When young Alec of Kerry is taken prisoner for a
crime he didn't commit, he is certain that his
life is at an end. But the one thing he never
expected was his cellmate. Spy, rogue, thief,
and
noble, Seregil of Rhiminee is many things- none of
them predictable. And when he offers to take on
Alec as his apprentice, things may never
be the same for either of them. Soon Alec is
traveling roads he never knew existed, toward a
war he never suspected was brewing. Before
long he and Seregil are embroiled in a sinister
plot that runs deeper than either can imagine,
and that may cost them far more than their lives
if they fail. But fortune is as unpredictable as
Alec's new mentor, and this-time
there just might be...
LUCK IN THE SHADOWS
US $6.50 still $8.99 CAN
ISBN 0-553-57542-2 I II
III II II

DEADLY MISSION
"Looks like you'll have to climb," Seregil
whispered, squinting up. "Be careful going over;
most of these places have the walls topped with spikes
or sharp flints."
"Hold on!" Alec tried to make out Seregil's
expression through the darkness. "Aren't you coming with me?"
"It's a one-man job; the fewer the better,"
Seregil assured him. "Would I send you in alone
if I didn't think you could handle it? Best leave
your sword, though."
"What if someone sees me?"
"Honestly, Alec! You can't just go hacking your way
out of every difficult situation that arises. It's
uncivilized."
Alec unbuckled his sword and started up the garden
wall. He was halfway to the top when Micum
called softly, "We'll meet you back here when
you've finished. Oh, and look out for the dogs."
"Dogs?" Alec dropped down again. "What
dogs? You didn't say anything about dogs!"
Seregil tapped himself sharply between the eyes.
"Illior's Fingers, what
am
I thinking of tonight? There's a pair of Zengati
hounds, snow-white and big as bears."
"That's a fine detail to forget," growled Micum.
"Anything else I should know?"
"Let's see, the spikes, the dogs, the
servants- No, I think we covered it. Luck in
the shadows, Alec."
"And to you," Alec muttered, starting up the wall
again.
Praise for
Luck in the Shadows
by Lynn Flewelling
"Part high fantasy and part political intrigue,
Luck in the Shadows
makes a nice change from the usual ruck of
contemporary sword-and-sorcery. I especially
enjoyed Lynn Flewelling's obvious affection for
her characters. And at unexpected moments she reveals
a well-honed gift for the macabre."
-Stephen R. Donaldson, author of
This Day All Gods Die
"Memorable characters, an enthralling plot, and truly
daunting evil. The magic is refreshingly
difficult, mysterious, and unpredictable. Lynn
Flewelling has eschewed the easy shortcuts of
cliched minor characters and cookie-cutter backdrops
to present a unique world peopled by characters who are
truly of that world. I commend this one to your attention."
-Robin Hobb, author of
Royal Assassin
"A splendid read, filled with magic, mystery,
adventure, and taut suspense. Lynn
Flewelling, bravo! Nicely done."
-Dennis L. McKiernan, author of
The Dragonstone
"An engrossing and entertaining debut novel. It
opens up a new fantasy world that is ripe for
exploration-full of magic, intrigues, and
fascinating characters ... the kind of book you settle
down with when you want a long, satisfying read."
-Michael A. Stackpole,
author of
Star Wars X-Wing: Rogue Squadron
lynn flewelling
[*reggg'caret
Bantam Books New York Toronto
London Sydney Auckland
LUCK IN THE SHADOWS A Bantam
Spectra Book/september 1996
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed s are
trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of
Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group,
Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright [*copygg'1996 by Lynn
Flewelling. Cover art copyright
[*copygg'1996 by Gary Ruddell.
Map by Virginia Norey.
No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing
from the publisher. For information address: Bantam
Books.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be
aware that this book is stolen property. It was
reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher
and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."
