Adalia and her hunters led the assault force out of town and onto a narrow road heading north and slightly west of the base of the cliff. “We’ll be able ta foller this here road fer about five miles afore it turns west. We’ll have ta go through the forest from there,” she explained to Kevlin.

“Have your men scout ahead,” Kevlin instructed. “Keep a sharp eye out for any more Grakonians.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Adalia banged one fist over her heart in a rough imitation of the soldier salute.

“Call me Kevlin. I hold no rank among these men.”

“I thought ye was a captain with givin’ us orders about wot ye wants us ta do.”

“I agree,” said Leander, who rode beside Kevlin. “Now that we’re on the road, tell us how you come to have the bearing of a leader of men.”

“You’re always looking for a good story,” the huge Donarri Captain Jerrik rumbled.

“Of course, my big friend,” replied Leander with another of his ready smiles. “Knowledge is power. I never pass up an opportunity to learn something new.”

“To give power over oneself to another takes a lot of trust,” said Kevlin.

“I do not seek power over anyone, my young friend. I merely seek knowledge, for with that knowledge we can know better how to work together.”

“That’s really all you’re after?”

“Of course. Using knowledge against my allies is against my religion.” Leander grinned and Kevlin couldn’t help but smile in return. The old man’s good humor was infectious, and for the first time in far too long, Kevlin felt he had met a person he could actually trust.

“You still owe me your story,” Ceren called from where she rode at the head of the column alongside Gabral.

“All right.” Kevlin thought for a moment, his eyes drifting up to the trees. A strange mood settled over him and words came unbidden to his lips. “I was born upon the waters of the sea, was forged to manhood in the heat of battle, and I’ve shed blood in all six kingdoms.”

Harafin, riding just ahead of Leander, said, “An interesting choice of words.”

“Sorry, just waxing poetic, I guess.”

He hadn’t planned to say it that way. Maybe spending so much time around cryptic sentinels was starting to rub off. Instead of annoying Harafin, the old man was studying Kevlin closely, far too interested.

“I really was born upon the waters of the sea,” Kevlin added. Or rather in the waters of the sea.”

At his companions’ questioning looks, he explained, “I was born into a merchant family. It’s a long-held belief among seafaring Meinarri that a child born in the waters of the Tamerlane Sea may be blessed by the touch of the Lady and accomplish great things. So my mother gave birth to me while hanging from the side of one of our ship’s boats, far out at sea.”

“I have heard of that custom,” Harafin said. “Although I've never met anyone born that way.”

“It never seemed to help. We weren’t very successful traders. For the first fourteen years of my life, I rarely spent more than a few days ashore at a time. We traded all through the empire, but never seemed to profit. I hated it."

"So I picked an interesting port and jumped ship.”

That sounded pretty good, and completely skipped the real reason he had finally fled his father’s ship. The memories of that sentinel had haunted his dreams for years. The day he jumped ship was the day he learned another sentinel had booked passage for their next journey.

“I didn’t have any plans about what to do next, but then I ran into a group of mercenaries. I thought at the time that the Wheel had spun in my favor. I’d seen little of fighting men on my father’s ship, and was very impressed. One old sergeant noted my interest and invited me to join them. With nothing better to do, I agreed.”

“Ye was a mercenary?” asked Adalia.

“Aye. It turned out they were recruiting to swell their ranks for some upcoming skirmish. I was given a spear and some rudimentary training, and placed in the front lines with the other new recruits.”

Kevlin paused, remembering that terrible day for the first time in many years. He clearly recalled the laughing face of the old sergeant who said, “If ye survive lad, ye might just make a decent soldier.”

It seemed the entire company was leaning closer to hear the story over the steady clopping of their horses’ hooves.

“That battle was terrifying, but I survived,” Kevlin said. “I had to kill for the first time.”

“You were lucky,” said Captain Drystan, the lanky Einarri. “Throwing you to almost certain death like that tells a lot about the leaders of that troop.”

“Aye,” agreed Kevlin. “Although it was quite a while before I realized that. I found I made a decent soldier, and for the next six years I crossed the empire from one skirmish to another. I gained some small promotions, convincing myself I had accomplished what I’d set out to do. Then about seven years ago, I was sent with the first mercenary company to Donarr.”

Jerrik surprised Kevlin by exclaiming, “I don’t believe it. You’re Kevlin the mercenary?”

“I just said so.”

Kevlin liked Donarri soldiers, but sometimes they were a little slow. He personally suspected it had something to do with the long winters and high altitudes.

“Tell me,” Jerrik said. “What are your thoughts about General Stigandr?”

So much for avoiding painful subjects.

“I’d kill General Stigandr on sight,” Kevlin said, trying to keep his memories bottled up. He failed and they came flooding back in a painful wave. “He betrayed us as much as he did your people. I just wish I’d been able to finish him when I had the chance.”

