Dinner With Nysander

 

Exhausted as he was after the ceremony, Alec insisted on helping Wethis carry Seregil down the back stairs of Nysander's tower to the living quarters. A short, curving hallway led past several closed doors to a comfortable bedchamber near the end of the passage.

The room was simply furnished. Two narrow beds flanked an embrasured window on the far side of the room. Thick, colorful carpets covered the floor, and a cheerful blaze crackled in the fireplace near the door.

They laid the unconscious man in the right-hand bed and Nysander bent over him, taking one of Seregil's hands between his own.

"He really is going to be all right, isn't he?" Alec asked, unable to decipher the old wizard's expression. "The same as he was before, I mean?"

Nysander gave Seregil's hand a final pat and laid it gently on the sleeping man's chest. "I believe so. He is strong in ways even he is not completely aware of. But you should sleep now, too. I shall send for you when you are rested and we will talk of anything you like. Look for me in the room across the passage or upstairs if you need me."

When he'd gone, Alec pulled a chair up beside Seregil's bed. It pleased him to see how quietly Seregil slept. His drawn face seemed less empty now, and a faint tinge of color had crept into his sunken cheeks.

I'll just sit here for a few minutes. Alec thought, propping his feet on the edge of the bed.

He was asleep almost at once.

 

"Alec—" Alec sat up, glancing around in momentary alarm.

He'd been dreaming of the Grampus and it took a moment to remember where he was.

Someone had brought in a night lamp and by its soft light he saw Seregil regarding him through half-lidded eyes.

"Rhíminee?" It was scarcely a whisper.

"I told you I'd get you here," Alec said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing as he pulled the chair closer.

Seregil's gaze wandered drowsily around the room and Alec saw a flicker of a smile playing about his pale lips. "My old room—" Alec thought his friend had drifted off to sleep again, but he stirred after a moment and rasped, "Tell me."

He listened quietly, stirring only to look at Alec's scarred hand, and again at the mention of Valerius.

"Him!" Seregil croaked. He groped for more words, then shook his head slightly. "Explain later. What do you think of Nysander?"

"I like him. He's someone you trust right away, like Micum."

"Always trust him, always," Seregil whispered, his eyelids fluttering shut again.

When Alec was certain he was soundly asleep this time, he fell into his own bed, only to be awakened a second time by the sound of soft voices. Pushing the quilt back from his face, he saw Valerius and Nysander bending over Seregil across the room. Sunlight slanted across the carpet.

"Good afternoon," Nysander greeted him. Gone were the embroidered vestments of the night before. His plain robe was frayed at the cuffs and devoid of ornamentation.

"I should have been up before now." Alec sat up and yawned. "How's Seregil? He came around for a few minutes last night."

"Well enough," Valerius replied as he finished with a fresh dressing. Drawing the blankets back over Seregil, he turned and surprised Alec with an almost friendly grin. "How are those scratches today?"

"A little sore."

Placing a hand under Alec's chin, Valerius tilted the boy's head this way and that. "Nothing serious. See you keep them clean. Nysander told me how you brought Seregil here. You must be as stubborn as he is."

Still gripping Alec's chin, he extended his other hand palm down toward the floor. The boy shivered as a pleasant chill ran through him.

"That should take care of anything ailing you."

Waving a hand at Seregil, Valerius added gruffly, "I expect you to keep an eye on him for me. He's to stay in that bed until I say otherwise, understand?"

The formidable glint had returned to the drysian's eye, and Alec gave a quick nod of compliance.

"You must not bully the boy," Nysander chided as Valerius took his leave. "You know very well he is quite trustworthy, and a good Dalnan besides."

"Aye, but it's not a good Dalnan that he'll be dealing with when Seregil begins to get his pepper back. Good luck to you, lad, and Maker's blessings."

"And to you!" Alec called hastily after him.

"You must be famished. I know I am," said Nysander. "Come, I have along a meal laid for us in my sitting room."

Alec cast a worried glance toward Seregil.

"Come, you must keep up your own strength if you are to be any help to him," said Nysander, taking him gently by the arm. "It is just across the corridor. We shall leave both doors open and come back with our wine as soon as we have eaten."

Wethis was busy setting out the meal on a round table at the center of the room and nodded pleasantly to Alec as they entered.

After the massive clutter of the upper rooms, Alec was surprised at the orderliness of Nysander's sitting room. The small chamber was furnished for simple comfort; beyond a round din- jng table, two large chairs faced one another in front of the blazing hearth. Shelves along the walls held neatly arranged collections of scrolls and books interspersed with more arcane objects.

The room's most notable feature was a narrow band of mural running completely around the otherwise unadorned walls. It was scarcely two feet in width but Alec discovered upon closer inspection that it was comprised of a succession of fantastic beasts and birds rendered in superb detail. Here a tiny dragon hovered on scaly outstretched wings over a still smaller castle, blasting it with a glowing stream of fiery breath; there a centaur raiding party bore maidens away in sinewy arms. Farther along the same wall an horrific sea creature reared up from painted waves, spines bristling from its reptilian face as it crushed a ship in its jaws. Near the first corner a creature with the body of a lioness and the breasts and head of a woman held the limp form of a youth between her taloned paws.

Interspersed among these scenes were symbols that gave back a silvery sheen in the light.

Suddenly he heard an amused chuckle behind him.

"My little paintings please you, I see," the wizard said.

Alec realized with chagrin that he'd been following the mural around the room with complete disregard for his host. Turning, he found Nysander seated at the table. Wethis was nowhere to be found.

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to be rude," he stammered as he hastily took a seat.

"No need for apologies. It has that affect on most who see it for the first time. As a matter of fact, that is part of its function."

"You mean it's magical?" In spite of his hunger, Alec found it difficult to draw his eyes from the paintings.

Nysander raised one shaggy eyebrow in amusement.

"Forgive me, but it is always refreshing to meet someone as ingenuous as yourself. So many who come here expect revelations of mythic proportions—dragons under the wine table, spirits summoned down the chimney! They have no awe left in them for the little marvels. All their wonder has turned to appetite.

"In answer to your question, however, the mural is indeed magical. Its purpose, aside from dazzling my dinner guests, is to protect my rooms. The symbols you see there are each keyed to react to a different sort of intrusion. You will find them throughout the Orëska House. Perhaps you noticed the ones in the dome upstairs? The entire building is protected by an elaborate pattern of magicks—But I am keeping you from your meal! Let us talk of little things as we eat. After dinner we shall converse in a civilized fashion over the wine."

Alec began cautiously, recalling the fiery spices of the day before, but each successive dish was more agreeable than the last.

"Seregil told me that wizards come to Rhíminee to be trained," he ventured at last.

"Wizards, scholars, madmen, they come seeking the knowledge amassed and preserved by the Third Orëska. There is more than magic here, you see. We gather information of all types. Our library is the finest in the Three Lands, and the vaults below contain artifacts which predate the coming of the Hierophants."

Alec laid aside his knife. "Why is it called the Third Orëska?"

"The first mages who came here from Aurënen were the original Orëska," Nysander explained. "It was they who first taught that knowledge is as powerful, in its own way, as any magic, and that magic without knowledge is worse than useless; it is dangerous. Later, they established the Second Orëska at Ero when magical powers became apparent among the half-blood children of Aurënfaie and humans.

"Unfortunately, the fellowship of the Second Orëska was all but annihilated during the Great War. There have never been as many wizards since that time. Another blow befell it when Ero was destroyed.

"A terrible tragedy, so many of the ancient writings lost! Queen Tamir bequeathed this site to the surviving wizards at the founding of Rhíminee, with the understanding that they would contribute to the defense of Skala. The new alliance established at that time was deemed the Third Orëska. The Cirna Canal was one of the first demonstrations of their good faith."

"I've heard something of that. How many wizards are there now?"

"Only a few hundred in all the Three Lands now, I fear. Fewer and fewer children are being born with the power; the blood of the Aurënfaie masters has grown thin."

"But don't the children of wizards inherit their powers?"

Nysander shook his head. "There are no children of wizards. It is perhaps the greatest price we pay for our gifts. Magical abilities demand every bit of creative force we possess. We are repaid richly with powers and long lives, but the force of Illior which gives us the ability to recreate the world around us also burns out the natural procreative forces of the body. The Immortal has never revealed why this must be so, even to the Aurënfaie— But I am lecturing you as if you were a novice! Let us return to your room. Seregil is still deep within himself and shall likely remain so for some time, but I believe it will benefit him to have us nearby."

Nysander took down two tall goblets from a nearby shelf and handed one to Alec. The boy turned it about in disbelief, never having seen its like. Carved from flawless rock crystal, it was banded around the stem and cup with heavily embellished gold and polished red gems that glowed like wine in the firelight.

"I could just use my cup from supper," Alec protested, holding it gingerly in both hands.

"Nonsense!" Nysander grabbed up a decanter from the sideboard and headed across to the bedchamber. "I nearly lost my life acquiring them. It would be a waste not to use them."

They found Seregil still sleeping deeply.

"Let us sit close by him." Nysander gave Alec another roguish wink. "You shall surrender the chair to me out of deference to my great age. You can sit on the end of his bed. Some part of him knows we are here and it will comfort him."

Alec settled cross-legged with his back against the footboard. Nysander filled their goblets with red wine and raised his cup at Alec.

"Drink up! This is talking wine and I know you have many more questions. I can see them swarming about like bees behind your eyes."

Alec took a long sip and felt a comfortable warmth spread through him. "I'd like to know more about that disk. What was it you called it?"

"A telesm. A magical object which has an innate power of its own that can also be used as a focus of power by one who understands its function. The poison it was coated with would aid in this, as Valerius and I discussed last night. Unfortunately, there is little more I can tell you of it."

"Well, what about that dark creature Seregil kept claiming to see? Was that real?"

The shadow of a frown flickered across Nysander's lined face. "I shall need to hear Seregil's account to be certain. Whatever the case, someone was taking a great deal of trouble and effort to find both you and the disk."

Alec looked up sharply. "You think they might still be after us?"

"Quite possibly. But you have nothing to fear, dear boy. I have placed the disk beyond their reach. If anyone was following you, I think that they found a cold trail the moment I contained it in that jar, or perhaps even when you pulled it from Seregil's neck. So long as you remain within the walls of the Orëska, an army could not get to you."

"But if Mardus is such a powerful wizard—"

"Mardus is no wizard!" Nysander fixed Alec with an appraising look. "What I tell you now must go no further, is that understood? I repeat, he is not a wizard. Mardus is one of the most powerful Plenimaran nobles, also rumored to be a bastard son of the aging Overlord. Whatever the case, he is a ruthless man of cruel and dangerous intelligence, a cunning warrior, and a known assassin. It was most unfortunate for him to have looked upon your faces that night in Wolde; let us hope he never does so again. But I did not bring you here to frighten you more than you have been these last few weeks, so I am going to ply you with more of this excellent wine and turn to less worrisome topics. Did Seregil tell you that he was once apprenticed to me?"

"No, but Micum did, back in Boersby." Alec watched the play of the firelight in the crimson depths of his cup. For all the days of talking on the Downs and after, Seregil had never once spoken of his own past. "Micum said something about it not working out."

Nysander smiled at him over the rim of his goblet.

"That, dear boy, is a magnificent understatement. No wizard ever had so devoted or disastrous a pupil! But I shall begin at the beginning. Seregil came to Idrilain's court as a poor and distant relation, exiled from his family, totally alone. At court they tried to make a page of him, but that did not last long—as you may well imagine. Next came a position as a junior scribe, I believe. Again failure. After one or two other such fiascoes, he came to my attention.

"I was delighted to get him, and could not believe my good fortune. He has the ability, you see, and he was so eager to learn. But after a few months it became apparent that something was wrong. He mastered the rudimentary disciplines with an ease which delighted us both, but as soon as we tried to move on to the higher magicks, things began to go awry."

Nysander shook his head, remembering. "At first it was simply mat the spells would not come off. Or they would, but with the most unexpected results. He would try to move a small object,
a salt cellar; it would overturn. He would try again and the salt would burst into flames. On the third try it might fly at his head, or mine. One day he attempted a simple messenger spell, and in the space of five minutes every spider, centipede, and earwig in the place came swarming in under the door. We began conducting his training outside after that.

"Attempting to levitate, he blew up an entire grove of trees in the park. A simple summoning, butterflies I think, and all the horses went crazy for an hour. Things soon reached such a state that whenever anything unusual happened within the Orëska grounds, we got the blame for it.

"Oh, but it was frustrating! In spite of all the blunders, all the destruction, I knew the power was there. I could feel it, even when he could not. For he did succeed now and then, but so erratically! Poor Seregil was devastated. I saw him brought to tears just trying to light a candle. Then there was the time he turned himself into a brick."

Caught sipping his wine, Alec choked as he began to laugh. He knew he shouldn't, but the wine was in him to the heart and he just couldn't help it. None of this sounded like the Seregil he knew.

Nysander shook his head ruefully. "The one sort of spell he really took to was shape changing, though I generally had to assist him. This time, however, he was determined to do it by himself and he turned himself into a brick—I believe he was trying for a horse at the time. In any case, there was the usual flash, then a thump, and there he was on the ground at my feet; an ordinary brick!"

Alec pressed a hand over his mouth, quaking with stifled laughter that jostled the bed. Seregil stirred against the pillow.

"No, no, do not trouble to move. It is good for him to sense us with him." Nysander patted Seregil affectionately on the shoulder. "You never like being reminded of that incident, do you? Ah, Alec, we may well laugh now, but I assure you, it was not very amusing at the time. To change another person out of such a self-imposed state, particularly that of an inanimate object, is terribly difficult. It took me two days to get him back! I knew we should stop after that, but he begged me to give him just one more chance. Then he really did it, sending himself into another plane."

"Plane?" Alec hiccuped, wiping his eyes.

"It is like another country or world, except that it does not exist in our reality. No one really understands why they exist at all, only that they do and that there are ways to cross into them. But they are dangerous, for the most part, and difficult to return from. Had I not been with him when he did it, he would have been lost.

"It was then that I was forced to say, 'No more.'"Nysander looked down at Seregil again, all the mirth gone from his face. "That was one of the saddest days of my life, dear boy, the day you took off your apprentice robe." Taking a deep draft from his goblet, he went on. "You see, Alec, denied children, our apprentices often fill that gap. We give them our knowledge and our skill, and they carry our memory into the future when we die. So it was between my old master and myself. Losing Seregil as my apprentice was like losing a beloved son."

"But you didn't really lose him, did you?"

"No, as it turned out, I did both of us a great service by not allowing him to keep at it until he killed himself. It also forced him to find out what he was truly suited for. But he went away for a long while after that, and I did not know if I would see him again. When he returned, however, he was well on his way to what he is now."

Alec sighed. "Whatever that is."

"Do you not know?"

"I'm still not sure. I want to understand, so that I'll understand better what he's trying to teach me."

"A wise course. And I am certain that when he is ready, Seregil will explain better than either Micum or I could. For now I can tell you that both he and Micum are Watchers."

"Watchers?"

"Spies, of a sort. None of them may speak of it, even among themselves. But as I happen to be the head of the Watchers, I can offer you an explanation."

"You're a spy?" Alec exclaimed in surprise.

"Not exactly. The Watchers are my eyes and ears in distant places. They travel around, talking, listening, observing. Among other things, they have been quite valuable in keeping an eye on certain movements by the Plenimarans. The Queen has her own intelligence service, of course, but my people are often of aid to them. Within the last year there have been rumors of unusual activity in the north, so I sent Seregil and Micum out to appraise the situation."

"Why would a wizard be the leader of that kind of thing, if you don't mind my asking?"

"It does seem odd, I suppose, but it is a tradition which predates the founding of the Third Orëska. My master and his master before him and on back through the centuries, we have always held the post, and my successor shall do the same. The Watchers have contributed much to the libraries of the Orëska over the years. They also keep those of us who take an interest in the wider world well abreast of what is happening beyond our borders."

"But can't you just find things out by magic?"

"Sometimes, but you must never think that it grants one omnipotence."

Alec turned the goblet around in his hands, studying the golden tracery as he weighed his next question.

"Come now, Alec, out with it! I think I know what you are wanting to ask."

Taking a deep breath, Alec plunged on. "You knew that something had happened to Seregil, and you knew we were trying to come to you. Why didn't you just bring us here yourself, like you did with that wine last night?"

Setting his cup down, Nysander laced his fingers around one up-drawn knee. "A fair question, and a common one. In this particular case there were a number of reasons for not doing so. First, I did not know exactly where you were or exactly what had occurred.

"What little I did know came to me in a fleeting vision, not by any conscious seeking on my part. To search for someone by magic when you do not have many clues is difficult at best, and generally disappointing. Over the next few days I was able to get brief glimpses of you both, but they told me little more than that you were on land or sea until I recognized the Canal.

"That is one reason. The next is that such spells as would have been necessary to bring him here are more difficult than you imagine; all magic takes a certain toll, and translocating him here would have been a thousand times more difficult than bringing down that jug of wine, even for me. Besides that, Seregil, with his own peculiar resistance to magic, has difficulty with translocation spells. They leave him quite ill even under the best conditions. Weakened as he was, he might not have survived. Furthermore, I could not have brought you both, so there you j would have been, wondering what had become of your friend.

"All in all, I decided that it would be safest to await your arrival."

Nysander paused, regarding Alec for a moment from beneath his shaggy brows. "Now those are all valid reasons, but beyond them is one that supersedes all. The Orëska is founded on the principle that the purpose of magic is to aid the endeavors of mankind, not to supplant them.

"Despite the hardships you endured, all your worry and care, think of what you have gained. You were braver and stronger and more loyal than you have probably had to be in all your life. And your reward is that you succeeded; you saved the life of your friend. Would you give that up to have had me simply spirit you here from that inn?"

Alec thought of the expression on Seregil's face when he'd awakened in a clean bed in Rhíminee.

"No," he answered quietly. "Not for anything."

"I thought as much."

Alec took another sip of wine. "Micum tried to tell me about you, but you still aren't how I imagined a wizard would be."

