Aralt shivered as a bead of ice slid down his spine, and he drew his hood closer.

Pelting rain had turned to wet snow. Heavy flakes lingered on every surface, caught between melting and freezing, the encroaching silence interrupted only now and again by earth-shaking thunder. Each time the heavens lit up, bright as when the fiddler’s lights bathed the summer skies, Aralt wondered where Lian was, what he was doing, and how much he was to blame for the weather. He had only anecdotal evidence, but enough to convince him even if Scanlin thought his head full of mince.

From his vantage point and the illumination of splintering lightning, he could just discern his troops manning the walls. Each flutter of a watchcoat or brush of a hand sent flecks of snow spinning in the air. Precious little light betrayed their location now, and he could not see a single flame lit in town. Leine and her squadron had seen to the safety of the civilians and taken up posts there in anticipation of the ship’s arrival and the possibility of foot soldiers. He thought it more likely that the Shirahnyn would stay aloft and out of reach, but he wasn’t taking any chances. As yet, they had no visual contact, and as the last night of the year fell to sleep, Aralt wondered if the vessel had been blown off course—or crashed. Surely they would have seen the explosion.

Scanlin joined him on the wall, and they spoke in hushed tones, breathing into cold hands to warm them. Just then he envied those in his ranks that did not own Tuned swords and could, therefore, don gloves. In hushed tones, he asked for news.

“No sign o’ a ship. People scattered in the parish, some to the kirke, some here. Others…” Scanlin shook his head. The snow on his wool cap was as white as his hair. “Stubborn folk, these Tyrians. Pray they’ll be spared Kyrrimar’s fate.”

“I don’t intend to let that ship land,” Aralt told him, aiming a spyglass to the west. He scanned north to south, turning slowly to peer eastward. Not that he expected anything from that direction. Not anything that sailed the aether. “They want to use fire rain? We’ll send them the same. Damn. I know what I saw, Grey. But where are they?”

“Only heaven knows.”

Only heaven. Or Lian.

“I went through the cellars as ye asked—left behind some of me best warriors, and not a few o’ the guests have their own weapons and know well how to use ’em. Gitom’s older lads were chasin’ about with wooden swords, but their sister was in the arms of her mother. Another Lightin’ brought to ruin.”

“Not yet it hasn’t. Kateeri will brighten up if Lian’s with her. I’ve seen them together. They’ll do fine. So,” Aralt asked, grasping for any humor he could find under the circumstances, “if the candles aren’t lit, is it still last year?”

Scanlin hesitated.

Aralt closed his eyes briefly. “What now?”

“Lian isn’t with ye hereabouts?”

Above, below, and in between. Aralt’s stomach clenched. “I haven’t seen him since I sent him to Perryn.”

“You sent him to get dry clothes—which he did seein’ as Sirram mac Kenna found his kilt and jacket on the floor in his room.”

“Sirram’s not on the wall with Telta?”

“He is now, but I dinnae like it. He’s a fair enough archer, that one, but he’s nae seen a battle. Most o’ these younglings haven’t, but they trust their laird and rally in defense o’ Lian Kynsei this night. I was given to believe ye sent for him.”

“Why the jig would I do that?” But he had been thinking about it. And Lian had an annoying way of knowing what he was thinking.

“’Twas chief among me questions given the state o’ things, but I reckoned it had something to do with the sight. I kenned what went unsaid twixt the two o’ ye about the ship. Seein’ it, but nae with your eyes, aye? Ye needs stop fightin’ a gift like that. It saved your life more than once o’er the years.”

Aralt bristled at the notion. Whatever Lian had done to enhance his senses, it was of the lad’s doing and not through any gift of his own. If he truly possessed that ability, it was fickle as the wind. More like it possessed him. An unreliable curse was what it was and one he would rather leave sleeping.

“Well, I don’t have it now. If I did, I’d know where that fool boy has got himself off to.”

“Have ye tried?”

“What? No.” And he didn’t want to. Only, he did. More than he wanted to admit. He closed his eyes, pushing the thought as far from his conscious mind as he could, but he could not ignore the images washing over him. Ice slid down his spine again; this time it wasn’t snow. Lian. Running. Stumbling in the dark. The rain, cold. The pitted road awash with mud and— Aralt’s eyes snapped open. No. He wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have left the keep.

“Wolf? Where are ye goin’?”

Aralt headed toward Telta. She had traded her longbow for a crossbow and by her grim expression was prepared to use it. “Is Munro back? Have you seen him or… Whips and pins! The Shirahnyn.”

“Syr Tremayne?” she asked, obviously confused. “I haven’t seen Red…”

“Lian was asking about the Shirahnyn we have locked up in the parish jail. Now, he isn’t here. Take whoever you need to. Get him. Get him now.”

Lian Kynsei, you will be my death.

Not tonight, I won’t. Are you ready? Are you watching? If this doesn’t work…

Lian?

