11

Dark Pursuit
 

The cart bumped along over the rutted dirt road through the rolling Mycenian countryside. Seregil sat huddled in his cloak beside Alec on the single rough bench. It wasn't as cold here yet as it had been in the northlands, but snow wasn't far off and the chill seemed to get into his bones.

He found that if he stayed very still he could clear his mind, holding both the pain in his head and the increasingly frequent fits of irrational rage at a manageable level. It was exhausting work. In his more lucid moments he was relieved at how well Alec was managing, though the fact that the boy had not yet slipped away, despite ample justification and opportunity, continued to baffle him.

Their first night ashore in Torburn, they'd taken a tiny room near the riverfront and changed back into their stained traveling clothes. It was then that Alec had calmly outlined his plan.

"You're sick," he began, looking very deliberate. "Since you think this Nysander is the only one who can help, I say we push on for Rhíminee."

Seregil nodded.

Taking a deep breath, Alec continued, "All right then. The way I understand it, the fastest route this time of year is to go overland to Keston, then take a ship to the city—one that goes by way of a canal at somewhere called Cirna. I don't know where any of those places are. You can help me or I'll ask directions as we go, but that's what I mean to do."

Seregil began to buckle on his sword. After a moment's hesitation, however, he handed it instead to Alec. "You'd better take this, and these."

He gave Alec his belt dagger and a small, razorlike blade from the neck of his cloak.

Alec took them without comment, then said almost apologetically, "There's one more."

"So there is." Seregil drew the poniard from his boot and handed it over, fighting back another twinge of hot rage as he did so.

It was an uncomfortable moment for both of them, each knowing perfectly well that these precautions would be useless if Seregil made up his mind to retrieve his weapons. Alec, Seregil noted, kept his own weapons about him.

"How many days will it take to reach Keston?" Alec asked when they were done.

Seregil lay back on the bed and fixed his gaze on the rafters. "Two, if we ride hard, but I doubt I'll be able to do that."

His head hurt again; how long now until another fit came on? A brisk walk in the night air might have helped, but he was too sick to attempt it. Better to concentrate on helping Alec with the details at hand.

"I'll need money," Alec said. "What do you have left?"

Seregil tossed him a purse containing five silver marks and the jewelry he'd worn aboard the Darter.

Turning out his own pouch, Alec added two copper halfs and the Skalan silver piece.

"Hang on to the jewels for now," Seregil advised. "You're not dressed well enough to hawk them without attracting notice. Sell the clothes, though."

"They won't bring much."

"Illior's Hands, money's not the only way to get something! I should think you've been around me long enough to have learned that."
 

* * *

 

It was dark by the time Alec entered the Torburn marketplace. Only a few of the booths around the square were open, but he finally found a clothier. The dealer proved to be a shrewd bargainer and he came away with a disappointing four silver pennies.

He let out a harsh sigh, tucking the coins away. "That's not going to make my task any easier."

Passing a woman frying sausages on a brazier, he paused longingly, then moved on still hungry.

An hour later, after some hard bargaining, he was the owner of a battered pony cart. Though hardly more than a large box set on a single axle, it looked sturdy enough. This, and the purchase of a few modest provisions, left him with exactly two copper halfs and the Skalan coin. Buying a horse was clearly out of the question.

Time I turned thief for good, he thought, still stinging from Seregil's parting admonition.

He returned to the inn for a few hour's sleep, then slipped quietly downstairs just before dawn.

Letting himself out a side door, he pulled on his boots and headed for the stable.

Great droves of silver-gilded clouds moved slowly past the sinking moon. Alec's heart hammered uncomfortably in his chest as he lifted the latch on the stable door. With a silent prayer to Illior, protector of thieves, he crept in.

A guttering night lantern gave enough light for him to avoid the drunken stable hand snoring in an empty stall. Moving on, a shaggy brown and white pony caught his eye. Throwing a halter around its neck, he led the beast out to the nearby alley where he'd hidden the cart and harnessed it. With this completed, he hurried back to the room.

Seregil was awake and ready to go. One look told Alec that his night had not been a peaceful one.

Despite this, he eyed Alec's cart and pony with a shadow of his old crooked smile, his face just visible in the failing moonlight.

"Which one did you pay for?" he asked softly.

"The cart."

"Good."

 

* * *

 

By sunrise they were well on their way to Keston.

The road wound through rolling winter-bare farmland and countryside and they met only a few wagons and an occasional patrol of the local militia. With the harvest in and the Gold Road closing down until spring, Mycena would be a quiet place through the winter.

Seregil sank deeper into gloomy silence through the day, answering Alec's few attempts at conversation in such a dispirited manner that he soon gave up. When they stopped for the night at a wayside inn, Seregil retired immediately, leaving Alec to sit alone over his ale in the common room.

 

By the next morning Seregil's hunger had faded to a hollow ache; even the thought of water nauseated him.

Worse still, he was feeling guilty about Alec. The boy had proved too honorable to run off, but how he must be regretting his vow to stay. Seregil was trying to gather the strength for pleasant conversation as they road along when a hint of motion caught his eye off to the left. He turned quickly, but the field was empty. He rubbed at his eyes, thinking it was a trick of his weakened body, but the flicker came again, just on the edge of his vision.

"What's the matter?" asked Alec, giving him a puzzled look.

"Nothing." Seregil scanned the empty countryside. "Thought I saw something."

The annoying flicker came repeatedly as the day went on, and by afternoon he was more tense and withdrawn than ever. It might be some new quirk of the madness growing in him, he thought, but well-tried instincts counseled otherwise. Another violent headache had also grown through the day, leaving him too dull-witted and queasy to give the matter proper consideration.

Pulling his cloak tight against the cold wind, he kept watch and fought off the desire to sleep.

They spent that night in the hayloft of a lonely farmstead. Seregil's nightmares returned in force and he woke up bathed in a cold sweat at dawn.

An undefined sense of anxiety gnawed at him; he couldn't recall the details of the dream, but the wary sidelong glances he caught from Alec suggested that he'd been more restless than usual. He was just considering asking the boy about it when he thought he saw motion in a dark corner of the barn. Alec was busy with the harness and didn't see him brace, reaching for the sword that no longer hung at his side. There was nothing there.

 

This will be his fourth day without eating, Alec thought as they rattled off down the road again.

Wan and hollow-eyed as Seregil looked, he was bearing up better than Alec had imagined possible. Physically, that was; Seregil's odd behavior was increasingly alarming.

Today he sat hunched over like an old man, despondent except for occasional bursts of intent alertness. At those moments, a terrible glitter came in his eyes and his fists would clench until it seemed his knuckles must surely break through the skin. This new development, coupled with the strange events of the previous night, did not bode well.

Alec was beginning to be as frightened of Seregil as he was for him.

He hadn't intended to sleep the previous night, but the exhaustion of the past few days caught up with him and he'd dozed off. In the middle of the night he'd awakened to find Seregil crouched less than a foot away, eyes shining like a cat's in the dark, his breathing was so harsh it was almost a growl. Motionless, he simply stared at Alec.

Alec wasn't certain how long they'd remained frozen like that, staring each other down, but Seregil finally turned away and threw himself down in the straw.

Alec had spent the remainder of the night keeping watch from a safe distance.

In the morning neither of them spoke of the incident.

Alec doubted whether Seregil recalled it at all. But that, together with Seregil's nervous vigilance today, strengthened his resolve to not close his eyes again until he could lock his companion safely in a ship's cabin at sea.

Driving along in daylight, however, Alec could see all too clearly how Seregil was suffering. Reaching behind the bench, he pulled out one of their tattered blankets and laid it over his shoulders.

"You're not looking so good."

"Neither are you," Seregil croaked through dry lips.

"If we drive through the night, we might make Keston by tomorrow afternoon. I could probably manage the reins for a while-if you need to sleep."

"No, I'll be fine!" Alec replied quickly. Too quickly, it seemed, for Seregil turned away and resumed his morose vigil.

 

The sense of pursuit grew stronger as the day dragged on. Seregil was beginning to catch glimpses of whatever it was that stalked him, a glimmer of movement, the blur of a dark figure that disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Just after midday he started so violently that Alec laid a hand on his arm.

"What is it?" he demanded. "You've been doing that since yesterday."

"It's nothing," Seregil muttered, but this time he was certain he'd caught sight of someone on the road far behind them.

Soon after, they topped the crest of a hill and came upon a Dalnan funeral. Several well-dressed men and women and two young children stood by the road, singing as they watched a young farmer driving an ox and plow in the middle of an empty field. The winter soil gave way grudgingly before the plowshare, coming up in frozen plates of earth. An elderly woman followed the driver, scattering handfuls of ash from a wooden bowl into the fresh furrow. When the last of it was gone, she carefully wiped out the inside of the dish with a handful of earth and poured it out onto the ground. The farmer turned the ox and plowed slowly back over it.

A dusting of snow floated down as Alec and Seregil rattled past in their cart.

"It's the same as in the north," Alec remarked.

Seregil glanced back listlessly.

"The way they plow the ashes of the dead back into the earth, I mean. And the song they were singing was the same."

"I didn't notice. What was it?"

Encouraged by his companion's show of interest, Alec sang:

"All that we are is given by you, O Dalna, Maker and Provider.

In death we return your bounty and become one with your wondrous creation.

Accept the dead back into the fertile earth that new life may spring from the ashes

And at the planting and at the harvest will the dead be remembered.

Nothing can be lost in the hand of the Maker. Nothing can be lost in the hand of the Maker."

Seregil nodded. "I've heard that—"
Breaking off suddenly, he lunged for the reins and yanked the pony to a stop. "By the Four, look there!" he gasped, looking wildly across the field on their left. A tall, black-swathed figure stood less than a hundred yards from the road.

"Where? What is it?"

"Right there!" Seregil hissed.

Even at the distance of a bow shot Seregil could see something amiss in the lines of the figure, some profound wrongness of proportion that disturbed him more than the fact that Alec obviously could not see it himself.

"Who are you?" Seregil shouted, more frightened than angry.

The dark figure regarded him silently, then bowed deeply and began a grotesque dance, leaping and capering about in a fashion that would have been ridiculous if it wasn't so horrible. Seregil felt his whole body go numb as the nightmarish performance continued.

Shuddering, he shoved the reins into Alec's hands.

"Get us away from here!"

Alec whipped up the pony without question.

When Seregil looked back, the weird creature had vanished.

"What was that all about?" Alec demanded, raising his voice to be heard over the rattling of the cart.

Trembling, Seregil gripped the edge of the seat and said nothing. A few moments later he looked up to find the thing walking in the road ahead of them. At this range he could see that it was too tall to be a man. And there was too much distance between the shoulders and the head, not enough between shoulders and hips, so that the arms appeared immensely long, its movements graceless but powerful. It looked back over one sloping shoulder and beckoned to him, as if to hurry him toward some destination.

"Look there!" Seregil cried in spite of himself, gripping Alec's arm as he pointed. "All in black. Bilairy's Eyes, you must see it now!"

"I don't see anything!" Alec replied, the edge of fear clear in his voice.

Seregil released him with a snarl of exasperation.

"Are you blind? It's as tall as a—" But even as he pointed again it vanished with a parting wave of its arm. An icy wave of fear rolled over him.

Throughout the remainder of that leaden afternoon his dark tormentor toyed with him, playing an evil game of hide-and-seek. First Seregil would spy it far off, spinning madly in the middle of a bare field. A moment later it would appear beside him, striding beside the cart close enough to touch. A troop of Mycenian militia rode by and he saw it lurching along unnoticed in their midst; soon after it rode past in the opposite direction on the back of a farm wagon.

Alec clearly could not see it and Seregil soon gave up calling his attention to it; whatever the visitations meant, they were for him alone.

The worst came just as the sun was stooping to the horizon. He hadn't seen the specter for nearly half an hour. Suddenly a wave of appalling coldness engulfed him. Jumping unsteadily to his feet, he whirled to find the creature crouched in the tail of the cart, arms outstretched as if to gather both Alec and him to its breast. The hem of its black sleeve actually brushed Alec's head.

Then it laughed. An obscenely rich chuckle bubbled up from the depths of the black hood and with the sound came a charnel stench so revolting that Seregil retched dryly even as he grappled with Alec for the boy's sword.

Obviously convinced that Seregil had gone completely mad at last, Alec fought him for it and they both toppled over the side.

They came down hard with Seregil on top. The pony continued on a few yards, then shuffled to a stop. Looking up, Seregil saw that the cart was empty.

He rocked back on his heels and drew in deep, shuddering breaths, one hand pressed to his chest.

"Look at me!" Alec demanded angrily, scrambling up to grasp him by the shoulders. "Never mind about the pony. It's not going anywhere. You've got to tell me what's going on! I want to help you, but damn it, Seregil, you've got to talk to me!"

