The rain persisted into the evening, lightning ripping the sky in twain. Inside, the festivities went more or less according to plan, though Aralt did not for the life of him know how they were going to accommodate so many people in the dining hall. For every individual that had sent their regrets, it seemed two more had been invited by those eager to attend—and get a glimpse of Lian Kynsei. He had more bottles brought up from the wine cellar and trusted that, in addition to Gitom’s glorious cooking, would make up for guests bumping elbows. If ever the old house seemed inadequate, it did then. Time had come to seriously reconsider the location of his seat of government. Sylvan Keep had served as the last command post during the war, but Bethulyn, near the southern border, was the most populated city in the domain—a bustling, walled city of ancient architecture—but modern conveniences—on par with any in the Northern Alliance.

After circling the hall twice, and suffering through a heated debate over hydraulic loom technology and its impact on the textile industry, Aralt took Scanlin aside and asked him about Lian’s whereabouts. Worldly concerns were likely to cease once the boy made his entrance.

“Since when did it take him this long to change his clothes?” Aralt asked, nodding politely at the representatives from the Weaver’s Guild.

“Well, he’s nae accustomed to one o’ these.”

“A kilt?” Aralt asked, incredulous. Were it not for the occasional draft, he had almost forgotten he was wearing one himself. “Where did he get a…? You. You had a kilt made for Lian Kynsei. Out of what tartan, man?”

“’Twas a challenge,” Scanlin admitted, “seein’ as no one in these parts weaves the Kynsei blue—though I expect that’ll change after tonight.”

“No doubt.” Aralt nodded as the local magistrate and her husband drifted by, wishing them both deep peace. The feathers trailing from her hat were astonishing. He hoped Alira wouldn’t be swayed by the latest fashion coming out of Ardorryn. When the couple was out of hearing distance he asked, “What did you get him? Not syr Tremayne. Scanlin, you didn’t, did you? And you didn’t use Ross, I hope.”

“Nay, though ’tis as ancient and authentic a tartan as you’re likely to find,” Scanlin told him bluntly. He softened his tone. “I’ll have ye know I conferred with the clergy in Bethulyn.”

“That would account for the long faces.”

“There are but a few in attendance.”

“They have very long faces.”

“Wicked man,” Scanlin said. “Be still.”

“As you were saying? Tartan?”

“We chose the blue cleric.”

“The one none of the shepherds are wearing? At least it wasn’t the Ross—ow!” Aralt rubbed his arm after Scanlin punched him. “Fair enough. You didn’t have to sound so insulted just now.”

Scanlin gave him a dirty look.

“I told Perryn to delegate tonight lest the fair Miss Wynter feel neglected. Who did he assign to shadow Lian?”

“The younger mac Kenna. Kolarin was well pleased. Sirram’s a good lad and it seemed time to task him with something beyond map study.”

Aralt approved. He had seen the lads together. Lian would benefit from a companion closer to his age, and what Sirram mac Kenna lacked in military skill, he made up for with a keen memory and the sort of mild temperament Aralt suspected made Lian feel safe. The youth could impart trail lore on the boy and the boy could impart…whatever it was Lian imparted.

He drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat. The old year was winding down. “I’ll give him another twelve minutes. After that, find him.”

* * *

Twelve minutes soon became twenty.

Lian had picked a fine time to scamper off. Everyone expected the boy to officiate at the Lighting, even if they didn’t know why; most of Aralt’s guests had yet to even get a glimpse of him but rumors about his unearthly appearance grew as stories passed around the hall. The latest iteration included a significant exaggeration of his size and the addition of a blue halo. Perryn marr Kenesh was hyperventilating in the kitchen in anticipation of proposing to his young lady, and as the hour of the Lighting ceremony approached, Gitom and Susa’s only daughter, Kateeri, could hardly contain herself. Her brothers hadn’t even tried. Aralt remembered what that felt like, the thrill of the night, the anticipation of the feast, on top of that to be tasked with lighting the first candle of the New Year. Given their near kinship, owed to the friendship between his father and Endru Kynsei, Aralt had been permitted to light the candles in the observatory tower at Kyrrimar, just as Lian had three years ago. That they could not find the lad now, he realized, should not have come as any surprise no matter how it vexed him.

