7
AN INFORMATIVE EVENING

The Wheel Street house was already full of music by the time they returned. Alec handed his dark cloak to a servant at the entrance and followed Seregil into the hall.

A number of guests were already enjoying the wine and food. Each had been presented with a brightly ribboned lightwand upon arrival and these provided a cool, shifting light as people danced or strolled about the room.

A flurry of applause greeted them as Runcer gravely announced their arrival from his station by the door.

“Welcome to my home on this dark, cold night!” Seregil called out. “For those of you who’ve not yet met my companion, allow me to present Sir Alec í Gareth of Ivywell.”

Alec made a graceful bow and quickly scanned the room for familiar faces. Kylith’s party was there, but there was no sign yet of Nysander or the Cavishes. In a far corner, however, he spotted a knot of officers in the green and white of the Queen’s Horse Guard. Klia’s friend and fellow officer, Captain Myrhini, saluted him with her lightwand from their midst and Alec waved back, wondering if Beka was with her.

He was just heading over to find out when Seregil slipped a hand under his arm and steered him off toward a group of nobles.

“Time to play the gracious hosts.”

Together, they made a circuit of the room, moving smoothly from one conversation to another, most of which centered around the omens at the ceremony.

“1 thought they rather overdid the thing this year,” sniffed a young nobleman introduced as Lord Melwhit. “What doubt is there that war is coming? Preparations have been going on since summer.”

A grave, blond woman turned from a conversation with Admiral Nyreidian and greeted Seregil in Aurënfaie.

“Ysanti maril Elustri, Melessandra ä Marana,” Seregil returned warmly. “Allow me to present Sir Alec. Lady Melessandra and her uncle, Lord Torsin, are the Skalan envoys to Aurënen.”

“Ysanti bëk kir, my lady,” Alec said with a bow.

“Ysanti maril Elustri, Sir Alec,” she returned. “Lord Seregil is instructing you in his native language, I see. There are so few nowadays who speak it well.”

“And fewer still who speak it so well as you, dear lady,” added Seregil.

“It’s a pretty language, if one can manage it,” Nyreidian rumbled. “I wouldn’t dare attempt it in front of you, Lord Seregil. I’m told my pronunciation is grotesque.”

“It is!” Melessandra agreed, laughing. “Forgive our interruption, Lord Seregil, but we were just debating whether the portents at the temple tonight were genuine. Would you care to venture the Aurënfaie view?”

Alec watched with interest as Seregil struck a thoughtful pose.

“Well, to question the omens’ veracity would be tantamount to casting doubt on the Oracle itself, wouldn’t you say?”

She gave the admiral a pointed look. “Many would not hesitate to do so.”

Seregil tactfully changed the subject. “I understand your uncle accompanied the remains of Corruth í Glamien back to Virésse?”

“Yes, and allow me to offer my sympathies’ for the loss of your kinsman,” said Melessandra. “It must have been a terrible shock in the midst of your own difficulties.”

“Thank you. The reports given by the Queen’s agents who found him were chilling, to say the least. Yet some good may come of it. Have you heard what the council’s reaction was in Aurënen?”

Melessandra rolled her eyes. “Complete uproar. You know the old guard still contends that Skala is accountable for the actions of the Lerans. Yet there are those among the younger members who argue more and more for an end to isolationism. Adzriel ä Illia is one of the chief proponents for reconciliation.”

“Illia?” asked Alec, pricking up his ears at the familiar name.

“Certainly,” Seregil said, giving him a level look that warned discreetly against questions. “What else would it be? Unless you’re confusing her with Adzriel ä Olien again?”

“Oh—yes. I suppose I must be,” Alec managed, wondering what blunder he’d committed this time.

“Family names are so much simpler in Mycena,” Seregil went on lightly. “Poor Alec is still struggling with all our lengthy patronymics and matronymics and lineages.”

Melessandra appeared sympathetic. “It must be overwhelming if you’re not born to it. But there’s Lord Geron and I must speak with him at once. Erísmai.”

She gave Alec a last, rather puzzled look, then strolled away accompanied by Nyreidian and the others.