Seregil shook his head slowly, still staring over his shoulder at the cart. "Get us off the road before dark!" he whispered.

"Tell me what you saw!" Alec cried, shaking him in frustration.

Seregil focused on Alec then, clutching at the front of the boy's tunic in desperation. "We must get off the road!"

Alec regarded him for a long moment, then shook his head resignedly. "We will," he promised.

 

They came to a ramshackle crossroads inn just before dark. Seregil's legs buckled as he stepped down from the cart and Alec had to help him inside.

"I want a room. No, two rooms," Alec told the innkeeper curtly.

"Top of the stairs." The man eyed Seregil nervously. "Is your friend here sick?"

"Not so sick that I can't pay," Seregil said, forcing a smile. It took all his concentration to make it convincing and as soon as he was out of the man's sight he dropped the pretense, sagging against Alec as they climbed the narrow stairs.

Suddenly he was tired, so tired! He was already half asleep as Alec lowered him onto a bed.

He dozed, woke, dozed again. Alec was there for a time. He tried to help Seregil drink, but he wasn't thirsty, just tired. Presently, Alec left and Seregil heard a key turn in the lock.

It was all very strange, but he was too sleepy to think about it anymore. Turning onto his side, he drifted deeper into a murky doze.

He woke up shivering sometime later. The room had grown cold and Alec was crowding him off the bed against the wall, digging an elbow into the small of his back in the process. Twisting a bit, he tried to reclaim some space, but it was just too cold to sleep. Could the window be open? Did this room have a window? It seemed to him it didn't.

Giving up, he opened his eyes to check and found the night lamp still burning.

"Damn it, Alec, move—" The words died in his throat.

It wasn't Alec pressing against him, but his tormentor, the black specter. It lay face up, arms crossed over its breast in the frightful parody of a tomb effigy. It remained perfectly motionless as Seregil dragged himself over the foot of the bed and scrambled for the door. Too late he remembered hearing the key turn; he was locked in.

"Alec! Alec, help me!" he shouted, pounding on the door. Dizzying panic constricted around his chest like bands of iron.

"No one will hear you."

The creature's voice was like a high wind rushing through the naked branches of winter trees-sardonic, inhuman, the embodiment of desolation. Seregil turned and the dark thing sat up, its upper body levering in a single rigid motion like the folding of a clasp knife. In the same unnatural fashion it bent forward slightly and stood up. It seemed to fill the cramped room.

Seregil tried to cry out again, but no sound came out.

"He can't help you now." Waves of frigid cold radiated from the figure, and with it the same terrible stench.

"What are you?" Seregil demanded in a strangled whisper.

The specter advanced a step, halving the distance between them. "You led a good chase," it replied in its soft, moaning voice. "But there is no escape, no forgiveness for such as you."

Seregil flattened himself against the wall, eyes darting about the room for some cover, finding none. "What do you want?"

"Don't you know? Such a pity to die in ignorance. But it is all one to us. You are a thief, and we want back what you have stolen. You can elude us no longer."

"Tell me what it is!"

Anger and despair mingled with his fear to recall a tentative shred of courage.

Stretching its arms out across the ceiling, the loathsome thing wheezed out another blast of sepulchral fetor.

He was going to die; not knowing why seemed the final injustice.

The figure laughed again as it reached down for him, the sound of its voice tugging at the last roots of his sanity.

"No!" Snarling, Seregil sprang at it.

For a brief second his hands seemed to grasp at some distorted form, then he slammed into the far wall.

When he whirled about, the creature was standing by the door.

Another of the strange fits of blood lust came over Seregil then and this time he welcomed it, opening himself to the strength it lent. He ached with it, was driven mad with it as he flew at the dark thing. The night candle was kicked over and went out but still he fought on, finding the creature with his hands, feeling the chill of it slip away again and again.

Suddenly his fingers found purchase. The form grew solid and he clawed at it, seeking a throat with his hands.

It toyed with him, fending him off without returning his blows.

The game did not last long, however. Huge talons sank suddenly into his chest and the world erupted in a searing blast of pain. Mercifully, his mind went out.

 

Alec lay half strangled on the cold floor beside Seregil. In the darkness he couldn't see what had happened to his hand, but it hurt like hell.

"What's going on up there?" the landlord shouted angrily from the far end of the passage. "I'll not have my house torn up in the middle of the night, do you hear?"

"Bring a light. Hurry!" Alec gasped, struggling one-handed to his knees.

The landlord appeared in the doorway, candle in one hand, a stout cudgel in the other. "Sounds like someone's being murdered up—" He stopped short as his light fell over them.

Seregil lay unconscious or worse, blood staining the breast of his shirt and his throat. Alec realized he probably didn't look much better.

His nose was bleeding where Seregil had struck him, and his face and neck were badly scratched. Cradling his left hand against his chest, he saw what looked like a round, raw burn in the center of his palm.

"Hold the light down," he told the innkeeper.

Kneeling over Seregil, he made certain his friend was still breathing, then pulled the neck of his shirt open and gasped in dismay.

The last time he'd seen the reddened area on Seregil's chest had been aboard the Darter.

Now there was a bloody wound in the same spot.

Holding the palm of his throbbing hand to the light again, Alec saw that his burn and this mark were exactly the same size and shape.

On the floor beside Seregil lay the wooden disk, the useless trinket he had stolen from the mayor's house because it wouldn't be missed. Picking it up gingerly by the broken leather thong, Alec compared it to the strange burn on his palm and the one on Seregil's chest.

It matched perfectly. Looking closer, he could even make out the print of the small square opening in its center.

It was right in front of us all the time! he thought in silent anguish. How could he not have known? Why didn't I see?

He'd been awakened by the sound of Seregil crashing about in the next room and gone to see what was the matter. In his haste he forgot the lamp and cursed angrily to himself as he'd fumbled the key into the lock of Seregil's door. The hallway was dark, the room inside darker still. In spite of the noise, he'd been unprepared for the attack that came the moment he stepped in.

When cold fingers grasped at his throat, Alec's only thought was how he could defend himself without injuring Seregil. He was trying to get a better grip on Seregil's tunic when his hand slipped inside the neck of it. Finding the thong under his hand, he'd grabbed for it, felt it sliding away as Seregil drew back. Then the terrible pain.

"What sort of foolishness is this?" the landlord demanded, looking over Alec's shoulder. Then the man was backing way, making a sign against evil.

"You've killed him with sorcery!"

Alec thrust the disk out of sight. "He's not dead. Come back here with that light!"

But the man fled. Cursing in frustration, Alec stumbled to his own room and struck a light.

What was he to do with the cursed disk? Throwing it into the fire seemed to be the wisest course of action, yet doubt stayed his hand; Seregil had thought it valuable enough to steal, and later had said he was determined to get it to Rhíminee.

Handling it only by the leather lacing, he found a patched tunic in Seregil's pack and rolled the disk up in it. Shoving it to the bottom of the pack, he carried their gear downstairs and hurried back for Seregil. The innkeeper and his family had barricaded themselves in the kitchen storeroom and, despite his various pleas and assurances, refused to come out.

In the end he had to get Seregil down by himself, carrying the unconscious man across his shoulders like a slaughtered deer. Once downstairs, he laid him on a table and went through the kitchen again to the storeroom.

"You in there!" he called through the door. "I need a few supplies. I'll leave money on the mantelpiece."

There was no reply.

A candle stood in a dish on the sideboard.

Lighting it with an ember from the banked fire, he cast about for food. Most of it was locked in the storeroom with its owner but he still managed to come away with a basket of boiled eggs, a jug of brandy, half a wheel of good Mycenian cheese, some new bread, and a sack of pippins. Going out to the well, he discovered a jar of milk let to cool and added that to his haul.

Stowing everything beneath the seat of the cart, he used their blankets and a few from the inn to make a pallet in the back.

When everything was ready, he carried Seregil out to the makeshift bed and carefully wrapped him up.

Except for his labored breathing, Seregil looked like a dead man on a bier.

"Well, he won't get any better sitting here," Alec muttered grimly, slapping the reins over the pony's rump. "I said we were going to Rhíminee, and that's where I mean to go!"

12

Alone

—did the dead sleep within death? Some vestige of his living consciousness sensed the passage of time. There was a change of some sort, but what? Slowly he became aware of pain but it was muted, experienced at a distance.

Very odd.

Smells came with the pain, the smell of illness, infection, the unwashed odors of his own body from which his fastidious nature recoiled even as he rejoiced in the ability to discern them. Perhaps he wasn't dead, after all? He had neither explanation for his predicament nor memory of his past and now even the pain was slipping away again. Silently, helplessly, he willed it back, but it was gone.

He was alone. And lonely—

 

Alec drove as hard as he dared, determined to reach the seaport by the following day. He stopped only to rest the pony and tend Seregil's wound.

The burn on his own hand made his arm ache to the elbow, but it was scabbing over already. Inspecting Seregil's breast in daylight, however, he found that the wound there was still raw, with angry lines of infection fanning out from it.

He stopped at the next farmstead they came to, hoping to beg a few herbs and some linen. The old wife there took one look at Seregil and disappeared back into her kitchen, returning a few moments later with a basket containing yarrow salve and aloes, clean linen rags, a flask of willow bark tea and one of milk, fresh cheese, bread, and half a dozen apples.

"I-I can't pay you," he stammered, overwhelmed by such generosity.

The old woman smiled, patting his arm. "You don't need to," she said in her thick Mycenian accent. "The Maker sees every kind deed."

 

The countryside fell away into gentle slopes as Alec drove westward toward Keston. By the following afternoon they came down into more settled country.

There was a different scent on the breeze here. It was a water smell, but with an unfamiliar tang.

Gulls wheeled overhead, much larger than the little black-headed ones on Blackwater Lake. These birds had long yellow beaks and grey wings tipped with black. Great flocks of them flew overhead or picked their way over empty fields and rubbish heaps.

Topping a rise, Alec saw in the distance what could only be the sea. Awestruck, he reined in and stared out over it. The sun was low. The first golden stain of sunset spread a glittering band across the silver-green water. A scattering of islands lay like knucklebones cast along the coastline, some dark with trees, others bare chunks of stone thrusting above the waves.

The road wound on down to the coast, ending in a sprawling town that hugged the shore of a broad bay.

"You must be an inlander."

An old tinker had come up beside the cart. Wizened and bandy-legged, the fellow was bowed nearly double under the large pack he carried. What Alec could see of his face beneath the brim of his battered slouch hat was dark with stubble and dust.

"You've the look of an inlander finding the sea for the first time. Sitting there gape-mouthed like that, you couldn't be nothin' else," the old relic observed with a rusty chuckle.

"It's the biggest thing I ever saw!"

"Looks even bigger when yer in the middle of 'er," the tinker said. "I was a sailor in me youth, before a shark took me leg for dinner."

Twitching his dusty cloak back, he showed Alec the wooden peg strapped to the stump of his left leg.

Cleverly carved to resemble the limb it replaced, the end of it was made in the shape of a wooden clog that neatly matched the real one on his other foot.

"Trampin' all the day, I don't know which foot gets more sore. Might you offer a fellow traveler a ride into town?"

"Climb up." Alec reached to aid him.

"Much obliged. Hannock of Brithia, at your service," the tinker said, settling himself on the bench.

There was an expectant pause.

"Aren. Aren Silverleaf." Alec felt a bit silly giving the old man a false name, but it was becoming a habit.

Hannock touched a finger to the brim of his hat.

"Well met, Aren. What happened to your friend in the back here?"

"A bad fall," Alec lied quickly. "Tell me, do you know Keston town?"

"I should say I do. What can I do for you there?"

"I need to sell this cart and find passage to Rhíminee."

"Rhíminee, is it?" Hannock rubbed at his bristly chin. "By the Old Sailor, you'll be damned lucky to find passage this close to winter. It'll come dear, too. More than you're likely to realize from this contraption and a spavined pony. But don't fret yourself, boy. I've a friend or two in most any port you can name. Leave it to old Hannock."

Alec was soon glad of the tinker's company.

Keston was a bustling town, full of rambling streets laid out with no rhyme or reason that he could make out; the lanes that Hannock directed him down were little more than broad pathways between the tenements that stood cheek by jowl with warehouses and taverns.

Gangs of sailors, reeling with high spirits of one sort or another, jostled in the dark alleyways and snatches of songs and curses seemed to come from all directions.

"Yes, I've still a friend or two along the quays," said Hannock as they reached the waterfront. "Let me ask around a bit and I'll meet you back at the Red Wheel. You con the sign yonder? Two shops down from that, at the next warehouse, there's a drayman, name of Gesher. He'll probably take this rig off your hands. It'll do you no harm to mention my name in the bargaining."