ISBN 0-553-57542-2
Published simultaneously in the United States
and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam
Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell
Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting
of the words "Bantam Books" and the portrayal of a
rooster, is Registered in US. Patent and
Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca
Reg- istrada. Bantam Books, 1540
Broadway, New York, New York
10036.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA 0PM 10 9 8 7 6 5
This one's for you, Doug,
for all the best reasons.
LBF
acknowledgments
Like many first novels, this one wouldn't be complete without
acknowledgments. Those of you who don't know me can
skip this part, if you like. Really. I don't mind.
With deepest gratitude to those hardy early readers
who believed in this project long before I did myself:
Mom, Fran, and kid sister Sue, God love
'em; Gram, God rest her; Jeffs K.
and A.; sisters of the heart Darby, Laurie, the
Other Lynn, and Nancy; Bonnie; Cheryl;
Marc and the whole BookMarc's gang; Cathie
Pelletier, for her guidance and support;
Greta, Sandy
E,
Gary, Bill and Dorothy, Maria, Sabine,
Scott and Julie, Marc and Lisa, Todd,
Jen, Gail N.; Suzannes K. and C.; and
Pete "The Organmeister" K. and Debbie C.,
who materialized out of the electronic ether at the
nicest possible time. Apologies to anyone I
missed.
Love also to Matt and Tim, who've heard, "Not
now, Mom's writing," far too often; and to my
dad, who's probably bragging me up in Heaven,
because he always did.
And finally, special thanks to my literary
midwives, Lucienne Diver, Eleanor Wood,
and Anne Groell, who made it all come real.
author's note
The ancient Hierophantic calendar is based on
a lunar year divided into twelve 29-day months
and four seasonal festivals, which account for an
additional twelve days.
Winter Solstice-observance of the longest night and
celebration of the lengthening of days to come. (mourning
Night and Festival of Sakor in Skala.)
Followed by:
Sarisin
Dostin
Klesin
Spring Festival-preparation for planting,
celebration of fertility of Dalna. (festival
of the Flowers in Mycena.) Followed by:
Lithion
Nythin
Gorathin Summer Solstice-celebration of the
longest day, followed by:
Shemin
Lenthin
Rhythin
Harvest Home-finish of harvest, time of
thankfulness. (great Festival of Dalna in
Mycena.) Followed by:
Erasin
Kemmin
Cinrin
Barbarian Lands
LUCK IN THE SHADOWS
Mouldering bone crumbled beneath their boots as Lord
Mardus and Vargul Ashnazai lowered themselves down
into the tiny chamber beneath the earthen mound. Oblivious
to the pervasive odor of swamp and old death, to the
dank earth filtering down the back of his neck and
into his hair, Mardus crunched across more bones to a
rough stone slab at the back of the chamber. Brushing
aside brittle ribs and skulls, he reverently
lifted a small pouch from the stone. The rotted leather
fell to pieces at a touch, spilling eight carved
wooden disks across his palm.
"It appears you've accomplished your purpose,
Vargul Ashnazai." Mardus smiled and the scar beneath
his left eye tightened.
Ashnazai's sharp, sallow face was ghostly in the
uncertain light. With a nod of satisfaction, he
passed a hand over the disks and for an instant their form
wavered, giving hint of their true shape.
"After all these centuries, another fragment
reclaimed!" he exclaimed softly. "It's a
sign, my lord. The time draws nigh."
"A most propitious sign. Let us hope that the
remainder of our quest is as successful. Captain
Tildus!"
A black-bearded face appeared in the
Lynn Flewelling
rough opening at the top of the mound. "Here, my lord."
"Have the villagers been gathered?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good. You may begin."
"I shall make preparations for the safe conveyance of
these," Vargul Ashnazai said, reaching to take the
disks.
"And what could
you
do that the ancients have not already done?" Mardus
inquired coldly, pocketing them as casually as if
they were gaming stones. "There's nothing so safe as that which
appears to be worthless. For the time being, we will trust
in the wisdom of our ancestors."
Ashnazai quickly withdrew his hand. "As you wish, my
lord."
Mardus" soulless black eyes met and held his as
the first screams erupted above them.