“I said something wrong, didn’t I?” Alec whispered hurriedly, before some other guest descended on them.

“My fault,” Seregil replied with a slight smile. “If I’d been here this last week I’d have thought to prepare you better. Illia was my mother’s name. My eldest sister, Adzriel ä Illia, was recently made a member of the Iia’sidra.”

“Sister?”

Never, in all the time Alec had known him, had Seregil mentioned his family, or almost anything else about his past in Aurënen. Alec had come to assume that his friend was as much an orphan as himself.

“And eldest! How many do you have?”

“Four, actually. I was the only boy, and the youngest,” Seregil replied somewhat tersely.

“Little brother Seregil?” Alec smothered a grin as his entire perception of his friend subtly shifted. He could sense the old barriers going up again, however, and prudently changed the subject. “It sounds like the Skalans want Aurënen as allies again, like they were in the Great War.”

“They do, but bad blood over Corruth will get in the way. Our recent discovery may make things worse rather than better, at least for now.”

“But it’s been almost three hundred years since Corruth disappeared.”

“Remember who we’re talking about, Alec. Many of the most powerful people on the Iia’sidra were his friends and contemporaries. They haven’t forgotten the reception he received from the Skalans when he married their queen, or his suspicious disappearance after her death. If Lera hadn’t had the poor sense to leave her half sister Corruthesthera alive, there might have been war between the two nations then. As for a new alliance, I’m afraid that may depend more on the Plenimarans in the end. If they join with Zengat—”

“Oh, Lord Seregil! There you are!”

A gaggle of young nobles crowded noisily around them, wreathed in expectant grins.

“We thought you’d never come home,” chided a young woman, wrapping her arm through Seregil’s. “You missed my autumn revel this year, you know.”

Seregil pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “As I stood on a rolling deck under a full red moon that night, my thoughts were all of you. Can you forgive me?”

“It was a crescent moon; I recall it perfectly. But I’ll grant you a conditional pardon if you’ll introduce me to your new friend,” she fluttered, looking boldly across at Alec, who’d been crowded to the edge of the circle.

Alec smiled his way through an onslaught of complex introductions, noting as he did so that his polite greetings were not always returned with the same grace. A number of them, in fact, were decidedly cool.

Seregil hesitated as he came to a handsome, auburn-haired dandy surrounded by an entourage of admirers. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”

The man gave an elaborate bow. “Pelion í Eirsin Heileus Quirion of Rhíminee, dear sir.”

“Not the acclaimed actor, who just played ‘Ertis’ at the Tirarie?” gasped Seregil.

The man puffed visibly. “The same, my lord. I pray you’ll forgive my intrusion, but my companions insisted.”

“On the contrary, I’m delighted! I hope you’ll let me know when you next perform. By all reports, you’re the next Kroseus.”

“I’ve been fortunate,” Pelion demurred modestly.

“And well patronized,” a man beside him announced. “Do you know that his current role was written specifically for him?”

“We knew you wouldn’t mind,” a sallow youth confided smugly to Seregil. “Poor Pelion is in love, you see, and his lady friend may turn up here tonight. It’s all very tragic and impossible. But we’ve got another treat for you. Donaeus has composed the most cunningly subtle epos in twenty-three parts. It’s a marvelous piece of art!”

Seregil turned to the poet in question, a petulant-looking giant in worn velvets. “Twenty-three parts? What a monumental undertaking.”

“It’s glorious,” a girl effused. “It’s all about the death of Arshelol and Boresthia, but done in the most original fashion. And of course, he’ll need a patron. You really must hear it.”

“Donaeus, read it for him at once!” cried the sallow one. “No one appreciates the new verse styles so well as Lord Seregil. I’m sure Sir Alec could spare him for a bit.”

The slight was not lost on Alec. There were a few suppressed titters, but he maintained his composure.

“Go on, by all means.” He smiled, locking gazes with his ostensible rival. “The significance of poetry has always eluded me. Honest ballads and sword fights are more to my taste.”

“Well then, let’s go up to the library,” said Seregil, giving Alec an amused wink as he ushered them upstairs.