Hannock's name notwithstanding, Drayman Gesher ran a bleak eye over the cart, the exhausted pony, and its equally exhausted driver. "Three silver trees, not a penny more," he said gruffly.

Alec had no idea what the relative worth of a silver tree might be, but was happy enough to unload the rig and be done with it. With the understanding that they would close the deal when Alec brought the cart back, he hurried off to the Wheel. Leaving Seregil well covered, he went inside.

He found the old tinker seated at a long table joking with a weathered man in seafaring garb.

"Here's the lad himself," Hannock told his companion, pushing a pot of beer Alec's way.

"Sit down, boy. Aren Silverleaf, this is Captain Talrien, master of the Grampus. As fine a mariner as you can hope to find on the two seas, and I should know. We first sailed together with Captain Strake, me as mate and him but a green slip of a cabin boy. He's agreed to work out a passage for you and your unfortunate friend."

"So you're short on jack, eh?" Talrien grinned, getting right to the point. His skin, brown as an old boot from salt and sun, contrasted sharply with his pale hair and beard. "How much have you got?"

"I can get three silver trees for the pony and the cart. Is that a good price?"

Hannock shrugged. "No, but it's not a bad one, either. What do you say, Tally? Will you take the lad?"

"That's scarce a single passage. Mighty important that you get to Rhíminee, is it?" Talrien drawled, settling back in his chair.

When Alec hesitated a moment too long, he laughed, holding up a hand.

"Never mind, then, it's your own business. Tell you what I'll do. I'm short a man this time out; for three silver I'll take your friend and you can work your passage. You'll have to bunk in the hold, but you're in luck there, for the cargo is grain and wool. Last voyage we carried granite cobbles. If that's agreeable to you, let's cross palms on it and call it done."

"Done it is," Alec replied, clasping hands with him. "Many thanks to you both."

Talrien had a longboat moored at the quay.

After loading in his few remaining possessions, Alec and Talrien carefully lifted Seregil into the bottom of the boat.

Seregil was paler than ever. His head lolled limply from side to side as wavelets nudged the longboat against the stone footing of the quay. Tucking a wadded cloak behind his friend's head. Alec looked down at him with a pang of fear. What if he dies? What will I do if he dies?

"Don't you worry, lad," Talrien said kindly. "I'll see to it he's made comfortable. You go sell your wagon and I'll send the boat back for you."

"I-I'll be here," Alec stammered, suddenly reluctant to leave Seregil in the hands of strangers. But what else was there to do? Clambering into the rickety cart for the last time, he flicked the reins over the pony's dusty rump.

Mycenian silver trees turned out to be rectangular lozenges of silver, each with the rough shape of a tree struck into it. Clutching the coins, he ran back as fast as he could to the docks.

As he came within sight of the deserted quay, a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks. Before they'd left the Darter, hadn't Captain Rhal spoken of Plenimaran press-gangs working the ports?

"By the Maker," he groaned aloud, dread settling like heavy ice in his belly. In his haste and weariness, had he handed Seregil over to a clever pair of rogues? Cursing himself, he stamped up and down in the cold, squinting into the darkness for any sign of movement. He hadn't even thought to ask Talrien which of the ships was the Grampus. It was a still night. Waves lapped gently against the quay. The faint sounds of men singing happily over their mugs in nearby taverns made his vigil all the more lonesome as he stood in the darkness. A bell sounded aboard one of the ships at anchor, its tone muted and distant.

He was just calling himself ten kinds of fool when he caught sight of a light moving toward him over the water. It disappeared for a moment, obscured by the hull of some ship, then reappeared, still bobbing steadily his way with the splash of unseen oars.

A wiry, redheaded sailor scarcely older than himself brought the little craft neatly alongside the dock. Alec didn't know much of press-gangs, but this didn't have the look of one.

"You the new hand for the Grampus!" the boy inquired, shipping his oars and looking up at Alec with a brash grin. "I'm Binakel, called Biny by most. Haul in then, 'less you fancy spending the night on the jetty, which I don't. By the Old Sailor it's colder'n a cod's balls tonight!"

Alec had hardly clambered down onto the stern bench before Biny was pulling away. He talked a steady stream as he rowed, needing no prompting or encouragement as he rattled on with hardly a pause for breath. He had a tendency to jumble one topic in with another as things occurred to him, and a good deal of it was profane, but Alec managed to sift out enough to set his mind at rest by the time they drew alongside the sleek hull of the Grampus.

Captain Talrien was a good-tempered master, according to Biny, whose highest praise was that he'd never known his captain to have a man flogged.

The Grampus was a coastal trader. Carrying three triangular sails on tall masts, she could deploy twenty oars on each side when need be, and ran regularly between the port cities of Skala and Mycena.

The crew was in a fury of preparation on deck.

Alec had hoped to speak with Talrien again, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

"Your friend's down here," Biny said, leading him below.

Seregil lay asleep in a deep nest of wool bales. More bales and plump sacks of grain were packed into the long hold for as far as Alec could see by the light of Biny's lantern.

"Mind the light," Biny warned as he left. "A spark or two in this lot and we'll go up like a bonfire! Keep it on that hook over your head there, and if ever we meet with rough seas, be sure to snuff it."

"I'll be careful," Alec promised, already searching for fresh bandages. Those covering Seregil's stubborn wound were badly stained.

"Cap'n sent down food for you, and a pail of water. It's there around the other side," Biny pointed out. "You ought to speak to Sedrish tomorrow about that hurt of your friend's. Old Sedrish is as good a leech as he is a cook. Well, g'night to you!"

"Good night. And give my thanks to the captain."

The bandage lint had stuck to Seregil's wound and Alec carefully soaked it loose, lifting aside the stained pad to find the raw spot looking worse than ever. There was no evidence that the old woman's salve was doing any good, but Alec applied it anyway, not knowing what else to do.

Seregil's slender body had quickly failed to gauntness. He felt fragile in Alec's hands as he lifted him to wrap the fresh bandage. His breathing was less even, too, and now and then caught painfully in his chest.

Laying him back against the bales, Alec brushed a few lank strands of hair back from Seregil's face, taking in the deepening hollows in his cheeks and at his temples, the pallid whiteness of his skin. A few short days would bring them to Rhíminee and Nysander, if only Seregil could survive that long.

Warming the last of the milk over the lantern, Alec cradled Seregil's head on his knee and tried to spoon some into him. But Seregil choked weakly, spilling a mouthful down his cheek.

With a heavy heart Alec set the cup aside and stretched out beside him, wiping Seregil's cheek with a corner of his cloak before pulling it over both of them.

"At least we made it to a ship," he whispered sadly, listening to the labored breathing beside him.

Exhaustion rolled over him like a grey mist and he slept.

—a stony plain beneath a lowering leaden sky stretched around Seregil on all sides. Dead, grey grass under his feet. Sound of the sea in the distance? No breeze stirred to make the faint rushing sound. Lightning flashed in the distance but no rumble of thunder followed it. Clouds scudded quickly by overhead.

He had no sense of his body at all, only of his surroundings, as if his entire being had been reduced to the pure essence of sight. Yet he could move, look about at the grey plain, the moving mass of clouds overhead that roiled and churned but showed no break of blue. He could still hear the sea, though he could not tell its direction. He wanted to go there, to see beyond the monotony that surrounded him, but how? He might well take the wrong direction, moving away from it, deeper into the plain. The thought froze him in place. Somehow he knew that the plain went on forever if you went away from the sea.

He knew now that he was dead and that only through Bilairy's gate could he escape into the true afterlife or perhaps out of any existence at all. To be trapped for eternity on this lifeless plain was unthinkable.

"O Illior Lightbringer," he silently prayed, "shed your light in this desolate place. What am I to do?" But nothing changed. He wept and even his weeping made no sound in the emptiness.

 

13

Inquiries Are Made

"Oh, yes, they was here all right. I'm not soon likely to forget them!" the innkeeper declared, sizing up the two gentlemen. The sallow one would try and stare it out of him, but the comely, dark- complected gentleman with the scar under his eye looked to be a man who understood the value of information.

Sure enough, the dark one reached into his fine purse and laid a thick double tree coin on the rough counter between them.

"If you would be so good as to answer a few questions, I would be very grateful." Another of the heavy rectangular coins joined the first. "These young men were servants of mine. I'm most anxious to find them."

"Stole something, did they?"

"It's a rather delicate matter," the gentleman replied.

"Well, you've missed 'em by nigh onto a week, I'm sorry to say. They was a bad sort, I thought, when first I laid eyes on 'em. Ain't that so, Mother?"

"Oh, aye," his wife assured them, eyeing the strangers over her husband's shoulder. "Never should have taken them in, I said after, empty rooms or no."

"And she was right. The yellow-haired one tried to murder the other in the night. I locked me'self and the family in the storeroom after I caught 'em at it. In the morning they was both gone. Don't know whether the sickly fellow was living or dead in the end."

The innkeeper reached for the coins but the dark man placed a gloved fingertip on each of them.

"Did you, by chance, observe the direction they took?"

"No, sir. Like I said, we stayed in the storeroom 'til we was certain they was gone."

"That's a pity," the man murmured, relinquishing the coins. "Perhaps you would be so good as to show us the rooms in which they stayed?"

"As you like," the innkeeper said doubtfully, leading them up the stairs. "But they didn't leave nothin".

I had a good look 'round right after. It was damned odd, that boy wanting the key to the outside of the other's door. Locked him in, I guess, then took after him in the dead of night. Oh, you should have heard the noise! Thumpin" and caterwauling—Here we are, sirs, this is where it happened."

The innkeeper stood aside as the two men glanced around the cramped rooms.

"Where was the fight?" the pale one asked. His manner was not so obliging as that of his companion, the innkeeper noted, and he had a funny sort of accent when he spoke.

"This here," he told him. "You can still see a few dibs of blood on the floor, just there by your foot."

Exchanging a quick look with his companion, the dark man drew the innkeeper back toward the stairs.

"You must allow us a few moments to satisfy our curiosity. In the meantime, perhaps you would be so kind as to carry ale and meat to my servants in the yard?"

Presented with the opportunity for further profit, the innkeeper hustled back downstairs.

 

Mardus waited until the innkeeper was out of earshot, then nodded for Vargûl Ashnazai to begin.

The necromancer dropped to his knees and took out a tiny knife. Scraping at the spots of dried blood scattered over the rough boards, he carefully tapped the shavings into an ivory vial and sealed it. His thin lips curved into an unpleasant semblance of a smile as he held the vial up between thumb and forefinger.

"We have them, Lord Mardus!" he gloated, lapsing into the Old Tongue. "Even if he no longer wears it, with this we shall track them down."

"If they are indeed those whom we seek," Mardus replied in the same language. In this instance, the necromancer was probably correct in his assumptions, but as usual, Mardus made no effort to encourage him.

They all had their roles to play.

With Vargûl Ashnazai trailing dourly behind him, Mardus returned downstairs and gave the innkeeper and his wife an eloquent shrug.

"As you said, there is nothing to be found," he told them, as if abashed. "However, there is one last point."

"And what would that be, sir?" asked the innkeeper, clearly hoping for another lucrative opportunity.

"You said they fought." Mardus toyed with his purse strings. "I am curious as to the cause. Have you any idea?"

"Well," replied the innkeeper, "as I said, they was at it hammer and tongs before I got up there at all. Time I got the lamp lit and found my cudgel, the young one already had the other fellow laid out. Still, just from what I saw looking in, it 'peared to me they was fighting over some manner of necklace."

"A necklace?" exclaimed Vargûl Ashnazai.

"Oh, it was a paltry-looking thing, weren't it?" the wife chimed in. "Nothing to kill a fellow over!"

"That's right," her husband said in disgust. "Just a bit of wood, 'bout the size of a five-penny piece, strung on some leather lacing. Had some carving done on it, as I remember, but still it didn't look like anything more than some frippery a peddler would carry."

Mardus offered the man a bemused smile. "Well, they were a bad pair, just as you say, and I suppose I'm well rid of them. Many thanks."

Tossing a final coin to the innkeeper, he went out to the yard where his men stood ready.

"Have you any doubts now, my lord?" Ashnazai whispered, trembling with suppressed rage.

"It seems they've eluded us once again," Mardus mused, tapping a gloved finger thoughtfully against his chin.

"He should have been dead a week ago! No one could survive—"
Mardus smiled thinly. "Come now, Vargûl Ashnazai, even you must see that these are no ordinary thieves we are pursuing."

Casting an approving eye over the empty country surrounding the crossroads inn, he turned to the group of armed men. "Captain Tildus!"

"Sir?"

Mardus inclined his head slightly toward the inn.

"Kill everyone, then burn it."
 

14

Sailing South

Alec felt like cheering aloud as the mainland slipped under the horizon their first day out. The sheer emptiness that surrounded the ship—the endless sky, the biting cold of the wind, and frozen spume thrown up by the prow as the Grampus raced gaily along under full-bellied sails—all this seemed to cleanse him down to the bone.