"Indeed?" Nysander looked rather pleased. "Most of my colleagues would agree with you. But they have their ways and I have mine. All of us serve the greater good in our own fashion. But I believe you had some point to make?"

"It's just that, with what you told me about Seregil and all, I don't understand about Thero. It seemed to me, yesterday I mean, that he doesn't—Well, he doesn't seem to like Seregil very much. Or me, for that matter."

Nysander grimaced wryly. "If it is any comfort to you, I do not think, in his heart, that Thero cares much for me, either."

"But he's your student!"

"That hardly guarantees affection, my boy, although ideally such regard should exist between master and pupil. Your faithfulness to Seregil after such short acquaintance speaks well of you both.

"It took me many years to find another apprentice. As I said before, there are few who have the inborn power, and those who do vary greatly in their ability. Of those few who did trickle into he Orëska each year, I found none that suited my purposes until Thero. Whatever else you may think of him, he is tremendously talented. There is no facet of our art he cannot grasp. The fact that he was of my old master's family made him seem all the more suitable at the time. All that, together with the fact that I was beginning to feel quite desperately in need of a successor, blinded me to certain aspects of his nature which might otherwise have given me pause. Thero has proven trustworthy in every way, yet his thirst for knowledge borders on avarice—a serious flaw in a wizard. He also possesses no sense of humor and, while you will not find that listed among the requirements of the Orëska, I believe it to be an invaluable trait in those who aspire to power of any sort. And this lack of humor causes him to find me an embarrassment on occasion.

"However, it is his animosity toward Seregil which has most alarmed me over the years, for it reveals envy—one of the most dangerous weaknesses of all. He cannot be content that he replaced Seregil, that he is more gifted in magic than Seregil could ever have been. And though he has little use for my affection himself, he cannot bear that Seregil retains it. Of course, Seregil is little better, as I am certain you shall see for yourself soon enough. But Thero is a wizard. If he acts this way over such small matters, what will he not be capable of over great ones, when he is great?"

Nysander paused, massaging his eyelids with two fingers. "For with or without my teachings, he will be great. And so I keep him with me because I fear to let him go to another master. It is my greatest hope that with time and maturity he will gain compassion, and then what a wizard he shall be!"

Alec was amazed at the old wizard's candor. "Seregil tells me nothing of himself, and you tell me everything."

Nysander smiled. "Oh, hardly everything yet! We all have our secrets, and our reasons for them. I have told you this about Thero and myself so that you may understand him better and perhaps see why he acts as he does. Like Seregil, I also expect and trust in your discretion."

Nysander was just reaching for his goblet again when a yellow globe of light winked into being in front of him. It hovered a moment, gleaming like a tiny sun, then floated gently to settle on his outstretched palm.

The wizard inclined his head, as if listening to a voice inaudible to Alec. It disappeared as abruptly as it had come.

"Ylinestra," Nysander explained. "Excuse me for a moment."

Closing his eyes, he held up a long forefinger and a similar light, bright blue in color, sprang up there.

"Certainly, my dear," he said to it, "I shall be with you shortly."

At a slight flick of his finger, the mote of light shot out of sight.

Anticipating Nysander's departure, Alec stood up and felt the wine rise to his head. "Well, uh, I think I'm beginning to understand a few things. Thank you."

Nysander raised an eyebrow. "There is no hurry. I have sent word."

"No, really. If Ylinestra was waiting for me—Oh, damn!" Alec stammered to a halt, cheeks flaming. "I didn't mean, that is—It's the wine, I guess."

"Illior's Light, boy, what will Seregil ever make of you if you cannot keep a straight face?"

Nysander chuckled as he rose to his feet. "Perhaps you are right, though. She can be impatient. Why not take a stroll in the gardens? I should think you would find it most pleasant there after being confined in ships and houses for so long. Wethis can sit with Seregil."

"I don't think I could find my way around," said Alec, thinking of all the twists and turns between here and the main entrance.

"That is easily remedied. Take this with you."

Nysander opened his hand to show Alec a small cube of green stone, incised on each side with tiny symbols.

Alec rolled it around on his palm. "What is it?"

"A guide stone. Simply hold it up and speak where you wish to go. It will lead you."

Feeling a bit silly, Alec held out the stone and said, "To the gardens?"

The words were scarcely spoken before the cube took on a pale nimbus and rose to hover in the air just in front of him.

"It will take you anywhere on the grounds you are allowed to go," Nysander explained. "Do remember not to attempt to enter any wizard's chamber unless invited. If you are ready, simply instruct it to proceed."

"Go on, then," Alec told the cube. Floating across the room, it passed though the polished wood of the door in a decidedly unnatural fashion.

Behind him, the wizard chuckled again. "Be certain you open the door first."

17

Watcher Business

Taking Valerius' admonition to heart, Alec saw to it that Seregil drank the prescribed infusions. Still terribly weak, Seregil slept most of the time, rousing just long enough to take a little nourishment before lapsing back again.

Alec's diligence quickly earned the brusque drysian's respect, and he, in turn, grew comfortable with Valerius' abrasive manner, recognizing the gentle sureness of his healing and liking him for it.

Nysander provided whatever he needed and visited several times a day. When Alec mentioned the writing lessons with Seregil, the wizard brought writing materials and a simple scroll for him to work on.

Alec and Nysander were playing nine stones in Seregil's room the second morning after the purification when an old woman in a travel-stained cloak appeared at the door of the sickroom.

"Magyana!" Nysander exclaimed, rising to embrace her. "You should have sent word. I had no idea you were back."

"I wanted to surprise you, my dear," she replied, kissing him soundly. "Yet it was I who was surprised. Thero says Seregil has been hurt."

Going to the bed, she laid her hand on Seregil's brow.

She must be as old as Nysander, thought Alec. The woman's face was deeply lined and the heavy braid coiled at her neck shone white as moonlit snow.

She sketched a quick, glowing symbol in the air over the sleeping man and shook her head. "Thank the Light he is safe. Who did this to him, and how?"

"He ran afoul of Mardus and his necromancers in the northlands," Nysander told her. "Young Alec here brought him to me just in time. Alec, this is Magyana, a fellow wizard and my dear companion from the days of our youth."

Magyana turned to Alec with a warm smile.

"Bless you, Alec. Nysander would have been desolate to lose him, as would I."

Seregil stirred just then, muttering hoarsely as he fought his way out of some panicked dream.

"There now, Seregil," Nysander said, raising his voice as he bent over him. "Open your eyes, dear boy. You are quite safe. Are you awake at last?"

Seregil's eyes flew open. Seeing Nysander and the others, he lay back with a sigh of relief. "I keep dreaming I'm back in Mycena."

Nysander sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand.

"You are safe now, and whole, thanks to Alec. He has told me of your adventures and you will tell me more when you are stronger. But for now you must rest. You very nearly destroyed yourself this time."

"I know." Seregil shook his head weakly. "Damn fool that I was, I'd have deserved it, too." He shifted to look up at Alec, a shadow of doubt in his eyes. "You all right? I-I wasn't myself for a while there."

"I'm fine," Alec assured him, knowing in his heart that he was damned lucky to be able to say that.

 

Leaving Seregil to Alec's watchful care, Nysander walked Magyana to her tower at the northern corner of the House.

"My dear, you were away too long!" he remonstrated gently, slipping an arm about her waist and pressing his lips to her cheek again.

"Surely the lovely Ylinestra kept you occupied in my absence?" she shot back, returning the kiss.

"You impossible woman! You with your damnable celibacy. All these years I have filled my bed with lesser women and not a single spark of jealousy from you. You speak of them as if they were children, or lapdogs."

"Have most of them been any more than that to you, you old rogue? But perhaps I do feel just the smallest spark, as you call it, toward this sorceress. I understand that she is as talented in the casting room as she is in the bedchamber. There, are you satisfied?"

"Perhaps just a bit," Nysander replied, affecting a sulk. "The girl does have a head for magic, but in truth she is beginning to weary me with her demands, in bed and out."

"Ah, the trials of the hot-blooded." Magyana let him into her tower rooms. "You know you shall not have a jot of sympathy from me. But now to Seregil. You still have not told me how he came to be in such a state. It took more than ordinary magic to leave such marks on him."

Pausing in the center of the immaculate workroom, Nysander watched as she set about the familiar ritual of tea making. "Evidently he and the boy stole something from Mardus in the northlands. It appears to be an object of little consequence but, as you saw, it proved to be extremely dangerous. I can tell you no more than that, I fear."

Setting the kettle on the hook, Magyana turned and studied his face; they'd known each other too long and too well for her not to read the import of his silence.

"Oh, my dear," she whispered, a hand stealing to her throat. "Oh, no!"

Seregil's strength returned quickly over the next few days and, as Valerius had predicted, he soon grew restless. On the fourth day he'd had enough of bed rest.

"Valerius said another day at least!" Alec admonished, frowning down at him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"I won't tell him if you don't. Bilairy's Balls, I'm sore all over from lying around so long!"

As soon as he stood up, however, the floor seemed to shift under him. Drenched in a sudden cold sweat, he swayed heavily against Alec.

"There now, you see? It is too soon." Alec helped him back onto the bed. "Maker's Mercy, there's nothing left of you. I can feel your ribs."

"I thought I heard voices," Valerius rumbled, striding in to glower at the two of them. "Are you going to stay in bed as I ordered, or be tied there?"

"The former, I think," Seregil replied contritely. Pressing a hand dramatically over his eyes, he sank back against the pillow. "I'm sure you know best."

"I certainly do. Not that it's ever made the slightest damn bit of difference to you!"

Still scowling, he lifted the dressing and went about cleaning the wound. "There, this shouldn't give you any more trouble."

Looking down as his chest, Seregil saw the scar for the first time and felt his stomach lurch. The last of the scabs had fallen away and the ridged imprint of the coin's design was visible in the shiny pink circle of new skin.

"What is that doing there?" he demanded, fingering the area around the scar.

Valerius threw up his hands. "You'll have to ask Nysander. I was all for having it off that first night, but he said to leave it. It should fade in time. I'm off for Mycena today, so you're in Alec's care now. Try not to drive yourself into a relapse if that's possible, which I doubt. You won't die, but you'll land your ass back in bed for another week if you don't take care. Maker's Mercy be with you both."

Stumping out, he slammed the door after him.

"See? He was angry with you," said Alec, obviously glad not to have been the focus of his displeasure.

"Angry?" Seregil took a last worried look at the mark and pulled the shirt lacings closed again.

"He wasn't angry. When Valerius gets angry the furniture catches fire, or walls fall down, things like that. There's no mistaking it when he's upset."

"Well, he wasn't exactly happy with you, either."

"He seldom is." Shifting against the pillows, he settled with one hand behind his head. "Even the other drysians consider him an irascible old bugger. Still, we find one another useful on occasion. How's your hand?"

"Better."

"Let me see." He inspected the circle of tender skin on Alec's Palm; it was smooth and featureless except for the small square greater-than not the center. "Has Nysander said much about any of this?"

"Only that the disk was something called a telesm."

"Well, that's obvious!" Seregil snorted. "I want more of an answer than that. Fetch him for me, will you?"

 

Alec found Nysander at his high desk in the workroom.

"Seregil was wondering if you could come down," he told the wizard.

"Certainly." Nysander laid his quill aside.

"I was expecting Thero in a moment. Could you wait and tell him where I am?"

It wasn't until the old man had disappeared downstairs that it occurred to Alec to wonder why Nysander hadn't just sent a message by magic.

Minutes passed, and there was still no sign of Thero.

Impatient to get back to Seregil, Alec wandered restlessly around the room. The stairs leading up to the little gallery beneath the tower dome soon caught his eye and, climbing up, he looked out through a thick, leaded pane.

With a startled gasp, he caught at the ledge in front of him; the dome bowed out beyond the stonework, affording a view of the ground hundreds of feet directly below. He'd never been this far off the ground and the sensation was not particularly pleasant.

Concentrating on the solid floor beneath his boots, he made himself look out over the city. Streets fanned out like spokes from circular plazas, or intersected to form ordered squares and commons. From this height he could also see past the citadel wall to the outer harbor, where boats bobbed at anchor in the shelter of the moles. On the landward side, open country quickly gave way to rolling foothills and jagged, snowcapped mountains beyond.

As he turned to go down the steps again, a blue message sphere suddenly winked into existence in front of him and Nysander's voice said,

"Alec, join us in Seregil's room, please."

He found Seregil and Nysander in the midst of a heated discussion when he arrived. Nysander was calm, if solemn, but there was a decidedly stubborn set to Seregil's jaw.

"Are you certain you want him involved?" the wizard was saying.

"Come on, Nysander! He's already involved up to the eyebrows, whether he knows it or not," Seregil retorted. "Besides, you wouldn't have let him stay here if you didn't already trust him."

"Those are two separate issues," Nysander replied, giving Seregil a meaningful look. When the younger man maintained adamant silence, the wizard nodded gravely. "Very well. But the final decision is his to make." He looked up at Alec for the first time. "Would you become a Watcher, Alec?"

A twinge of excitement shot through Alec. "Does that mean you both can tell me more of what's going on?" he asked, guessing the import of this strange exchange.

"Certainly."

"Then yes, I will."

Seregil gave him a wink as Nysander took out his small ivory dagger and waved Alec to a chair.

When he was seated, Nysander set the knife spinning end for end in the air mere inches from Alec's eyes.

Alec's mouth went dry as he listened to the angry buzz the blade made as it flickered in front of him; he could feel the breeze of it against his face.

"Alec of Kerry," Nysander intoned solemnly. "A Watcher must observe carefully, report truthfully, and keep the secrets that must be kept. Do you swear by your heart and eyes and by the Four to do these things?"

"Yes," Alec answered quickly, steeling himself not to lean away from the spinning knife.

"Good!" The knife fell out of the air into Nysander's hand.

"That's it?" Alec exclaimed, falling back in his chair.

"You answered truthfully," the wizard told him.

"Had you lied, the result would have been rather more dramatic."

"And considerably messier," Seregil added with a relieved grin.

"Considerably," said Nysander. "And now, what have you to report, Seregil?"

Seregil settled his shoulders more comfortably against the pillows. "When I left Rhíminee at the end of Rhythm, I took ship to Nanta and spent two days listening around the docks. Rumor had it that there were an unusual number of ships being refitted Plenimaran ports, Karia in particular. This confirmed what we already heard from Korbin.

"Moving north, I poked around Boersby, learning that a delegation of Plenimaran merchants had stopped there a month to discuss overland trade routes. A contingent of fifty armed riders had continued inland in the direction of the Fishless Sea."

"To what end?" asked Nysander. "There is little in those barren hills but a few nomadic tribes."

Seregil shrugged. "There were all sorts of speculations. Apparently local men were hired on as guides and haven't been heard of since. If the mounted column did come south again, they came by a different route. Thinking they might have followed the Brilith River down toward the Woldesoke, I decided to check in with a friend at Ballton. There'd been no sightings in that area, but she said that similar parties had been seen to the east.

"The word is that the lords of the various mountain demesnes are being visited, but nobody's certain of their purpose. It boded ill for Plenimar to be so far north, so I decided to work my way along the mountains and see what these riders had been up to.

"If they went as far as Kerry, there wouldn't be much doubt that they were casting a greedy eye at the Gold Road again.

"I was right, but quickly learned that the Plenimarans had left their new friends with a healthy distrust of strangers. Even as a bard, I had one or two difficulties before Asengai finally caught me. Not everyone was taken in, though. Lord Warkill and his sons gave them the air. Lord Nostor seems to have been noncommittal. My old friend Geriss had just died, and his widow, a Mycenian by birth, would have nothing to do with the envoys."

"Lady Brytha? I knew her as a girl," remarked Nysander. "Her holding is very isolated, as I recall."

"It's a large one, though, and well populated. I spoke to her in private and warned her to be cautious. She has four sons, two of them grown, who seem reliable enough. If worse comes to worst, they'll be able to hold out or flee."

"Let us hope it does not come to that. I have had word already that some advances were made in Kerry, but that they were politely refused."

Seregil laughed darkly. "If by polite you mean no bloodshed. The miners have been content with their situation for hundreds of years and are a hard lot to move. Still, if the mountain lords can be swayed against them, Kerry could be lost."

"And who is leading these Plenimarans? What is their method?"

"Crafty, as usual. It seems that nobody spoke to the same emissary, which means there were either several groups going among the various holdings, or they switched off leaders each time. I have the names, but I doubt they'll amount to much. As for their method, it was the old wishing mirror game."

"The what?" Alec interjected, completely lost by now.

Seregil grinned. "You've never heard the story of the wishing mirror?" You look into it to see your heart's desire. The Plenimarans send a spy or two in advance to sound out the situation, then the grand commander rides in with a great show of soldiers and a saddlebag full of empty promises based on the reports of his spies. Formio, for instance, was informed that the Overlord of Plenimar wishes to arrange a marriage for some distant niece, while old Warkill, whose lands sit at the headwaters of the Silverwind, was promised aid to take the lands clear to the edge of the Woldesoice. Mind you, our friend Mardus is down in Wolde soon after, promising to defend the mayor from just such an incursion.

"I also had the good fortune to be captured by a gang of bandits east of Derila. Their leader happened to be fond of bards, so they decided to keep me on rather than slit my throat. They were a sloppy bunch and I managed to get away when I wanted to, but not before I learned that they'd been foolish enough to attack a party of Plenimarans only two weeks earlier. Instead of obliterating them, as the marines generally would if only for the practice, these blackguards enlisted the bandits to their cause, binding them with oaths, wine, and gold. They even went so far as to offer a bounty for any other freebooters they could bring in."

"What a pack of mongrels they are leashing together up there!" Nysander exclaimed, none too pleased.

"They will turn every little faction against its neighbor and let them cut each other to pieces."

"Then march in to sweep up the spoils," added Seregil. "After Alec and I got free of Asengai, we met with Erisa and Micum in Wolde. She'd been along the coast as far as Syour and her news was much the same, including the foray toward the Fishless Sea. She's equally mystified.

