the clergy at loggerheads. Half of them deny he’d even be acceptable when he reaches the age of majority, and the other half seems only too eager to Confirm a child as kavistra with no concern for the cost. You’ve seen their letters. They’re ridiculous.”

“Not all o’ them—”

“Enough of them. Councilors, my arse. It was bad enough when it was Devailyn, and he had at least reached the age of majority. What are we doing, even considering shoving Lian into a leadership role most adults wouldn’t be able to handle? I know this is your faith, but seriously. Look at him. He’s a mixed-up boy. How is he going to inspire a nation?”

Scanlin took his time answering. “One soul at a time.”

“Starting with yours, I suppose?”

“Starting with yours, I should think.”

Aralt replied with a noisy exhalation.

A rush of rain hit them then as if heaven itself had burst open. Caught in the deluge, the household staff ran in every direction, collecting everything they had previously set out. The musicians scrambled to rescue their instruments before fleeing into the house. Soon, Lian sat alone, impassive face turned toward the heavens, eyes closed. Aralt couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears on his cheeks.