He worked hard, to be sure. The sailors relegated him to the lowliest tasks, not out of any meanness but because he would not be with the ship long enough to be worth training. Though his hand was still sore and both hands were soon cracked from the salt and cold, he worked with a good will at any task he was assigned: sanding decks, hauling slops, and helping in the scullery. Whenever he could find a free moment, he went below to tend to Seregil.

Despite Alec's diligent care, however, his companion was clearly failing. The infection was spreading across Seregil's thin chest, and hectic fever spots bloomed over his cheekbones, giving his face its only color. A sickly odor clung about him.

Sedrish, the ship's cook and surgeon, gave Alec what help he could, but none of his remedies seemed to have any effect.

"At least you can still get something into him," Sedrish observed, watching Alec patiently coax a sip of broth between Seregil's cracked lips. "There's hope so long as he'll drink."

 

Alec was working his way through a tangled pile of rope their third day out when the captain happened by.

The weather was holding fair and Talrien appeared to be in a high good humor.

"It's too bad you're leaving us at Rhíminee. I believe we could make a pretty passable sailor of you," he remarked, bracing easily against the rail. "Most inlanders spend their first voyage heaving their guts over the side."

"No problems that way," Alec replied, brightening up a bit. "Just some trouble finding what Biny calls my 'sea legs.'"

"I noticed. That first day when the swells were heavy you rolled around like a keg in the bilge. When you set foot on land again, it'll be just as bad for a bit. That's why sailors always head straight for the taverns, you know. You sit and drink long enough, and pretty soon you feel like you're back on the rolling deep. Makes us feel more at home."

Just then a cry came down from the masthead. "Land sighted, Captain!"

"We've made good time," Talrien said, shading his eyes as he looked across the water. "See that dark line on the horizon? That's the isthmus. By tomorrow morning you'll see one of the great wonders of the world."

Alec woke feeling queasy the next morning. The motion of the ship felt different, and he couldn't hear waves against the hull.

"Hey, Aren," called Biny, sticking his head down the hatchway. "Come above if you want to see something."

On deck, Alec found they were riding at anchor in a narrow harbor. A crowd had gathered at the rail.

"What do you think of that?" Biny asked proudly.

A thin mist steamed up from the surface of the sea. The first rose-gold light of dawn shone through it, bathing the scene before them in a layer of pale, shifting fire.

Sheltering cliffs soared up out of the mists on either side of the harbor. At its head lay Cirna, a jumbled collection of square, white-plastered buildings that clung like swallow's nests to the steep slopes above the jetties.

Catching sight of him, Talrien waved an arm.

"That's one of the oldest cities in Skala. Ships were putting in here before Ero was built. You can see the mouth of the Canal over there, to the left."

Looking across the water, Alec saw that a huge channel had been cut through the cliffs at the head of the bay. Flanking the mouth of it were enormous pillars carved in relief. Each reached five hundred feet or more from the waterline to the top of the cliff and was surmounted by an elaborate capital. At this early hour, flames and black smoke still issued from the huge oil flares that topped them.

"How would you make anything that big?"

Alec exclaimed, trying to grasp the scale of what he was seeing.

"Magic, of course," scoffed Biny.

"And hard work," Talrien added. "Queen Tamir the Second built it when she founded Rhíminee. They say it took a hundred wizards and a thousand workmen two years to build the Canal. Of course, that was back in the old days, when there were enough magicians about to be spared for such labor. It's five miles from end to end, but less than three hundred feet wide. And those beacons, atop the pillars there? You can see them for miles. We steered in by them last night." Turning, he waved a hand at the gathered crew. "Come on, you lot! We've got work to do."

 

The Grampus carried cargo for Cirna, and they put in alongside one of the docks that jutted out from the shore. Alec saw to it that Seregil was moved to an out-of-the-way nook in the hold, then went above to watch the bustling activity on shore. At closer range he could see that the tops of the great pillars were not alike. The one on the left was carved in the form of a fish emerging from a wave. Even from across the harbor he could make out the scales on its sides, the graceful curve of the fins. The capital on the right appeared to be a stylized flame.

"Why are they different?" he asked Sedrish, shading his eyes.

"Those are the pillars of Astellus and Sakor, of course," the cook replied as if amazed at his ignorance. "Illior and Dalna are at the other end. They say those old builders figured if they were going to muck up the natural lay of the land so, they'd better tip their caps to the gods when they got all done."

Talrien stood at the top of the gangplank with one of the sailors, calling out cargo numbers for the man to record in the log. On the dock below, the various merchants to whom the cargo belonged kept similar track.

Alec studied them with interest. Instead of tunics, they wore long belted coats that reached below the knee and leather breeches like those that Seregil favored.

Many wore broad-brimmed hats with a long colorful feather or two stuck at an angle in the band.

Another vessel was unloading at a neighboring wharf; a single glimpse of their cargo was enough to draw Alec down for a closer look. Ducking through a throng of sailors and dock hands, he joined the crowd gathering around a makeshift corral that had been roped off for the horses that were being led ashore.

He'd seen plenty of horses in his life, but never the match of these.

These creatures were as tall as the black mare he'd left behind in Wolde, but not so heavily made. Their legs were long, tapering from rounded haunches to dainty hooves, and they bore their proud heads on well-arched necks. Their coats and manes had none of the rough shagginess Alec was accustomed to, but shone in the morning sun as if they'd been polished.

Despite the commotion around them, the animals showed no skittishness as they milled about. Most were bays, with a few chestnuts and blacks mixed in. The one that immediately caught Alec's fancy, however, was a glossy black stallion with a white mane and tail.

"They're something, ain't they?" Biny remarked, appearing at his elbow.

"They are that," Alec agreed. "I've never seen anything like them!"

"I shouldn't think so. Them's Aurënen horses, just come up from the south."

"Aurënen!" Alec grabbed Biny's arm and pointed toward the ship. "Are there any Aurënfaie there? Do you know what they look like?"

"Nah, that's a Skalan ship. The Aurënfaie don't come up here. Ships like that one trade in Viresse and bring the cargo-horses, jewelry, glass, and the like-back to the Three Lands to sell for theirselves."

Viresse. Seregil had once mentioned that only one port in Aurënen was open to foreigners.

"Horses like them are only for the nobles and the rich," Biny went on. "I heard once that the Queen herself wouldn't never ride no other kind in battle, nor the Princess Royal, neither. And her the head of all the cavalry in Skala."

The stallion Alec had admired came near and he couldn't resist reaching out to it. To his delight, the beast pushed its slim head against his hand and nickered contentedly as he stroked its velvety nose and forelock. Lost as he was in admiration of the horse, it wasn't until a gloved hand reached out to stroke the stallion's neck that he noticed Biny and the rest of the crowd had melted back. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with a young woman as exotic as the horse itself.

Dark chestnut hair, drawn back from a sharp widow's peak, hung in a thick braid down the back of her mud-spattered green cloak. A few strands of it had escaped to frame her heart-shaped face in soft, curling wisps. As she turned to Alec, frozen in awe beside her, he saw the startling blue of her eyes, the flush of healthy color in her cheeks. For a moment his only thought was that here stood the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. And an extraordinary one at that, for instead of a gown she wore close-fitting doeskin breeches beneath a green tabard edged in white. The front of the tabard was richly embroidered with the emblem of a pair of crossed sabers supporting a crown.

A heavy silver gorget at her throat flashed in the sunlight, and a long sword hung from a military baldric slung across her chest.

"He's a beauty, isn't he?" she remarked.

"Uh, yes." Alec hastily turned his gaze back to the horse.

"Were you thinking of buying him?" she asked as the horse leaned over the rope to rub his chin on Alec's shoulder. "He's certainly taken to you."

"No! Oh, no-no, I was just looking." Alec stepped back acutely aware of how filthy and worn his own clothing was. "I just never saw Aurënfaie horses before."

Her sudden smile made her look girlish in spite of the sword. "I spotted him right off, but I didn't want to buy him away from you if you'd already made up your mind." Stroking the horse's nose, she spoke softly to it. "What do you say, my fine fellow? Shall I take you home?"

As if in answer, the stallion snorted and pushed his head against her hand.

"I guess that settles it," said Alec, pleased that his favorite should get such a fine mistress.

"I'd say so," she agreed. The horse dealer had been hovering nearby and at her gesture came over to them, bowing deeply. "Your horses are as fine as ever, Master Roakas. This gentleman and I have decided that I should take the black with white. What are you asking?"

"For you, Commander, two hundred gold sesters."

"Fair enough. Captain Myrhini has the purse."

"Many thanks, Commander. Will that be all this time?"

"No, I still have to pick out a few for the Guard, but I wanted to grab this one before someone else did.

Would you ask one of my escort to saddle him for me?" Turning back to Alec, she smiled again.

"Thanks for your help. You must tell me your name."

"Aren Silverleaf."

Another soldier in green and white led the saddled stallion back. Swinging lightly up, she reached into the wallet at her belt.

"Silverleaf, is it? Well, good luck to you, Aren Silverleaf." She tossed him a coin that glittered yellow as it spun through the air. He caught it deftly, hardly taking his eyes from her to do so.

"Drink my health. It'll bring me luck."

"I will, thanks," Alec called after her as she rode away. Turning quickly to the soldier, he asked, "She's beautiful! Who is she?"

"You didn't know?" the man exclaimed, looking him up and down. "That was Princess Klia, youngest daughter of the Queen. Quite a day for you, eh boy?"

The crowd surged forward to the corral again and several strangers clapped Alec on the back, envying him his brush with royalty.

Biny elbowed his way through the press. "What's that she tossed you?"

Alec held up the gold coin. Smaller than his Skalan silver piece, it was stamped on one side with the same design of crescent moon and flame and on the reverse with the profile of a man.

"A half sester? You could drink her health for a couple of days on that!" Biny gave him a playful jab in the ribs.

"A princess!" Alec marveled, shaking his head.

"Oh, we see her all the time up here. She's second in command of the Queen's Horse Guard now, under her brother, and has quite an eye for the beasts. Come on, they've started loading already. We'd better start back."

With their own cargo dispatched, Talrien's crew was now stowing slender clay wine jars below deck. After these came crates of chickens that Talrien ordered lashed down amidships on deck. The rest of their voyage would be enlivened by the cackling and crowing of the birds, as well as their stink and the clouds of feathers they shed.

 

By late morning everything was secured and they sailed out to join the other vessels waiting to enter the Canal; ships were carefully spaced out to avoid any mishaps that might block the narrow channel.

Soon after they dropped anchor, a skiff sailed up to them and a stout little man in a greasy slouch hat climbed aboard. Talrien spoke briefly with the harbor master and paid out the tariffs for anchorage and passage. When he'd gone, Talrien waved Alec over.

"One-hour wait," he said. "Tell Sedrish to get a meal up, will you?"

Alec relayed the message, then took hot water and some broth down to Seregil. By the time he came up again, several of the ships ahead of them had passed into the Canal's dark opening. A bright mirror flash came from the heights near the top of the Astellus column and the stout galley moored next to them hauled anchor, unfurled a single sail, and glided off into the dark cleft.

At last the lookout called down, "There's our signal, Captain!"

"That's it, men!" Talrien shouted. "Break out the oars and stand to your locks."

While the anchor was being raised, several of the sailors set up torches fore and aft. Others pulled back a section of the deck and brought out the long oars stored there. Each oar was passed through a round, rope-padded lock in the ship's rail, twenty to a side. At the captain's signal, the mate climbed up on a hatch and began to sing.

Picking up the rhythm he set, the oarsmen pulled in practiced unison and the ship slid smoothly forward over the calm face of the bay. Captain Talrien stood at the tiller, steering her into the echoing dimness beyond the pillars.

The sun had already passed noon, and little sunlight penetrated far into the chasm. It was colder inside and smelled of salt-drenched stone. Alec was standing with Sedrish when he happened to look up.

"Are those stars?" he asked in amazement. The narrow strip of sky was pricked with faint points of light.

"It's the high walls, shutting out the sun. I fell down a well when I was a lad and it was just the same. About the only time there's much light in here is at high noon."

Rough stone towered overhead on either side, seeming to bear down over the vessel. Small freshets of water flowed down here and there, tumbling off the uneven rock face. In places, the surface of it gave back a glassy reflection that puzzled Alec.

"That's from the magicking," Sedrish explained. "In places it's shiny smooth like that; others, like over there, the rock just dripped and ran like wax down the side of a candle. I wouldn't have liked to been in here when them wizards was blasting away, I can tell you!"

Their passage was a quiet affair. The narrow space around them gave back every whisper and splash and the effect seemed to subdue even Biny. When the lookout at last shouted, "Half way sighted, Captain," his voice reverberated in a succession of ghostly echoes up and down the canal.