Was he watching? Watching what? Ignoring the headache—and the burning sensation that erupted from his back to trace down his arms like cat scratches—he trained the spyglass on the night sky, still reluctant to extend heightened senses in search of the enemy. What if he connected and they reached back, found him in the dark, found them in the dark. He wasn’t about to give them a target! What was he to do, then? Wait until the skyship dropped through cloud cover directly on their heads, unleashing all the horror a moonless night could hold? The answer came swiftly.

An alarm bell echoed across the keep when the ship sailed into view, riding the dark winds like a nightmare, her prow painted like a gaping maw. An invitation to the living death found in Akahan, the most cursed of the Seven Sea Lords. The airship was due north, sliding parallel to them, but still too far for any cannons light enough to be mounted on such a ship. Too far to strike, but not too far to be struck if they took advantage. Aralt had every intention of doing so. He descended to the north wall of the keep, barking orders as he had. Someone tossed him a shield. His sword already sang in his right hand.

“She’s off course,” Scanlin noted, keeping pace with him, issuing his own orders. They worked as one, laird and First Sword. Trusted allies. Friends. “She needs close the distance an’ gain altitude if she’s tae—”

“Not giving her the chance. Kolarin, are the chemists ready? How much fire do we have on hand?”

“Enough for two volleys, syr Tremayne, maybe three. More if we pack missiles with everlight, but that’s an untested theory and there isn’t much in storage. Stinks too much. She needs to come closer.”

“Any closer and she’ll be firing on us,” Aralt told him. If the craft got her grappling hooks into the wall, they’d be fighting hand to hand. He gripped his sword, watching the hovering ship silhouetted against sheets of lightning that lit the sky.

“She’s coming about!”

Drums rolled in imitation of the thunder, and the thrilling skirl of bagpipes sounded. That alone ought to have scared the enemy. The Naharasii had despised the sound and Tern Glynn had used it against them at every turn. While Scanlin rallied the troops, and dart slings were armed, Aralt gave the word for the chemists to load their cannons with the same sort of burning oils that the Shirahnyn had used on Kyrrimar. He hated that they had resorted to the same tactics as their enemy, as much as his father had, but it had proved effective in defending Linishael three years before. He would do the same here.

A glimmer of light, blue as heaven, flashed near the ground, north of the keep and below the struggling ship. It burst upward, stitching to and fro until it reached the vessel, crawling spider-like over the belly of the gondola. The air crackled, but the crack of thunder never came. He had to shield his eyes at the next flash. Impossibly, a second ball of blue lightning, even brighter than the first, flashed upward from the edge of the moors, this time engulfing the ship. Her skeletal structure lit up as the bolt of electricity crab-walked over the hull, lighting up the sky like a swarm of starflies. Red crystal shrieked. A volley of liquid fire erupted over the bow, making the moors glow red and yellow, but failing to find its mark within the keep. All navigation lost, the ship tilted at a sickening angle before shuddering into a new course, gaining momentum under an unnatural rising tailwind. A second volley of fire rain missed the mark as the ship passed over the village of Sylvan.

Sea and sky and all the saints!

“Syr Tremayne?” A chemist stood beside him, eyes wide. “Do you want us to move the cannons to the east wall in case she comes about?”

“Kol? How do you read this?”

Kolarin had a fist pressed to his lips. “I don’t know, but it looks like the wind has her now. She won’t be back. Not any time soon. They’ve lost all control. What the jig was that?”

Not what, Aralt thought grimly. Who.

* * *

By the time Telta and Russ showed up with Lian in tow, the greater threat had passed, and Aralt’s troops were concentrating on putting out fires. The air was ripe with the smell of everlight burning wildly on the moors.

“Do I have to put you in a room and turn the key, boy? What was that all about?” He pointed in the direction the ship had gone. When Lian did not answer, he turned to Telta. “Where was he?”

She gritted her teeth, a sidelong glance expressing an apology to the boy. “Sitting on the side of the road.”

“Sitting on the…? And the Shirahnyn prisoner?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, syr Tremayne…”

“By the Seven, Russ! What did you do?”

“Weren’t my fault, Wolf. He were gone afore I got there. I didn’t do nothin’.”

“Gone?” Aralt rounded on Lian. The boy flinched. A trickle of blood had dried above his upper lip. Served him right, stumbling around in the dark on a fool’s errand.

“You’ll want this,” Telta said, holding out a device consisting of a complex and fragile mix of knobs and tubes and slivers of spun-crystal wire. The outer casing was blackened, and the switches had fused. “It looks like some sort of jammer. I think this is what arced and caused the bolts of ground-to-ship lightning we saw. It was incredible! I’ve never seen anything like it. Sir.”

“Lightning in a box,” Russ cooed.

Aralt slapped his scout’s hand away from the foreign technology. Would that they could reverse-engineer it, but it was charred like the contents of a forgotten frypan. What appeared to be Shirahnyn etching was indecipherable. Lian, he noticed, was avoiding his gaze.