"According to her, Mardus stopped for a week at Sark Island on his way up the Osk to Blackwater Lake. I've never been there, but Micum says there's nothing but the ruins of an ancient trading colony. Hardly the thing to occupy someone like Mardus for a week."

"And Micum?"

"His news was the strangest of all. He'd been up around Ravensfell and reported a company of marines in full battle dress riding into the pass. Unless they're out to conquer whatever's left of the Hazadrielfaie, I can't imagine what they think they'll find except mountains and ice."

Seregil paused, but Nysander simply motioned for him to continue. "That brings us to the mayor's banquet. Alec says he told you about our doings there, but there are a few details I'd better fill in."

"Pertaining to the maps, I assume," said Nysander.

"Yes. I found one in Mardus' campaign chest, quite ordinary, not hidden. Points on it had been marked at Wolde, Kerry, Sandir Point, Syour, and each of the mountain demesnes."

"Rather tidy, that," Nysander remarked.

"But even better, another map locked safely away in his dispatch box was marked with points at Sark Island, another somewhere north of Ravensfell, and one in the Blackwater Fens. The last one was circled. What do you make of that?"

"Most intriguing," Nysander mused, stroking his beard.

"Micum went back to the Fens after Boersby. He meant to head down here when he'd finished."

"How long ago did you last see him?"

"He left us at Boersby; let's see." Seregil thought for a moment, then shook his head impatiently. "Damn! I'm still muddled. Alec, how long has it been?"

Alec counted back. "Just over two weeks now."

"He should be with us soon, then," said Nysander, but something in his expression must have caught Seregil's eye.

"What is it, Nysander?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Is that all you have to report?"

"No. I believe those highwaymen who attacked us below Stock were Plenimaran agents. When we searched the bodies they just didn't have the right look to them. They had new weapons and clothing, all local, little money or possessions. It was as if they'd simply ridden into the Folcwine Forest and set up shop the day before. The whole situation didn't smell right."

"I have had occasion in the past to trust your intuition."

"There'd been a sudden rash of attacks on the caravans around Wolde just before the Plenimaran envoys showed up there," added Alec.

Seregil nodded wryly. "Taken with everything else, it seems rather too much of a coincidence that these cutthroats should appear out of nowhere just in time to be run off by the able marines."

"I see," mused Nysander. "Then you believe that Plenimar is providing a reason for the northern towns to seek an alliance?"

"I do."

"Anything else?"

"Just this." Seregil pulled the neck of this nightshirt open and cocked his chin at the scar.

Nysander went to the window and gazed out. "I fear I must beg your forbearance regarding that. This matter is not to be spoken of to anyone, at any time."

There was no mistaking the finality in his voice.

Seregil's brows drew together ominously over his grey eyes. "I just slept away the last two weeks because of this. Not to mention the madness that went before, or the nightmares and visions and the urge to kill just about every person I came within ten feet of, including Alec!"

"You must be patient."

"What is there to be patient about?" Seregil retorted. "I want to know who did this to me! Do you know or not?"

Nysander sighed as he sat down in the embrasure of the window. "I should say that you did it to yourself, really. You took it upon yourself to steal the thing in the first place, and then to hang it about your neck. Not that I am chiding you, of course. I know that you took it on my behalf. Nevertheless, I—"

"Don't go changing the subject. That's my trick!" Seregil interrupted hotly. "This is me you're talking to, not some provincial message carrier. What's going on?"

Caught in the line of confrontation, Alec looked anxiously from one to the other. Seregil's lips were compressed into a thin, stubborn line, his eyes larger than ever in his haggard face as he glared up at the wizard. But Nysander met his friend's smoldering gaze calmly.

"Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa," he said quietly, rolling the syllables as if they were a spell. "This is a matter which goes beyond any personal vengeance on your part. The mark you bear is a magical sigla, the meaning of which I am bound by the most dire oaths not to reveal."

"Then why didn't you let Valerius take it off?"

Nysander spread his hands resignedly. "You understand better than most the power of prescience. It felt unwise at the time to do so. Now that you are stronger, however, I shall cast an occultation over it."

"But it will still be there," said Seregil uneasily.

"I-I had strange dreams after Alec pulled the thing off, different than the nightmares before."

Nysander rose to his feet in alarm. "By the Light, why did you not mention this before!"

"I'm sorry. I only just now remembered, parts of them, anyway."

Nysander sat down on the edge of the bed. "You must tell me what you can, then. By your oath as a Watcher—"

"Yes, yes, I know!" snapped Seregil, rubbing at his eyelids in frustration. "Remembering—it's like trying to grasp a handful of eels. One second I remember a piece of something, then it just goes."

"Nysander, he looks ill!" Alec whispered. The color had fled from Seregil's thin cheeks and a sheen of sweat stood out on his forehead.

"I was terribly sick by the time we reached the crossroads inn," Seregil continued hoarsely.

"Alec, you had no idea. Everything had become so unreal. It was like being trapped in a nightmare that I couldn't wake up from. I don't know where in Mycena we were by then. The black creature had been dogging us since the day before. Alec couldn't see it, even when it touched him in the cart, and that scared me worse than anything I've ever encountered. Alec's told you how I attacked him that night, I know, but that's not how it seemed to me at the time, not at all! The thing was attacking me, or rather letting me attack it and sidestepping me. Alec must have come in during all that and I was too crazed to realize. Gods, I could just as easily have killed him—"

"It was magic, dear boy, evil magic,"

Nysander said softly.

Seregil shivered and ran a hand back through his hair.

"After I collapsed, I kept dreaming I was on a barren plain. I couldn't move except to turn and there was only the wind and grey grass. I was alone. I thought at first that I was dead."

Alec watched him with rising concern. Seregil was whiter than ever, and his breathing was and labored, as if it took all his strength to keep speaking. Alec glanced anxiously at Nysander, but the wizard's attention was fixed on Seregil.

"After a while, there was someone else there," Seregil said, eyes squeezed tightly shut, one hand raised to his face as if to ward off a blow.

"I can't remember who, just—gold. And eyes, something about eyes—" His chest was heaving now and Alec placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Blue," Seregil gasped, "something so blue— " With a hollow groan, he fainted back onto the pillow.

"Seregil! Seregil, can you hear me?" cried Nysander, feeling for the pulse at his throat.

"What's happening?" cried Alec.

"I am not certain. A vision of some sort, perhaps, or some overwhelming memory. Fetch a cloth, and the water pitcher."

Seregil's eyes fluttered open again as Alec bathed his temples with a cool cloth.

"You must not try to go on," Nysander warned, stroking Seregil's brow. "You were speaking gibberish just now, as if something was disordering your thoughts even as you tried to voice them."

"Could it have been that black creature again, here!" asked Alec.

"I would have sensed such a presence," Nysander assured him. "No, it was as if the memories themselves induced some mental confusion. How very interesting. Can you speak now. dear boy?"

"Yes," Seregil rasped, passing a hand over his eyes.

"Rest, then, and think no more of these things for now. I have heard enough." Rising, Nysander went to the door.

"Well I haven't!" Seregil struggled up on one elbow. "Not nearly enough! What's happening to me?"

Alec thought he caught a look of pain on Nysander's face.

"Trust me in this, dear boy," the wizard said. "I must meditate on what we have learned so far. Rest and heal. Shall I send Wethis for some food?"

Alec braced for another outburst, but Seregil merely looked away, shaking his head. He busied himself with the fire for a moment after Nysander had gone, then pulled the chair up beside the bed. "That black creature you fought with," he began, fidgeting with the hem of one sleeve. "It really was there in the cart, wasn't it? And in the room with us at the inn. It was real." Seregil shivered, staring past him at the fire. "Real enough for me. I think you saved both our lives when you yanked that bit of wood from my neck."

"But that was an accident! What if I hadn't?"

Seregil looked up at him for a moment, then shrugged. "But you did, and here we are, safe and sound. Luck in the shadows, Alec; you don't question it, you just give thanks and pray it doesn't run out!"

 

In the deepest hours of the night, Nysander lifted the wooden disk from its container. The chamber around him vibrated with the thickly woven spells he had invoked in preparation for the examination. Turning the disk this way and that with a pair of forceps, he tried to gauge the quiescent power of the thing. Despite its ordinary appearance, he could feel the energy emanating from it as clearly as waves lapping against his skin.

Heart heavy with foreboding, he sealed the thing away again and pocketed it, then set off for the vaults beneath the Orëska House to take his nightly constitutional.
 

18

Around the Ring

Alec watched in dismay, if not surprise, as Seregil struggled out of bed the next morning.

"Valerius wouldn't like this."

"Then it's lucky for us he's not here, eh?" Seregil winked, hoping the boy didn't notice how wobbly his legs still were. "Besides, there's nothing more beneficial than a good bath. Just let me lean on you a bit and I'll be fine."

With Alec's grudging assistance, Seregil worked his way slowly down to the baths without mishap.

Winded but triumphant, he let a bath servant assist him into his tub while Alec stationed himself on a nearby bench.

"Illior's Light, but it's wonderful to be back in a civilized city!" Seregil chortled, immersing himself up to the chin in the steaming water.

"I've never met anyone who takes as many baths as you do," the boy grumbled.

"A good soak might improve your disposition," Seregil teased, wondering at the boy's brittleness this morning. He had an edge of anxiety that hadn't been there before, not even during the difficult journey through Mycena.

"For the love of Illior, Alec, relax! No one's here to see." He swirled the water with his toe. "I think we could do with a walk outside next."

"You barely made it down here," Alec pointed out hopelessly.

"Where's your curiosity today? You've been living in the center of the greatest collection of wizardry in the world for almost a week and you've hardly seen a thing!"

"I'm more concerned just now with what Valerius would say if he knew you were wandering around all over the place. I'm supposed to be responsible for you, you know."

"No one is responsible for me except me," Seregil jabbed a soapy finger in the air for emphasis. "Nysander knows that, Micum knows that. Even Valerius knows it. Now you know."

To his considerable surprise, Alec stared at him for a moment, then turned on his heel and stalked abruptly away to stare out over the central pool, his back rigid as a blade.

"What is it?" Seregil called after him, genuinely mystified.

Alec muttered something, punctuating the remark with a sharp wave of his hand.

"What? I can't hear you over the fountains."

Alec half turned, arms locked across his chest. "I said I was responsible enough for you while you were sick!"

And I'm a blind fool! Seregil berated himself, the crux of the problem finally dawning on him. Struggling out of the tub, he threw on a towel and went to the boy.

"I owe you a tremendous debt," he said, studying Alec's grim profile. "With all that's happened, I guess I haven't thanked you properly."

"I'm not asking for any thanks."

"But you deserve it nonetheless. And I'm sorry if I insulted you just now. It's just that I don't think in terms of expecting anything of anyone."

Alec turned a bleak eye on him. "That's not what Micum said. He said you demand loyalty and never forgive anyone who betrays you."

"Well-yes. But that's hardly the same thing, is it?"

Color flared in the boy's fair cheeks. "All I know is that I have been loyal and if you don't need me around anymore, then what the hell am I doing in Rhíminee anyway?"

"Who said I don't want you around?" Seregil shot back in exasperation.

"No one. Not exactly. It's just that ever since we got here, I mean since the ship—with the wizards and healers and—" Alec faltered to a halt. "I don't know, I guess I just don't feel like I belong here."

"Of course you do!" Seregil sputtered. "Who's been saying you don't? Thero! That whey-faced son of a bitch—"

"Thero didn't say anything." A gravid pause strung out between them, growing increasingly more uncomfortable.

"I never could carry on an argument naked," Seregil said at last, pulling a wry face. This elicited a grudging hint of a smile, at least.

"If you figure out what you're so mad about, let me know. In the meantime, let's go across to the museum. I promised to show you wonders, and that's as good a place as any to find them."

 

Revived by the bath and fresh clothes, Seregil had Alec help him across the atrium to the opposite archway.

"The vaults under this building are overflowing with treasures of one sort or another," he expounded, still leaning on Alec's arm. "I used to go down there with Nysander and Magyana all the time. You wouldn't believe how much is squirreled away right under our feet."

Opening the huge door of the museum room, Alec let out a low whistle.

The vaulted central chamber of the Orëska Museum was similar in dimensions to the baths. Here, however, every wall was hung with rich tapestries and paintings, shields, and pieces of armor.

Suspended overhead was the skeleton of some horrific creature fifty feet long; the bare teeth jutting from the jawbones were as long as his forearm.

Wooden cases of all sizes, many covered with sheets of thick crystal, lined the walls and stood in neatly spaced rows across the room. In the one closest to them lay a collection of jeweled ornaments and vessels. The one next to it contained a golden coronet studded with rubies. Another was devoted to wizardly paraphernalia.

"How do you like it?" Seregil whispered, grinning at the boy's child's open-mouthed wonder. Alec made no reply as he slowly made his way from case to case, looking like a thirsty man who just found an unexpected spring.

The room was very quiet, but not unoccupied. A group of scholars were there examining a tapestry. Nearby, a girl in apprentice robes sat on a high stool next to one of the cases, working with wax tablet and stylus at copying a passage from an open book displayed there.

Across the room, two scarlet-clad servants were in the process of replacing some items in a crystal case.

"I used to spend a good deal of time here," Seregil told Alec softly. "I've even managed to add a few pieces to the collection over the years. This, for instance."

Steering him to a case near the center pf the room, Seregil pointed to a delicate flower carved from translucent pink stone.

"This belonged to the enchantress Nimia Reshal. When the proper words are spoken, it emits a magical fragrance which renders anyone who inhales it a helpless slave to the owner. She'd managed to snare Micum before I got hold of it."

"Why didn't she catch you, too?" Alec whispered.

"I happened to be approaching from a different direction at the time. While she was concentrating on him, I simply held my nose, crept up from behind, and knocked her on the head. Never underestimate the benefit of surprise!"

Nodding, Alec turned to the next case and stiffened.

Inside lay a pair of shriveled hands, the skin darkened to the color of old leather.

"What are those!" he gasped.

"Shh! A most unusual relic. Look closer."

Jeweled rings still encircled the withered fingers and the long discolored nails were covered with a delicate tracery of golden whorls; the plain iron manacles encircling each wrist looked out of keeping with the rest of the ornaments. Each band was held fast by a long spike driven through the wrist just below the base of each hand. The whole affair was bolted to the bottom of the case.

Alec stared down at the hands with puzzled revulsion.

"What in the world are—"Just then, one of the leathery forefingers slowly raised and lowered, as if scolding his idle scrutiny.

Seregil had been watching closely all the while.

As soon as he saw the hand move, he ran a finger lightly down the boy's back, sending him into the air with a startled yelp.

"Damn it, Seregil!" Alec cried, whirling around.

The scholars turned with inquiring stares. The apprentice dropped her stylus, then began to giggle. The servants merely exchanged disgusted looks.

Seregil leaned against a case, shoulders quivering with smothered laughter.

"I'm sorry," he said at last, feeling anything but repentant as he exchanged a knowing wink with the girl. "That trick has been played on just about every apprentice who ever served here, including me. I couldn't resist."

"You scared me half to death!" Alec whispered indignantly. "What are those things?"

Seregil rested his elbows on the edge of the case, tapping a finger idly against the glass. "The hands of Tikárie Megraesh, a great necromancer."

"They moved." Alec shuddered, peering over Seregil's shoulder. "It's as if they're still alive."

"In a sense, they are," Seregil replied. "This necromancer ended his days as a dyrmagnos. Have you ever heard the term?"

"No. What does it mean?"

"It's the ultimate fate of necromancers. You see, all forms of magic exact a certain toll from those who practice it, but necromancy is by far the worst. It gradually wastes the body, draining life even as it increases the force of that person's will. In time, there's nothing left but a walking corpse burning with terrible intelligence-a dyrmagnos. This fellow here was at least six centuries old when Nysander cut these hands off him and, according to him, they haven't changed much in appearance since he took them, which gives you some idea what the rest of Tikárie Megraesh must have looked like."

The left hand stirred, scrabbling softly against the bottom of the case with its blackened nails. Alec shuddered again. "If that's what his hands looked like, I'd hate to have seen the face."

"These hands escaped once," Seregil went on, staring down at the twitching things. "It's nearly impossible to kill a dyrmagnos, once it's reached such an age. All you can do is dismember and contain it. Those symbols you see painted on the nails were part or the original binding spell to break the power of the creature, eventually the life will fade from them."

Alec frowned down at them. "What if all the pieces were brought together again before that happened?"

"They'd rejoin and the dyrmagnos would live again. As I recall a few other parts of him are somewhere down in the vaults, but most were carried off for safekeeping by other wizards. The head is the most dangerous part. That was sealed in a lead casket and dropped into the sea."

Seregil savored a shiver of his own, imagining the head locked in darkness beneath the chill waters, dreaming perhaps, or screaming its hatred to the unheeding creatures of the mud. On the heels of that pleasant thought came another, however. When was the last time he'd seen the hands move as much as this?

"Are there any other dead things in here?" asked Alec, moving to another case.

"Not ones that move."

"Good!"

They wandered on awhile longer, but Seregil's strength soon flagged.

There was no use trying to hide the fact from Alec. "You're looking pale again," he said. "Come on, a walk outside in the air might not be such a bad idea after all."

 

The pale winter sky overhead presaged snow, but inside the walls the gardens were bathed with fragrant breezes, and the soft turf beneath their feet was redolent with chamomile and creeping thyme.

Seregil was leaning more heavily on his arm than he had earlier, Alec noted, wondering if it had been a mistake not going back to their room.

"There," Seregil said, pointing the way to a nearby fountain. Reaching it, he collapsed on the grass and leaned back against its basin.

Alec looked him over with renewed concern. "You're as white as this marble!"

Seregil dipped a hand in the water and pressed it to his brow "Just let me get my breath."

"He's only doing it to spite Valerius, you know," a familiar voice interrupted.

A pair of women sauntered up. Both wore the green and white uniform of the Queen's Horse Guard. The shorter of the two, Alec realized with a start, was Princess Klia. Her companion, a dark, serious-looking woman, stood at ease beside her.