As a discreet search party combed the estate, Aralt focused his attention on the guest suite. Most of the favors the boy had received had been put to use or stored away, the fabric sewn into a princely wardrobe, the toys donated to younger children. Kavis stars ornamented every wall and hung from the ceiling. Fresh flowers replaced dry, but even those had begun to fade. Had the boy exited his rooms by any conventional means, someone would have seen him. Sirram had been waiting for him just through the door into the sitting room. Lian had never come out. That left crawling out a window, up a chimney, or riding down the kitchen lift, but all three options required a considerable amount of effort. And for what gain? Simply to avoid detection and incite a manhunt on a Feast night? That was not Lian’s style at all.

Aralt peered down the lift the longest, remembering similar boyhood escapades. He and his brother Kynlan had been willing conspirators, privy to every secret hiding place in their home, from the cavernous sewer drains to the cramped spaces between the walls leading to hidden rooms some unknown architect thought necessary. Perfect hiding places for small…boys. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He reached to adjust the wall sconce, hoping the old generator they had coaxed back into operation would continue to hold out. When inspection of every inch of wainscoting he could reach proved fruitless, he dropped to the floor, peering under the large, canopied bed. Below the headboard, an access panel leading to a narrow corridor between the plaster inner walls and the outer stone walls stood open. A cat scooted past him, dashing into the open space before he could catch it. He would never fit through that entryway with all his bulk, but Lian could have—and Aralt was relatively sure he knew where it led.

Sure enough, an access portal in a back hall on the ground level was ajar, and the massive door into the tower in which he had previously found Lian was open. A handful of candied fruit—it looked as though Lian had collided with someone in his haste—was further evidence. He took the steps two by two, pressing into the roar of sound and the tunnel of wind created by an open window further up. The shutters in the storage room whip-cracked against mortared walls as rain and sleet pounded stone and timber alike. Lightning silhouetted Lian in a kilt and tailcoat, poised on the open windowsill like a swallow about to take flight.

“Lian,” Aralt yelled over the rolling thunder; the cacophony of rain on the tile roof below beat a staccato rhythm. “This is a fine place to be in a lightning storm, lad. What are you doing?”

Lian’s gaze never left the angry sky. Rain pelted his upturned face. “Making sure the storm doesn’t stop. It can’t stop. It can’t.” When he turned toward Aralt, his dark eyes were ringed with fire. “They’re coming.”

Aralt slid over a dome-topped trunk and leaned out the window. He might as well have submerged himself in the frigid depths of Loch Bethu. “Who’s coming? I can’t see—”

“There.” Lian pointed. Forked lightning struck talon-like at the countryside. The nearby parish shuddered into focus one moment, hidden the next.

“I can’t see any—”

Lian wrapped his narrow fingers around Aralt’s wrist. “Yes. You can.”

Below the storm clouds, like a bright needle threading across night’s dark canvas, sailed an airship. Storm-tossed, her creaking hull was slick with ice crystals, shimmering like an ocean starbead. Below it, a gondola painted to resemble the serpent beast of Akahan groaned as support structures twisted. Her skipper gripped the rail, gray eyes hateful. He ordered all hands to stations as they prepped fire cannons. Aralt staggered back against the trunk. Sila’s whips!

“Go downstairs,” he told Lian, yanking him from the open casement.

“But the storm—”

He took hold of the boy’s arms and propelled him across the cluttered storeroom. “I said, go downstairs!”