Jerrik whooped, a mighty yell that echoed through the forest, causing several of the horses to shy in surprise. He jumped from his horse and wrapped huge arms around Kevlin’s torso in a crushing grip.

Kevlin had met a lot of friendly people, but this was ridiculous. The big man lifted him bodily from the saddle. Kevlin couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. He was completely helpless.

Kevlin tried to shout to Jerrik to let go but only managed, “Ack, gurk!”

“Sorry.” Jerrik dropped him to the ground and pounded him on the back so hard, Kevlin stumbled into his horse.

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“What’s going on?” Gabral demanded.

Jerrik ignored him and clapped big hands on Kevlin’s shoulders so hard he nearly drove Kevlin to his knees. “By the Light,” Jerrik grinned, “To be the one to find you.”

“I’m glad we met,” Kevlin said, hoping the giant captain would let him go before killing him with friendliness.

Jerrik wasn’t finished.

“By my honor, I name Kevlin Swordbrother and Truefriend of Donarr.”

Kevlin had no idea how to respond to that.

“Well, well,” muttered Harafin.

Leander laughed heartily.

“Captain, I demand an explanation,” Gabral snapped, obviously confused and just as obviously upset about being confused.

Jerrik said, “Sir, this is Kevlin, commander of the first mercenary legion, and sworn truefriend of the Donarri people.”

“Hey, I’m the one telling the story,” Kevlin said.

“You hardly know this man,” Gabral protested, “and Truefriends can only be named in the presence of a king.”

“That’s usually the way of it, sir. But I do know this man, and our king commanded us not to miss the chance to name him truefriend when we found him.”

Kevlin really didn’t want to continue this conversation. He had hoped to gloss over a few things from his days in Donarr. “I think I would’ve remembered meeting you, Jerrik.”

“You know my brother,” Jerrik replied. “Our surname is Treyger.”

That shook Kevlin, triggering another flood of memories and exhuming a long-buried fear.

He spoke slowly. “So your older brother is Jannik Treyger, commander of the first Donarri legion?”

“Aye.”

Jerrik hadn’t tried to kill him, so Kevlin dared to ask, “And he’s all right?”

“By your warning, aye. If not for that, even Kamen’s Fury wouldn’t have saved the kingdom.”

Kevlin breathed a deep sigh of relief, hardly believing he could finally let that worry go. Too many memories from those days were painful. It felt so good to find a glimmer of hope filtering through the universal blackness.

“Would you mind sharing the good news with the rest of us?” asked Gabral evenly.

“Aye, sir,” replied Jerrik. “After the swordbrother ceremony.”

“You mean to conduct it here? Now?”

“Aye, sir. We can’t complete the truefriend appointment until we get to Tirloch and the king’s court, but the debt due my brother’s life demands I name him swordbrother immediately.”

Kevlin stared in stark amazement as Jerrik rolled back the sleeve of his jerkin to the elbow, revealing the corded muscles of his right forearm. He motioned Kevlin to do the same. Kevlin did so, his motions slow as he tried to grasp the abrupt change of fortune.

The company formed a circle around them, silently witnessing the unusual event unfolding in the middle of the forest road.

“Your blade,” said Jerrik solemnly.

On impulse, Kevlin drew Bajaran’s silver blade from the base of his neck. Jerrik stared at it for a moment, as if he had trouble seeing it, just as Kevlin had when he’d first picked it up.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

Too late. Jerrik was already extending his arm, palm up. With two deft slashes, Kevlin cut into Jerrik’s palm and forearm, leaving trails of blood in the blade’s wake. A powerful tingling sensation ran up Kevlin’s arm from the blade, then down through his body to his right boot where Tia Khoa lay hidden.

This definitely wasn’t a good idea.

Jerrik made no move, so Kevlin ignored the ominous feeling.

Please let me have something go right without the cursed magic interfering, he wished.

Jerrik took the blade and cut Kevlin’s palm and forearm. Though it didn’t hurt much, again he felt the strange tingling sensation. It spread up his arm from the wound but did not extend further. He accepted the blade and flexed his hand. Everything worked, so he pushed aside his growing concern.

He and Jerrik clasped palms to forearms, locking their arms in a powerful grip and mixing their blood.

Jerrik recited the ancient oath. “I, Jerrik Treyger, son of Liron Treyger, Lord of the Yochanan, recognize Kevlin of Meinarr as swordbrother and truefriend to Donarr, and kin of my kin. My Brother.”

Kevlin responded, the words flowing from his mouth smoothly as if he had practiced the ceremony a hundred times. “I, Kevlin of Meinarr, recognize Jerrik Treyger, son of Liron Treyger, swordbrother. Kin of my kin, my brother. I swear to defend and honor Donarr as my own kingdom and people.”

Those words, older than the empire itself, bound them as brothers in a bond as close as blood. As Kevlin spoke, a feeling of relief washed through him. Perhaps his life hadn’t been such a complete failure. Maybe he had been remembering only the wrong parts of it for too long.