“Kolarin! Syr Tremayne!” Sirram ran up to meet them. He was breathless but beaming. “They’ve gone over the fjord, sir. Into Naharasii lands, movin’ east and losin’ altitude. They’re done for for sure!”

“That’s but one ship,” Kolarin admonished, spinning his cousin back in the direction he had come. “We don’t know if there are any others. Go on. Report to Commander Ross and make yourself useful. I’m sorry, syr Tremayne. He’s a good lad, he meant no disrespect.”

Aralt shrugged it off. Sirram’s enthusiasm was the least of his worries. He shoved the Shirahnyn contraption back into Telta’s hands and told her to take it to his engineers. No doubt they would be salivating over it, no matter the damage. One by one the soldiers departed until he was alone with Lian on the parapet. “I ought to flay your arse.”

“I’m sorry. I had to—”

“You’re a reckless little fool,” Aralt told him, cuffing him in the back of the head. “Didn’t you learn anything during the Tuning? What sort of kavistra would you make when you behave so foolishly? They’ll never Confirm you.”

Belatedly, Aralt realized that Perryn was standing at the open tower door, a lamp in one hand, a blanket folded over his other arm. The knees of his grey and blue trews were torn, and his grey coat was speckled with mud. He placed the blanket around Lian’s shoulders just as Scanlin had hours before then took a handkerchief from one pocket and wiped the blood from the boy’s face. Lian looked thoroughly embarrassed.

“When the danger has passed, perhaps the Lighting ceremony might take place? I believe it will help restore order, syr Tremayne.”

Aralt nodded. They might even get to have dinner, even if it was cold. He clapped his steward on the back. “See what you can do about getting people fed—and then you can finish making your proposal.”

“She declined,” Perryn told him flatly.

“She what?”

Perryn shrugged weakly. “She told her grandmother that she wants to go back to Enarra. I tried to tell her that Tyrian has been at peace for ten years, but…well, I suppose that is no longer true.”

“This is my fault.” Lian’s black shirt hung like a wet rag off his slight frame, and his dirty boots left a muddy trail.

“Kavistra, no,” Perryn told him, glancing at Aralt. “Forgive me, I—”

“Don’t call me that,” the boy said bitterly, his eyes flashing. “Syr Tremayne is right. I’ll never be Confirmed. I don’t deserve to be. Just because my father and brother were kavistra doesn’t mean that I should be. But I can’t stay here, either. No one will be safe if the Shirahnyn are looking for me. They thought I was dead for a while. I’d never have gotten this far, otherwise. But now they know. He’ll know, and he won’t stop until he finds me. I’m sorry I ever came here!”

Thunder rolled outside. The house shook. Children began to cry.

“It happened before,” Lian told them, choking on the words. “He always knew. I tried to hide, but he always knew—”

More flashes of lightning ripped across the sky.

“Lian,” Aralt cautioned. “Have a care now. Don’t let the storms inside of you become—”

“You’re not listening to me! He’ll find me. Wherever I go, whatever I do, he’ll find me. He’ll find all of you. He’ll—”

Thunder shook the stone upon which they stood.

“I am listening, but you need to stop talking, right now.” When he didn’t, Aralt clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him toward the open tower door. “Not another word.”

Perryn looked mortified. He quickly closed the door behind them and adjusted a lamp that they might see the steps more clearly. “Syr Tremayne, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply it was in any way kavsa Lian’s fault that Wynter said—”

“You are not the one that needs to apologize, Perryn. Listen to me. Just go talk to her. Take her into my study, sit beside the fire, and just…talk. She’s frightened is all. Everyone was frightened—and with good reason after what we just went through. She needs you to tell her again that this isn’t going to be our life here. Not for any of us,” Aralt said, making eye contact with Lian. He removed his hand. “And you. Not for any of us, you ken?”

“Not…not for any of us,” Lian repeated, his chest heaving with the effort to regain his composure. He did not break eye contact. Not for a moment. Aralt felt like an ocean-tossed buoy and Lian was clinging to him for life.

“If you think it will help…” Perryn sounded none too convinced.

“I do.” Then Aralt drew his brows together, knowing deep inside that his next words were also true. “She still loves you. Ask her again. She needs to hear you say it again. Well, go on!”

Lian gripped Perryn’s hand before he could depart. “Do as he says, Perryn. He’s seen it. He really has.” The boy looked up at Aralt. And so have I…

“And you.” Lian’s wan smile melted away under Aralt’s stern gaze. “You, Lian Kynsei, better do as I say as well. We’re going to set things right, starting now. You did not bring the Shirahnyn here. They came of their own free will, the same way they came to Kyrrimar. I don’t know what you did out there, but you can’t expect to hold them at bay yourself every time—not when you risk every life around you. They stole your Lighting. Don’t let them steal another one.”

Even before he finished saying the words, the image took root in his mind: Lian’s hand extended toward young Kateeri, the dancing blue flame leaping from six fingers to the girl’s outstretched palm just as dawn broke and the New Year began.