The main hall was uncommonly quiet, given the size of the assembled crowd. Aralt realized why when they burst in. Perryn was on one knee at the bottom of the grand staircase, pledging his devotion to his beloved amid approving whispers and the envious sighs of half the women in attendance. Wynter saw them enter and her eyes widened. Aralt glared down at Lian.

“I wouldn’t be interrupting this if you hadn’t run off, you ken? And a fine way for guests to get their first gander at you, kavsa Lian. Do me a favor next time there’s a crisis: tell someone. Swords, to me,” he bellowed. He hadn’t the heart to see what transpired betwixt Perryn and Wynter after that.

Ranking Swords and strategists rushed to his study as the household staff hurriedly extinguished all but the most essential lights. It was difficult to distinguish between the thunder and slamming shutters. They required darkness, and quickly. Even with her navigation impaired by the storm, the ship would find Sylvan Keep an obvious target, lit up as it was that night.

“Who was on watch in the high tower?” Aralt demanded.

“I’d have to look at the duty roster—”

“Grey? Who?”

Scanlin sighed. “Deyr Evarr—among others. But Wolf, I’ve been to the high tower, there’s nary a sign o’—”

“Son of a war-mongering sea slut! I know what I saw. He’s done, do you ken? I ignored the fight with Tevin because Tevin started it. And do you know what? I’ve always liked Tevin a hell of a lot more than I like Deyr. Send him home—if he lives long enough.”

“It isn’t D-deyr’s fault.”

Everyone turned to look at Lian. The boy’s wet hair was plastered about his winter-fair face; his lips were as blue as his sagging kilt. Scanlin took a blanket from the wardrobe, wrapped it around the boy’s shoulders, and steered him toward the open hearth. Lian shivered like a stalk of corn thrashing in a windstorm.

“It isn’t D-deyr’s fault. They’re still too far away for him to see—b-but they won’t be for long.”

“I saw that ship plainly,” Aralt told him. Too plainly. “You saw it. You warned me…. You. I wouldn’t have seen it otherwise, would I?”

Lian clutched the blanket, rubbing his face dry. “You would have had you b-been looking.”

Aralt wasn’t sure he liked the implications. By their expressions, neither did some of his soldiers. At least one made a warding sign over his heart.

“These aren’t their skies, b-but they aren’t flying b-blind,” Lian stuttered, clutching the blanket about his shivering body. “There must be a b-beacon—and a b-beacon can be reversed.”

“What sort of beacon?”

“Lad, how is it ye ken—”

“Spies!” Russ Munro spat the word, much to everyone’s disgust. “Shoulda let me drown that pissin’ Shirahnyn the night we found ’im.”

Lian stopped shivering. “What Shirahnyn?”

“I told ye he was a lyin’ snake.”

Aralt ignored his impertinent scout. As if Russ was any kind of judge of character. No matter the distance, the ship was coming. The keep could withstand a volley of firebombs, but the town, with its timber frame homes and shops, needed to be evacuated. He led the way into the great hall, past fashionably dressed guests from nearby parishes—to all of which he had already dispatched warnings. He had sent his fastest rider to Bethulyn.

Lian trailed behind them, asking again about the Shirahnyn.

“Not now, Lian.”

“Not to worry, lad,” Scanlin assured the boy. “He can do nae harm where he is. And will have done nary a thing to have caused this.”

“Yeah, well, we could do ’im some harm,” Russ muttered. “Lemme go, Wolf. I’ll stick ’im till he squeals.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. If you haven’t noticed, we’re bracing for a siege. If you want to make yourself useful, do what you do best and get out there and tell me what you find. Kolarin? There you are. Tell the chemists to brew their worst. Telta, come with me. Russ, you’re still here.”

“Yeah, I’m a-goin', but they’re still way up there,” Munro pointed toward the ceiling. “Lemme do ’im in before whatever he’s gonna do gets done, yeah? He’s keepin’ secrets!”