Klia flopped down unceremoniously in front of Seregil but ignored him completely, addressing Alec as if they were old friends.

"Now, if Valerius had ordered him to get up and about as soon as possible, he'd have clung in bed 'til spring. You're better turned out than when we met last, I must say. What name are you going by today?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Alec."

"Hello again, Alec. This is Captain Myrhini."

The dark woman surprised him with a flashing smile as she joined them on the grass.

"I wondered afterward at meeting another Silverleaf," Klia went on cheerfully. "If I'd known Seregil was with you, the two of you could have ridden back with us."

"I was indisposed at the time," Seregil said, drawing her teasing gaze at last. "How did you know I was back?"

"I met Nysander on his way to a meeting with Mother and Lord Barien last night." Her blue eyes shone fiercely. "From what she said this morning, it sounds like things may get interesting again."

Seregil grimaced. "I should think you'd have seen enough of battle last year. That piece of fun nearly cost you your arm and Myrhini both."

Myrhini gave the toe of Klia's boot a playful kick. "You know her. She's Sakor-touched. It only makes her hotter for the next fight."

"As if you're not just as bad." Klia grinned.

"Either one of us could be at home with a babe or two already if we didn't care more for battle than we do for a handsome face! Seregil, come see the horse Alec helped me buy in Cirna. Hwerlu is looking him over for me at the grove."

Klia helped Seregil to his feet, then wrapped a supporting arm around his waist as they set off for a nearby stand of oaks.

"I know one handsome face she favors, if only its owner had the wit to see," Myrhini whispered to Alec, winking in Seregil's direction as they followed the others.

Entering the little grove, Alec was delighted to find that Hwerlu was the centaur he'd glimpsed his first day in Rhíminee.

The creature was even more imposing at close quarters; his chestnut-colored horse body was a good twenty hands tall at the shoulder, while his man parts were those of a giant. Klia's unusual black and white and another Aurënfaie horse stood by him,
and he patted them with his large, blunt hands as if they were hounds. Seregil and Klia looked like a pair of children standing next to him.

"Come here!" Seregil called to Alec. "I seem to recall you once referring to centaurs as mere legend."

When Hwerlu bent to greet him, Alec noticed that he had the eyes of a horse, large and dark, showing no white.

"Greetings, little Alec." Hwerlu's voice rumbled richly from the depths of his huge chest. "The light of Illior shines brightly in you. It must please you to see that legends can be real."

"It does," Alec told him. "I never imagined centaurs were so big!"

Laughing, Hwerlu threw back his black mane and pranced in a circle, his broad hoofs shaking the earth beneath their feet. He stopped abruptly, however, and trotted across the clearing.

"And here is another legend! My lovely Feeya," he proclaimed as another centaur stepped into the circle of trees.

Feeya was a sorrel, and only a little smaller than Hwerlu. She had the same coarse mane of hair running down her back, but the skin of her human torso was otherwise as smooth as any woman's. A heavy torque like Hwerlu's was her only adornment, but Alec quickly saw that he had no cause for embarrassment for she had no breasts, centaurs suckling their young in the same fashion as horses. Her broad features were not beautiful by common standards but, taken for what she was, she had a beauty of her own.

Hwerlu gallantly brought his lady to meet Alec. "She does not speak your tongue, but it pleases her to hear it."

Alec greeted the golden centaur. Smiling, she lifted his chin and spoke to him in her own curious whistling language as she inspected his face with apparent interest.

Standing behind Alec, Seregil answered her in the centaur tongue. With a toss of her long mane, Feeya nodded to them both and went to admire Klia's new horse.

"What did she say?" asked Alec.

"Oh, a greeting like Hwerlu's. I thanked her for you." Seregil sat down at the base of a tree with a contented sigh.

"Are there a lot of centaurs in Skala?" Alec gazed at the pair of handsome creatures across the clearing.

"No. They live mainly in the mountains across the Osiat Sea. A few large tribes still roam the high plains there. Magyana brought Hwerlu and Feeya back to Rhíminee with her a few years ago. That's her tower there, to the left of Nysander's."

"Nysander's friend?"

"Yes. Magyana's a great traveler. She went to learn more of centaur ways. Hwerlu was curious about her magic, it being so different from his own, so he came back with her. He'll go home when he's satisfied."

"Are you a wizard, too, then?" Alec asked Hwerlu, who'd returned.

"I cannot make fire without fuel, or fly through the air like the Orëska wizards. My power lies in my music." Hwerlu indicated the large harp that hung in the branches of a nearby tree.

"I sing healings, charms, dreams. I think now maybe I should sing a healing for you, Seregil. I still see sickness in your face."

"I'd be grateful. Your cures don't leave a foul taste in my mouth like those of the drysians. In fact, I think I'll spend the afternoon here. Alec, why don't you get a horse from the stables and go for a ride? It'll do you good."

"I'd just as soon stay here," Alec objected, having no desire to go wandering around the city by himself.

"And watch me sleep all day?" Seregil scoffed. "No, I think it's time we got on with your education. Just go around the Ring once, then come back and tell me what you saw."

"The Ring? I don't even know what that—"

"I'll show him," offered Myrhini. "I have to get back to the barracks anyway. It's on the way."

"There now." Seregil blithely ignored Alec's silent appeal. "Already you're consorting with centaurs and wizards and riding about the streets with a captain of the Queen's Horse Guard. Keep your hood well up, though. I'm not ready for either of us to be seen just yet. And be careful! You're not larking about in the woods anymore. Even in daylight, Rhíminee can be a dangerous place. And for Illior's sake, find some gloves! Your hands are in poor enough condition as it is."

Myrhini pulled a pair of gauntlets from her belt and tossed them to Alec. "Come on, boy, before he finds something else to fuss about."

Still dubious, Alec followed her to the stables behind the main building where a groom saddled a spirited horse for him.

Leaving the shelter of the magical gardens for the first time since his arrival in the city, Alec was pleased to feel the cold, sweet winter breeze against his face again.

Golden Helm Street was lined on either side with high garden walls. Craning his neck, Alec caught glimpses of statues, carved pediments, and the tops of columns decorating houses more imposing than any temple he'd seen in the north. After several blocks, the street opened out into one of the paved circles he'd noted during his first ride through Rhíminee with Nysander. Here they turned down a side line.

"What are these for?" he asked, looking around.

"It's a catapult circle, part of the city's defenses," Myrhini explained. "The streets that lead out from them are straight to give the defenders a clear shot at-any approaching enemy force. There are circles like this all over the city. The Ring and the market squares by the main gates are defensive positions, too, killing grounds in case the gates are breached."

"Has Rhíminee ever been attacked?"

"Oh, yes. The Plenimarans only got in once, though. The last full-scale attack on the city was over forty years ago, though."

Two Hawk ended at Silvermoon Street, a broad avenue bordering the Queen's Park.

Ornate public buildings had been built against the park wall. On the other side stood villas larger than any he'd seen so far.

Blue uniformed guards saluted Myrhini as she and Alec rode under a heavy portcullis and onto the palace grounds.

"Those are the barracks there," she said, pointing out a collection of long, low buildings just visible beyond the dark bulk of the Palace.

At the edge of the broad parade ground that fronted the barracks they reined in to watch a company of riders practicing a battle turn. Tugging his hood back into place, Alec let out a low whistle of admiration.

Each rider carried a lance, and their green pennants snapped smartly in the breeze as the horsemen rode the length of the field in an even rank.

Reaching the far end, they wheeled sharply about, lowered their lances, and charged forward with bloodcurdling yells. Wheeling again, they threw their lances down and drew swords to practice cuts to the left and right.

"There aren't many sights finer than that, eh?"

Myrhini asked, following them with her eyes. Her horse shifted restlessly, anxious to join its fellows in action.

As they sat watching, a trio of riders rode over from the direction of the barracks-two noblemen and a stern, pale-eyed woman in a green uniform and golden gorget. The older of the two men was imposing in black velvet trimmed with silver and furs. A jeweled chain of office hung across his broad chest.

The other man was much younger, perhaps late twenties, with a small blond mustache and a narrow tuft of hair on his chin. Although he was dressed richly in red velvet laced with gold, he struck Alec at once as someone of much less importance than the others.

"General Phoria," Myrhini said, saluting the officer. "And greetings, Lord Barien and Lord Teukros."

"I trust your troop will be ready for inspection this afternoon?" the general asked crisply, returning the salute with a hand lacking the last two fingers.

"At your command, General!"

Phoria's pale stare raked over Alec as if she had only then registered his existence. "And who is this?"

"A guest of the wizard Nysander, General. I'm escorting him to the Ring."

Alec stole a sidelong glance at Myrhini but knew better than to butt in; General Phoria had thawed noticeably at the mention of Nysander.

"You haven't the look of a wizard," she remarked.

"No, General, I'm not," Alec responded quickly, taking his cue from Myrhini. "I've come to study in the city."

"Ah, a young scholar!" The older man smiled approvingly. "I hope you'll stay long enough to see the Festival. It's the great glory of the city."

Alec had no idea what the man was referring to, but nodded politely and did his best to look respectful. Fortunately General Phoria was impatient to move on. With a final curt nod, she and her companions rode on toward the Palace.

Alec let out a slow breath. "Was that the same Barien Klia spoke of?"

"Lord Barien," Myrhini cautioned. "Lord Barien i Zhal Khameris Vitulliein of Rhilna, to be exact. He's the Vicegerent of kkala, the most powerful person in the country after the Queen herself The other one was his nephew, Lord Teukros i Eryan."

"And the general?"

"In addition to being the high commander of all Skalan cavalry regiments, General Phoria is the Queen's eldest daughter. You just met the future queen, my friend. Come on now, I'll write you out a pass."

Dismounting in front of one of the barracks, Alec followed Myrhini into the wardroom. A handful of soldiers sat around a table, intent on a bakshi game. Seeing their senior officer, however, they leapt up to salute. Myrhini returned it and sat down at a nearby desk to write out the pass.

After a few curious glances in Alec's direction, the soldiers went back to their game.

Sealing the pass with her signet, Myrhini handed it to Alec. "Show this at any gate of the Ring and you'll have no problem. There's one into the Ring just beyond the last barracks. Get your horse and I'll let you through."

Outside again, she led Alec to a heavily guarded gate near the Palace.

"You can't possibly get lost," Myrhini assured him. "Stay between the two walls and you'll come all the way around the city and back to here. It will be easiest for you to go back to the Ore'ska House by way of the Harvest Market. Just follow the Street of the Sheaf to the Fountain of Astellus, then down Golden Helm until you sight it again."

Myrhini's directions sounded simple enough, but Alec felt a bit of his original apprehension returning when the postern gate clanged shut behind him.

Looking around, he found himself in a very pleasant park with trees and carefully tended carriage paths. A number of enterprising merchants had set up shop here and many elegantly dressed patrons strolled among the gaily painted booths. Others rode or drove in carriages along the paths, the men in colorful surcoats or robes beneath heavy capes, the women muffled in rich furs, gems sparkling on their gloved fingers and in their elaborately curled and braided hair. Many were accompanied by tame animals and Alec smiled to himself, wondering if he and his father had trapped any of these hawks or spotted cats. They'd certainly sold enough of them to the southern traders.

Riding north at a trot, he soon reached the first gate. The guards inspected his pass briefly, then waved him through into the bustle of the Harvest Market.

This market was considerably smaller than the one by the Sea Gate, and not as busy at this late season.

A gate leading out of the city stood open for carts, and numerous inns and taverns faced onto the main square. Checking street markers to satisfy himself as to where the Street of the Sheaf entered the square, he crossed the square and reentered the Ring to continue his assigned ride.

This next section was used as pasturage for livestock. He rode past small flocks of sheep and cattle grazing from hay racks under the watchful eye of the children who tended them. Large cisterns had been sunk into the ground here and there along the inner wall. Although the herds he observed were not large, it was evident that should the city ever be besieged, enough animals could be kept within the walls to feed the defenders for quite some time.

Skirting the northern perimeter of the city at a canter, Alec began to notice signs of human habitation; rough plank shelters huddled at the base of the walls, many of them connected by well-trodden paths. The denizens of this shanty settlement had the sullen air of impoverished squatters. A litter of refuse marked the boundaries of their tiny holdings; thin children and thinner dogs wandered among the shacks, picking through the castoff belongings of their neighbors and watching passing strangers with a predatory eye.

As he rode past one of these ramshackle hovels, a grimy child in a torn shift popped up almost under his horse's feet, begging for coppers. Alec reined in sharply to avoid trampling her and was instantly surrounded by a crowd of motley little beggars, all clamoring for money. A lank-haired woman appeared in a doorway, beckoning to him in a harsh, lewd fashion. Except for a tattered skirt, she wore only a shawl draped over her shoulders and this she let fall away, calling out something to him.

Alec hastily fished out a few coins and cast them behind his horse to clear the children from his path. But the shacks became more numerous as he rode on, as did the knots of beggars and idlers of all descriptions.

The next gate was in sight when he noticed three men watch his approach with undisguised interest. As he came nearer, they rose from their seats in front of a tattered tent and stood next to the roadway. They were big men, any one of them more than a match for him, and all wore long knives in plain sight.

Alec was considering whether he should turn back or simply kick his horse into a gallop when a group of uniformed riders came into sight from the opposite direction.

The winter sun glinted off their helmets. They wore the same dark blue uniforms he had seen at the gates and carried heavy truncheons and swords.

The prospective footpads quickly disappeared among the shacks as the riders came on. Alec rode quickly on to the next gate and into the Sea Market.

The huge square was every bit as overwhelming as the first time he'd seen it. Stopping for a moment to get his bearings, he spotted the open thoroughfare of Sheaf Street in the distance and set out toward it, following one of the wider lanes threading through the marketplace in that direction.

The smell of spiced lamb brought him to a halt.

Looking around, Alec quickly spotted an old man grilling skewers of meat over a brazier nearby.

A bit more at ease now, he decided to stop and eat. Dismounting, he purchased meat and cider and sat down on a convenient crate to watch the crowd stream by.

This isn't so bad after all, he thought. Six months ago where had he been?

Wandering alone through the same mountains he'd known all his life. Now here he sat in the heart of one of the most powerful cities in the world with fine, warm clothes on his back and silver in his purse.

He was beginning to enjoy himself after all.

He was just finishing when the dull, uneven clang of a bell rang out over the general noise of the square.

Joining the crowd at the edge of the street, he worked his way forward through the press.

A dozen blue-uniformed guards were escorting a tumbrel cart down the avenue in his direction. A tall pike had been set upright in the back of the cart; a man's head was fixed on its point, the slack jaw quivering at every bump and jolt. The glassy eyes had rolled upward, as if avoiding even in death the expressions of scorn and revulsion that greeted this final progress. A placard had been nailed just below it, but the writing on it was obscured by streaks of drying blood.

Alec spat out his last mouthful of meat and lowered his eyes as the cart drew abreast of him. It seemed that no matter where he turned today he was confronted with bits of dead bodies. Suddenly a hand slid under his arm from behind.

"Are you unwell, young sir?"

Unpleasant breath bathed his cheek. Turning, Alec found himself in the supportive grip of a scrawny young ruffian. The fellow's sallow face looked as narrow as an ax blade, an illusion not alleviated by his prominently arched nose and buck teeth. An unruly lock of sandy hair kept falling over one eye and he reached up to push it away with one hand without relinquishing his hold on Alec's sleeve with the other. His garments had once been fine, but judging by their worn appearance and the sour odor that rose from them, Alec suspected their owner to be a denizen of the northern Ring.

"I'm fine, thank you," Alec replied, disliking the stranger's insistent hold on his arm.

"Some don't care for such sights," the other said, shaking his head, though whether it was at the sight of violent death or the lack of stomach for it, Alec could not guess. "When I seen you, I says to myself,

"There's one that might keel right over!" Perhaps you ought to sit down over here, 'til the spell passes. Quite an end for old Lord Vardarus, eh?"

"I'm fine," Alec repeated, pulling free at last. "Who's Lord Vardarus?"

"You was just looking at him. If you'd have looked in the back of that cart, you'd have seen the rest of him headed for the city pit. Executed this morning for plotting to kill the Vicegerent his self, as I hear it." The man paused to spit wetly. "Filthy Leran traitor!"

Vicegerent! thought Alec, recalling the jocular fellow Myrhini had introduced him to at the parade ground.

Now, here was something to report to Seregil; Lord Barien must have just been coming from the execution of his own would-be murderer. Alec made a mental note to ask Seregil what a Leran was.

"You all right then, young sir?" his erstwhile rescuer asked again.

"For the last time, yes!" Giving the man a curt nod, Alec stole a glance over his shoulder, looking for his horse. When he looked back, the fellow was gone.

Shaking his head in bemusement, Alec set off again.

The seaward section of the Ring was more heavily guarded; his pass was closely inspected by the watch before he was allowed to enter. Beyond the gate, the open ground had been divided into a series of huge corrals that held the herds of horses belonging to the various military units of the city.

Hundreds of animals milled about beyond the fences on either side of the roadway, their rich odor permeating the air. The workshops of regimental farriers, harness makers, and armorers were scattered among the enclosures, and the craftsmen added their own noises to the din. Signs posted at the gate of each corral displayed the regimental emblem, as did the uniforms of the soldiers standing guard. Alec quickly spotted the helm and saber device of the Queen's Horse Guard, as well as the flame emblem worn by the blue-coated riders he'd noticed around the city. Other uniforms were new to him. Soldiers wearing sky-blue tunics stitched with the shining white outline of a soaring hawk stood guard over several herds made up entirely of white horses. Another group wore deep purple, with scarlet serpents forming a complicated knot as their emblem.

The road was crowded with soldiers, strings of horses, hay racks, and dung carts. To travel any distance afoot was evidently unthinkable in such company. Those having nothing better to do lined the fence rails to watch the activity.

