“Prince Rhy,” he began, “I’m not supposed to …”

“It’s all right,” said Rhy drolly. “I don’t think the Aven Essen means me any harm.”

Tieren’s silver brows inched up a fraction. “That remains to be seen,” said the priest evenly.

Vis was halfway through a step back, but stopped again at the words. Rhy sighed. Ever since the Black Night, the royal guards had been given strict instructions when it came to their kingdom’s heir. And its Antari. He didn’t know the exact words his father had used, but he was fairly sure they included don’t let them and out of your sight and possibly on pain of death.

“Vis,” he said slowly, trying to summon a semblance of his father’s stony command. “You insult me, and the head priest, with your enduring presence. There is one door in and out of this room. Stand on the other side with Tolners, and guard it.”

The impression must have been convincing, because Vis nodded and reluctantly withdrew.

Tieren lowered himself onto a broad stone bench against the wall, his white robes pooling around him, and Rhy came to sit beside him, slumping back against the stones.

“Not much humor in this bunch,” said Tieren when they were alone.

“None at all,” complained Rhy, rolling his shoulders. “I swear, sincerity is its own form of punishment.”

“The tournament preparations are coming along?”

“Indeed,” said Rhy. “The arenas are almost ready, and the empire tents are positively decadent. I almost envy the magicians.”

“Please tell me you’re not thinking of competing, too.”

“After all the trouble Kell went to, to keep me alive? That would be sore thanks.”

The smallest frown formed between Tieren’s eyes. On anyone else it would have been imperceptible, but on the Aven Essen’s calm face, it registered as discontent (though he claimed that Kell and Rhy were the only ones who managed to draw out that particular forehead crease).

“Speaking of Kell …” said Rhy.

Tieren’s gaze sharpened. “Have you reconsidered?”

“Did you really think I would?” “A man can hope.”

Rhy shook his head. “Anything we should be worried about?”

“Besides your own foolish plans? I don’t believe so.”

“And the helmet?”

“It will be ready.” The Aven Essen closed his eyes. “I’m getting too old for subterfuge.”

“He needs this, Tieren,” pressed Rhy. And then, with a coy smile, “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” answered Tieren. “Why?” One eye opened. “Are my grey hairs showing?”

Rhy smiled. Tieren’s head had been silver for as long as he could remember. Rhy loved the old man, and he suspected that, against Tieren’s better judgment, he loved Rhy, too. As the Aven Essen, he was the protector of the city, a gifted healer, and a very close friend to the crown. He’d mentored Kell as he came into his powers, and nursed Rhy back to health whenever he was sick, or when he’d done something foolish and didn’t want to get caught. He and Kell had certainly kept the old man busy over the years.

“You know,” said Tieren slowly, “you really should be more careful about who sees your mark.”

Rhy flashed him a look of mock affront. “You can’t expect me to remain clothed all the time, Master Tieren.”

“I do suppose that would be too much to ask.”

Rhy tipped his head back against the stones. “People assume it’s just a scar from that night,” he said, “which is exactly what it is, and as long as Kell remains clothed—which, let’s be honest, is a much easier demand—no one will realize it’s anything more.”

Tieren sighed, his universal signal for discontent. The truth was that the mark unsettled Rhy, more than he wanted to admit, and hiding it only made it feel more like a curse. And, strangely, it was all he had. Looking down at his arms, his chest, Rhy saw that aside from the silvery burst of spell work, and the knife wound that looked so small and pale beneath, he bore very few scars. The seal wasn’t pleasant, but it was a scar he’d earned. And one he needed to live with.

“People whisper,” observed Tieren.

“If I make a point of hiding it any more than I do, they will just whisper more.”

What would have happened, wondered Rhy, if I had gone to Tieren with my fears of weakness, instead of accepting Holland’s gift for strength? Would the priest have known what to say? How to help? Rhy had confessed to Tieren, in the weeks after the incident. Told him about accepting the talisman—the possession charm—expecting one of the old man’s reprimands. Instead Tieren had listened, speaking only when Rhy was out of words.

“Strength and weakness are tangled things,” the Aven Essen had said. “They look so much alike, we often confuse them, the way we confuse magic and power.”

Rhy had found the response flip, but in the months that followed, Tieren had been there, at Rhy’s side, a reminder and a support.

When he looked over at Tieren now, the man was staring at the water, past it, as if he could see something there, reflected in the surface, or the steam.

Maybe Rhy could learn to do that. Scry. But Tieren told him once it wasn’t so much about looking out as looking in, and Rhy wasn’t sure he wanted to spend any more time than necessary doing that. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling—the hope—that everyone was born with the ability to do something, that if he just searched hard enough he would find it. His gift. His purpose.