“And well he might, but I dinnae think he means us any harm.” Scanlin glowered at the red-haired scout. “What’s he to do from a locked room? He’s spoken plainly, and no matter what else he is, he’s a man o’ learnin’—”

“Just cuz he has his letters and says he’s a healer don’t mean he ain’t one o’ the devil’s own—”

“Wait, what?” Lian danced back and forth between them. “A healer? I didn’t sense…. Aralt, I think—”

“—nay, but it does raise me expectations,” Scanlin continued in response to Munro.

“Yeah, well, ye just always see what’s good in people, don’t ye?”

“Ye should be glad o’ it, Red,” Scanlin muttered as they collected their gear from the vestibule, drawing their hoods close as they went outside. “Lian, m’lad, back in the house with ye. You’ve nae coat.”

“But who are you talking about? Where is he?”

“’Tis naught for ye to worry o’er. He’s well guarded in town—and no monster, no matter what ye might o’ heard.”

“I haven’t heard anything! How could I not have known? Wait! I’m not worried about myself,” Lian insisted. “I’m worried about what is going to happen to this Shirahnyn if he’s a traitor and captured by—”

“Slit stem to stern, I reckon. Good riddance!” Munro spat again. It came back in his face.

“Aralt, wait! I need to know more about—”

Lian's hand closed around Aralt’s elbow and with it so much confusion that Aralt pulled away. He put out a hand palm up, warning the boy off. “Lian, lad, Scanlin’s right. Go back inside and get dry clothes before your entire face turns blue. Stay with Perryn—help him if you can. Bring—I don’t know—peace and grace to everyone.”

Lian stared at him. “I’m not a shepherd…”

“Then seek out the ones inside. Leave us to what needs be done. I don’t have to tell you what could happen here,” Aralt told him, dispatching troops as he traveled across the courtyard toward the chemists’ lab, boots squelching in the slush. He hailed Second Sword Leine Baclan.”

“I’ll bet you wish you’d stayed in Bethulyn. Evacuate the parish, bring everyone here.”

“You need to go below.”

Why did the boy not listen? Aralt kept on his way. “Below what?”

“The house. Underground. You need to get everyone to the cellars. Catacombs if you have them.”

“I ain’t goin’ where no dead peoples sleep. What if we wakes ’em up?” Russ drew his sword and passed it hand to hand. “I’m aimin’ to fill a crypt tonight, and they best stay where I puts ’em.”

“You’re not serious.” Lian jumped back two steps when Russ bared his teeth and snapped like some red-crested Naharasii demon. He had to run to catch Aralt up. “Please, listen to me. They won’t follow if it’s deep enough. Send the people in the parish to the local kirke if it has an underground. What? I read a lot of books,” the boy told them by way of explanation, hugging himself against the wind and the rain. But Aralt wasn’t fooled. This was the moment, he realized. The moment in which he might have asked what happened in Kyrrimar…what happened to Devailyn. The moment, and one he could not spare.

“Syr Tremayne?” Leine asked, still waiting for her next orders. Her long brown hair, twisted with grey, hung wet and slick against her sodden cloak. Aralt noted the way she avoided looking directly at Lian. She had lost a son at that age. And lost another to the war.

Aralt faced the boy, rain beating down around them. “You’re certain?”

Lian nodded, wiping the rain from his face. “Deep. Deep as they can go. Shirahnyn don’t like the womb of the earth.”

No. No, they did not. At least such were the stories. Aralt hesitated, but only for a moment. He nodded and started moving again.

“Make it happen, Leine. All remaining archers to the walls! Blades to the ready! Get everyone else to the wine cellars and the vaults beneath the household kirke. Will that do, Kynsei boy? Will you go back to the house now or do I need someone to carry you?”

Lian wrapped the sodden blanket over his head and ran.

“Will he heed ye?” Leine asked.

“He had better,” Aralt said, turning toward the esri byres to tell Jools to release all the stock.

They would fare better outside the stable barn once the fire rain began.