Turning, Alec nearly collided with Myrhini and Beka Cavish, who’d drifted over with their uniformed comrades.

“Arrogant little turds, aren’t they?” Beka muttered, glowering after the poet’s entourage. “I run into a bit of that myself now and then.”

“What could they have against me?” Alec burst out, not knowing whether to be more amused or insulted.

“Nothing, except that you had the poor taste to be born north of the Cirna Canal.”

“There are always a few like that.” Myrhini shrugged, then skillfully snagged a tray of wine cups from a passing server. “Scattering a few teeth usually quiets ’em down. In your case though, it’s more likely just whey-blooded jealousy. There’s more than a few among that set who’d like to be in your boots.”

She paused to run an eye over him. “You’re looking fitter than last time I saw you. Klia’s at the Vigil, and sends her regards. I go on duty in a few hours, but felt honor-bound to assess the new recruit here, seeing as how she’s under my command. Rider Beka tells me you’ve crossed blades a time or two—But here’s someone else we know!”

“Valerius of Colath, Drysian of the First Order and High Priest of the Temple of Dalna at Rhíminee,” Runcer announced.

Valerius strode into the room still clad in his ceremonial robe and circlet, though he’d exchanged the ivory staff for his old wooden one.

“The blessing of Dalna be on this house and those within it,” he intoned, thumping the floor.

Alec hurried forward to greet him. “Welcome. Seregil just went upstairs to hear a poet, but he should be back soon.”

The drysian let out an inelegant snort. “That fool Donaeus, no doubt, spouting his doggerel in twenty-three fatuous farts? He must still be scratching around for a patron. He read bits of the mess at Lady Arbella’s banquet last week. Fairly took away my appetite. If he corners Seregil with the whole of it, we’re not likely to get him back before dawn.”

“Maybe Alec should go rescue him,” suggested Beka.

“No, leave him. Serves him right for encouraging that pack of pedantic buffoons. What knavery have you two been up to these days? Learning swordplay, I hear, Alec?” The drysian lowered his voice to a confidential rumble. “You’ll need it, considering the company you’ve fallen into.”

“And look at you!” he exclaimed, glowering at Beka. “Running off to join regiments instead of getting married like a good Dalnan girl? This young fellow here is about your age, isn’t he?”

“Leave off, you,” Myrhini cried, laughing as Beka shifted uncomfortably. “She’s the best rider I’ve had this year and I don’t want to lose her to the hearth.”

“Valerius!” Seregil called as he came down the stairs, apparently having escaped from the poets on his own. “Did you get Old Sakor safely launched?”

Valerius chuckled. “There’s considerable chop on the harbor tonight. Poor old Morantiel was as green as a squash before they left the mooring, but I suspect he’ll survive.”

“I thought he sounded rather unsteady during the prophecy,” Seregil remarked casually, signaling for a wine server.

“After all these years of shamming, I imagine it was a bit of a shock when something mystical actually occurred.”

“Then you believe it was genuine?”

Valerius raised a bristling eyebrow. “You know as well as I do it was. I don’t know what that ‘Eater of Death’ business was all about, but I didn’t like the feel of those ravens.”

At the door, Runcer stepped forward again and announced, “Nysander í Azusthra Hypirius Meksandor Illandi, High Thaumaturgist of the Third Orëska, with the Lady Magyana ä Rhioni Methistabel Tinuva Ylani, High Thaumaturgist of the Third Orëska. And Sir Micum Cavish of Watermead, with Dame Kari and daughters Elsbet and Illia.”

Nysander and Magyana, normally the least ostentatious wizards of the Orëska, had put on the rich ceremonial robes befitting their status in honor of the occasion. Behind them, the Cavishes were as splendidly rigged out as any lord in the room. Illia clung to her mother’s hand, squirming with excitement in her new dress. Elsbet looked poised and solemn in burgundy velvet.

“Didn’t you invite Thero?” Alec whispered teasingly to Seregil.

“I always invite Thero! But watch. We’re in for a treat.”

