Back in the open air, Aralt searched for Lian.

His back scraped against rough timber and loose nails as he took the shortest route to the makeshift stock byre, pressing himself between stacks of crates that tipped precariously as the boat rocked. The esri crowded together, giving Tabric as wide a berth as possible. The stallion pinned back his ears and gave the nearest wall a swift kick. Given the number of holes, Tabric had been at it a while. All the animals shifted, raising their heads, and flicking their ears when the deck pitched again, the wooden hull grinding against the embankment. Plumes of steam preceded the unmistakable sound of splintering wood, and the Sarajayne began taking on water. Aralt stumbled backwards, dodging spilled cargo. Luka’s crew uttered a burst of profanity as the lucky ones leapt for cover and the unlucky ones toppled into the river. From where he stood, he glimpsed more than one from his company plunge overboard as well.

The esri were in a frenzy. Before Aralt could even get there, Tabric snapped his tether, leaping to the shore with a throaty summons to the others to follow. He cut Scanlin’s silver mare loose and she followed the call, Lian’s brindled colt bounding after her. The others jostled for position, squealing, and kicking as they scrambled for purchase on the rocks. The animals were safe, but where was Lian? He sidestepped a rolling cask of fermenting apples that splintered upon impact with something less forgiving, spraying him with sticky golden brew. Scanlin and Kolarin stumbled from the boat’s interior, Tevin oxtered between them. His courier might have been a corpse for the amount of color in his cheeks. Sirram scrambled after them, so loaded down with gear he didn’t know how the lad was going to get off the boat.

“End o’ the line it seems,” Scanlin said, slinging one of Sirram’s packs over his shoulder. “Have ye nay found Lian?”

“No. Where’s Tycho?”

“I dinnae ken. We turned ‘round and he was gone.”

Shite. He ushered them by, hauling Sirram back to his feet when the lad collapsed under the weight of all the bags he was carrying. “Nothing here is worth your life. Go with the others. Get yourself off the boat.”

“What about you, syr Tremayne?”

“I’ll catch up. Go on, now. Telta? Telta, where are you?”

“Here, syr Tremayne!” Above him, in the wheelhouse, Telta was inexplicably hauling on the wheel, seemingly unaware that they were taking on water.

“It’s no use,” he told her, climbing to the upper deck. “We need to abandon—” It was then he saw the first mate on the floor of the wheelhouse, a shard of black-ice crystal protruding from his bloody forehead. Luka was on his knees.

“Be one with the water again, old friend.” The skipper’s creased face held more than grief. Anger flared in his eyes. “I gave up this boat freely to get you to Faerkirke. I didn’t know our lives were included in the bargain.”

He braced himself as the old ferry groaned again and shuddered sideways, the stern paddles snapping as the boat slammed against the canyon wall. Mist and steam poured over them.

“Get everyone else to shore. Try to round up the esri so we can make for Kinara’s Landing.” Aralt steadied Telta as the boat rocked again. He lowered his voice. “Don’t leave any of Luka’s crew behind.”

“I’ll see to me own, syr Tremayne. They stand a better chance with me than they do with you.” Luka turned to Telta before he left. “Go on, lass. Have a care. If you ever choose the river life, I’ll make a place for you.”

“Syr Tremayne, did you find Lian?”

“No.”

“He might already be ashore,” Telta said as they clambered down from the wheelhouse. Moonlight revealed barrels, crates, and saddles bobbing in the river. They held fast to the ladder lest they be next.

He shook his head. “No. He’s here. I…can tell he’s here.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, you need to speak to him,” Telta said, slinging her bow over her shoulder and hefting one of the travel packs Sirram had dropped. “Speak to him the way only you can.”

That was precisely what he wanted to avoid.

* * *

Oppressive heat drove him back as he descended toward the boiler room, the last place he hadn’t checked. Why Lian would have gone there, he did not know. He could barely see for the amount of steam. Had it not been for the sound of voices, he would have moved on to the next compartment. There weren’t many left. Another figure appeared from the opposite direction, a spectre moving through the water vapor. With no room to draw his sword, he palmed his knife. The Sarajayne’s skipper came through the steam and the smoke, coughing and waving his hat.

“Luka? What are you still doing here? I thought everyone was ashore.”

“This is my boat. I’m not leaving until everybody’s accounted for and it seems to me you’ve misplaced the most important member of your company.”

Misplaced was not the word he would have used.

Luka peered into the engine room. “Is someone in there? She’s taking on water below. If that boiler blows, we’ll be torn to pieces.”

“I heard it, too.”

“Here now, who’s muckin’ about in there?”

Tycho emerged from the boiler room, med kit and travel bags slung over one shoulder, sword gripped in the other hand. “It was only me that you heard. Lian is not here.”

“Someone is. We heard you talking.” He pushed by the Shirahnyn, shielding his eyes against the heat. The boiler hissed and spat like an angry shika.

“You should go, quickly.”

“What were you doing in here? What’s this?” He gripped the crystal vial in Tycho’s free hand, locking eyes with the Shirahnyn. “Who’s down here with you?”

“Unless you know how to use it, it would be best you return that to me, syr Tremayne.”

Belatedly, he saw movement in the smoke and shadows. J’thirrin! He relinquished the vial, passed his knife into his left hand, and drew his brother’s sword. Once more, a song like the one he knew and yet so different resonated with his soul. He fought the impulse to let go. There could be no letting go. “Well? What are you waiting for, man? Do it. Do it now!”

“And risk a fire before we’ve located Lian?”

