“Selenay, no hero am I,” he told her firmly but gently. “For heroes, look to young Mical, who I think was certain he would be killed when the actor he attacked. Or Myste, who is no great dissembler, and could not have herself defended, had Norris discovered her intent.”

“If you are no hero, then what are you?” she demanded.

He managed a smile—the first genuine smile he had felt on his face since she’d married. “Your Weaponsmaster. Your Herald.” And he held out his hand. “I hope, your friend and brother. Nothing more.”

She took it, and looked long and hard at him, and he knew then that at one point she herself must have had something of a crush on him, now long past—but that she was afraid that he might now be the one with secret feelings for her.

It wouldn’t have been the first time such a thing had happened. He was just as glad that the whole notion was so absurd. “I always wanted a brother, growing up,” she said aloud, and let go of his hand.

“Good.” He smiled again. “Then if my advice you will take, you will make of Myste and Mical great heroes, and let your Shadow Herald stay where best he is suited.”

“And I will second that,” Talamir agreed, and gave Alberich a look that the Weaponsmaster had no trouble interpreting. You can go now.

:Hmph. We know when we aren’t welcome.:

:Don’t be absurd,: he chided Kantor. :Do you really want her weeping and raging at us? Then do you want to be embroiled in the political maneuvering this is going to cause?:

:Well—: Kantor admitted. :No.:

:Good.: He scratched his head, encountered a patch of someone else’s dried blood in his hair, and grimaced. :I want a bath. Let’s go home.:

* * *

“I may never forgive you,” Myste said, her head on his shoulder. It was the first time she’d been in his quarters since the rescue, and he was mortally glad to have her there.

He would be even gladder to have her in his bed—but not quite yet. For now, it was enough to have her in his arms.

“For telling Selenay to make you a hero?” he asked, amused, and shifted a little on the couch so that his position was a little more comfortable. “Someone has to be.”

“But why me?” she demanded.

“Because you earned it,” he replied, staring into the stained-glass face of Vkandis Sunlord. “Because people need heroes. But primarily because you are the least likely hero I can think of.”

“Well, there I agree with you, but wouldn’t that—”

“Hear me out,” he interrupted. “People need heroes, and Heralds are that. But Heralds aren’t very ordinary.”

“Hmm.” She did think about it. “I see your point. Most of them are athletic, and even if they aren’t handsome, the Whites at least make them look distinguished.”