At his signal, the musicians stilled their instruments. The other guests stepped back as Nysander escorted Magyana to the center of the room. With a slight nod to their host, he waved a hand about in a swift, careless gesture and the painted walls sprang to life.

The high chamber was frescoed from floor to ceiling to imitate a forest glade. The branches of life-size oaks hung with flowering vines extended across the vaulted ceiling overhead. Between their grey trunks distant vistas of mountain and sea were visible. Even the stone gallery at the back of the room, where the musicians softly played, was carved and latticed to resemble a leafy bower.

At Nysander’s command, golden light from some unseen sun glowed across the scene. A soft breeze stirred around the room, carrying with it the scent of flowers and warm earth overlaid with a hint of the distant painted sea. The painted trees stirred in the breeze, dappling shadows across the floor. Painted birds left their places and fluttered through the branches, filling the air with song.

A murmur of delight greeted the display, but the wizards were not finished. Magyana drew a crystal wand from her sleeve and wove the tip of it in the air, conjuring a perfect sphere of iridescent light the size of a pomegranate.

“Come, my lord.” She smiled, motioning to Seregil. “As host, the honor belongs to you.”

“An honor which I in turn bestow on Sir Alec on this, his first Mourning Night with us.”

Amid a flurry of applause, Alec followed Magyana’s whispered instructions and reached out a finger as if to burst a child’s soap bubble.

At his touch the sphere burst in a brilliant scintilla of light. Seconds later the thud of hooves against turf sounded near the gallery as a herd of white deer materialized in the painted forest and galloped once around the room before settling to graze near the dining-room archway. Rainbow-winged serpents swooped up from a painted cavern, singing with beautiful voices. Winged sprites and willow branch maidens peeped shyly from tree trunks.

Laughing and clapping delightedly, the guests spun around to take in the spectacle. Illia pulled loose from Kari and ran to Beka, leaping into her sister’s arms.

“It’s magic, Beka! Real wizard magic! And you’ve got your uniform. You’re a horse guard!”

Beka hugged her back, grinning. “That’s just what I am.”

“We must have proper music!” cried Seregil. “Fiddlers, give us ‘The Shepherd’s Idyll’!”

The musicians set to with a will and couples paired for the sprightly dance.

“Here you are!” Kari exclaimed, coming to embrace her eldest daughter.

“She was afraid we wouldn’t see you before tomorrow,” Micum explained. “She’s been fretting about it all afternoon.”

“Oh, I was not,” snapped his wife. “Turn around, girl. Let me see all of you!”

“Thero was otherwise engaged, I see,” Seregil remarked with a sly glance at Nysander.

“Ah, hello, Valerius,” said Nysander, escorting Magyana over to them again. “You acquitted yourself bravely in the sanctuary this evening. Were the ravens saying anything intelligible?”

“We were just discussing that,” the drysian replied. “Heavy-handed as the Sakorans are with their ‘oracles,’ they weren’t responsible for the birds, or that business with the Aegis, if I’m any judge.”

“It was unquestionably magic of some sort,” mused Magyana. “It may be a portent from Sakor, but it bodes ill nonetheless.”

“It certainly bears looking into,” agreed Nysander, “but just now I cannot seem to resist the music. Do you think we have a dance or two left in us, my dear?”

“I think they’ll have to chain your feet together to keep them still when they bury you,” Magyana replied with a twinkle.

Valerius watched with gruff fondness as the pair danced away. “Ridiculous, that Orëskan celibacy of hers. Those two should have married centuries ago.” Then something else appeared to catch his eye and a wry grin spread in the depths of his black beard. “Now there’s someone I didn’t expect to see here tonight. And just look who he’s with!”

“Ylinestra ä Maranial Wisthra Ylinena Erind, Sorceress of Erind,” announced Runcer. “And Thero í Procepios Bynardin Chylnir Rhíminee, Wizard of the Second Order, of the Third Orëska.”

“Well, well!” murmured Seregil.