Alec was wondering how on earth anyone could tell distance in such a place when he caught sight of something white against the right wall up ahead. As they drew nearer, he could see that it was a huge statue of polished marble standing in a shallow niche carved into the wall. The figure glowed like a pale lantern in the dimness.

"Who's that?" Alec asked.

"Queen Tamir the Second." Sedrich touched a hand respectfully to his forelock as they passed.

"Skala's had good queens and bad, but old Tamir was one of the best. Even the balladeers can't improve much on the life she led."

Alec squinted through the gloom as they passed the statue. The sculptor had visualized his subject striding into the wind; her long hair streamed behind her, and the robes she wore were molded to the gracious curves of her form. Much of her left side was covered by an oval shield and in her right hand she raised a sword as if saluting the passing vessels. Her face was neither exceedingly beautiful nor terribly plain, but her proud stance and fierce expression spoke across the centuries.

"After the Plenimarans destroyed the old eastern capital of Ero, she just up and moved the survivors across to the other side and had this Canal cut through," Sedrish went on, lighting his pipe from a lantern. "That must be better than six hundred years ago now. Aye, there was no stopping her, they say. She was raised as a boy up in the mountains because her uncle had seized the throne. No good come of that, of course; that's what got Ero destroyed. When he was killed in battle, this nephew of his steps forward and says, "By your leave, I'm a girl."

Her uncle had murdered just about everyone else of the blood, so they crowned her on the spot.

During her reign she beat back the Plenimarans, was lost at sea during a battle, then turned up a year later and took back the throne and ruled 'til she was an old woman. Quite a character, she was. Queen Idrilain's said to be a good deal like her."

 

As they sailed out into Osiat waters at the western end of the Canal, Alec craned his neck to see the carved tops of the pillars flanking this entrance. He recognized the representation of Dalna; a sheaf of grain bound with a serpent. The other, a coiled dragon crowned with a crescent moon, must be that of Illior.

The Grampus turned south down the coast with a good following wind.

The winter sea shone like polished steel in the late-afternoon sunlight.

Rocky, steep-sided islands of all sizes punctuated the coastline, rising out of the water like ruined fortresses. Some were overgrown with copses of dark fir or oak; those with any sort of harbor were inhabited by colonies of fishermen. A few trading ships were still plying this route and Talrien hailed back and forth with them using a speaking trumpet.

The Osiat was alive with more than sea traders.

Alec soon spotted his first school of porpoise.

Leaning over the rail, he watched dozens of them leap and sport alongside the ship, their dark backs arching through the waves as they escorted the ship for several miles. Soon after, he saw another school leaping in flight before the dire form of the ship's namesake, a grampus. Though not large as whales go, it looked positively enormous to Alec. The thought of such monsters swimming about under their very keel left him with a decidedly uneasy feeling.

The western shore of Skala presented a rugged face. The harsh granite bones of the country lay exposed at the coastline and again in the peaks of its mountainous spine. Between these two stony extremes lay fertile terraces and valleys, the forests and harbors where the Skalan people had found purchase centuries before. Above the surf-scoured ledges of the shore, the higher ground sloped back from the sea in a series of ascending undulations to meet the inland mountains.

Looking shoreward, Alec could make out wagons and riders moving along a coastal highroad.

A company of horsemen gave off glints of metal through the cloud of dust that half obscured their numbers.

"That there's the Queen's Highroad," Biny informed him. "It runs all 'round the peninsula, then up the isthmus and clear to Wyvern Dug."

That evening they put in at a little harbor to unload a shipment of wine and some of the poultry crates, taking on a consignment of copper bars in exchange.

When the hold was quiet again, Alec settled down next to Seregil, hoping to get a little more broth into him. But after a few spoonfuls he choked and Alec gave up. Seregil's breathing was harsher now, rattling in his throat as his chest slowly rose and fell. As he listened, Alec felt despair crystallizing into a hard lump in his throat. Unable to bear it any longer, he dug down into Seregil's battered pack and found the knotted scarf containing the jewelry. Stuffing it into his tunic, he hurried above in search of the captain and Sedrish.

"You've got to look at him," he told them, trying to keep his voice from wavering. "I don't think he'll make it at this rate."

In the hold Sedrish bent over Seregil's still form, then shook his head. "The boy's right, Captain. The man's sinking."

Talrien felt Seregil's pulse, then sat down on a barrel frowning. "Even if we make straight for the city, passing all ports of call, I don't know that it will be soon enough."

"But you could do that?" Alec asked.

Meeting Alec's bleak, determined gaze, Talrien nodded. "I'm master of this ship. I say when she sails and where. It won't do my business any good to come in a week late—"

"If it's money, then maybe this will help." Alec pulled the handkerchief from his tunic and handed it to him.

Opening it, Talrien found the heavy gold chain, earrings, and the gold half sester Klia had given Alec.

"I wasn't supposed to sell those things—he didn't want me to." Alec gestured anxiously in Seregil's direction. "If it's not enough, I think he can more than repay you once we reach the city."

Talrien retied the cloth and handed it back.

"I'll have you in Rhíminee by noon tomorrow. We can talk about price later on. Sedrish, fetch this boy some ale."

When they'd gone, Alec lay down next to Seregil and pulled both their cloaks over them, hoping to lend the sick man some of his warmth.

Seregil's skin was moist and cold, his eyes deeply sunken beneath braised-looking lids. For an instant Alec thought he saw a faint expression of pain across his features.

With tears stinging behind his own eyes, Alec grasped one cold hand and whispered, "Don't let go! We're too close now, don't let go."

Again he thought he caught the faintest flicker of emotion in that still face. Probably it was only a trick of the light.

—the plain again. Unchanging emptiness and moaning wind. Unchanging emptiness and moaning wind.

Ah, it was all too maddening! He wanted to curse, yell, kick, strike out. All he could do was spin around and around like an idiot, sweeping the horizon for some sign. But in the midst of his fury he caught sight of a dark figure in the distance. The dark stalker, his final adversary in life, had it followed him even here?

But no, even across the gulf of distance that separated them he could make out the figure of a man, the hood of his dark cloak drawn back to reveal the pale oval of a face. And the man was calling to him.

No, singing!

He could not catch the words but the melody was so lovely, so filled with welcome and promise, that tears sprang to his eyes. How far? How long to reach him? Impossible to judge distance in this cursed barren place, but no matter. He would run to him, for he suddenly felt wondrously light as he skimmed over the dead grass and stones. He was running-no, he was flying! The feeling of release, of joyous movement was dizzying. The ground beneath him blurred and the figure ahead waited with open arms to receive him. Too soon and not soon enough he reached him, was caught by him and held above the ground, for suddenly he had form again, as the man stopped his song and smiled kindly upon him. And such a face! It was as beautiful and serene as a god's. The skin had the color and sheen of purest gold and gathered in supple folds at the corners of his eyes and mouth as he smiled. One eye was covered with a patch, but even this failed to mar the perfection of those features. The other eye, deep and richly blue as a sapphire or a summer sky, gazed at him with depthless love.

"You have come at last, my wounded one."

The voice held the very embodiment of all the love and tenderness he had ever hoped to find in his short, violent life.

"Help me, take me from this place!" he begged, grasping at the being's arms, cold and rigid as stone beneath his hands.

"Of course," answered the god, for surely that must be what he was—Bilairy or Illior, come to rescue him from this terrible place.

Gathering him close, the god cradled him like a child against his chest, stroking him with his cold, gentle hand.

"We will pass through the gates and over the sea together, you and I. Give to me the gift you have brought and we shall go at once."

"Gift? But I brought no gift," he stammered, his heart suddenly hammering like a sharp, tiny fist in his chest.

"But you did." The god's hand stroked his head, his shoulder, opened his shirt to lay bare his chest, which ached with the thundering of his pulse. "There, you see? his The sickly odor rose in his nostrils again as a searing shaft of pain impaled him. Looking down, he saw the small wound that gaped just over his heart; from it, as if from a bloody socket, peered an eye as wonderfully blue as that of the god. A perfect match. And suddenly he was struggling in vain against the iron grip that held him as the golden-skinned god reached to reclaim it—

 

The Grampus pounded south through the night. Coming on deck just after dawn, Alec saw towering grey cliffs off the port bow and a cluster of islands lying close to shore ahead of them.

"Rhíminee harbor, just inside those islands," Talrien shouted over the wind.

Rhíminee was the largest of the western ports, and the most heavily fortified. A series of long granite moles had been constructed between three smaller islands that ranged across the harbor mouth, leaving two openings to allow for the passage of friendly vessels. As the Grampus passed through one of these sea gates, Alec saw that the broad causeways bristled with catapults and ballistas. A similar arrangement of moles joined two smaller islands within the harbor itself, dividing it into inner and outer zones like the bailey of a keep.

The sailors furled all but one sail and they glided into the outer harbor, steering past scores of vessels already anchored there. Long, swift war galleys with scarlet sails and two banks of oars were moored near the causeways, their bronze ramming beaks just visible at the waterline. Merchant ships, square barges, and small, high-prowed caravels rode at anchor by the dozens.

The sea gate to the inner harbor had been constructed as a wide chute that afforded no cover to any vessel entering its constricts. Ballistas were mounted on either side and the facing walls of the chute were built in a series of tiers, so that companies of archers could harry any enemy ship that breached this inner defense.

The land embracing the harbor itself rose sharply back on all sides. Even before they had cleared the inner fortifications, Alec caught sight of the citadel above. It was huge; the main city spread over the tops of several hills set half a mile back from the water, and he judged it must be three miles wide at least. Sheer stone walls surrounded the city, hiding from view all but a few glittering domes and towers visible over the parapet.

The only approach from the harbor seemed to be a twisting road enclosed between long stone walls.

Alec was no tactician, but recalling that Rhíminee had been built to replace a city destroyed in war, it looked to him as if the Skalans didn't intend to lose a second capital.

Beyond the inner moles, a jumbled sprawl of buildings clung to the base of the cliffs below the citadel. As the ship was rowed toward an empty wharf, Alec looked with growing dismay at the bustling waterfront, the relief he'd felt at reaching the city quickly giving way to alarm at the prospect of trying to find a single wizard somewhere in the incomprehensible city before him.

He caught Biny by the sleeve as the young sailor hurried by. "Have you heard of a place called the Orëska House?"

"Who ain't?" Biny exclaimed, jerking a thumb at the upper city. "See that shiny bit, over to the left? That's the top of the great dome on it."

Alec's heart sank further; he'd have to find some way to get Seregil up there, traversing the width of the city. He fingered the packet of jewels inside his tunic, silently resolving to get Seregil to the Orëska House before nightfall even if he had to buy a wagon to do it.

Several men had come on board to speak with Captain Talrien. Alec was just turning to go below when one of them caught sight of him and touched his sleeve.

"Are you the friend of the sick man?" the stranger asked.

Taken by surprise, Alec turned to find a tall, thin old man smiling down on him. His long, good-natured face was seamed with age around the eyes and brow, and his short beard and the curling hair that thickly fringed his balding pate were silvery white, yet he stood as straight and easy as Alec himself. The dark eyes beneath the unruly white eyebrows revealed nothing but friendly interest. By his clothes-a simple surcoat and breeches under a worn cloak-Alec took him for a trader of some sort.

"What business do you have with him?" Alec asked warily, wondering how he'd known of Seregil's presence on the ship.

"I have come to meet you, dear boy," the old man replied. "I am Nysander."
 

15

Rhíminee At Last

 

Alec's legs felt shaky as he led Nysander into the hold.

"It is as I feared," the wizard murmured, cupping Seregil's face between his hands. "We must get him to the Orëska House at once. I have a carriage waiting. Fetch the driver."

Cold with dread, Alec found the driver and helped him bundle Seregil, well wrapped in cloaks and blankets, into the carriage.

In the meantime, Nysander spoke briefly with Captain Talrien, pressing a purse into his hands. Talrien nodded his thanks and turned to make his farewells to Alec.

"Many thanks, Captain," Alec said warmly, wishing he could find better words.

"You've a brave heart in you, Aren Silverleaf." Talrien clapped him on the shoulder. "May it bring you luck."

"It has so far," replied Alec, glancing anxiously toward the carriage. "I just hope the luck holds a bit longer."

 

As the carriage set off at last, Nysander knelt beside Seregil and peeled away the dressing. A single glance was enough; recoiling, he laid the bandages back in place.

"How long ago did this happen?" he asked, glad that his back was to the boy.

"Five days."

Shaking his head, Nysander began a series of silent incantations. If this was indeed what he suspected, who but Seregil could have survived such an attack?

When he'd finished, he sat back to take a second look at the boy. Pale and grim, he sat clutching Seregil's pack and sword, eyes darting back and forth between his companion and the spectacle of the city passing by the carriage window.