A few of these idlers, both male and female, greeted him with gestures only slightly less suggestive than those of the ragged woman at the hovel. Shocked at the ways of city dwellers, Alec pressed on at a canter to the next gate and emerged gratefully again into the long park behind the Queen's Palace. Nudging his horse into a gallop, he rode to the Harvest Market and the Street of the Sheaf, then east into the city.

People bustled on all sides, jostling each other as they went about their business. Even the buildings seemed to crowd one another, leaning shoulder to shoulder over the street to trap the din of the passing traffic and echo it back. Alec's discomfort at the proximity of so many people began to well up again.

Afternoon shadows were lengthening by the time as he reached the Astellus Circle. He paused at the colonnade. Across the way lay the wooded park, bordering the circle's north side. A single street entered the park through a prettily carved stone archway. Richly dressed riders and fancy carriages were coming and going in a steady stream.

Curious, Alec rode over for a closer look.

The park embraced the street on both sides and, together with the arch, gave the place a sheltered, almost magical air, as if it might exist quite separately from the crowded city beyond. The villas here had no screening walls and he marveled at the elegance of the facades and gardens. Despite the early hour, each house had one or more colored lamps burning above its entrance. There were only four colors: rose, amber, white, and green. Al though they lent a certain festive tone, their order along the street seemed quite random.

"Excuse me, sir," Alec ventured, catching the eye of a man coming out from under the arch. "What street is this?"

"The Street of Lights, of course," the man replied, looking him over.

"So I see, but what do the lights mean?"

"If you have to ask that, then you've no business knowing, lad!" Giving Alec a wink, the fellow strode off whistling.

With a last curious glance down the intriguing avenue, Alec headed for the Orëska House. Myrhini's instructions brought him safely there, and Nysander's guide stone led him back up to the tower door.

He was just raising his hand to knock when Thero came storming out with an armload of scroll cases. They collided hard enough to knock the wind out of both of them.

Scroll cases scattered in all directions, rolling and clattering across the stone floor of the passage. One tube flew over the parapet and several startled voices echoed up the atrium as it shattered on the tiles below. Thero glared at Alec for an instant, then began gathering his scattered documents.

"Sorry," Alec muttered, picking up those that had rolled across the corridor. Thero accepted them curtly and strode off, not bothering to acknowledge that the door had closed behind him.

Much obliged, I'm sure! Alec thought sourly, standing well to one side as he knocked again.

Seregil opened the door this time, and he looked remarkably pleased with himself.

"Gone, is he?" he smirked, letting Alec into the anteroom.

"What was that all about? He practically knocked me over the railing!"

Seregil shrugged innocently. "I came upstairs to borrow a book from Nysander but he wasn't here. In his absence, Thero took it upon himself to tell me I couldn't have it. After reasoning with him at considerable length over the matter, I suggested that it was probably his vow of celibacy that keeps him so irritable all the time. I was in the middle of a detailed discourse-based largely on my own personal experience-on the methods he could employ to alleviate his difficulties when he hurried out. Perhaps he means to put my wisdom into action."

"I doubt it. And isn't it sort of dangerous, teasing a wizard?"

"He takes himself much too seriously," scoffed Seregil, sitting down at one of the work ables. "How was your ride? See anything interesting? Who stole your purse?"

"There was a procession at the Sea Market and I—" Alec stopped, openmouthed, as Seregil's last questions registered. Checking his belt, he found only the severed strings where his wallet had hung.

"That bastard at the Sea Market!" He groaned.

Seregil regarded him with a crooked grin. "Let me guess: thin, whey-faced, big nose, bad teeth? Got close to you for some reason and wouldn't be shaken off? Relieved you of this, I believe."

Seregil tossed Alec, a purse. It was his own, and quite empty.

"His name's Tym." Seregil's grin broadened.

"I figured he'd hit you at the market. He can't resist working a crowd, especially if there are bluecoats around."

Alec stared at Seregil, aghast. "You set him on me! He works for you?"

"From time to time, so you're likely to see him again. You can settle up with him then, if you want. I hope you didn't lose too much."

"No, but I still don't understand why you did it. Bilairy's Elbows, Seregil. If I hadn't been carrying that pass in my coat—"

"Consider it your first lesson in city life. Something of the sort had to happen sooner or later. I figured sooner was better. I did warn you before you left to watch out for yourself."

"I thought I did." Alec bristled, thinking of the rough characters he'd managed to avoid in the Ring.

Seregil clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, don't fret. Tym's a professional in his own small way, and you're his favorite sort of victim: just in from the country, green as grass, mouth hanging open as you take in the city. So tell me about your ride."

"Didn't Tym tell you about it?" Alec scowled, feeling he'd been made a fool of.

"Tym isn't you. I want to hear what you saw."

Still smoldering, Alec sketched a terse description of the Ring, pointedly including the ambushers, then moved on to the procession at the Sea Market.

"Lord Vardarus." Seregil frowned, twirling a glass rod between two long fingers. "I did a few things for him in the past. I'd have said he was completely loyal to the Queen."

"That cutpurse of yours said he'd tried to assassinate Lord Barien. Myrhini and I saw Lord Barien before I left, over at the Palace. Maker's Mercy, Seregil, he must have just come from the execution when I saw him, and he was talking of some festival!"

"The Festival of Sakor, at the winter solstice," Seregil replied absently. "I wonder what Nysander knows about all this? I'd never have taken Vardarus for a Leran."

"What are Lerans, anyway?"

Seregil glanced up in surprise. "Bilairy's Balls. You mean I never told you about Idrilain the First?"

"No. That night on the Darter you said there was a lot I'd have to learn about the royal lines, but then you got sick."

"Ah, well then, you're in for a treat. Idrilain the First's one of my favorites. She lived four hundred years ago and is the first and only of the Skalan queens to take an Aurënfaie as consort."

"An Aurënfaie?"

"That's right, though this wasn't her first husband. Idrilain was a great warrior, known for her strong will and fiery temper. By the age of twenty, she was already a general. At twenty-two, she married on the day of her coronation and soon produced an heir, a daughter named Lera. Not long after, Zengat declared war on Aurënen. The Aurënfaie appealed to Skala for help and Idrilain led the forces south herself."

"Where's Zengat?" Alec broke in, his head spinning with unfamiliar names.

"West of Aurënen, where the mountains of Ared Nimra reach the Selon Sea. The Zengati are a fierce bunch, most of them warriors, brigands, and pirates. Occasionally they get bored with fighting among themselves and band together to make trouble for their neighbors, especially Aurënen. This time they were laying claim to lands down near Mount Bardok.

"Once they got into western Aurënen, they decided they might as well have the rest of it.

"During her campaign there, Idrilain fell in love with a handsome Aurënfaie captain named Corruth. He returned to Skala with her, where nearly caused a civil war by putting aside her first consort to marry him."

"But you said it was common practice for a queen to change lovers as much as she liked," Alec recalled.

"But they usually only did so to gain an heir. Idrilain already had a daughter. But there was also the matter of Corruth being Aurënfaie."

"You mean not human?"

"That's right. Even though the ancient ties from the Great War were still remembered with gratitude, it was quite a different matter for alien blood to be mixed into the royal line.

"As usual, Idrilain had her way in the end and the match produced another daughter, Corruthesthera. Her father, a kind and noble man by all reports, eventually gained acceptance from some of the nobles. But there was also a strong faction, the Lerans, who could not accept the possibility of Corruth's daughter reaching the throne. Idrilain's first consort was at the heart of it from the beginning, and probably involved Lera as well, although it was never proven. Whatever the case, relations between the Queen and the Princess Royal were strained, to say the least."

"So what happened?"

"In the thirty-second year of her reign, Idrilain was poisoned. No connection to the Lerans could be proven, but Lera ascended the throne under the shadow of suspicion. It didn't help matters any that Lord Corruth disappeared from Rhíminee without a trace the day of her accession. To Lera's credit, she didn't have her half sister, Corruthesthera, assassinated right then. Instead, she quietly exiled her to an island in the middle of the Osiat Sea. The people of Aurënen were outraged and relations between the two nations have never been the same.

"Queen Lera was a harsh, tight-fisted woman. She's recorded to have had more people executed during her eighteen-year rule than any queen in the history of Skala.

"Ironically, her half sister survived three different assassination attempts, while Lera herself died in childbirth with a stillborn son. In spite of some threat of revolution, Corruthesthera was recalled from exile and crowned as the only remaining heir."

Alec mulled all this over for a moment. "So that means that the queens who came after were part Aurënfaie?"

Seregil nodded. "Corruthesthera favored her father's race; they say she appeared to be hardly more than a girl at age fifty."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Seregil explained, "in addition to living three or four times as long as humans, the Aurënfaie mature more slowly. A man of fourscore years is close to Bilairy's gate, while an Aurënfaie is still considered a youth."

"They must become very wise, living that long."

Seregil grinned. "Wisdom is not necessarily the product of age. Still, imagine being able to draw on the experience of three lifetimes rather than one."

"How long did Corruthesthera live?"

"She died in battle at the age of one hundred and forty-seven. Queen Idrilain the Second is her great-granddaughter."

"Then if what Tym said is true, the Lerans are still around."

"Oh, yes, though they've never achieved much beyond an assassination or two. But they still boil up to make trouble every now and then. With the war coming, they could be more of a threat. And not only to the Queen, it seems. Was Barien by himself?"

"No, Phoria, the oldest princess—"

"Princess Royal," Seregil corrected, fidgeting with the glass rod. "Though she prefers the title of general. People have been speculating about her and Barien for years now—But go on."

"General Phoria was with him, and his nephew."

"Lord Teukros?" Seregil gave a derisive snort. "Now there's true Skalan nobility for you: nephew and sole heir of the most powerful lord in Rhíminee, scion of one of the oldest Skalan families, not a drop of foreign blood in his lily pure veins. Perfect manners, expensive tastes, and all the brains of a flounder. Quite the gambler, too. I've taken his money more than once."

"He's Barien's heir?"

"Oh, yes. Being childless himself, the Vicegerent has always doted on his sister's son. Barien's no fool, mind you, but love does make excuses, as they say. It just goes to show that the nobles ought to learn what any hog farmer knows, and do a bit more out breeding now and then."

 

19

Uneasy Secrets

 

Seregil inhaled the familiar morning smells of the tower as he and Alec headed up to the workroom the next morning—the mingled incense of parchment, candle smoke, and herbs overlaid with the more immediate aromas of breakfast.

Upstairs, early morning sunlight slanted down through the leaded panes of the dome, giving the jumbled room a comfortable glow. Nysander sat in his usual place at the head of the least cluttered table, both hands clasped around his mug as he conversed with Thero.

A bittersweet pang shot through Seregil. In the days of his apprenticeship, he'd sat in There's place each morning, enjoying the early quiet while Nysander outlined the day's tasks. It had been at such moments that he'd felt, for the first time in his life, like he belonged, that he was welcome and useful.

This memory brought with it a momentary stab of guilt at the thought of a certain scrap of parchment carefully concealed at the bottom of his pack.

Seregil pushed the thought away.

"Good morning, you two! I hope you are hungry,"

Nysander said, pushing the teapot their way. Thero acknowledged their arrival with a cool nod.

Nysander's workroom breakfasts were legendary at the Orëska House: fried ham, honey and cheese, hot oat cakes with butter, and good strong black tea. Anyone was welcome and if you wanted anything else you could bring it yourself.

"Valerius will be pleased with you, Alec," said Nysander as they sat down. "Seregil is looking much more himself today."

The boy shot Seregil a pointed glance. "It's none of my doing. He's done just as he pleased ever since Valerius left, but he healed up anyway."

"I daresay you underestimate your influence over him, dear boy." The wizard turned to Seregil with a rather searching look. "Well now, what are your plans?"

Seregil could feel his old mentor watching him as he spooned honey onto a piece of oat cake.

Nysander was waiting for another argument over the scar and, under most circumstances, that's exactly what he'd have gotten. But not this time.

Concentrating on his breakfast, Seregil replied, "It's time we headed home. With a war brewing for the spring, there ought to be some jobs waiting for us."

"True," said Nysander. "In fact, I may have a bit of work for you myself."

"About this new Leran upsurge?"

"Precisely. I hope to put what details I can before you within a few days."

Seregil sat back, on safer ground now. "Do you think Vardarus was really mixed up in all that?"

"I must say, I would never have suspected the man. Yet he signed a full confession, and spoke not one word in his own defense. The evidence seemed incontrovertible."

Seregil gave a skeptical shrug. "If he'd contested the conviction and lost, his heirs would lose all claim to his property. By admitting his treason, they were allowed to inherit."

"But if he was innocent, then why wouldn't he have said so?" asked Alec.

"As Nysander said, the evidence against him was irrefutable," Thero answered. "Letters in Vardarus' own hand were produced. He could have pleaded forgery, or that magic had been used to create them, yet he refused to do so. The Queen had no choice but to pass sentence. With all respect, Nysander, it is possible that he was guilty."

Seregil tugged absently at a strand of dark hair. "And if he was innocent, what could have enforced such damning silence. He was attached to the Queen's Treasury, wasn't he? I'll need a list of the nobles he associated with in that position, and some idea of his personal habits."

"I shall see you have all you need," said Nysander.

 

Alec found himself studying faces over breakfast.

Seregil had been unusually pensive, although he seemed to brighten up once he'd gotten some food in him. Thero was as stiff as ever, and Nysander just as easygoing, yet there was something in the older wizard's expression when he looked at Seregil, as if he were trying to figure him out.

As for himself, Alec realized that he was finally beginning to feel comfortable here. The sense of disorientation that had depressed him during Seregil's recovery had lifted at last. Watching his companion trying to tease Thero into some pointless debate, he sensed that a certain important equilibrium had been reestablished.

"You are quieter than usual this morning," Nysander observed. catching his eye.

Alec nodded toward Seregil. "This is more what he was like when we first met."

"Annoying Thero has always been a favorite pastime of his," the wizard sighed. "For goodness sake, Seregil, let him eat in peace. Not everyone shares your taste for banter first thing in the morning."

"I doubt there are many tastes Thero and I do share," Seregil conceded.

"A fact for which I am continually thankful," Thero parried dryly.

Leaving the two of them to their private battle, Alec turned back to Nysander. "I've been wondering about something you mentioned when we talked that first night."

"Yes?"

"You spoke of shape changing spells. Can a person really be changed into anything?"

"A brick, perhaps?" Thero interjected.

Seregil acknowledged the gibe with a gallant salute of the honey spoon.

"That is correct," Nysander replied.

"Transubstantiation—or metamorphosis, if you will—has always been a favorite subject of mine. I made quite a study of it, years ago. Few of the spells are permanent and the risks are often high, but I do enjoy them."

"He turned us into all sorts of things," Seregil told him. "And it still comes in handy now and then."

"There are several general kinds of changes," Nysander went on, warming to his topic.

"Transmogrifications change one thing completely into something else—a man into a tree, for instance. His thoughts would be those of a tree and he would exist as one without memory of his former nature until restored.

"A metastatic spell, however, would merely give a man the appearance of a tree. To alter the nature of a substance-iron into gold, for example-would require an alchemic transmutation."

"And what about that intrinsic nature spell of yours?" Seregil inquired blandly, staring down into his mug.

"I might have known you'd bring it around to that," Thero sniffed. "A trick to entertain children and country peasants!"

"There are those who believe it has some value," Nysander said with a meaningful look in There's direction. "Myself among them."

Seregil leaned over to Alec as if to speak in confidence, though he didn't bother to lower his voice. "Thero hates that spell because it won't work on him. He has no intrinsic nature, you see."

"It is true that this particular spell does not affect him," Nysander admitted, "but I am certain that we shall discover the impediment eventually. However, I suspect that it was not Thero's nature you had in mind?"

Seregil gave Alec a playful nudge in the ribs. "How about a bit of magic?"

Nysander laid his knife aside with a resigned sigh. "I see that I am not to enjoy this meal in peace. I suggest we retire to the garden in case Alec proves to be something especially large."

"Me?" Alec choked down a bit of ham. He had no idea what an intrinsic nature spell could be, but it suddenly appeared that they meant to work one on him.

Seregil was halfway to the door already. "I just hope he doesn't turn out to be a badger. I've never gotten on with badgers. Thero will probably turn out to be a badger if you ever get it to work."

They followed Nysander down to the Orëska gardens and into a thick stand of birch surrounding a small pool.

"This will do nicely," he said, stopping in the dappled shade near the water's edge. "I will transform Seregil first, Alec, so that you may observe the process."

Alec nodded nervously, watching as Seregil knelt on the grass in front of the wizard.

Resting his hands on his thighs, Seregil closed his eyes and all expression vanished from his face.

"He attains the suscipient state so readily," Thero muttered with grudging admiration. "Still, you take a chance, trying to work anything on him."

Nysander motioned for silence, then laid a hand on Seregil's head. "Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa, let thy inner symbol be revealed."

The change was instantaneous. One moment Seregil knelt before them. The next, something was squirming about in a tangle of empty clothing.

Nysander bent over the wiggling pile. "The change was successful, I gather?"

"Oh, yes," replied a small, guttural voice, "but I've lost my way in here. Could you lend a hand?"

"Help your friend, Alec," Nysander said, laughing.

Alec gingerly lifted the edge of the surcoat, then jumped back in surprise as the blunt head of an otter thrust out from under the loosened shirttail.

"That's better," it grunted. Waddling free of the clothing, the sleek creature sat up on its hindquarters with its tail stretched out behind. It looked exactly like any otter Alec had ever trapped, except that its small round eyes were the same grey as Seregil's.

Seregil smoothed his drooping whiskers into place with a webbed paw. "I should've stripped down first, but the effect is more startling this way, don't you think?"

"It's really you!" Alec exclaimed in delight, running a hand over the otter's gleaming back. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you-I think," Seregil clucked. "In light of your former profession, I'm not certain if that was a compliment or an appraisal of the worth of my pelt. Watch this!"

Humping to the edge of the pool, he slid into the water and dove out of sight with sinuous ease. After a few moments he climbed out again to deposit a flopping carp at Thero's feet.