Thero did look uncharacteristically sanguine, standing at the head of the chamber with Ylinestra on his arm. The sorceress’ silk gown glittered with jeweled beading and the bodice, fashionable in the extreme, showed pink half-crescent hints of nipple beneath the heavy necklace of pearl and jet she wore over her bared breasts. Her ebony hair was caught back in a similar jeweled web, exposing a graceful white neck.

Seregil propelled Alec forward with a gentle nudge. “Come on, Sir Alec. Let’s greet our illustrious guests.”

“Welcome to my home, lady,” he said, stepping up to kiss her hand.

“Thank you, Lord Seregil,” she replied with a cool nod. “And this must be your new companion I’ve been hearing so much about?”

“Alec of Ivywell,” Alec told her, wondering with sudden discomfort whether she recalled their first brief, tempestuous meeting soon after his arrival at the Orëska House. If she did, however, she gave no sign of it. Extending her hand, she enveloped him with a heart-stopping smile. “Ah, a Mycenian. How delightful.”

She clearly meant for him to kiss her hand and he bent dutifully over it. A faint perfume rose in his nostrils, subtle yet strangely compelling. Her hand, so warm and soft, lingered in his, and as he raised his head, his eyes swept across her breasts to her lovely violet eyes with a studied enjoyment he wouldn’t have imagined himself capable of. Still she held him, and her low-pitched voice sent an unfamiliar tingle through his body when she spoke.

“Nysander speaks so warmly of you. I hope that we may know one another better.”

“I’m honored, lady,” Alec replied, his voice sounding distant in his ears. She withdrew her hand at last and the world returned to normal.

“Good evening,” Thero said stiffly, looking somewhat less than pleased to be there.

“Forgive Thero’s bad grace,” Ylinestra murmured, once more wrapping Alec in the warm embrace of her eyes. “He is here only as a favor to me, I fear, and is being quite sulky. Come, Thero, perhaps wine will improve your disposition.”

As he escorted her into the throng, the actor Pelion stepped into their path with an elaborate bow, which Thero evaded with a curt and proprietary nod. Pelion fell back a pace, then followed Ylinestra with lovesick eyes.

“Ah, so that’s the actor’s hopeless love,” Seregil noted with a smirk. “He’s certainly got some competition tonight. And if Thero gets any stiffer, he’s likely to fall over and break.”

“She was kind of abrupt with you, I thought,” observed Alec.

“Well, I’m not exactly her type. Evidently you are.”

Alec colored warmly. Her perfume still clung to his fingers. “I only greeted her.”

The musicians struck up a reel and he turned to watch the dancers. Micum swirled by with Kari, laughing and smiling; Nysander and Magyana followed close behind. One of the poets had somehow captured Elsbet and she blushed happily as he swept her along. Across the room, Ylinestra was chatting with the actor while Thero hovered close at hand with badly concealed impatience.

“What’s she doing with Thero?” Alec wondered aloud.

“Judging by the look of him, nothing he’d want Nysander to know about,” Valerius remarked.

“Nysander knows,” said Seregil. “I think he was getting bored with her, anyway, but I still say it was bad manners for her to grab Thero next.”

“I doubt if she was the only one doing the grabbing,” scoffed Valerius. “If he wants to stick his head in the dragon’s mouth, let him. Just see that young Alec here keeps a safe distance.”

“I just greeted her, for—” Alec sputtered, but was interrupted by Myrhini and Beka.

“I’m off for the Vigil,” said Myrhini. “Hope to see you all at the investiture tomorrow.”

As soon as the captain was gone, Beka turned to Alec with a knowing grin. “Ylinestra’s very beautiful, wouldn’t you say?”

Alec groaned. “What was I supposed to do, knock her down?”

“For a minute there I thought you were going to.”

“Well, I’m sure I’m no danger to her, when she can obviously have her pick of any man in Rhíminee,” he countered. “What about you, though? Can you dance in uniform?”

Beka looked down at her tabard and boots. “I think we can manage.”

They made a passable business of the reel and went on dancing when the next song began. In truth, Beka was in such high spirits over her commission that Alec thought she could probably fly if the notion struck her. They soon caught each other’s rhythm and went on dancing with scarcely a break until Micum cut in to say that Kari and the younger girls were retiring for the night.

