The sound of Veryl belting out a familiar tune reached them long before they arrived at the stone and mortar kirke over which grew roses the color of twilight. Two of the household guards that Aralt had seen at the fairgrounds earlier flanked the open door, eyelids heavy. Chasing Veryl Alwynn all over Kinara’s Landing was not a job for the fainthearted. Closer to the chapel, he discerned a third person occupying the entryway. Moonlight painted all in shades of silver. While Alira entered the chapel, greeting those gathered within with a traditional prayer of “deep peace,” Aralt pulled Scanlin aside.

“I told you to take him directly to his bed.”

“Ye told me to ‘get him out o’ here.’”

Instead, Lian sat at Veryl Alwynn’s feet near the front altar, enraptured by the old man’s ballad, and Veryl, ever the consummate storyteller, was in his glory. The song, an ancient ode to the Lost Ark, ended mid-verse, and he began to relate a tale Aralt had heard what seemed like a thousand times—Veryl’s boyhood adventure with Valairyn syr Tremayne, Teren Glynn, and Marcynn Kynsei. They all told that story, albeit differently.

“He stole her boat!” the old man said, holding his belly as he laughed. “Imagine that. Stealing Kavistra Gaelyn’s boat. Here now, wee sullivan. Have we met? You look familiar… bless my soul, you’re a Kynsei!”

“Aye, k’talyn. We met earlier. I’m Lian. I’m Marcynn’s grandson.”

“Too right you are. I knew that. What a remarkable resemblance.” He peered around, looking disappointed. “Where is the old rascal?”

“I-I’m sorry I don’t know.”

“Papa,” Alira said gently, sitting down beside her father. “You’re in Faerkirke. You know Marcynn isn’t here.”

“We’re at Kinara’s Landing,” the old man corrected her. “But we’ll be back in Faerkirke tomorrow. Unless we stay here. You’ll like it there, young man. We have good cheese. Bless me. You’re Marcynn’s grandson, aren’t you?”

Lian seemed lost, but when Alira nodded her encouragement, he smiled at Veryl and introduced himself yet again. The old man shook his hands vigorously.

“Oh, we had the adventures with your grandfather. Stole the kavistra’s boat, he did! Val syr Tremayne was sick twice,” Veryl said, eyes sparkling. He grinned when his Shirahnyn physician swept in through a side entrance, tut-tutting him like a cross auntie finding skeers in her garden. “What? Another physician? I have plenty of physicians.”

Lian scrambled to his feet when Tycho followed, catching his friend in an embrace before dragging him forward. “K’talyn, this is the man I was speaking of.”

“Ah! Sit down, sit down. Prince of one of the Seven Houses, aren’t you?”

“No, jhernani I—”

“Of course, you are! Son of your Mother. I’m sure I’ve met her. Haven’t I met her? I’m sure I’ve met her. Deep peace to you. Wait a minute. There was something…something…”

“Something like he should be locked in the dairy barn?” Aralt said under his breath.

“Ah! I remember. Yes. I believe we have something of yours, young man. In the stable back in Faerkirke.”

“The stable, jhernani?”

“My rangers found an odd-eyed calico esri during the winter. Don’t see many of those here. Alira always wanted one when she was a little girl. She nursed him back to health. You may not get him back.”

“Nonsense,” Alira interrupted. “If he’s yours, I’ll not keep him from you.”

“Almost certainly, and I am in your debt. He is dear to me.” Tycho pressed his palms together and touched them to his forehead as he bowed. “Thank you for this kindness, sir.”

Veryl beamed. “I like this boy, Aralt. He’s very polite.”

To say Lian appeared smug would have been an understatement.

Tycho had donned clothing that had gone out of style decades before, tasteful, if bright, even there in the flickering candlelight. Red trews with gold piping disappeared into tall riding boots. Above, a multi-hued slashed-sleeve shirt the color of the sun winked out from beneath a jacquard waistcoat fitted with glittering gold buttons. Unlike Lian’s, none were missing. There must have been forty. His hair, more the color of wheat than cinders, curled slightly where the ends twisted in and out of his collar. The absence of a braid promised a story. Pale eyes, set so deep as to almost appear brown in the candlelight, were keen. When he noticed Aralt looking at him, he spread wide his arms, glancing down at himself.

“Is my appearance more acceptable?”

“It suits you,” was all he could think to say. What he did not want to admit was how much Tycho resembled Deyr Evarr.

Veryl was churning like a water turbine, moving from one story to the next until he settled into the first story Aralt had ever heard him tell: Rosstafarr Alwynn and the Riahi escaping to Estevedyn following the first Naharasii Horror. Where history ended and fantasy began had long ago blurred into a single tale, oft repeated in the North, but never so well as when Veryl Alwynn told it. It was his voice, Aralt thought, and not for the first time. Deep as the deepest rifts in the Kell Sea, smooth as her glossy waves. And when he told of the Naharasii bleeding up out of the ground like flowing fire out of a burning mountain, Aralt could almost see their twisted, demonic faces. If the Naharasii he had battled in Tyrian had been wily creatures, stunted and lean and cruel, Veryl’s ghoulies were all the more. Their teeth were sharp, their eyes so transparent one could see the structure within. And when they spoke, for indeed they did, if only to lull their captives into a false sense of hope, their language clicked in their mouths until their enemies expected locusts to fly from their jaws.

Lian was enthralled by the tale. The lad hadn’t spoken for twenty minutes.

“I haven’t the heart to tell the rest,” Veryl told his audience, settling back in his chair. He twirled his fingers in his lap. “I’m a little ashamed I ever took such delight in so sordid a tale. Everyone knows what happened.”

“I don’t,” Lian piped up.