Before they broke their grip, Drystan stepped forward, pulling back his own sleeve. The Einarri captain extended his arm over theirs, palm up. “I’ve heard what you did, Kevlin, and would like to honor it. May I add my oath to yours?”

“Back off,” Jerrik growled. “This isn’t about you.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

Kevlin groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was his new brother angry at him. It would probably be best to deny Drystan’s unusual request. Although not exactly rare, swordbrothers weren’t common. He’d never heard of three families uniting across different kingdoms when at least two came from noble houses.

Before Kevlin could respond, Jerrik broke the hold and rounded on Drystan. “You can’t resist, can you? Can’t stand for anyone else to be honored?”

“You really are as dumb as they say,” Drystan said.

Jerrik grabbed for his sword. Drystan grinned and swung his long spear around to the ready, his hawk-like eyes shining with eagerness to fight.

Just my luck. I’ll be the first man in history to get a swordbrother killed within minutes of swearing the oath.

Gabral pushed between the captains before they could start a duel. “Stand down. This will not happen.”

“Why not?” one of the soldiers called from the encircling ranks. “Let them fight. Contest match rules.”

“It won’t take long,” Jerrik said.

Drystan laughed. “I love it when they’re optimistic.”

“No,” Gabral said. “That’s an order. You two are not to fight each other until the mission is over. Then you can kill yourselves for all I care.”

Jerrik slammed his sword home, still scowling, while Drystan turned to Kevlin and held out his arm. Despite the furious glare from Jerrik, Kevlin nodded. He didn’t know the man, but it felt right to accept his oath. He might be sailing unfamiliar waters with everything to do with sentinels and magic, but he’d learned to trust his instincts.

Kevlin cut Drystan’s palm and forearm like he had Jerrik's, and again that odd tingling coursed through him. I wish this stuff would stop happening.

As the two clasped palms to forearms, the lanky Einarri captain proclaimed, "I Drystan Aldacosia, son of Birger Aldacosia, Herdmaster and Lord of the Chandana, Rider of the Einarr plains, recognize Kevlin of Meinarr swordbrother. Kin of my kin, my brother.”

Kevlin responded with the proper words and, hoping to break some of the tension, added, “Thank you, brothers. I am honored that you would mix your noble blood with that of a commoner.”

Jerrik growled to Drystan, “You may be Kevlin’s brother, but you’re not mine.”

Harafin pushed through the crowd. “Kevlin, show me your blade.”

He held up the silver dagger.

“Quick,” Harafin commanded. “Your wounds.”

The three men turned up their arms and Kevlin was amazed to see the cuts nearly healed. As they watched, the healing process completed, leaving only thin white scars to testify of the oaths they had just taken.

“How’d you manage that?” Kevlin asked.

“I did nothing,” Harafin said softly. “Nothing at all. I have seen a blade like that only once in my life, carried by the betrayer, Bajaran. One cut from that blade would kill a grown man in seconds. For a moment, I thought this was his cursed blade.”

“That would explain your concern,” remarked Drystan dryly.

“But does not explain what just happened,” Harafin said.

“Well, I’m glad Bajaran wasn’t the one wielding a blade today,” said Kevlin carefully. He hadn’t mentioned the silver dagger when relating his tale earlier, and still felt a great reluctance to do so.

Poisoned magic? That would explain why Antigonus couldn’t heal himself. And he’d just cut himself and his brothers with the same blade. The thought made his knees weak. He remembered how easily the dagger had cut through wood, and even metal.

So why weren’t they dead?

“I must give this further thought,” Harafin said softly.

“Later. We’re wasting time.” Gabral gave a stern look to Drystan and Jerrik, then ordered, “Mount up.” As they all obeyed, he added to Jerrik, “You will explain as we ride.”

“Aye, sir,” the big man said, still glowering.

That could have gone better, Kevlin thought. Despite the near violence, however, he felt happy. There was obviously more going on between his two new brothers than he knew, and they would have to work that out. At the moment, he felt confident they could do so.

Much remained to consider, but at least one thing was certain. His life had just changed. He was formally allied with two powerful families from different kingdoms. If he didn’t get either of them killed, for once the change might be a good one.

As he swung into the saddle, he caught Ceren staring at him, a thoughtful expression on her face as she nibbled on a lock of her auburn hair. She noticed him looking and glanced away quickly.

At least she wasn’t glaring anymore.

He studied her as the column moved forward, watching her sway in time with her mount, and his mind wandered back to that dark night when she’d kissed him. The fact that it wouldn’t ever happen again didn’t matter. It was a nice memory.

That memory led him to another, and his eyes drifted toward Indira. She’d rejected his kiss, but hadn’t slapped him. She was a puzzle. Could anyone really be that good and still live in this world? The very sight of her stirred powerful emotions that he couldn’t dare trust. The last time he allowed a woman into his life nearly killed him.

Some would say that death by a lover was the best kind.

They were idiots.