Vargul Ashnazai was the first to look away.
A sengai's torturers were regular in their
A habits-they always left off at sunset.
A*bar Chained again in his corner of the drafry
t Vcell, Alec turned his face to the rough
stone wall and sobbed until his chest ached.
An icy mountain wind sighed through the grating
overhead, carrying with it the sweet scent of snow
to come. Still weeping, the boy burrowed deeper into the
sour straw. It scratched painfully against the welts
and bruises that bloomed across his bare skin, but it was
better than nothing and all he had.
He was alone now. They'd hanged the miller
yesterday and the one called Danker had died under
torture. Alec had never met either of them before his
capture but they had treated him kindly. Now he
wept for them, too, and for the horror of their death.
As the tears subsided, he wondered again why he'd
been spared, why Lord Asengai repeatedly told the
torturers, "Don't mark the boy too badly."
So they hadn't seared him with red-hot irons or
cut off his ears or opened his skin with knotted whips
as they had with the others. Instead, they'd beaten him
skillfully and dunked him until he thought he was
drowned. And no matter how many times he'd screamed
out the truth, he couldn't seem to convince his captors
that he'd wandered onto
Asengai's remote freeholding seeking nothing more
than the pelts of spotted cats.
His only remaining hope now was that they would finish him
off quickly; death loomed like a welcome
release from the hours of pain, the endless stream of questions
that he didn't understand and couldn't answer. Clinging to this
bitter comfort, he drifted into a fitful doze.
The familiar tread of boots jerked him awake
sometime later. Moonlight slanted in through the window
now, pooling in the straw beside him. Sick with dread,
he pulled himself into the deeper shadow of the corner.
As the footsteps came closer a highly pitched
voice suddenly burst out, shouting and cursing over the
sounds of a scuffle. The cell door banged open
and the dark forms of two warders and a struggling captive
were framed for an instant against the torchlight from the
corridor beyond.
The prisoner was a small, slightly built man
but he fought like a cornered weasel.
"Unhand me, you cretinous brutes!" he cried, his
furious words marred somewhat by a noticeable lisp.
"I
demand
to see your master! How
dare
you arrest me! Can't an honest bard pass
unmolested through this country?"
Twisting an arm free, he swung a fist at the
warder on his left. The larger man blocked
the blow easily and pinned his arms sharply back again.
"Don't fret yourself," the guard snorted, giving the
prisoner a sharp cuff on the ear. "You'll meet
our master soon enough and wish you hadn't!"
His partner let out a nasty chuckle. "Aye,
he'll have you singing loud and long before he's through." With
this, he struck the smaller man quick, harsh blows to the
face and belly, silencing any further protests.
Dragging him to the wall opposite Alec, they
manacled him hand and foot.
"What about that one?" one of them asked, jerking a
thumb in Alec's direction. "They'll be taking
him off next day or so. How "bout a bit of
sport?"
"No, you heard the master. Be worth our hides if
we spoiled him for the slavers. Come on, the
game'll be starting." The key

grated in the lock behind them and their voices faded
away down the corridor.
Slavers?
Alec curled more tightly into the shadows. There were no
slaves in the northlands but he'd heard tales enough of
people carried off to distant countries and uncertain
fates, never to be seen again. Throat tight
with renewed panic, he tugged hopelessly at his
chains.
The bard raised his head with a groan. "Who's there?"
Alec froze, regarding the man warily. The pale
wash of moonlight was bright enough for him to see that the man
was dressed in the gaudy clothing common to his kind:
a tunic with long, dagged tippets, the striped sash
and hose. Tall, muddy traveling boots completed
the garish outfit. Alec couldn't make out his face,
however; the fellow's dark hair hung to his
shoulders in foppish ringlets, partially obscuring his
features.
Too exhausted and miserable to attempt idle
conversation, Alec pressed into his corner without
reply. The man seemed to be squinting hard in his
direction, but before he could speak again they heard the
guards returning. Dropping flat in the straw, the
bard lay motionless as they dragged in a third
prisoner, this one a squat, bull-necked laborer
in homespun garments and stained leggings.
