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“You’re Kithnaryin,” Brendin said quietly after Jericho finished her story.

Surprised, albeit pleasantly so, the woman smiled.  “Yes, I am.”  Worry caught in her mind a moment.  It was unlikely, but if he knew of her people he might know the legend she told.  And if he knew that much, he might know who Jericho was.

“Falmarin?”

“Falkidarin,” Jericho corrected.  “My grandmother was Falmari.”  She analyzed him in turn now.  He spoke with a slight accent she had difficulty placing.  But the grey eyes and red-blonde hair…  “And you, my friend, are you a Kelt?”

He shook his head.  “My father was, I believe.”

“And your mother?”

“The Northern Marshal.”

“Ah.”  So he was from Haven.  “You are a duke, then.”

Brendin nodded and a silence fell.  He soon noticed Alessio gazing at him in anticipation, and realized they were waiting for another story.  His story.  A sudden unease crept upon him.  “If you wish to hear my story,” he said quietly, “I’m afraid I’ll disappoint.”

Intrigued, Jericho quirked a brow.  She had suspicions, but they were yet to be confirmed.  “How so?” she asked.

The man shrugged, clearly somewhat uncomfortable.  “I know only fragments of it.  I remember little.”

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