"A cold fish for a cold fish!" he announced with otterish glee before dashing back into the water.

Scowling, Thero nudged the carp back into the pool with his foot. "He never can go anywhere without stealing something."

Nysander turned to Alec. "Ready to give it a try?"

"What do I do?" Alec replied eagerly.

"Remove your clothes first, I think. As you saw, they can be a hindrance."

Excitement overcame Alec's modesty for once and he disrobed quickly. In the meantime, Nysander changed Seregil back; the restoration was as sudden as the initial change.

"It's been a while since we've done that," Seregil said, grinning happily as he pulled on his breeches. "I spent a week as an otter once. I'd like to do that again sometime."

"There is no great trick to this," Nysander assured Alec as he took his place in front of the wizard. "Simply clear your mind. Think of water, or a cloudless sky. Before we start, however, I must know your full name."

"Alec of Kerry is all I've ever gone by."

"He's the son of a wandering hunter, not a lord," Seregil reminded him. "That sort hasn't the use for long names that we do."

"I suppose not. Still, the lad ought to have a proper name if he is going to trail about with you. Alec, what were the names of your father, and his father, and his father before that?"

"My father's name was Amasa. I never knew any of the others," answered Alec.

"In the southern fashion, that would make you Alec i Amasa of Kerry," said Nysander. "I suppose that will have to suffice."

"He's not likely to use his real name much at all if he runs with Seregil," Thero observed impatiently.

"True." Nysander placed his hand over Alec.

Alec thought of clear water as hard as he could and heard Nysander say, "Alec i Amasa Kerry, let thy inner symbol be revealed!"
 

Alec staggered, found his balance, braced for flight.

Everything appeared in varying tones of grey, yet the slightest movement caught his eye. More overwhelming still were the scents. The pool gave off the sweet message of water and there were horses nearby, mares among them. The countless plants of the garden wove a green tapestry of aromas, some stinking of Poison, others succulent and inviting.

Most emphatic, however, was the warning stink of the men. Some new part of him signaled innate alarm. He couldn't understand their ridiculous noise or the strange grimacing that accompanied it.

Then the smallest of the three moved closer, making calmer sounds. Watching the other man creatures with suspicion, he stood his ground, allowing this one to come close enough to stroke his neck.
 

"Magnificent!" exclaimed Seregil, looking over the young stag Alec had transformed into. Its nostrils flared nervously, scenting the breeze as he touched its powerful neck. Tossing its antlered head, it looked at him with wide blue eyes.

"Remarkable," There admitted, taking a step closer. "Bring him over to the pool so that he can see—"

"Thero, no! I think he's—" Seregil hissed, too late.

At the young wizard's sudden approach, the stag reared in panic. Seregil threw himself back out of reach of the flailing hooves.

Grasping at the back of Thero's robe, Nysander managed to yank him to safety just as the startled animal leapt forward, lashing out with its antlers.

"Change him back!" yelled Seregil. "He's lost in the shape. Change him back before he bolts!"

Nysander shouted the command, and the stag form shifted and dissolved, leaving Alec in a dazed heap on the grass.

"Easy now," Seregil soothed, wrapping a cloak around the boy's shoulders.

"Did it work?" Alec asked, feeling dizzy and odd. "Things went all funny for a minute."

"Did it work?" Seregil rocked back on his heels, laughing "Let's see now. First you changed into as handsome a stag as I've ever seen, then you tried to gut and trample Thero. Nysander stopped you, of course, but otherwise I'd call it a grand success!"

"The transformation was rather too complete," said Nysander less satisfied. "How do you feel?"

"A little wobbly," Alec admitted. "I'd like to try it again, though."

"So you shall," promised Nysander, "but first you must learn to govern your mind."

 

Left to himself that afternoon, Alec wandered out into the gardens again. He had still not entirely thrown off the morning's disorientation; the world seemed rather muted after experiencing it through the senses of an animal.

As he neared the centaur's grove he caught the sound of harp music and paused. Mastering his shyness, he entered the trees. Hwerlu and Feeya stood close together in the clearing, Feeya leaning languidly on her mate's back as he played.

There was an intimacy to the scene that made Alec halt, but before he could withdraw Feeya caught sight of him and broke into a broad, welcoming smile.

"Hello, little Alec," Hwerlu called, lowering his harp. "You have the look of one in need of companionship. Come and sing with us."

Alec accepted the invitation, surprised at how at ease he felt with the immense creatures. He and Hwerlu traded songs for a while, then Feeya attempted to teach him a few words of her flat, whistling language. With Hwerlu's help he managed to learn "water," "harp," "song," and "tree." He was just attempting "friend" when the centaurs suddenly raised their heads, listening.

"That animal is being driven too hard," Hwerlu stated with a disapproving frown.

Seconds later Alec's ears also picked up the distant staccato of a galloping horse. Looking out through the trees, he saw a rider heading for the main entrance of the House. As the man reined in and dismounted, his hood fell back from his face.

"That's Micum," Alec exclaimed, setting off at a run. "Hey, Micum! Micum Cavish!"

Already halfway up the stairs, Micum turned and waved to him.

"Am I glad to see you!" cried Alec, noting as he clasped hands with him that Micum looked haggard, and that his clothing was stained and spattered with mud. "Seregil and Nysander wouldn't say so, but I think they were beginning to worry. It looks like you've had a hard ride."

"I did," the big man answered. "How'd you and Seregil make out?"

"We had some trouble on the way back, but he's fine now. I think he's with Nysander."

"Trouble?" Micum frowned, glancing back at Alec as they hurried toward the wizard's tower.

"What kind of trouble?"

"Bad magic from that wooden thing. He got sick, but Nysander put him right. I'm just glad we got here soon enough. I still don't understand much of it, but Nysander and Seregil can tell you."

"Let's find them, then. I've something I want you all to hear and I don't want to have to go through it a dozen times."

 

Micum felt a rush of relief as Nysander let them in at the tower door. This was one Watcher report he was anxious to share the burden of.

"Here you are at last!" said Nysander.

"Is that Micum?" Seregil looked up from something on Nysander's desk, then hurried over to greet him. "Bilairy's Balls, man, you look like hell!"

"So do you." Micum inspected Seregil with concern.

He was thinner than ever, and looked tired in spite of his usual grin. "The boy here says you had some trouble on the road?"

"I think it would be best if we heard your report first," said Nysander. "Come down to the sitting room, all of you."

"All of them" didn't appear to include Thero, Micum noted as Nysander shut the study door.

"Seregil, pour the wine," the wizard said, taking a seat by the fire. "Now, Micum, you have some news?"

Micum dropped into the other armchair and accepted the cup gratefully. "Yes, and it's not good."

"You found the place marked in the Fens, didn't you?" Seregil asked eagerly.

"Yes. After Boersby, I rode to the southern end of the Fens. From what you'd told me, I figured the Plenimarans must have come up the Osk and followed the river trail in. I soon picked up word of them in the villages along that route. Mardus and his men had been through less than a month before."

"The Blackwater Fens are a bad place to travel," Alec said, shaking his head. "One minute you're on solid ground, the next you're up to your waist in mud."

"That's the truth. If the cold weather hadn't firmed the ground up as much as it had, I'd have lost my horse before I got out of there," Micum told him. "Mardus had gone clear into the heart of the Fens. It's a cursed waste of quaking bog in there. The villages had given out miles back, and I was about ready to turn back when I came upon a little settlement set up on a rise.

"It was the usual sort of swamp village—just a dirty jumble of hovels clustered around a muddy track. A wooden causeway led into it and I was halfway across it when I felt something was wrong. There wasn't a soul in sight. You know how it is with these little villages—the minute a stranger turns up the dogs bark and the children run out to see who it is. But I couldn't see anyone around. There was no smoke, either, no sound of voices or work. But there were gathering baskets and nets by the doorways, like someone had just laid them aside. I thought maybe they were hiding at first, until I heard ravens making a racket nearby.

"Looking around, I began to have an idea what I was going to find. The remains of three people were scattered down the other side of the rise below the village.

Animals had been at them for days, and what remained was frozen into the mud. Two were adults, a man and a woman. From the way they lay, it looked like they'd been cut down running. The man's head had been knocked twenty feet away and the woman was hacked almost in two at the waist. A young lad lay half in the water at the base of the hill, with an arrow still in his back.

"The signs were easy enough to read. Dozens of tracks led to a depression in the earth halfway down the rise; only a few came back out to cross over them. By the manner that the dirt had been thrown around, I'd say it was a wizard's doing. Going down for a closer look, I suddenly sank into the ground right up to my hip. When I went to wiggle loose, I realized that my foot was in open space down there.

"There was a hollow place in the hill, like a barrow.

Digging down, I found a little chamber in the hillside, built low and shored up with timbers."

Micum paused and took another long sip of wine before continuing. "The whole village had been killed and carried in there. The stench was fearsome; I wonder you don't smell it on me still. The torch burned blue when I stuck it through to see. There were bodies sprawled out everywhere—" Meeting Seregil's level grey gaze, he shook his head. "We've seen some hard things, you and I, but by Sakor, nothing like this. Some they'd just killed, others they'd hacked open, pulling their ribs back until the poor bastards looked as if they'd grown wings. Cut up their insides, too.

"There was a big flat stone in the center of the chamber, like a table. They must have done their butchery on that—it was all black with blood. A little girl and an old man were still laid out there, their faces gone green. I counted twenty-three in all, plus the three above. Must've been the whole damn village."

Micum sighed heavily, kneading his eyelids. "The strange thing, though, was that I found older bones beneath the bodies."

Nysander had been staring impassively into the fire all this while. Without shifting his gaze, he asked, "Were you able to examine the stone?"

"Yes, and I found this." Micum drew a bit of rotted leather from a pouch at his belt and showed them the remains of a small bag.

Nysander took the scraps and examined them closely. Then, without comment, he cast them into the fire.

Micum was too surprised to react immediately, but Seregil leapt up and tried to rake them out with a poker.

"Let it be!" Nysander ordered sharply.

"This is to do with the disk, isn't it?" Seregil demanded angrily, still grasping the poker.

Micum felt a palpable thickening of the atmosphere of the room as Nysander and Seregil faced off.

Judging by Alec's startled expression, the boy was feeling it, too. The wizard betrayed no outward sign of anger, but the lamps went dim and the warmth of the fire failed.

"I have told you all I can in the matter." Though Nysander spoke quietly, his voice seemed to reverberate like a thunderclap in the deadened air. "I tell you again that the time is not come when you may know."

Seregil tossed the poker down on the stone hearth with a snarl of disgust. "How many years have I kept your secrets?" he hissed through clenched teeth.

"All the intrigues and dirty jobs. Now this touches my own life—Micum's, Alec's—and you won't say a word? Oaths be damned, Nysander! If I'm not worthy of your trust, then I'm not worthy of your roof. I'm going to the Cockerel comtd!" And with a final furious glare, he slammed out of the room.

"What the hell was that all about?" Micum demanded as he and Alec rose to follow.

Nysander motioned them back to their chairs. "Give him time to calm down. This situation is tremendously difficult for all of you, I realize, but perhaps especially so for him. Curiosity alone will drive him half mad, not to mention his wounded sense of honor."

"Do you mean to say you know something about that business in the Fens but you're not telling us?" asked Micum, none too happy himself.

"Please, Micum, I need your cool head to govern Seregil just now. Should the need for action arise, be assured that I will look to the two of you—" He paused, catching sight of Alec sitting stiff and silent in his chair. "Pardon me, dear boy-to the three of you to deal with it. In the meantime, do you think you can prevent him from charging off in a fury? There is another matter I must discuss with him before he leaves the Orëska."

Micum scowled. "It had better be a short fury. I don't fancy sitting in Rhíminee with home so close. I haven't seen my wife in four months."

"Your what?" Alec asked in surprise.

Micum gave a wry shrug. "In the midst of all the running and fighting we did up north, I guess the subject never came up. You'll have to come out to Watermead. In fact, if I let slip that you're an orphan, Kari may just come get you herself."

"Out to where?"

"Our holding," Micum explained. "It lies up in the hills to the west of the city. During my early days with Seregil we uncovered a plot against the Queen. The leader of it was executed and Idrilain offered us part of his holdings as reward. Seregil never cared much for property, so it fell to me. It's really been more Kari's than mine, what with me being gone so much. She and the girls run it."

"Girls?"

Nysander gave Alec a mischievous wink. "This rogue has three daughters, as well."

"Any grandchildren?" Alec inquired dryly.

"I hope not! The oldest, Beka, is only a year or two older than you and she's set her heart on a soldiering life. Seregil's promised to get her a commission in the Queen's Horse Guard, damn him. The other two, Elsbet and Illia, are too young yet to be thinking of husbands."

Yawning suddenly, Micum stretched back in his chair until the seams of his jerkin creaked. "By the Flame, I'm tired. After the riding I did to get here, I could sleep in the middle of the Sea Market and not know the difference. I'd better go after Seregil before I doze off. Before I go, though, there's one thing you must answer me, Nysander." He fixed the wizard with a serious eye. "I'll accept your conditions of secrecy for now. You know you can always trust me—and Seregil, too, for all his bluster. But if this business is half as serious as you make it out to be, are we in danger? I haven't been easy in my mind since I left the Fens.

"All the way down here I kept seeing Alec and Seregil stretched back over that stone with their chests torn open. And now you tell me he got hit with bad magic. Could Mardus' people have tracked us here from Wolde? And will they follow me home tomorrow?"

Nysander sighed deeply. "I have had no sign of such pursuit yet. As much as I would like to tell you that there is no danger, that Seregil and Alec eluded their pursuers completely, I cannot be certain of it. But you may believe me, both of you, when I say that no matter what my vow—I will never endanger any of you with false assurances. I shall continue to keep watch over you all as best I can, but you must also be cautious."

Micum stroked the corners of his mustache, frowning.

"I don't like it, Nysander. I don't like it at all, but I trust you. Come on, Alec, let's go find Seregil. If he won't cool off on his own, you can help me dunk him in the horse trough."

They made a quick check of the bedchamber first.

Seregil's old pack lay open on the clothes chest, along with an untidy pile of maps and parchment scraps. His traveling cloak lay in a heap next to a chair, along with several tunics and a crumpled hat. The tip of one old boot protruded from beneath the coverlet of the bed like a dog's nose. Combs, a ball of twine, a tankard, and fragments of a broken flint lay along the windowsill as if set out for a ceremony.

"He hasn't stormed off just yet," Micum observed, looking the mess over. "Before we go on, I'd like to hear what happened to you two."

Once again Alec went over the details of their journey and Seregil's strange malady. When he'd finished, Micum rubbed a hand wearily over the coppery stubble on his chin.

"That's not the sort of thing a person just walks away from, I grant you. Still, he ought to know that Nysander wouldn't put him off without good reason. I swear, Seregil is one of the smartest people I've ever known, and the bravest, but he's worse than a child when he comes up against something he can't twist around to suit himself." He yawned again heartily.

"Let's get this over with."

"Where do we look?" Alec asked, following him out. "He could be anywhere."

"I know where to start."

Micum led the way out to the Orëska stables.

Seregil was in a stall halfway down the mews, currying Micum's exhausted horse.

"You nearly spavined the poor beast," he said, not bothering to look up as they approached. His boots were soiled with barn muck; dust and horse hair clung to his clothing. A piece of sweat-soaked sacking swung from one shoulder as he worked down the animal's flank. A streak of mud down one wan cheek gave him a decidedly mournful look.

Micum slouched against the newel post at the end of the stall. "You acted like a fool back there, you know. I should think you'd want to set a better example for Alec."

Seregil gave him a sour glance across the horse's back, then went back to work.

Micum watched the motion of the curry comb for a moment. "You'll speak with Nysander before you leave?"

"Soon as I finish this."

"Looks like we won't have to toss him in the trough after all, eh?" Micum grinned at Alec. "And I was looking forward to it."

Seregil scrubbed at a patch of dry mud, sending up a cloud of dust. "You off to Watermead tomorrow?"

Micum heard the thinly veiled challenge the question often carried. "At first light. Kari will skin me if I stay away any longer. Why don't you two come out with me? The hunting should be good just now, and we could work on Alec's swordplay. Beka's a perfect match for him."

"I want to get settled at the Cockerel first," Seregil replied.

"Suit yourself. You're no use to anyone when you're like this."

Micum yawned again, then clasped hands with Seregil for a long moment, holding his friend's gaze until Seregil managed a tight, grudging smile.

Satisfied, Micum released him and clapped Alec on the shoulder. "I'll be asleep before you get upstairs, so it's farewell for now. Luck to you in the shadows."

"And to you," Alec called after him.

 

Upending a bucket, Alec sat down to watch Seregil finish with the horse. "He doesn't stay around long, does he?"

Seregil shrugged. "Micum? Sometimes. Not like he used to." Something in Seregil's voice warned Alec that this, too, was a subject not to be pursued.

"What's this Cockerel place we're going to?"

"Home, Alec. And home is where we're bound tonight." Seregil hung the curry comb on a nail.

"Give me a minute to square things with Nysander, then come say goodbye."

 

Thero answered Seregil's knock. Exchanging their usual terse nods, they strode back through the stacks of manuscripts to the workroom. Walking behind the assistant wizard, Seregil read tension in the set of Thero's shoulders and smiled to himself.

There had never been any specific basis for their strong mutual dislike, yet it had sprung up full-blown the first time they'd laid eyes on each other. Out of regard for Nysander's feelings, a grudging truce had developed between them. Nonetheless, they'd never been at ease in the other's presence, though either one would have eaten fire before they'd admit it aloud.

Seregil considered himself to be above such petty emotions as jealousy or envy; so what if Thero had taken his place at Nysander's side, filling it better, in some respects, than he ever had?

Seregil had no reason to doubt Nysander's personal regard for him, or the importance of their professional association. His continuing dislike of Thero, he'd long since concluded, must be on a purely instinctual level, and thus irreconcilable and probably justified.

"He's downstairs," Thero informed him, returning to his work at one of the tables.