Worn to a shadow, thought Nysander, and scared to death of me.

This was a wild-looking lad to be sure, with his rough northern clothes and tousled hair. Nysander noted the ragged bandage bound around the boy's left hand, and how he held it palm up on his knee as if it pained him. Taut lines scored his chapped young face, making him look older than his years. There was a great weariness about him, too, and an air of uncertainty. Yet beneath all that Nysander sensed the ingrained determination that had carried both him and Seregil through whatever evil had overtaken them.

"Another Silverleaf, eh?" Nysander smiled, hoping to put him at ease. "Seregil claims it is a fortuitous name. I hope that you have found it so?"

"At times." The boy glanced up for just an instant.

"He told me never to use my real name."

"I am certain he would not mind if you told it to me."

The boy blushed. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm Alec of Kerry."

"A short name, that. They call me Nysander i Azusthra Hypirius Meksandor Illandi, High Thaumaturgist of the Third Orëska. But you must call me Nysander, for that is how friends address one another here."

"Thank you, sir—Nysander, I mean," Alec stammered shyly. "I'm greatly honored."

Nysander waved this aside. "Nothing of the kind. Seregil is as dear to me as a son, and you have brought him back. I am in your debt."

The boy looked up at him again, more directly this time. "Will he die?"

"That he has survived this long gives me hope," Nysander replied, wishing he could be more encouraging. "You did well to bring him to me. But however did the two of you meet?"

"He saved my life," answered Alec. "It was almost a month ago now, up in the Ironheart Mountains."

"I see." Nysander looked at Seregil's still, white face, wondering if he would ever hear his side of the story.

After a moment's silence, Alec asked, "How did you know we were coming?"

"A week ago I was suddenly blinded by a vision of Seregil in some desperate difficulty." Nysander signed heavily. "But such visions are fleeting things. By the time I had managed to recapture it, the crisis seemed to have passed. I had my first glimpse of you then, too, and sensed that he was in capable hands."

The boy colored again, fidgeting with the hem of his worn tunic.

"I have had other flashes of your progress over the past few days. You are a most resourceful young man. But now tell me what has happened, for I see that you are wounded as well."

Nysander continued his discreet appraisal of the boy while Alec gave an account of their escape from Asengai's domain and subsequent adventures.

A bit of gentle magic satisfied him that Seregil had been very astute in his choice of companion, although his friend's reason for taking on the youngster at all remained something of an enigma.

In describing the blind man's house outside Wolde, Alec admitted to his eavesdropping and seemed relieved when Nysander merely smiled.

"They spoke of a man called Boraneus,"

Alec told him, "but then Seregil called him Mardus. He sounded upset or surprised when he said the name."

Nysander frowned. "As well he should. You saw this man?"

"At the mayor's hall. Seregil got us in there as minstrels, so he could get a look at him, and the other, a diplomat of some sort who was traveling with him."

"This Mardus, was he a tall, dark fellow with a scar under one eye?"

"From here to here." Alec drew a finger from the inner corner of his left eye to his cheek. "You could call him handsome, I guess, but there was something cold about him when he wasn't smiling."

"Excellent! And the other?"

Alec thought for a moment. "Shorter, thin, with the look of a town dweller. Thin, greyish hair." He shook his head. "He wasn't one that you took much notice of. Anyway, we, ah, well—we burgled their rooms that night."

Nysander chuckled. "I should hope so. And what did you learn from your burglary?"

"That's where we found the—" Nysander held up a warning hand, then pointed questioningly to Seregil's chest.

Alec nodded.

"Then we must speak of that later," warned the wizard.

"Tell me everything else, however."

"Well, I was keeping watch most of the time while he worked. He found several maps. He and Micum Cavish talked about those later on, after we left Wolde. There were some places marked, towns in the northlands. Micum's gone to find one marked in the Fens. I'm afraid that's all I know about it. Seregil will have to tell you the rest."

Let us hope you can, thought Nysander again.

His expression must have betrayed his concern, for Alec suddenly exclaimed, "You can help him, can't you? He said if you couldn't, then no one could!"

Nysander gave the boy's hand a reassuring pat. "I know what must be done, dear boy. Go on, please. What happened after that?"

Nysander chuckled appreciatively at Alec's description of their hasty escape from Wolde, but grew serious as he tried to explain Seregil's frightening decline aboard the Darter and the difficult journey that followed.

"And through all that, he never spoke further to you of what he discovered in Wolde, or of those men?"

"No, Seregil wouldn't talk about any of it much after we left town. He kept saying it was safer if I didn't know certain things."

Nysander regarded Alec in bemusement; even in one so young it was surprising to find such unquestioning trust—if trust it was. Familiar as Nysander was with Seregil's powers of persuasion, he still wondered that Alec should have followed him so far and through so many trials on the strength of little more than a few tales and fewer empty-handed promises.

No, thought Nysander, trust there certainly must have been, and he had no doubt of Alec's loyalty, but there was something else at work here. Seregil would never have involved a green boy in the burglary in Wolde if he himself had not sensed something deeper in Alec's character and been taken with it.

Apprentice indeed!

Alec shifted nervously. "Is something wrong?"

"Certainly not!" Nysander smiled. "I was lost in my own thoughts for a moment, a habit we wizards often drop into. Seregil and Micum were both working for me when you met them. At a more opportune time I will explain what that entailed."

 

Distracted as he was by Seregil's condition, Alec couldn't help looking out at the passing city now and then. Carts, horses, litters, and pedestrians of all descriptions thronged the streets. The road leading up to the citadel was enclosed in curtain walls on both sides and the stonework seemed to trap the noise and amplify it.

This road ended at the broad outer gate of the city.

Half a dozen blue-clad guards flanked the entrance, armed with swords and pikes, but traffic passed freely. Once through the gate they slowed, moving through an inner barbican, and then passed under the archway of a second gate, its ancient pediment decorated with carvings of fish. Beyond lay the largest marketplace Alec had ever seen.

The stone-flagged square stretched away on all sides, jammed with hundreds of wooden booths.

Their colorful awnings rippled in the brisk wind.

A broad avenue had been left open through the center of the square to allow for traffic, and narrow side lanes branched out from it into the wilderness of shops.

From all sides came the clamor of the city: voices shouting, animals braying, the pounding of artisans at work, and the rumble of the carts that flowed in a steady line in both directions along the street.

Tall, white-plastered buildings, some as much as five stories high, ringed the market square.

Everywhere he looked there were people.

Continuing on, they plunged into the maze of streets and neighborhoods that spread over the hills.

Structures of all sorts lined the streets, in some cases even overhanging it with walkways and elaborate solariums. Wagons and riders filled the streets; children, dogs, and pigs darted about underfoot.

As the dizzying spectacle flowed by, Alec recalled with horror his original plan to bring Seregil through Rhíminee alone.

The broad avenue they followed opened periodically into broad, stone-paved circles from which other streets radiated like the spokes from the hub of a wheel. Under other circumstances Alec might have asked Nysander about them, but the wizard had grown silent again, watching Seregil's shallow breathing with apparent concern.

Holding his tongue, Alec saw that they were entering an area of larger, more elaborate buildings.

Presently they came to another of the open circles, this one centered around a circular colonnade some forty feet in diameter and bordered on one side by a wooded park.

"The Fountain of Astellus, a spring which has never gone dry since the founding of the city," Nysander remarked, indicating the colonnade. "The original city was centered around it. We are nearly to the Orëska."

Halfway around the circle, their driver veered to the left onto another broad, tree-lined avenue.

High walls lined the street on either side, presenting blank faces of smooth stone or plaster except for the broad bands of decoration bordering the tops and gateways. Some patterns were painted, others done in mosaics of colored stone or tile.

He would later learn that these decorated walls, screening the elegant villas beyond, were not merely decorative; in the Noble Quarter one might be directed to "the house in Golden Helm Street with the red serpent gate" or "the house with the black and gold circles in a blue border."

Small marble pillars stood at intervals along the streets here, each one carved with a figure representing the name of that street. Small gilded helmets marked the way that Alec and Nysander followed.

"Are those all palaces?" Alec asked, catching glimpses of carved and painted facades beyond the walls.

"Oh, no, just villas. Many are owned by members of the Queen's Kin," Nysander replied. "Aunts, brothers, cousins so far removed one must consult the Archives to ascertain from which obscure third brother of what queen or consort they are descended."

"Seregil said it was a complicated place, but that I'd have to learn all about it," replied Alec, looking rather glum at the prospect.

"Quite true, but I am certain he will not expect you to learn overnight," the wizzard assured him. "You could have no better teacher than Seregil for such matters. If you will look ahead, however, you will see a true palace."

Golden Helm Street ended at the huge walled park surrounding the Queen's Palace. The carriage turned onto a cross street and they passed an open gate, Alec glimpsed an expanse of open ground and beyond it a sprawling edifice of pale grey stone decorated along the battlements with patterns of black and white.

Continuing on, they came to another great enclosed park. The gleaming white walls seemed to have been erected for the purpose of privacy rather than defense, however, for the graceful arch through which they passed had neither door nor portcullis.

As they entered the grounds Alec let out a yelp of surprise. Within the embrace of the surrounding walls, it was as if the seasons had suddenly rushed forward into summer. The sky overhead was the same pale winter blue as before, but the air around them was cool and sweet as a spring morning. On every side stretched carefully laid out lawns and beds of brilliant flowers and blooming trees. Robed figures moved among them or reclined on benches.

Alec blinked in disbelief as he caught sight of an enormous centaur playing a harp beneath a nearby tree.

The creature had the body of a tall chestnut stallion, but rising from its withers was the hirsute torso of a man. Coarse black hair overhung his brow in a long forelock and grew in a mane down his back. Nearby a woman floated cross-legged ten feet above the ground, lazily tossing globes of colored glass into the air and directing their motion in time to his music.

Nysander waved to the centaur as they wheeled past and the creature returned the greeting with a nod of his great head.

In the center of all these marvels stood the Orëska House itself, a soaring structure of gleaming white stone surmounted by a faceted, onion-shaped dome that flashed brightly in the sunlight. Slender towers topped with smaller domes and studded at intervals with carved oriels stood at each of the building's four corners.

A set of broad stairs led up to the main entrance where half a dozen servants in red tabards stood waiting. Two men hurried forward with a litter as the carriage came to a stop; a third shouldered the battered pack and Alec's meager bundle. At Nysander's nod, Seregil was carried inside.

The main building was centered around a huge atrium lit by the natural light streaming in through the clear glass dome above.

Rising up from a splendid mosaic floor, the inner walls were broken by five levels of balconies and walkways decorated with more elaborate Skalan carving and tile work.

Nysander strode across the atrium and through one of the large archways that flanked it. Beyond lay a staircase that spiraled gently upward, giving onto a landing at each level. At the third landing they walked down an interior corridor lined with doors, found another stairway, and climbed again.

The place was teeming with people in all manner of dress. Those that appeared to be servants or visitors paid them little heed, but Alec noticed that the wizards, whom he distinguished by their long, colorful robes, invariably drew back from them as if in fear or disgust. Several made strange signs in the air as they passed and one, a boy whose white robe had only simple bands of color at the sleeves, collapsed in a faint.

"Why do they keep doing that?" Alec whispered to Nysander.

"I shall explain presently," Nysander murmured.

Leading the way along one of the fifth-floor walkways, he stopped at a heavy door.

"Welcome to my home," he said. Opening the door for the litter bearers, the wizard motioned for Alec to preceed him.

Stepping in, Alec found himself in a narrow, tunnel-like space. Stacks of boxes, crates, and sheaves of parchment filled whatever space there was from floor to ceiling. A single, narrow pathway allowed access to the inner rooms; two people might have been able to squeeze past one another, but it would be at the risk of setting off an avalanche.

The room beyond, though cluttered, was bright and spacious by comparison. Looking up, Alec realized they were at the top of one of the corner towers. Colored only by the sun and sky above, the thick leaded panes of the dome were set in swirling patterns interspersed with complicated symbols.

The tower room was filled with an amazing collection of things, the complete order of which was probably known only to Nysander himself. Shelf upon shelf of books, racks of scrolls, hangings, diagrams, and charts covered every inch of wall space. More books were stacked in precarious piles on the floor and on the stairs that curved up to a walkway beneath the dome overhead.

Around the room stood three large worktables and a high desk. Two of the tables were hopelessly laden; among the general clutter Alec noticed braziers, pots, covered jars, several skulls, and a small iron cage.

On the third table a thick book lay open on a stand surrounded by a collection of fragile glass vessels and rods. The desk was also relatively clear, though a dusty formation of candle drippings cascaded to the floor from one corner of it where, over the years, one candle had been set into the guttering pool of its predecessor.