“I didn’t realize how late it had gotten,” Beka said, letting go of Alec’s hand with evident regret. “I’ll go up and visit with Mother a while before I head back to the barracks. I’ve got to be up early for the ceremony.”

Giving Alec a quick peck on the cheek, she added, “You and Seregil are coming, aren’t you? There’ll be hundreds of us, of course, so you probably won’t even see me.”

“With that hair?” Alec teased, tugging at the end of her coppery braid. “You’ll stick out like a drunkard’s nose!”

“I’ll remember that remark the next time we work on your swordplay,” Beka warned with a dire grin. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Left to his own devices again, he looked for Seregil and spotted him on the far side of the crowded floor. No sooner had he worked his way through the crowd, however, when Seregil was waylaid by a noble complaining at length about some shipping venture he and Seregil were involved with. Alec listened politely for a time, but his attention soon wandered.

Looking around, he realized that the number of guests was dwindling. Off for more “games in the dark,” as Kylith had teased. Nysander and Magyana were still there, moving with stately grace through the circle of a galliard. Thero was dancing as well, but not with Ylinestra.

“Where’s she gotten to?” Alec wondered, looking around again.

In the garden.

The soft, caressing whisper came at his very ear, for him alone to hear.

Come into the garden.

There was no question this time; it was Ylinestra’s voice.

The mysterious summons came again, and with it a delicious languor. A couple walked past, lightwands in hand, and he marveled at the rainbow corona surrounding each glowing stone. The whole room, in fact, had taken on a warmer tone. Perhaps Nysander and Magyana were tinkering with their creation? Skirting the dancers, he slipped unnoticed into the dining room and on out into the darkened garden.

Here. Come to me.

The voice guided him to a far corner of the garden screened by a small arbor.

He heard a faint sigh of silk and Ylinestra’s pale face resolved from the darkness. Her hands found his and lifted them to rest just above her hips. She was slender and supple between his hands and he spread his fingers to better appreciate the sensation of her warmth beneath the cold fabric.

“My lady, I don’t understand,” he whispered, some small, distant part of him distinctly alarmed at his own actions. He’d never felt like this in his life.

“What is there to understand, lovely boy?”

How small she seemed, here in the darkness. Her lips brushed his chin as she spoke, her violet eyes pools of night just below his own.

“But Nysander—Thero? I thought—”

She laughed softly, and the sound drowned his own trepidation in another rush of voluptuous sensation. “I do as I please, Alec, and I take what I want. And just now, I want you.”

Her hands found his again, holding his palms flat against her as she slid them upward. The roughness of embroidery met his touch, then the netted web of the necklace over her breasts.

“You’re trembling. Does my little magic frighten you? Do I frighten you?”

Alec drew a ragged breath. “I—I don’t know.”

Part of him sensed a snare, a trap, yet his whole body was gripped by a yearning unlike anything he’d ever known. Her scent filled his nostrils again as she slipped his fingertips beneath the edge of her necklace to press the bare, yielding swell of a breast.

“You have only to ask, Alec. I’ll release you if you ask. Shall I free you?”

She slipped a hand to the back of his neck to rest where Seregil’s so often did. Then she kissed him again, her lips parting, tongue gently seeking entrance and gaining it as her other hand stroked his side. Pulling him closer, she kissed her way to his neck.

“So young, so smooth,” she murmured, the touch of her breath sending a profound warmth to his loins. “So beautiful. Have you known a woman? No? So much the better.” She shifted slightly, bringing a half-exposed nipple against his fingers. “Tell me, shall I release you now?”

“Yes! No—I don’t know—” Alec groaned softly, then embraced her. Magic or not, newly awakened passions suffused him and he found her lips again, returning kiss for kiss.

“Close your eyes, my darling,” she whispered. “Shut them tight and I’ll show you another trick.”

Alec obeyed, and was startled to feel himself falling, tumbling onto something soft. When he opened his eyes again, the two of them were lying in the heavily draped enclosure of a huge bed. The forbidden glow of candlelight filtered through layers of colored silk, just bright enough for him to see that somewhere in the transition, their clothing had been left behind.