Aralt held his breath as the old man leaned forward, scrutinizing the boy sitting at his feet as if was the first time he had seen him. He reached out and tapped Lian’s nose. “Right you are, you don’t. Right you are. I can’t stop there, can I? You’ll have nightmares for sure.”

“He’ll have nightmares either way,” Aralt said under his breath. Scanlin jabbed him between the shoulder blades.

“Well, well, well. What happened next? What happened next? I’ll tell you what happened next, Marcynn’s grandson. Rosstafarr Alwynn’s legion stood against the ghoulies, but one by one they fell, the sound of their suffering filling long nights. When at last they overpowered him, they laid open his skin, sewed him into a sack with the most cursed sea creature they had ever captured, and threw them into the sea! The Naharasii expected the terrible fish to devour Rosstafarr, but he didn’t. That fish was a Riahi.”

Lian’s involuntary intake of breath was almost comical.

“Rosstafarr awoke in the tomb of the Patriarchs, the sack burned to ashes, blue light surrounding him. The Riahi caught his tears, touched them to his lips, and bid Rosstafarr to remember the sea, from whence creation on our world sprang.”

A soft chorus of night birds serenaded them from the eaves. Theirs was the only sound. No one spoke. No one moved until Lian whispered, “That’s beautiful.”

“I’m not finished.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Right, you should be. Now, where was I? Ah! Marcynn turned around and…”

“Papa?” Alira again, gently, patiently. How she did that, Aralt didn’t know, but if anything was beautiful that night, it was her. “That’s a different story.”

“It’s all the same story, child, because I told them. I told them the tale after we reached the island, and Marcynn spoke to the Riahi that came to visit us. And do you know what he said? Do you?”

“No, Papa.”

“Neither do I!”

Aralt had heard that story, too. The one about his grandfather and the others sailing to Illyn Arranach, the Kavistra’s Isle. The details about Riahi were subject to change, and in Val syr Tremayne’s version, Veryl was the one that got sick.

He raised his eyes to look at Lian, the air between them slipping like tears. Too late, he realized that the boy was reaching out to him, and he, being unprepared, had no means of escape. Darkness rolled over him, the solace of the night, shimmering into moonlight, then into water. They were swimming. Lian darted past him like a fish, intent on a bright object trailing glitter like a falling star. Each time his slender fingers almost touched it, it drifted farther into the depths, winking green gem-light. He clutched at his ring. No, it wasn’t that. Curiosity piqued, he kicked into the murky depths until he could go no further. His ears pounded as he turned toward the water’s surface, cramped legs propelling him up, up, up and into a star-pierced summer sky. He filled his lungs with life-giving air, and everything turned to silver glass.

He sank onto the nearest bench and put his head between his knees, waiting for the spinning to stop. He felt Scanlin’s strong hand on his shoulder, the unasked question of whether he was well hanging in the air.

“Am I boring you?” Veryl of Alwynn’s low voice rumbled.

“Oh, no, sir, not at all,” Lian answered.

“Not you. Aralt.”

He lifted his head. “Sir?”

“Mind on other matters?” Veryl looked at his daughter. “Heh.”

The night bell at the house on the hill rang three times.

“Papa, it’s been a long day and your guests are weary.”

“No longer than any other,” Veryl grumbled. Then he stroked her cheek fondly. “I know you’re just trying to help, child.”

She gathered his wrinkled hand between hers and kissed it, then helped her father to put on a pair of shoes. “Come. Lonn Ardhi and I will walk with you.”

“Yes, yes. All right. Bring the other Shirahnyn physician. I need to ask him more about the soup we were discussing. Aralt!” Veryl clapped him on the shoulder as he tottered by. “You’re staying the night in Kinara’s Landing?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Good, good. Be sure to meet Marcynn’s grandson. Remarkable resemblance. Remarkable. Keep an eye on him around boats…”

When they had all gone and Aralt dismissed Scanlin, Lian lit a prayer candle in the conventional manner and placed it on the altar. After a moment of silence, he lit another. The flames of both burned blue.

“If I’d known you were going to cause such trouble on the last one, I wouldn’t have put you on a boat at all.” He pulled the ponderous kirke door closed, and they strolled along the brick path back to the house. The sky above blazed in a riot of stars.

“I promise I won’t make any more trouble.”

“In general, or just tonight?”

Lian chuckled. “Did your grandfather tell the same stories?”

“Some. I suspect he knew more than he ever said. There are some things you just don’t share with others.” Not to do so, though, risked having them lost forever. He was glad Veryl still told them.

“Do you believe they saw Riahi?”

“I believe they saw what they thought were Riahi, yes. Just because I haven’t experienced it doesn’t mean it isn’t true…” What did that mean for things he had seen and could not fully fathom? On impulse, he asked, “How did you do it? Out on the river? I could hear them. Him. They were coming for Kolarin and Tevin.” He refused to consider they might also have been coming for him.

“Do you still? Hear him, I mean.”

“No,” he said, too quickly, conscious of the ache in his wounded shoulder. “Not right now.”

“Don’t listen to him.”

“You think I’ve taken the poison,” he said slowly. “Like Kolarin and Tevin. That I’m becoming—”

“No.” It was Lian’s turn to speak too quickly. He said nothing for a moment. “Sometimes I hear him, too. He whispers things.”

“What does he say?”

Lian looked up at him. “Lies.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. And on the river?” He refused to let Lian get away without an explanation.

“Oh, that? Parlor tricks,” Lian said, weaving his hands like a charm ’caster. “Smoke and mirrors. Well, steam and river. And fireworks. All I did was distract them.”

“Distract them, eh? Could have fooled me.”

“As long as I fooled them.” Lian shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think I will much longer.”

He stopped. “Then what will you do?”

Lian kept walking, but Aralt heard him plainly enough. “Start depending on you.”