Hooks and nails had been driven in anywhere there seemed to be room, and from these were hung an array of things ranging from dried leaves and skins to a complete skeleton of something that was decidedly not human.

Nysander went to a small side door at the right side of the room and sent the litter bearers through with Seregil. Alec followed them into a small whitewashed chamber. In the middle of the room was a rectangular table of dark polished wood inlaid with ivory; a smaller one of similar design stood against the right-hand wall with a simple wooden chair.

At Nysander's command, the servants placed Seregil's litter on the floor next to the long table and withdrew. No sooner had they gone than a thin young man in a spotless blue and white robe hurried in with an armload of leafy branches. His curly black hair was closely cropped and the sparse black beard edging his cheeks accentuated the gaunt planes of his pale, angular face.

Setting his bundle down beside the smaller table, he brushed a few leaves from the front of his robe and glanced down at Seregil, his pale green eyes narrowing with distaste.

"Ah, just in time!" Nysander said. "Alec, this is Thero, my assistant and protégé. Thero, this is Alec, who has brought Seregil back to us."

"Welcome," Thero said, though neither his voice nor his manner evinced any warmth.

"Are the preparations complete?" asked Nysander.

"I've brought extra branches, just to be certain."

Looking down at Seregil again, the young wizard shook his head. "It seems we'll need them."

With Thero's terse assistance, Alec pulled off Seregil's filthy tunic and cut away the linen bands covering the dressing. Thero, who'd handled the tunic as if it were smeared with excrement, took a step back, making a quick warding sign as he did so.

"What is it?" Alec exclaimed in growing alarm.

"Nysander, please! Why do people keep doing that?"

"You and Seregil have been in contact with a telesm of the most dangerous sort," the wizard replied calmly, bending to scrutinize the wound. "You are both tainted with a miasmal effluence most offensive to any with thaumaturgic powers."

Glancing up, Nysander saw Alec's blank look and gave the boy an apologetic smile. "Forgive me. What I mean is that you two have been in contact with a cursed object of some sort and, while only the physical effects are apparent to the ordinary observer, to a wizard you both smell like you just crawled out of a cesspit."

"I should say so!" Thero concurred wholeheartedly.

Kneeling beside Seregil, Nysander drew a small silver knife from his belt and gently pressed the flat of the blade here and there against the seeping flesh, his unruly eyebrows drawing together as he noted the round mark left by the wooden disk. Setting the blade aside, he sat back on his heels, frowning.

"It is time I saw the cause of all this."

Alec opened Seregil's pack and pulled out the old tunic. He hadn't touched the bundle since the night of the strange attack.

"Place it there, in the center of the small table,"

Nysander instructed. "We must work with extreme care. Are you ready, Thero?"

Unrolling the tunic, he lifted the disk out with a long pair of silver tongs. "Just as I feared," he muttered. "Thero, the jar."

His assistant placed a small crystal jar on the table and Nysander dropped the disk into it.

There was a brief flash of light as he set the lid in place and the jar sealed seamlessly shut.

"That much is done, at least," Nysander said, dropping the jar unceremoniously into his pocket.

"Now we must see to the purification. We shall begin with you, Alec, for we will need your assistance with Seregil. Come now, there is no need to look so apprehensive!"

Thero positioned the chair at the center of the room and motioned for Alec to sit. Gripping the arms nervously, Alec watched as Thero fetched a tray.

Nysander patted his shoulder. "There is nothing to fear, dear boy, but you must not speak again until I tell you that I have finished."

Producing a lump of blue chalk from a wallet on his belt, the wizard drew a circle on the floor around the chair and added a series of hastily scrawled symbols around its perimeter. Meanwhile, Thero poured water from a silver ewer into a silver bowl on the side table, then selected three branches from the bundle on the floor, laying them out neatly beside the bowl.

The branches were of three different types: white pine trimmed so that the long needles at the tip formed a sort of brush; a simple birch switch; and a straight branch covered in round green leaves that gave off a sharp, unfamiliar aroma.

Adding a shallow clay dish of ink and a fine brush to the arrangement, Thero placed a thick wax candle behind the bowl and lit it with a quick snap of his fingers.

"Everything's ready," he said, moving to stand behind Alec's chair.

Nysander stood over the bowl, hands held palm downward above it, and spoke a few quiet words.

Instantly a soft glow radiated up from the surface of the water, followed by a sweet, pleasant fragrance that filled the room. Taking up the small dish and brush, Nysander painted blue symbols on Alec's forehead and palms, taking special care with the wounded hand.

This step completed, he passed one of the aromatic branches several times over the candle flame, dipped it in the glowing water, and sprinkled Alec from head to foot, repeating the flame and water process several times. The droplets glowed with the same magical light as the water in the bowl. They clung to Alec's skin and clothing, winking like fireflies.

Laying aside the first branch, Nysander passed the birch switch through the flame and water and struck Alec lightly on his cheeks, shoulders, chest, thighs, and feet, then snapped the stick in two.

Small puffs of brown, foul-smelling smoke rose up from the splintered ends. He uttered a few more, incomprehensible words; the sweet perfume of the water intensified, dispelling the odor.

Finally, he took up the pine branch and repeated the spargetaction. This time the glowing drops vanished as they touched Alec, leaving a faint tingling sensation in their wake. At a final command from Nysander, the painted symbols simply vanished.

"Your spirit is cleansed," Nysander told him, tossing the last branch onto the table. "I suggest you do the same with your body while we prepare Seregil."

Alec glanced anxiously at Seregil.

"There is time," Nysander assured him. "Thero and I have preparations of our own to make. The task before us is an arduous one. I shall need you refreshed and ready. For Seregil's sake, if not for your own, do as I ask. My servant Wethis will conduct you down to the baths. You may also deliver a message for me to Lady Ylinestra on your way. Please tell her that I shall be detained."

Thero paused on his way out with the tray, giving his master a look Alec couldn't quite decipher. "If you'd like to go to the lady yourself, I can begin the preparations."

"Thank you, Thero, but I must keep my mind clear for the ceremony, as must you," replied Nysander.

Thero gave his master a respectful nod. "Come along, Alec." A lanky, towheaded youth answered Thero's summons.

"This is Wethis," the young wizard said. Turning on his heel, he disappeared back into the side room without a backward glance.

Alec looked back at Wethis just in time to catch him making a sour face at Thero's back. As the two of them exchanged guilty grins, Alec realized how ill at ease he'd been among the wizards.

"We're to stop at the chambers of someone called Ylinestra," he told Wethis as they began the winding descent back down. "I'm supposed to deliver a message to her for Nysander. Do you know who she is?"

"Ylinestra of Erind?" Wethis shot him an unreadable look. "Everyone knows who she is, sir. Come this way, her chambers are in the visitors' wing."

"She's not an Orëska wizard?"

"No, sir, a young sorceress up from the south to study." They walked on a moment in silence, then Wethis stole another sidelong glance at Alec.

"You're the one who came in with Lord Seregil, aren't you, sir?"

"Yes," he replied, thinking Lord Seregil? "And you don't have to call me sir. My name's Alec."

Continuing down through the warren of stairways and passages, they came out on a gallery overlooking the atrium. From here, Alec saw that the mosaic on the floor below depicted an immense, scarlet dragon crowned with a silver crescent. Its leathery wings were outstretched in flight; beyond its coiling body, as if seen from a distance, lay what Alec took to be the harbor and walled city of Rhíminee itself.

"That must be the dragon of Illior," he observed, leaning over the rail for a better look.

"The very one."

Stopping at the last door on the gallery, Wethis knocked and stepped back to make way for Alec.

A woman opened the door, her welcoming smile one a man could happily die for. It vanished as soon as she saw the two of them, however. Suddenly Alec couldn't have spoken a word if his life depended on it.

Ylinestra was stunningly beautiful. Framed in a mass of raven hair, her face was at once delicate and sensual. Her eyes were the deep, velvety purple of a summer iris. The loose-flowing garment she wore was made of embroidered silk so sheer it did little more than tint the voluptuous body it draped.

Alec, who had never seen a naked woman before, stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to think.

Wethis stood to one side in respectful silence.

"Yes?" Ylinestra demanded imperiously, folding her arms beneath her breasts.

"I've come from Nysander," Alec said, finding his voice at last. He wanted desperately to keep his eyes on hers, but the onslaught of her gaze was too much. Knowing that he'd be lost if he looked lower than her shoulders, he finally settled on her chin and blurted out his message. "He-he said to tell you that he'll be late."

"Did he say when he would come?" she demanded, her tone ominous.

"No," Alec replied, resisting the strong urge to fall back a pace.

"Thank you," she snapped and slammed the door in his face. A series of loud crashes from behind it quickly followed as Alec and Wethis beat a hasty retreat.

"If I'd known what your message was, I'd have warned you about her temper," Wethis apologized.

"She and Nysander are lovers, you see. I think she must have been expecting him in person."

''His lover!"

"The latest one, anyway," Wethis answered with obvious admiration. "Nysander's one of the few Orëska wizards who doesn't hold with celibacy. Far from it, in fact. Still, I'm not certain even he is a match for Ylinestra, if you know what I mean." Lowering his voice, he added with a knowing wink, "But I'll warrant she's worth the trouble!"

Reaching the atrium, Wethis led Alec into a long gallery lined with statuary of every size and description.

"This is just the anteroom of the baths," he explained, seeing Alec's look of wonder. "The really unusual things are in the museum across the way. Lord Seregil could show you around there; he knows the place better than some of the wizards."

Steamy air enveloped them as Wethis swung back a large door and ushered him into an immense vaulted chamber. Having always associated washing with chilly streams and drafty bathhouses, Alec wasn't prepared for the opulence that now lay before him.

At the center of the huge chamber lay a broad octagonal pool lined with red and gold tiles.

Marble griffins with gilded wings stood at four opposing corners and spewed arching streams of water into it. The tinkling plash of falling water echoed pleasantly around the chamber.

The walls of the room were decorated with frescoes depicting water nymphs and undersea scenes. Beneath these, set into the floor in the same manner as the pool, were individual tubs. Attended by servants, a number of other bathers were already making use of these. Alec could feel the warmth of the heated floor through the soles of his boots.

A carved bench, clothes rack, and the largest looking glass he'd ever seen were arranged around the tub prepared for him. Nearby a servant stood ready with a basket, and another was approaching with a tray of food. The scented water in the tub did look inviting, but Alec felt acutely uncomfortable undressing under so many eyes. Noting his hesitation, Wethis shooed the servants off and turned away himself while Alec slipped hastily into the water.

"Looks like Nysander wants you to eat," Wethis observed pushing the tray of food over to him.

In spite of his resolution to hurry, the aromas wafting up from the various bowls stirred Alec's empty belly. Taking up a spoon, he hastily wolfed down a few mouthfuls until a fiery red sauce brought him to an abrupt, choking halt.

Grinning, Wethis handed him a goblet of cool water. "You'd better slow down. Skalan food can take you by surprise if you're not used to it."

"I guess so!" Alec croaked, holding out his cup for more water. Taking a last piece of bread, he pushed the rest away. "You want any of this?"

"No," Wethis declined with a bemused smile.

"I'll take it away."

Alec ducked his head under, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. When he came up again he found a young bath servant preparing to assist him. Grabbing the sponge out of the startled servant's hands, Alec sent him off with a dark look.

Making cursory use of the soap, he clambered out to find that his soiled clothing had been removed.

Clean linen, a loose shirt, soft leather breeches, and a fine scarlet surcoat were laid out on the rack. A broad belt of embossed leather hung over the shoulder of the coat.

"Where's my bow?" he demanded in some alarm as Wethis returned. "Where are my sword and purse?"

"Your purse is here." Wethis handed it to him.

"Weapons are not allowed in the Orëska House. They'll be kept safe for you until you leave."

The bath attendant drifted hesitantly back as Alec finished dressing, offering him a tray of oils and combs. Alec was about to wave the boy away again when he caught sight of himself in the glass. For the first time in his life, he saw his entire image at once and scarcely recognized the finely dressed figure he saw reflected there. His hair stuck out in damp disarray. Feeling a little awkward, he accepted a comb and took a moment to smooth it back.

Returning to the wizards tower, Alec found that Seregil had been washed and laid naked on the larger table in the side room. His thin, pale body looked frailer than ever against the dark wood.

Angry lines of infection bloomed across his breast like a vile, livid flower.

Nysander was standing on a chair, drawing a blue chalk circle on the ceiling overhead. A corresponding circle had already been drawn on the floor around the table. He'd changed clothes during Alec's absence; the voluminous robe he wore was of the finest blue wool, the breast and sleeves richly patterned with gold embroidery. A wide belt decorated with enameled plaques and tassels accentuated the spareness of his frame, making him seem taller than ever. An embroidered velvet skullcap balanced precariously on the back of his head.