Nysander was still sitting pensively by the fire.

Leaning against the door frame, Seregil cleared his throat. "I was an idiot just now."

Nysander waved his apology aside. "Come in, please, and sit with me. Do you know, I was just trying to think how long it has been since you spent so many nights under this roof."

"Too long, I'm afraid."

Nysander regarded him with a sad smile.

"Too long indeed, if you could imagine that I would keep anything from you out of distrust."

Seregil shifted unhappily in his chair. "I know. But don't expect me to just nod and smile about it."

"Actually, I think you are taking it all rather well. Do you still plan to leave tonight?"

"I need to get back to work, and Alec's feeling a bit lost. The sooner we get busy, the better we'll both feel."

"Mind you pace him in his training," Nysander cautioned. "I should not like to see either of you with your hands on the executioner's block."

Seregil regarded his old friend knowingly. "You like him."

"Certainly," Nysander replied. "He possesses a keen mind and a noble heart."

"Surprised?"

"Only that you would take on such a responsibility at all. You have been solitary for so long."

"It was nothing I planned, believe me. But as I get to know him better, well—I don't know. I guess I'm getting used to having him around."

Nysander studied his friend's face for a moment, then said gently, "He is very young, Seregil, and obviously has great respect and fondness for you. I trust you are aware of that?"

"My intentions toward Alec are perfectly honorable! You, of all people, ought to—"

"That is not what I was alluding to," Nysander replied calmly. "What I am saying is that you must consider more than his mere education. You should be a friend to him as well as a teacher. The time will come when the master must accept his pupil as an equal."

"That's the whole point, isn't it?"

"I am glad to hear you say so. But you must be honest with him, too." Nysander regarded him with sudden seriousness. "I know of at least one thing that he is not aware of. Why have you not told him of his true—?"

"I will!" Seregil whispered quickly, hearing Alec's step on the stairs. "I wasn't certain at first, and then things went to pieces. I just haven't found the right moment yet. He's had enough to contend with these last few weeks."

"Perhaps so, yet I confess I do not understand your reluctance. I wonder how he will react?"

"So do I," murmured Seregil. "So do I."

20

Homecoming

 

Tattered clouds were scudding across the face of the moon when Seregil and Alec set out for the Cockerel.

A bitter wind off the sea clattered through the trees along Golden Helm Street. The night lanterns grated on their hooks, making the shadows dance.

Intent on savoring his first night of freedom, Seregil had turned down Nysander's offer of horses, although he did concede to letting Alec carry the pack. As the wind whipped their hair and cloaks about, he was chilled but cheerful.

Rhíminee after dark. Beyond ornate walls and down shadowed alleys lay a thousand dangers, a thousand delights. Passing beneath a lantern, he saw a glimmer of familiar eagerness in Alec's eyes; perhaps, at last, he'd chosen well?

By the time they reached the Circle of Astellus, however, Seregil was forced to admit that his body had not recovered as fully as his spirit.

"I could do with a drink," he said, stepping into the shelter of the colonnade.

The lily-shaped capitals of the marble columns supported a carved pediment and dome.

Inside the colonnade, concentric circles of marble formed a series of steps leading down to the clear water welling up from a deep cleft in the rock below.

Kneeling, they pulled off their gloves and dipped up handfuls of sweet, icy water.

"You're shivering," Alec noted with concern. "We should've ridden."

"Walking's the best thing for me." Seregil sat back on the step and wrapped his cloak around him.

"Remember this night, Alec. Drink it in and commit it to memory! Your first night on the streets of Rhíminee!"

Settling beside him, Alec looked out at the wild beauty of the night and let out a happy sigh. "It feels like the beginning of something, all right, even though we've been here a week."

He paused, and Seregil saw that he was staring toward the Street of Lights. Across the circle, the dark outline of the archway and the colorful twinkle of lights beyond shone invitingly.

"I meant to ask you about something the other day," Alec said. "I'd forgotten about it until just now."

Seregil grinned at him in the darkness.

"Regarding what lies beyond that arch, I presume?

The Street of Lights, it's called. I guess you can see why."

Alec nodded. "A man told me the name the other day. Then he made some joke when I asked what the different colors mean."

"Said if you had to ask you were too young to know?"

"Something like that. What did he mean?"

"Beyond those walls, Alec, lie the finest brothels and gambling establishments in Skala."

"Oh." There was enough light for him to see the boy's eyes widen a little as he noted the number of riders and carriages passing under the arch.

"Oh, indeed."

"But why are the lights different colors? I can't make out any pattern."

"They aren't meant for decoration. The color of the lanterns at each gate indicates the sort of pleasures the house purveys. A man wanting a woman would look for a house with a rose-colored light. If it's male company he craves, then he'd choose one showing the green lamp. It's the same for women: amber for male companionship, white for female."

"Really?" Alec stood up and walked to the far side of the fountain for a better view. When he turned back to Seregil he looked rather perplexed. "There are almost as many of the green and white ones as there are the others."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's just that—"
Alec faltered. "I mean, I've heard of such things, but I didn't think they could be so-so common. Things are a lot different here than in the north."

"Not so much as you might think," Seregil replied, heading off again in the direction of the Street of the Sheaf. "Your Dalnan priests frown on such couplings, I understand, claiming they're unproductive—"

Alec shrugged uncomfortably, falling into step beside him. "They would be that."

"That depends on what one intends to produce," Seregil remarked with a cryptic smile. "Illior instructs us to take advantage of any situation; I've always found that to be a most productive philosophy."

When Alec still looked dubious, Seregil clapped him on the shoulder in mock exasperation. "By the Four, haven't you heard the saying, "never spurn the dish untasted"? And here you haven't even had a smell of the kitchen yet! We've got to get you back there, and soon."

Alec didn't reply, but Seregil noticed him glance back over his shoulder several times before they were out of sight of the lights.

 

Though they kept their hoods drawn, the occasional glimpses Alec got of his companion's face showed that Seregil was delighted to be back in his own element.

At the Harvest Market. Seregil ducked briefly into a potter's shop. A moment later he was out again without explanation, leading the way into a neighborhood of modest shops and taverns crowded together along the e.dge of the square. Turning several corners in quick succession, they came out on a small lane marked with a fish painted some dark color.

"There it is," Seregil whispered, pointing to a large inn across the way. "We move quietly from here."

A low wall enclosed the inn's small yard and Alec saw that bronze statues of the inn's namesake, a cockerel, were set on either side of the front gate, each clutching a glowing lantern in one upraised claw.

The Cockerel was a prosperous, well-kept establishment, square built of stone and wood, and three stories high. The small windows on the upper levels were shuttered, but the two large windows overlooking the front court let out a welcoming flood of light through their leaded bull's-eye panes.

"Looks like a busy night," Seregil noted quietly, keeping to the shadows as he led the way into the stable that ran along the left wall of the courtyard.

A young man with a disheveled mop of coarse red hair looked up from the harness he was mending as they came in. Smiling, he raised a hand in greeting.

Seregil returned the gesture and continued on between the stalls.

"Who is that?" Alec asked, puzzled by the man's silence.

"That's Rhiri. He's deaf, mute, and absolutely loyal. Best servant I ever found." Stopping at a back stall, Seregil paused to inspect a rough-coated bay with a white snip.

"Hello, Scrub!" he said, patting the animal's shaggy flank. The horse nickered, craning his neck around to nuzzle at Seregil's chest.

"Where is it?" Seregil teased, throwing his cloak open.

Scrub sniffed at the pouches at his belt and butted at one on the right. Seregil produced the prize, an apple, and the horse munched contentedly, occasionally rubbing his head against his master's shoulder.

A restless shuffling of hooves came from the next stall.

"I haven't forgotten you, Cynril," Seregil said, pulling another apple from the pouch as he stepped around. A large black mare tossed her head and pinned him against the side of the stall as he entered.

"Get over, you nag!" Seregil wheezed, whacking her on the haunch to shift her. "She's half Aurënfaie, but her disposition certainly doesn't give it away." Despite this, he rubbed the horse's head and nose with obvious affection.

At the back of the stable, a wide door let out into a larger yard behind the inn. A smaller wing at the back of the building housed the kitchen; bright light from an open doorway shone across the paving flags, and with it came the inviting smells and dm of a busy kitchen. To the left of this door was a second, much broader one where casks and barrels of provender were delivered, the remainder of the ground level, and the stories above, were windowless. A lean-to sheltered a well and a wood stack at the angle of the building. The courtyard walls were much higher here, and the broad gateway was stoutly barred for the night.

Slipping inside, Seregil pointed across the crowded kitchen to a stooped old woman leaning on a stick in front of the enormous hearth.

"There's Thryis. She runs the place," he said, putting his mouth close to Alec's ear.

Thryis' heavy face was deeply seamed with age and her braid was the color of iron. In spite of the heat, she wore a thick embroidered shawl over her woolen gown. The briskness of her voice belied her gnarled appearance, however. Rapping out orders over the hectic clatter from the scullery, she kept servers, cooks, and kitchen maids scurrying about under her shrill direction.

She seemed strangely familiar to Alec; after a moment's puzzled thought he realized that she must have been the model for the disguise Seregil had assumed when he booked their passage in Boersby.

"How many leeks did you put into the stew, Cilia?" she was demanding of a buxom young woman stirring a pot. "It smells weak to me. It's not too late to add another. And a pinch more salt.

"Kyour, you lazy pup, get that platter out there! Those draymen will box your ears for you if you make them wait any longer for their supper, and so will I! Has the wine gone out to the merchants in the side room?

"Cilia, has it?"

Everyone in the kitchen seemed accustomed to their mistress' sharp tongue and bustled about their duties with an air of busy contentment. Cilia, the apparent second in command, moved serenely among the servants, pausing occasionally to look into a cradle near the hearth.

Motioning for Alec to follow, Seregil made his way around the long tables without either of the busy women noticing his approach. Coming up behind Thryis, he surprised her with a quick peck on the cheek.

"By the Flame," she exclaimed, pressing her free hand to her cheek. "So here you are at last!"

"It's only been half a year," Seregil replied, smiling down on her.

"If only you'd sent word I'd have had something special for you! All we have tonight is red fire beef and lamb stew. The bread is fresh, though, and Cilia's made mince tarts. Cilia, fetch a plate of tarts for him to start with while I put together something."

"There's no need for that just yet. Both of you come into the lading room for a moment."

Catching sight of Alec, Thryis paused and looked him over with a sharp eye. "Who's this?"

"I'll explain in a moment." Taking a small lamp from the mantel, Seregil led Alec and the two women through a side door into the lading room. The broad door Alec had seen from the outside stood barred at their left. To the right, a wooden stairway led to the second floor.

"Thryis, Cilia, this is Alec," Seregil told them when he'd closed the kitchen door.

"He'll be living upstairs now."

"Welcome to the Cockerel, Lord Alec,"

Cilia greeted him with a warm smile.

"It's just Alec," he said quickly, liking her kind face at once.

"Is that so?" Thryis said, giving him a decidedly sharp look, though Alec couldn't imagine why she should be suspicious of him.

"Alec's a friend," Seregil told her. "Everyone here will accord him the same respect that they do me, which in your case is little enough. He'll come and go as he pleases and you'll answer no questions about him to anyone. Inform Diomis and the others."

"Just as you wish, sir." Thryis gave Alec a final dubious glance. "Your rooms are just as you left them. Shall I send up wine?"

"Yes, and some cold supper." Turning back to Cilia, Seregil wrapped an arm about her waist, making her blush. "I see you've regained your maidenly shape. How's the baby?"

"Young Luthas is well. He's a sweet one, no trouble at all."

"And the business?"

Thryis pulled a long face. "A bit slack. But Festival time isn't far off. I'll have an accounting ready for you in the morning."

"Don't trouble yourself." Seregil turned to head up the stairs, then paused. "Is Ruetha around?"

"That animal!" Thryis rolled her eyes.

"Disappeared soon as you left, same as always. I even put out cream for her this time, but the ungrateful wretch never showed so much as a whisker. Now that you're back, she'll probably be in by breakfast like always."

"Thryis never changes," Seregil said with a hint of fondness, leading Alec up the back stairs.

"Whether I've been gone for two days or six months, she always tells me I should have let her know I was coming, which I never do; apologizes for the menu, which is never necessary; promises an accounting, which I never look at; and then complains about my cat."

At the second floor, the stairs turned sharply and continued up to what appeared to be an attic. A short, dimly lit corridor, broken only by a few closed doors, ran in the direction of the main building.

"That door at the end opens into the main inn." Seregil pointed down the hall. "It's kept locked at all times. This door closest to us is a storeroom, the next are the rooms of Diomis and the women. Diomis is Thryis' son and Cilia is his daughter."

"What about Cilia's husband?" Alec asked.

"No woman ever needed a husband to have a baby. There was talk of conscription last year, and Cilia simply made certain she wouldn't be eligible. She even offered me the honor, which I politely declined. Sometime later she turned up with a big belly. Thryis was a sergeant in her younger days, and none too pleased with her granddaughter, but the damage was already done, so to speak. Now come this way and pay close attention. I have a few things to show you."

The attic stairway was steep. Holding up the small lamp, Seregil went halfway up and pointed to the bare plastered wall on the left.

"Listen and watch the wall," he said softly. "Etuis miära koriatüan cyris."

For a brief second, Alec caught the soft glow of magical symbols like those he'd seen at the Orëska House. They were gone too quickly for him to see them clearly or be certain of how many there had been, but as they vanished a narrow section of the wall swung back like a door. Seregil motioned him through, then closed the door firmly after and continued up a precariously steep set of steps ending at a blank wall. At the top of the stairs Seregil stopped and said, "Clarin, magril, nodense."

Another door appeared and Alec felt air moving against his face as they stepped into a cold, dusty room.

"Almost there," Seregil whispered. "Watch your step."

Picking their way among the crates and boxes jumbled around the floor, they reached the far wall.

"Here we are. Bôkthersa!"

A third door opened in the seemingly blank wall, revealing another dark room beyond.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Seregil said, ushering him through with a crooked grin.

Stepping in, Alec barked his shin against a stone basilisk beside the door. Reaching out to steady himself, he felt thick wall hangings beneath his hand. He could make out little in the darkness, but this place smelled of things more exotic than dust.

"Better stay put until I get some more light," Seregil advised. The little lamp bobbed this way and that as he crossed the room, revealing tantalizing glimpses of polished wood and patterned carpet. Suddenly it jogged to one side and Alec heard the sound of something heavy falling over, immediately followed by a muffled curse. The light bobbed precariously, then came to rest on a cluttered mantelpiece where its light was reflected in a hundred hues by a pile of jewels spilling from a half-open box that stood there.

Rummaging around for a moment, Seregil found a jar of fire stones and shook one out onto the wood laid ready on the hearth. Flames crackled up at once and he went around the room lighting candles and lamps.

Alec stepped forward with a soft exclamation of wonder as the room brightened. The place glowed with the rich colors of tapestries and easily rivaled Nysander's workroom in the variety and disorder of its contents. Slowly turning about, he tried to take it all in.

Shelves packed with books and racks of scrolls covered half the wall opposite the door. More books were stacked on the dining table that stood in the center of the room, and still more on the mantel. An immense carpet woven in patterns of red, blue, and gold lay between the central table and the hearth. Rush matting covered the rest of the floor.

Spaced along the wall to his right were two small windows facing out over the back court; a small writing desk stood under the right-hand one, the pigeon holes in its low back holding a neat collection of pens, inks, drawing quills, rolls of vellum and parchment, and wax tablets. The desk, along with most of the other furniture in the room, was made of a pale wood inlaid with darker bands along the edges.

The design, pleasing in its simplicity, was noticeably different from the ornate furnishings of the Orëska.

A long, scarred table beneath the second window was littered with locks, tools, stacks of books, what appeared to be a small forge, and dozens of half-assembled things that defied immediate description.

Shelves holding a bewildering assortment of objects framed the window and filled the remaining wall. More locks, more tools, rough chunks of metal and wood, and a number of devices whose uses Alec could not guess were mixed indiscriminately among masks, carvings, musical instruments of all descriptions, animal skulls, dried plants, fine pottery, glittering crystals-there was no rhyme or reason apparent in the arrangement.

A broad collar of gold and rubies caught the light from the lamp on the desk, sending ruddy spangles of light across a large lump of baked mud that might have been either a crude bowl or some sort of nest.

On the section of wall that jutted into the room to the left of the entrance hung a collection of weapons, mostly swords and knives, apparently chosen for their unusual design and ornamentation. Beyond it, near the corner, was another door. Trunks and chests stood everywhere-along the base of walls, stacked in corners, under tables. Statues peered out from odd corners some lovely, some grotesque.

Eclectic to the point of eccentricity, the overall effect of the room was nevertheless one of warmth and cluttered, haphazard grace.

"This is like the Orëska House museum!" Alec exclaimed, shaking his head. "Where did you ever get all this?"

"Stole some of it." Seregil settled on the couch in front of the fire. "That statue by the front door came from an ancient temple Micum and I unearthed for Nysander, up in the eastern foothills of the Asheks. That one there by the bedroom door was the gift of an admirer." He pointed out a beautifully rendered mermaid of marble and green jade. The sea maiden rose from the crest of a wave that partially covered her scaled lower body, one hand across her breast, the other sweeping her heavy hair back from her face.

"The red tapestry there between the bookcases I found among the possessions of a Zengati bandit I killed after he ambushed me," Seregil continued, looking around.

"Those locks over the table? You'll get to know those well enough before I'm done with you. As for the rest—"
He gave a rather rueful smile. "Well, I'm a bit of a magpie. I just can't resist anything unusual or shiny. Most of it's trash, really. I keep meaning to chuck most of it out. The only thing of true value is one you can take away with you in a hurry."

"At least there aren't any crawling hands." Alec glanced over at the shelves again. "Are there?"

"I'm no more fond of that sort of thing than you are, believe me."

Still gazing around, it occurred to Alec that something was wrong with the room.

"The windows!" He leaned over the desk to look out.

"I didn't see any windows from outside."

