A final straining groan rang out just before noon, followed by a thin wail and exclamations of delight from the women. Micum pushed himself up as old Arna emerged beaming from the birthing room.

"Oh, Master Micum!" she cried, wiping her hands on a towel. "He's the sweetest little redheaded mite you ever saw. And strong, too, for an early babe. He's sucking already, nice as you please. It was Dalna's own mercy she brought him out early or she'd have had a worse time of it than she did, poor lamb. Give us a moment to clear up the bed and then come in, all of you. She wants you all!"

"A son!" shouted Micum, wrapping his arms around his friends" shoulders. "A son, by the Four!"

"He's all wrinkled up and red and covered in muck!" squealed Illia, bounding out to hug him.

"And he has red hair like you and Beka. Come and see. Mother's so happy!"

Kari lay tucked up in the wide bed with a tiny bundle laid to her breast. To Alec, the least experienced in such matters, she looked dreadful, as if she'd been ill, but the serene smile she greeted him with belied it.

Micum kissed her, then took the child in his arms.

"He's as lovely and strong as all the others," he whispered huskily, gazing down into the wizened little face beneath the damp shock of coppery hair. "Come on, you two, and greet my son."

"I'm so glad you were there this morning, Alec." Kari reached for his hand and laughed. "You should have seen your face, though."

Seregil peered over Micum's shoulder for a better look at the child, and Alec saw a smile of genuine pleasure soften his friend's drawn features for the first time in months.

"What will you call him?" Seregil asked. "We'd thought to call him Bornil, after my father,"

Kari replied, "but looking at him now, it doesn't seem to fit. What do you think, Micum?"

He laughed and shook his head. "I'm too fuddled to think."

Kari looked up at Seregil, who was still smiling down at the child. "Then perhaps you can help us again, as you did with Illia. As the oldest and dearest friend of this family, help us name our son."

Micum handed the baby to Seregil. Gazing at him thoughtfully, he said, "Gherin, I think, if you'd have another Aurenfaie name in the family."

"Gherin?" Kari tried the sound of it. "I like that. What does it mean?"

"Early blessing," was Seregil replied quietly.

Thank the Maker, Alec thought gratefully, watching Seregil with the child.

That's the most peaceful I've seen him since we got back. Maybe his spirit is finally healing after all.

A warm night breeze sighed in through the open window.

The sound of it seemed to echo Seregil's inner loneliness.

It was ironic, really. The first time he and Alec had stayed in this room, Alec had kept stiffly to his side of the bed; these past weeks Seregil often woke to find him lying close beside him, as he was now. Alec had thrown one arm across Seregil's chest, his breath soft at his bare shoulder.

Why can't I feel anything?

Lying there in the moonlight, Seregil stroked Alec's fair hair and summoned the memory of the kiss they'd shared that day in Plenimar.

Even that had been sucked pale and flat.

Since Nysander's death all his emotions seemed to have fled to a distance, felt dimly, as if through a pane of thick glass.

It was too late now, too late for anything. He was too empty. Covering Alec's hand with his own, he watched the stars wheel toward morning, thinking of Gherin.

His mind had ranged far these last weeks, turning round and round on itself as he struggled to reach some decision that would bring him peace. Looking down into the face of Micum's tiny new son today, he'd suddenly felt that the sign he'd been waiting for had been given at last. With this last thread of the past tied off, he could go.

An hour before dawn, he slipped out of bed and pulled on his clothes. Throwing his old pack over one shoulder, he took a small bundle from its hiding place behind the wardrobe, then closed the shutters to keep out the morning light. Alec mustn't waken until he was well away from here.

Moving with his natural silence past the sleeping servants in the hall, he went to Micum's chamber. A night lamp still burned there, and by its light he watched his old companion sleeping so peacefully in his wife's arms. Micum was home.

Seregil laid a rolled parchment at the foot of the bed, along with small packets of jewels for each of the children. On his way out, he paused beside Gherin's cradle.

The infant lay on his back, arms flung over his head. Seregil ran a fingertip lightly over one tiny fist, marveling at the fragility of the silken skin. Gherin stirred, sucking contentedly in his sleep.

In twenty years you'll be the young man your father was when I met him, Seregil told him silently, touching the infant's fuzzy red hair.

What would it be like to see you then?

Seregil pushed the thought away and stole hurriedly away. He wouldn't be back, not in twenty years, not ever. He owed them all that much.

Leaving Alec was even harder than he'd feared.

Against all better judgment, he went back to the open doorway of the room they'd shared so chastely, knowing full well that if Alec so much as opened an eye, he was lost.

Alec lay curled on his side now, blond hair tumbled over the pillow. A dull ache gripped Seregil's heart; all the nights he'd been lulled by that soft breathing, all the things that might have been, seemed to come together at once in a tight knot at the base of his throat.

If only Nysander hadn't—

Seregil placed a thick roll of parchments on the doorsill: the letter, too painful to be anything but brief; documents making Alec of Ivywell heir to all Lord Seregil's holdings in the city; the lists of names and secrets and money holders. It was all there, carefully set down. When Alec sorted them out he'd discover that even minus what Seregil had deeded to Micum and a few others, he would be one of the wealthiest young men in Skala.

Good-bye, tali.

The stars were dying as he led Cynril down the road below Watermead. When he judged he was far enough away to ride without waking the house, he swung up into the saddle and nudged the horse into a brisk trot. It was a little easier now, riding along at first light, the air already warm and redolent with the scent of the wild roses blooming in the meadow.

A flight of wild geese rose from the river. He could almost see Alec on the bank below, trying to coax Patch out of the stream with a scrap of leather.

The boy had been all innocence and good intentions then; why had he worked so hard to sully that?

He rode up onto the bridge and reined Cynril to a halt. Mist was rising from the stream's surface, coiling up to turn gold with the first touch of dawn. It looked, Seregil thought, like some magical pathway leading up to unexplored realms. Pulling the poniard from his boot, he tested the well-honed edge, then looked up the shining stream again.

It was as good a direction as any.

Something brushed Alec's hand and he opened one eye, expecting to see Illia or one of the dogs.

Nysander was standing beside the bed.

"Go after him," Nysander whispered, his voice faint as if it came from a great distance.

Alec lurched up, his heart pounding. Nysander had disappeared, if he'd-ever been there at all.

Worse yet, Seregil was gone. Alec slid his hand over the sheets where Seregil had slept. They were cold.

Whether dream or vision, the urgency of Nysander's warning grew stronger by the second.

Just like that other night, riding back to the inn.

Scrambling out of bed, Alec hauled on breeches and a shirt and headed for the door. His bare foot struck something as he crossed the threshold. It was a thick roll of parchments bound with plain string.