“Something wrong, my dear?” asked Nysander, seeing Magyana frowning over his shoulder as they danced.

“I was just watching Thero. He’s looking dour again, and he seemed to be having such a pleasant time. Has Seregil been teasing him again?”

“Not that I observed.”

Thero hovered grimly in a far corner, oblivious to the band of nymphs dancing on the wall just behind him as he scanned the room.

“I suspect Ylinestra has found more spirited companionship for the evening,” he guessed.

“Mmm. Well, that is a great deal less surprising than seeing them together in the first place. What in the world does she want with him?”

“He is not such a bad-looking lad,” Nysander said. “And he is young.”

“Yes, but he’s also your assistant,” sniffed Magyana. “I realize you don’t mind, but it still seems rather tactless of them.”

Nysander chuckled knowingly. “Passion is seldom governed by such niceties.”

Just then, however, he caught sight of Seregil standing by the cider barrel. He was fiddling absently with a mug and looking rather perplexed.

“Come, my dear, you must be thirsty,” said the wizard, steering her in Seregil’s direction.

“You haven’t seen Alec in the last few minutes?” Seregil asked as they joined him.

The gloves were gone, Nysander noted, but a spotless strip of linen still bound each hand. He wondered what sort of explanation he’d concocted for his guests.

“Why, no. Is he missing?” replied the wizard.

“I don’t know. It’s been almost an hour since I last saw him. I’ve just been all over the house and he’s not here. It’s not like him to wander off. Could you take a look?”

Nysander closed his eyes and sent a seeking through the house and surrounding neighborhood, then shook his head.

“You don’t suppose—?” Magyana gestured discreetly in Thero’s direction.

Reluctantly, Nyander sent another of the spells to Ylinestra’s chamber, intending nothing more than a brief glimpse to ascertain the boy’s presence.

As he’d feared, Alec was there, but the energies surrounding him were not sexual.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Seregil asked beside him.

Nysander held up a warning hand without opening his eyes. “He is well. But I shall need a few moments—”

Intensifying the spell, he found Ylinestra crouched over Alec, who appeared to be asleep, sprawled on his back among the disheveled blankets with a blissful smile on his face. In contrast, Ylinestra’s face was a hard mask of concentration as she wove an unfamiliar sigil in the air above him. As it took form, the peaceful expression drained from Alec’s face. At first he simply looked blank, then his brow furrowed as he unconsciously turned his face away, a low sound of protest rattling in his throat. The sorceress leaned closer, enlarging the glowing symbol, then struck him sharply on the cheek in frustration.

“That will be quite enough, Ylinestra!”

She whirled in surprise. The sigil snapped out of existence.

“Nysander? How dare you spy into my chamber!” she hissed, eyes wide with outrage at his disembodied intrusion. “You have no right!”

“More right than you, to work magic on an unwilling subject,” Nysander retorted sternly. “Send him back at once or I shall fetch him myself.”

“Such a fuss,” she purred, stroking a hand down Alec’s belly, knowing he would see. “I assure you, I did him no harm.”

“That remains to be seen.”

A moment later Nysander felt a ripple of magic from upstairs. When had she mastered the translocation spell?

With Seregil and Magyana close behind, he went up and found Alec deeply asleep in his own chamber. Satisfied that the boy was unharmed, he placed a protective ward over the bed to curtail any further mischief and quietly closed the door.

“Well, I suspect I won’t be teasing him about his virginity anymore,” Seregil said, sounding a bit wistful. “He certainly fell in to the spirit of the evening in a hurry.”

“I doubt it was entirely his own doing,” Magyana said, wrinkling her nose in prim distaste. “If it turns out he was coerced, I want to know about it. There’s no place for that sort of behavior in the Orëska.”

“Certainly not,” Nysander said, thinking more of the mysterious sigil she’d been using. “Still, if it was his choice to go off with her, we must not make a fuss. He is old enough to decide that sort of thing for himself.”

Seregil let out an abrupt laugh. “I suppose he is, really. But it may cause a bit of a chill between him and Thero.”