“Fire?” Luka squeaked, backing away. He twisted his hat into a knot. “You’ll blow her to bits!”

The deck heaved again under their feet, and the boiler groaned. The sound of the scraping bulkhead raked down Aralt’s spine. Luka urged them to flee as more water poured into the struggling boat.

Tycho shoved him toward the door. “Go. Close it behind you.”

“You won’t make it out if we do that,” he said, unsure why he cared.

“I don’t need to. You do. Go. Protect Lian.”

He backed into the narrow hall and, with Luka’s help, slammed closed the hatch. Together they slogged through knee-deep water to return to the main deck. The explosion that rocked the steamboat moments later flung them both to the deck, knocking his brother’s sword from his hand. He scrambled after it, shielding his head as flaming debris fell around them. Boxes of fireworks crackled and sparkled.

“What the jig?” He could barely hear Luka’s reply for the ringing in his ears. He opened his mouth and shook his head. No, that didn’t help either.

“Well, it weren’t the boiler. We’ll be splattered from here to Kinara’s Landing when that goes. Are you ready to abandon ship yet, syr Tremayne?”

Before he could answer, another voice called his name. Lian hung over the side of the sinking ferry, the bloodwood staff extended into the water.

“Aralt, help me!”

Pieces of the Sarajayne littered the river, and in the midst of them, thrashing wildly, was Tycho. The j’thirrin was nowhere to be seen. The ferryboat shuddered again, fishtailing, her paddlewheel splintering as she slammed sideways. Son of Tremayne, the voice he had heard earlier whispered again. Son of Tremayne. He knew that voice. He had heard it in spoiled dreams for years. Lonn Tirehl.

Impossible!

He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to focus on the scene around him. Fireworks spilled across the deck. Lian at the rail. Tycho’s blond head sinking beneath the water like starlight eclipsed by the skyships above Kyrrimar. Lonn Tirehl whispered his name again, the words taking flight, resolving into crimson strands that writhed like some grotesque larvae in the periphery of his vision. Hatred filled him, bitter and delicious. At once, he knew who his enemy was. He sheathed his sword…Kynlan’s sword…Kynlan… He turned away, vision narrowing.

“Leave him.”

“No, I won’t leave him. What’s wrong with you?”

He rounded on the boy, feeding on the confusion and fear. “I said leave him!”

“No!” Lian cast aside his staff, kicked off his boots, and dove into the water.

The resulting spray momentarily cleared his head, like baptismal waters washing him clean. The chaos of their predicament hit him full force. Luka grabbed his arm, pointing overboard to where Lian bobbed to the surface, paddling in circles. He grabbed the boy’s staff, then, when he felt the pulse of the heartwood, put it aside in favor of a sounding pole. Luka had one as well. They pulled Lian from the river first. The motion of the current had Tycho in its embrace, slamming him into the boat before dragging him under. Aralt threw the pole aside and dropped to the deck, his heart pounding, his blood like liquid fire. When Tycho resurfaced, sputtering, Aralt thrust out his hand. The curtain of wriggling, red lights fell over him again, obscuring his vision. Lian was beside him, shaking him, sending waves of stinging nettles up and down his spine, but all he could hear was lonn Tirehl.

Make no mistake, son of Tremayne. You know who your enemy is.

His hand closed in an involuntary fist. He shook it at the Shirahnyn before shoving Lian aside. He heard himself speaking but had no control over the words. Sweet Creator, they weren’t his words!

“I hope it’s an easy death.”

“What are you doing?” Lian cried, lunging for one of the sounding poles as the deck tipped further. It rolled into the water, followed by the heartwood staff.

“Aralt, stop. Look at me. See me!”

He could see perfectly. The j’thirrin had come for their own. For Tycho. He knew who his enemy was. “I do see you, Lian.”

Lian’s eyes were wide with terror. “Don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to him.”

His heart hammered in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears; white lightning laced with red exploded behind his eyelids, ricocheting through his brain as the world around him shrank into a narrow band of color like a sword aiming for his heart. He staggered, hands pressed to either side of his head, overcome with such rage as he had never felt.

It took the combined effort of Lian and Luka to knock him overboard, but he took them with him. If he was going to drown, they were all going to drown.

He resurfaced with a cry, driving the devils inside him away. Once more the bone-chilling cold of the river extinguished the fire in his veins. The voice, that voice, the one he would never forget, receded like an outgoing tide. Free of the madness, he cast around in the water for whoever was in reach. He grabbed Tycho by the arm, hauling him toward shore as the riverboat, half-submerged, shuddered on her course. Luka sloshed after them, shouting a warning. From out of the blanket of dense fog settling around them like a murky soup stepped one of the j’thirrin.

Lian?

I’m right behind you.

Indeed, he was. And he was bringing the river with him.

Droplets of water appeared to rise from the face of the Little Kraeleen, freezing in midair before falling again. Released from his dark reverie, Aralt blinked away the last vestiges of madness and swiped water from his stinging eyes. When Lian wedged the bloodwood staff into the rocks so that it stood like a lightning rod the j’thirrin scratched a warding hex in the air. The flame he had seen in the boy’s eyes before burned brighter than the moons above.

“What are you doing?” He stumbled over the uneven ground, dragging himself further from the stupor to which he had nearly succumbed, all too conscious of the tendrils of fire seeking to invade his innermost thoughts. “Are you about to do something stupid?”

He did not like the answer.

Quite possibly…

Lian raised his six-fingered hands in a gesture of supplication and prayer before they clapped together, and the sky changed color.