"Ah, back so soon? I trust you found yourself well served?" Nysander stepped lightly down from the chair and looked Alec over. Pocketing the chalk, he wiped his hands absently on the skirt of his robe, leaving dusty smudges across the front of it.

"Skalan dress suits you, dear boy, although your hair seems to have retained the wild fashion of the north."

He waved a deprecating hand at his own garb. "No doubt you find my appearance more wizardly now? Thero is of a similar opinion, and I find it easiest to humor him. I would be every bit as effective in my ragged old coat, or stark naked for that matter, but he does insist—" Thero came in just then and Nysander gave Alec a wink that put him very much in mind of Micum Cavish.

Alec was directed to stand at the head of the table.

Looking down, he studied Seregil's empty face as Thero quietly arranged the final items for the ceremony. The materials were much the same, with the addition of a slender ivory wand and knife. When he'd finished, he took up his position at Seregil's feet.

Nysander stood beside the table, hands clasped before him.

After a moment of silence he looked at Alec.

"We shall begin, now. You may find the ceremony disturbing, but remember that we are doing this to save Seregil's life and make him whole again. Once the process has begun, you must not speak or cross out of the circle. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Alec replied, shifting uneasily.

Nysander went to work with the ink and brush, and over the next hour covered Seregil's hands, brow, and breast with an intricate web of interconnected symbols. A particularly dense band outlined the area around the strange wound.

After another invocation, he proceeded with a spargefaction similar to the one he'd performed on Alec. As before, the beaded droplets retained their bright glow against Seregil's skin and by the time Nysander had finished, his body was encased in a gleaming mantle of them.

Nysander took up a birch switch and Alec winced as the wizard brought it down hard enough to raise thin welts across Seregil's skin. At the final blow of the switch, the droplets lost their light, then disappeared.

Chanting in a clear, strong voice, Nysander broke the switch over his knee. Foul brown smoke rose in thick twin columns from the splintered ends, swirling around the confines of the magic circle like a whirlwind in a barrel. It had a fearsome stink and Alec and Thero choked, half blinded, in the midst of it.

Unaffected, Nysander purified the ivory wand in flame and water and drew a glowing sign in the air above Seregil. The sigil writhed in a quick succession of patterns and disappeared with a loud pop, taking the smoke with it.

Motioning for Alec's attention, Nysander raised one hand and made a brief gesture. It took the boy a moment to realize that he was using Seregil's silent hand language.

Hold him.

Thero joined Nysander in a fast, rhythmic chant as they scattered water over Seregil with pine branches. The droplets danced and sizzled across his bare skin like water on a hot griddle, then disappeared. Points of reddish light winked into existence where they had been. Alec thought at first that they were drops of blood, but they quickly swelled to fingertip size, taking on an uncanny, spiderlike shape. They moved like spiders, too, and Alec felt a keen revulsion as the glowing things skittered over Seregil's helpless body, across his mouth, his eyelids and lips.

Around the wound they swarmed out in such numbers that Alec stepped back, instinctively raising his hand in a warding sign. Before he could complete it, however, Nysander's hand closed over his. With a stern gesture, the wizard firmly indicated that Alec should not repeat the gesture.

By the time they'd finished, Seregil was scarcely visible beneath a seething mass of the spidery things. His breathing had grown harsh in his throat and he stirred restlessly, rolling his head from side to side.

Signing for Thero and Alec to hold him down, Nysander raised the ivory wand over Seregil's chest and traced another intricate series of patterns on the air. When he was satisfied with the design, he drew a final circle around it. A swirling breeze sprang up above them.

Seregil's breathing quickened to short, painful panting as the glowing things were pulled off his body and drawn up into a small, tightly twisting column. When the last of them had been drawn away, Nysander and Thero cried out in unison, their voices booming in the confines of the tiny room. The very air reverberated in a manner transcending the mere power of a human voice.

The swirling cloud of red lights winked out; and blackened husks from the air crackled underfoot like tiny shards of glass.

They carefully cleared the remains from Seregil's body and the surface of the table, then began again from the beginning.

Seregil grew increasingly restless as they continued.

Within an hour he was physically resisting their efforts; by the fourth cycle of spargings Alec and Thero had to use all their strength to hold him down. During the worst of his throes, Seregil clawed at his own chest, shouting unintelligibly.

Nysander paused to listen, then shook his head.

Another hour and they were all to the point of exhaustion. Alec's face and neck were scored with the marks of Seregil's nails. Thero had a bruise darkening over his left eye and his nose was bleeding from a sudden kick. The black cinders lay almost three inches deep on the floor and broken branches were piled around Nysander's ankles.

At last the wound opened, draining thick, bloody pus. They were soon all smeared with it as Seregil continued to arch and struggle. When Nysander paused to sponge the area clean, they saw that the mark of the disk had reappeared. Alec could make out some of the enigmatic pattern and the mark of the square hole at its center.

Late-afternoon light was shining down through the tower dome by the time they completed the last of the purifications. A few of the red lights sprang up under the sprinkling of the pine tip, and finally none at all. Seregil grew quiet again, his breathing a soft, steady moan.

Using the ivory knife, Nysander gently pricked the skin where the pulse throbbed at the base of Seregil's throat. A drop of bright blood welled up, nothing more.

Reaching overhead with the wand, he broke the blue chalk circle on the ceiling, then bent and scratched across the one on the floor. Straightening wearily, he kneaded at the back of his neck with one hand.

"He is cleansed."

"Will he get well now?" Alec asked uncertainly, seeing little improvement.

Nysander stroked Seregil's damp hair back from his forehead with a fond smile. "Yes. He would not have survived the ritual, otherwise."

"You mean he could have died from this?" Alec gasped grasping the edge of the table to steady himself.

Nysander clasped him by the shoulders, looking earnestly into his face. "He would certainly have died otherwise, and perhaps gone on to something far worse after death. I did not tell you that before because I did not want you distracted by such concerns."

"Shall I send for Valerius now?" asked Thero.

"Please do. I believe you will find him in the atrium."

"Who's Valerius?" asked Alec.

"A drysian. Seregil is damaged in body as well as in spirit. That will require special healing."

This, at least, was something Alec understood. He set to work clearing away the remains of the ceremony.

Gingerly picking up a few of the blacked stars, he found them as brittle as the dead spiders they resembled.

"What are they?" he asked, dropping them in disgust.

"A corporeal manifestation of the evil that came into him through the disk," Nysander replied, sifting a handful through his fingers. "It is very difficult to affect anything of insubstantial nature. By means of the procedure you just witnessed, I was able to draw the evil from Seregil's body bit by bit, binding it to a small amount of matter to lend it a tangible form. I could then act upon it by magic to dissipate it. These ashes are simply the residue of the temporary physical form I imposed upon it."

"Is it difficult?"

"More draining than difficult. But you must be exhausted, wrestling with our poor friend here for so long. How do you suppose an old fellow of nearly three centuries must feel?"

Alec blinked. "Micum said you were the oldest of the wizards, but I never—"

"I am hardly the oldest of all, my boy, merely the eldest in residence at the Orëska," Nysander corrected. "I know of several others half again as old as myself. As wizards go, I am in my prime. Please do not go making an antiquity out of me just yet!"

Alec began a stammered apology, certain he'd given offense, but Nysander chuckled and reached to ruffle his hair. "If Micum spoke of me, he must have told you not to fear me. Speak your mind honestly, and I shall like you the better for it."

"I'm still getting used to all this," Alec admitted.

"I am not surprised. Once Seregil is settled, you and I shall have a nice, comfortable chat."

Alec went back to his task in silence, wondering what he would have to say to a wizard, even one as friendly as Nysander. He was soon startled out of his reverie, however, by the sound of someone entering the front room.

"What's the brat gotten himself into this time?" a brusque voice bellowed.

The owner of the voice, a wild-looking man in rough clothing, strode into the room, bringing with him the smells of fresh air, wood smoke, and wild growing things freshly gathered. Thero trailed in the newcomer's wake, his thin mouth pursed into a vaguely disapproving line.

"Valerius, old friend!" Nysander greeted the man warmly. "How fortunate to find you in Rhíminee today. I have dispelled the magic, but he still requires considerable healing."

Tossing a battered satchel onto the table, the drysian scowled down at Seregil. Valerius unkempt black hair stood out in violent disorder beneath the cracked brim of his disreputable felt hat.

His beard bristled belligerently, and the rich black thatch that covered the backs of his hands and forearms and curled forth from the unlaced neck of his tunic gave him a bearish look. His clothes, like those of most drysians, were plain and stained with hard travel. His heavy silver pendant and smooth-worn staff, together with the pouches of every size and description hanging from the belt girding his ample middle, marked him as a drysian. Deep lines bracketing his mouth warned of a formidable nature.

"I believe it was curse magic of some sort," Nysander informed him.

"I can see that," Valerius muttered, brown eyes glittering as he ran his hands over Seregil's body.

"What's this?" he asked, tapping a finger under the open wound.

"The imprint of a wooden disk Seregil wore next to his skin for several days. I do not know whether the mark is the result of magic, or happened when this boy inadvertently pulled the thing off. Alec, you did say you noticed a reddening of the skin there a few days before the final incident?"

Pinned by the drysian's sharp attention, Alec nodded.

"Never seen anything like this, but it stinks of sorcery."

Valerius wrinkled his nose as he examined the faint tracery still visible. "Best to have it off."

The wizard cupped a hand over the mark for a moment, then shook his head slowly. "I think it would be better to leave it as it is for the time being."

"The last thing Seregil wants is another scar on his pretty skin," Valerius glowered. "Especially one as distinctive as this! Besides, who knows what this thing means?"

"That was my first thought," Nysander concurred, unperturbed by the drysian's manner. "Nonetheless, I feel it would be best to leave it as it is."

"Some mystical presentiment, no doubt?"

Valerius gave a derisive snort. "Suit yourself, then. But you explain it to him when he makes a fuss."

Shooing everyone from the room, the healer set to work.

Wethis was summoned to assist him, and soon the room was choked with clouds of steam and incense.

Nysander cleared a space at one of the less cluttered worktables and Thero and Alec joined him.

"Illior's Hands, that was thirsty work." He spoke a quick spell and a tall, burlap-wrapped jar appeared on the table before them, a crust of melting snow clinging to the coarse material. Alec reached out a tentative finger to see if it was real.

"Mycenian apple wine is best well chilled."

Nysander smiled, delighted with Alec's open amazement. "I keep a supply up on Mount Apos."

The three of them settled down over the mild, icy wine, waiting for the drysian to finish.

Poor Wethis scatted in and out on errands for Valerius so often that Nysander finally propped the front door open so they wouldn't have to keep letting him in.

Valerius emerged from the casting room at last, streamers of vapor trailing from his beard. Dropping unceremoniously onto the bench beside Alec, he unhooked a cup from his belt and helped himself to the wine. Ignoring their expectant looks, he drained the cup at one gulp and let out a deep, satisfied belch.

"I've gotten the last of the poison out of his blood. He'll mend now," he announced.

"Was it acotair?" Thero inquired.

Valerius saluted him with his cup. "Acotair it was. An uncommon poison, and very effective. I daresay it leached into his skin from the disk, weakening him so that the magic could work more quickly."

"Or from a distance," suggested Nysander.

"Possibly. The combination would have killed most men, considering how long he wore the damned thing."

"Well, you know Seregil and magic," Nysander sighed. "But you are fortunate not to have handled it any more than you did, Alec."

"What did you mean, about Seregil and magic?" asked Alec.

"He resists it somehow—"

"You mean he fouls it up!" scoffed Valerius.

The drysian's derisive tone bothered Alec less than Thero's discreet smirk; he found he was liking Nysander's assistant less all the time.

"Whatever the case, it has saved his life," said Nysander. "And Alec's as well, judging by his description of Seregil's behavior. Had he decided to kill you, dear boy, I doubt you could have stopped him."

Recalling the look on Seregil's face that night in the barn, Alec knew Nysander spoke the truth.

"He'll sleep for another day, perhaps two," said Valerius. "He should stay in bed a week; knowing him, five days will have to do. But no less than that, mind you. Lash him to the bedposts if you have to. I'll leave some herbs for an infusion. Force as much of it down him as you can, and make him eat. Nothing to drink but water and lots of it. I want him properly purged before we let him go. Thanks for the wine, Nysander."

Rising to his feet, he swung his satchel over his shoulder. "Strength of the Maker be upon you!"

Alec watched him stride out, then turned to Nysander. "He knows Seregil, doesn't he? Are they friends?"

Nysander smiled wryly, considering the question. "I cannot recall hearing either of them use the term in relation to one another. Still, I suppose they are, after their own peculiar fashion. But I suspect you will have an opportunity to form your own opinions over the next few days."

 

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