"Nysander did an obscuration on them, like with the scar on my chest," explained Seregil. "The windows are undetectable from the outside, unless you happened to climb out through one. And even then it would look like you were coming out the side of the building."

"There must be a lot of magic in the city."

"Not really. It doesn't come cheap, and the Orëska wizards won't hire out to just anyone. But you do run into it now and then, so it's always wise to be careful."

The room was beginning to warm up now. Dropping his cloak over the mermaid's upraised arm, Seregil picked up a small silver lamp and opened the room's other door. "Come in here, there's something else I need to show you."

The room was a bedchamber, though its dimensions were hard to guess, crammed as it was with wardrobes, chests, crates, and still more books. An ornate bed hung with gold and green velvet stood against the wall in the far corner.

"That's yours?" Alec asked, never having seen the like.

"Won it in a dice game." Wending his way across the room, Seregil looked around for a place to set the lamp, finally balanced it on a pile of books crowding the back of the washstand.

"That's the garderobe there, by the way." He indicated a narrow door barely visible between a wardrobe and a stack of boxes, watching with amusement as Alec explored the wonder of an indoor privy. "Mind you don't drop anything down the hole; if it goes through the grate, it's straight down to the sewers below. Here, this is what I wanted to show you."

Climbing across the enormous bed, Seregil hauled up the velvet curtain and guided Alec's hand between the mattress and the wall. A small knob was hidden in the woodwork of the paneling. Alec pressed it and heard a faint click; the section of paneling in front of them swung back, letting in a puff of cold air from the darkness beyond.

"This is the back door, in case you ever need it."

Seregil climbed through the opening into another attic storeroom. "You have to know the command word to get into the bedroom from this side. It's nordsthu carifventua."

"I'll never remember all that!" Alec groaned, following.

"Oh, you'll learn," Seregil assured him, going to a door in the left wall, "or you'll spend the rest of your life sleeping in the kitchen. Damn, I've forgotten the key."

Producing a pick, he threw the lock and stepped out onto an attic landing. A wooden tray lay on a crate at the top of the stairs; on it were two bottles of wine, a plate of tarts, cheese, bread, and an enormous, long-haired cat. At their approach the cat left off gnawing at the cheese and padded over to Seregil with a loud trill.

Purring raucously, she wound about his ankles, then rose on her hind feet to thrust her head against his hand.

"So there you are!" Seregil grinned, scooping the cat up. "Alec, meet Ruetha. Ruetha, this is Alec. Don't eat him in the night, he's a friend."

Dumping the heavy creature unceremoniously into Alec's arms, Seregil picked up the tray and headed back the way they'd come. Still purring, Ruetha regarded Alec with lazy green eyes. She was a handsome creature. Her silky coat was striped with black and brown except for a white ruff and feet. One ear was deeply notched; otherwise she was immaculate.

Back in the sitting room Seregil rummaged a moment in his pack, then retrieved his cloak from the mermaid and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Alec asked in surprise.

"There's a little matter I need to look into tonight. Make yourself at home. Here's the key to the attic door. You don't know the command words yet, so if you need to leave just use the back way. Don't go out unless you absolutely have to, though. You won't be able to get back in without me. Don't even try. You could get badly hurt. I'll probably be gone most of the night, so don't wait up. Oh, damn!"

Seregil paused, frowning. "I forgot to have them send up a bed for you. Use mine for tonight, and we'll figure out something tomorrow. Good night!"

Alec stared at the door for a moment, stunned by Seregil's abrupt and unexpected departure. For weeks they'd seldom been out of each other's sight, and now this! Left so unceremoniously by himself in unfamiliar surrounding, he felt abandoned.

He wandered aimlessly through the rooms for a while, trying to interest himself in the various oddments scattered about. This pastime only made him feel more like an interloper, however. Under different circumstances, he might have gone down to the bustling warmth of the kitchen again, but Seregil's warning about the glyphs ruled out that slight solace. The thought of lying alone in Seregil's ornate bed was equally intimidating.

The same unsettled loneliness he'd experienced at the Orëska House came flooding back all at once. Blowing out the lamps and candles, he settled morosely on the couch by the hearth. With Ruetha purring contentedly on his lap, he stared into the flames and wondered yet again what he was supposed to do with himself in this incomprehensible place.

 

Riding through the darkened streets, Seregil was glad he'd resisted the urge to take Scrub on the trip north. He'd gone through half a dozen mounts during his travels and it would have pained him to have lost so good an animal. Scrub's gait matched his nature: solid, dependable, and easy to get along with.

And of course, thinking about Scrub was far more comfortable than acknowledging the growing gnaw of guilt in his belly. Not only over what he was about to do in the way of disobeying Nysander, either. It took several minutes of determined riding before he was ready to face the fact that seeing Alec standing there in his own private sanctuary, he'd suddenly panicked.

And fled.

It had nothing to do with Alec himself, of course. But it still wasn't a very pleasant feeling. Better to ignore it, he decided.

He made a quick circuit of several places where word might be left for the "Rhíminee Cat" that the services of a thief were required.

The first was the Black Feather, a brothel owned by an old sailor who liked gold well enough not to ask questions. A carving of a ship stood on the mantel in the front room of his establishment; if the proprietor was holding a message for the Cat, the prow would be turned to the left. Rhiri usually collected the sealed missives, but Seregil often made the rounds to see if any signals were showing.

As he approached, a group of drunken men came boiling out roaring heartfelt farewells to their weary paramours. Through the open doorway Seregil saw that the little vessel on the mantel faced to the right. Other signals at a Heron Street tavern and a respectable inn near the Queen's Park were equally disappointing.

The wind gusted down the street, whipping his hood back to comb icy fingers through his hair.

No use putting it off any longer, he thought. Nudging Scrub into an unhurried amble, he headed for the Temple Precinct.

Planning for the long term had never been one of his strengths and he knew it. Certainly he had a talent for gathering facts and implementing tactics; it was his bread and butter, after all. But living by inspiration, seizing the moment for good or bad as it came-that had always been his way in the end.

And what had it brought him this time?

The mysterious mark on his chest. And Alec.

Another twinge of guilt. Nysander's parting words had not been lost on him. What had possessed him to take on the boy? Alec was talented, gifted even, a delight to teach. But he'd found that out after the fact, hadn't he? The orphaned boy's need? His vulnerability? His innate skill?

His pretty face?

Straying again too near truths he didn't particularly wish to deal with, Seregil put an end to that line of thought as effortlessly as another man might snuff out a candle.

That left the scar. In the cool light of reason he didn't doubt Nysander's justification in not telling him more, although that did precious little to assuage his frustration. He'd regretted each bitter word as he'd spoken it; worse yet, the effort had been fruitless.

Oh well, there's always more than one way to pick a lock. He fingered the little roll of parchment he'd smuggled out of the Orëska House in his pack.

At the precinct, he made his way on foot between the minor temples and shrines that surrounded the heart of the district. Passing the healing grove of Dalna's temple, he came out into the huge central square. The city was quiet at this hour; chimes rang softly in the breeze somewhere in the Dalnan grove and a dove called mournfully. From across the square came the soft tinkle of water from the Astellus Temple. In the distance to his left, broad bars of firelight were visible between the black columns of the Temple of Sakor.

The paving stones of the square formed patterns of squares within squares that in turn formed a greater pattern symbolizing the eternal unity and balance of the Sacred Four. Never mind that gangs of young initiates from the various temples frequently punctuated their religious disputes with burst knuckles and cracked heads. Never mind that priests occasionally lined their own purses with gold from temple treasuries, or that the small temples of the lesser deities and foreign mystery cults had been multiplying around the edges of the precinct and around the city over the past few decades. The sacred square with its four temples still formed the heart of every Skalan city and town; even the humblest villages allotted a small square of ground to four simple shrines. Reverence for the Four, in all their complex unity, had for centuries given Skala internal harmony and power.

Crossing to Illior's white domed temple, Seregil strode up the broad stairs. In the portico he paused to remove his boots. Even at this late hour, a dozen other pairs were arranged neatly along the wall.

A girl stifled a yawn in the sleeve of her flowing white robe as she handed him a silver temple mask. Out of habit, he accepted it in such a way that her hand turned palm upward. The circular dragon emblem tattooed there was still only the black outline of the novice. Twelve colors, as well as lines of silver and gold, would be added to that design, marking each of the tests she would have to pass over the coming years in her quest for priesthood. Carry the Light," she said, fighting back another yawn.

"There is no darkness," Seregil returned.

Fastening on the mask, he walked into the Circle of Contemplation.

Alabaster pillars ringed the room, and between them braziers sent up the sweet, narcotic smoke of dreaming herbs. Only small amounts were burned here-just enough to free the mind for meditation.

Anyone desiring prophetic dreams or spirit journeys spent several days in fasting and purification before entering the small chambers beyond the pillars. Seregil occasionally employed such methods, but recent experience had left him leery of dreams of any sort. In fact, he couldn't recall dreaming at all since waking in the Orëska House.

Other suppliants sat cross-legged on the black marble floor of the central court, anonymous behind the serene silver masks. Others lay on their backs, meditating on the various symbols painted on the dome overhead: the Mage, the Fertile Queen, the Dragon, the Cloud Eye, the Moon Bow.

Leaning over the nearest brazier, Seregil bathed his face in the smoke, then seated himself to wait for an acolyte to notice him. The floor was polished to mirror smoothness and, looking down, his gaze came to rest on the reflected image of the Cloud Eye- magic, secrets, hidden forces, roads to madness. Accepting the symbol, he meditated on it through half-lidded eyes.

Instead of the expected flow of thought, however, he suddenly experienced a dizzying sense of vertigo. The smooth black floor turned to bottomless void beneath him. The illusion was so strong that he pressed his palms to the floor on either side of him and focused on the nearest pillar to clear his head. Soft footsteps approached from behind.

"What do you seek in Illior?" the masked figure asked. His palm, exposed in greeting, showed the green, yellow, and blue detailing of a Third Chamber initiate.

"To make a thank offering," Seregil replied, rising to present a heavy purse. "And to seek knowledge in the Golden Chamber."

The acolyte accepted the purse and led him out through the pillars to an audience room at the back of the temple. With a ritual gesture, he bade Seregil be seated on the small bench in the center of the room, then withdrew.

A carved chair stood on a raised dais at the front of the room. Behind the dais an exquisite tapestry hung suspended between two great pillars, the Columns of Enlightenment and Madness. Worked in the twelve ritual colors, it depicted the Fertile Queen driving her chariot through the clouds of a night sky.

Presently a corner of the tapestry was pulled back and a robed figure stepped into the room.

Despite the golden mask covering her features, Seregil recognized the mass of grey hair tumbling over the thin shoulders; this was Orphyria a Malani, oldest of the high priests and maternal great-aunt to Queen Idrilain.

Regarding him impassively through her mask, the priestess sat down and raised one frail hand to display the completed emblem on her palm.

"Lend me your light, Blessed One," Seregil said, bowing his head.

"What would you ask of me, Seeker?"

"Knowledge pertaining to this." Drawing the little parchment roll from his pouch, he passed it to her.

On it he'd drawn, to the best of his ability, the symbol from the wooden disk. It was not complete, he knew; from the first time he'd seen the thing it had been impossible to reproduce or even memorize. But perhaps it would be enough.

Orphyria unrolled it on her knee, gazed at it briefly, then handed it back. "A sigla, obviously, but what it obscures I cannot tell.

Can you tell me something of it?"

"That's not possible," Seregil replied. He had stretched his oath to Nysander far enough for now.

"Then perhaps the Oracle?"

"Thank you, Blessed One." Rising from the bench, he bowed deeply and headed back to the central chamber of the temple.

 

Orphyria did not rise until the Seeker had gone. It became more of an effort each day, it seemed. Soon she would have to swallow her pride and allow some young acolyte to assist her. Reflecting sourly on the price of a wise old age, she stumbled as she pulled back the tapestry and barked her knee painfully against the Pillar of Madness.

Seregil had always suspected that the stairs leading down to Illioran Oracle's chamber had been designed to test the fortitude of the Seekers who had to descend it. Wedge-shaped steps scarcely wide enough to accommodate a man's foot spiraled tightly down into blackness below. The steps nearest the top were made of marble, but these soon gave way to speckled granite as the shaft descended into the bedrock beneath the city.

Grasping a ritual lightstone in one hand, Seregil pressed the other firmly against the curved wall of the stairwell as he made his way down in reverent silence. At the bottom a narrow corridor led off into darkness. No light burned there, and it was required that the Seeker leave the lightstone in the basket at the base of the stairs before proceeding. Before he relinquished it, however, Seregil sat down on the bottom step to arrange the necessary items for the Oracle.

Custom dictated that items for divination by the Illioran Oracle must be presented as part of a collection. The Oracle would separate the item of import without being told which it was.

Fishing through various pockets and pouches, Seregil found a harp peg, a bit of Alec's fletching, a ball of waxed twine, a bent pick he'd meant to leave on the worktable, and a small amulet. That should be enough of a challenge, he decided.

Flattening the little scroll on his knee, he scrutinized it again with another twinge of guilt.

Working surreptitiously with ink and mirror, he'd made this copy of the strange design on his chest before Nysander placed the obscuration spell on it. He knew it was not exactly right, but it would have to do.

Nysander's magic had left his skin unblemished to eye or touch.

With his collection in hand, he dropped the lightstone into the basket beside him and continued on down the chilly corridor.

Of all the many forms of darkness, that found underground—with no faint ray of star or distant lamp to relieve it—had always seemed to him the most complete. The blackness seemed to flow around him in tangible waves. His eyes instinctively strained for sight, aching and creating dancing sparks of false light.

Underfoot, a woolen runner deadened the whisper of his cold, bare feet. The sound of his own breathing inside the mask was loud in his ears.

At last, a pale glow appeared ahead of him and he walked forward into the low chamber of the Oracle.

The light came from large lightstones, which gave off no crackle or hiss. Only the voice of the seer would break the profound silence here.

Crouched on a pallet, legs drawn up beneath his stained robe, the Oracle stared blankly before him.

He was a young man, husky, bearded, and quite insane, but blessed with that special strain of madness that brings bursts of insight and prophecy.

Nearby, two robed attendants sat on benches against the wall, their featureless silver masks framed by the white cowls drawn over their heads.

At Seregil's approach, the Oracle rose to his knees and began to sway from side to side, a peculiar gleam coming into his muddy eyes.

"Approach, Seeker," he commanded in a high, hoarse voice.

Kneeling before him, Seregil cast his handful of objects on the floor. The Oracle bent eagerly, muttering to himself as he sorted through them.

After a moment he tossed the pick away with a contemptuous grunt. The amulet was served in the same manner, and then the twine. Taking up the peg, he held it to his ear as if listening, then hummed a few bars of a song Seregil had composed as a child and long since forgotten. Smiling to himself, the Oracle tucked this under the edge of his pallet.

Finally he picked up the parchment scrap and the fletching, holding them in each hand as if to weigh one against the other. Twirling the bit of feather between thumb and forefinger, he stared at it closely and then handed it back, folding Seregil's fingers tightly around it with his own.

"A child of earth and light," the Oracle whispered. "Earth and light!"

"Whose child?"

The seer's mouth broadened into a sly grin. "Yours now!" he replied, tapping Seregil sharply on the chest with his finger. "Father, brother, friend, and lover!

Father, brother, friend, and lover!"

The mad rhyme rang off the walls as the Oracle rocked with childish delight, chanting it over and over to himself. Then, as quickly as he had started he ceased, and his broad face grew still again. Holding the parchment between his palms, he stiffened like an epileptic. The silence closed around them, holding unbroken for a matter of minutes.

"Death." It was hardly a whisper, but the Oracle repeated it, more loudly this time. There was no mistaking it. "Death! Death, and life in death. The eater of death gives birth to monsters. Guard you well the Guardian! Guard well the Vanguard and the Shaft!"

Eyes momentarily sane, the Oracle handed it back to Seregil. "Burn this and make no more," he warned darkly, crushing it against Seregil's palm. "Obey Nysander!"

The mystical intelligence drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving the Oracle as blank as an idiot child. Creeping back to his pallet, he retrieved the harp peg from under the blanket. The sound of his contented humming followed Seregil far down the dark corridor.

 

As he rode back to the Cockerel, Seregil wondered dourly if he was any further ahead than before. The Oracle's mention of Alec had taken him aback, although the messages seemed clear enough, particularly the reference to earth and light. As for the little rhyme, "father" and "brother" must have been meant figuratively, for such a blood relationship was clearly impossible. But "friend," certainly.

That left lover. Seregil shifted irritably in the saddle; evidently oracles were not infallible.

Shrugging the matter off, he turned his thoughts to the troubling gibberish elicited by the drawing. How was he to heed what was so obviously a warning unless he knew what the "eater of death" was, much less guard who or whatever the Guardian, Shaft, and Vanguard were?

Under normal circumstances, Nysander would be his first recourse for advice, but that was out of the question now. Cursing in frustration, he let himself in through the kitchen at the Cockerel and went upstairs.

One lamp still burned on the mantel, but the fire had gone out. The room was frigid.

"Damn, damn, damn!" he muttered, crossing to the hearth to lay on more wood. As the flames sprang up, he discovered Alec asleep on the narrow couch behind him.

He lay curled up in a tight ball, one arm bent beneath his head, the other hanging down to the floor and pale with cold. Ruetha had tucked herself up against his belly, tail folded around her nose.

What's he doing out here?

Seregil frowned down at the two of them, irked to think that Alec would be too bashful to take advantage of a proper bed. As he bent to spread his cloak over the boy, he was surprised to see the traces of dried tears on Alec's cheek.

Something to do with his father? he wondered, mystified and somewhat distressed at the thought of Alec crying.

Retiring to his own chamber, he undressed in the dark and slipped gratefully between the fresh sheets.

But sleep didn't come with its usual ease. Lying there in the darkness, Seregil rubbed absently at the hidden scar and reflected that, on the whole, his life seemed to be in greater disarray than usual.

 

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