Despite his size, the man obeyed the warders in
terrified silence as they chained him by the feet next
to the bard.
"Here's another bit of company for you, boy," one of
them said with a grin, setting a small clay
lamp in a niche over the door. "Someone to help you
pass the time 'til morning!"
The light fell across Alec. Dark bruises and
welts showed darkly against his fair skin. Clad in
little more than the tattered remnants of his linen clout,
he returned the man's gaze stonily.
"By the Maker, boy! What did you do that they dealt
with you so?" the man exclaimed.
"Nothing," Alec rasped. "They tortured me,
and the others. They died-yesterday? What's the day?"
"Third of Erasin, come sunrise."
Alec's head ached dully; had it really only
been four days?
"But what did they arrest you for?" the man persisted,
eyeing Alec with obvious suspicion.
"Spying. But I wasn't! I tried to explain-was
"It's the same with me," the peasant sighed.
"I've been kicked,
Lynn Flewelltng
caret less-than 4
beaten, robbed, and not a word will they hear from me.
'I'm Morden Swiftford," I tell "em.
'Just a plowman, nothing more!" But here I am."
With a deep groan the bard sat up and struggled
awkwardly to untangle himself from his
shackles. After a considerable effort he finally
managed to arrange himself with his back resting against the
wall.
"Those brutes will pay dearly for this indignity," he
snarled weakly. "Imagine, Rolan Silverleaf
a spy!"
"You, too?" asked Morden.
"It's too absurd. There I was, performing at the
Harvest Fair at Rook Tor only last
week. I happen to have several powerful patrons in
these parts and believe me, they shall hear of the treatment
I've endured!"
The fellow prattled on, giving an encyclopedic
recital of the places he'd performed and the highly
placed people to whom he looked for justice.
Alec paid him little heed. Wrapped in his own
misery, he huddled morosely in his corner while
Morden gaped.
The jailers returned within the hour and hauled the
frightened plowman away. Soon cries of an
all-too-familiar nature echoed up the
hallway. Alec pressed his face against his knees
and covered his ears, trying not to hear. The bard was
watching him, he knew, but he was beyond caring.
Morden's hair and jerkin were matted with
blood when the guards dragged him back and chained him
in his place again. He lay where they flung him,
panting hoarsely.
A few moments later another guard came in and
handed out meager rations of water and hard biscuit.
Rolan examined his bit of biscuit with obvious
distaste.
"It's maggoty, but you should eat," he said, tossing
his portion across to Alec.
Alec ignored it and his own. Food meant dawn was
close and the start of another grim day.
"Go on," Rolan urged gently. "You'll need
your strength later." Alec turned his face away,
but he persisted. "At least take a bit of water.
Can you walk?"
Alec shrugged listlessly. "What difference does it
make?"
"Perhaps a great deal before long," the other man
replied with an odd half smile. There was something
new in his voice, a cal

culating note that was decidedly out of place with his
dandified appearance. The dim light of the lamp touched
the side of his face, showing a longish nose and one
sharp eye.
Alec took a small sip of the water, then downed
the rest in a gulp as the needs of his body took
over. He'd had nothing to eat or drink in more than
a day.
"That's better," murmured Rolan. Getting
to his knees, he moved out as far as the leg chains
allowed, then leaned forward until the manacles
drew his arms back tautly. Morden raised his
head, watching with dull curiosity.
"It's no use. You'll only bring the guards
back," Alec hissed, wishing the man would keep
still.
Rolan surprised him with a wink, then began to flex
his hands, spreading the fingers and straining the thumbs about.
From across the cell Alec heard the soft, sickening
snap of joints separating. Rolan's hands
slipped free of the manacle rings. Falling forward,
he caught himself on one elbow and quickly relocated
the joints at the base of each thumb.
He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the end of one
tippet. "There, and now the feet." Pulling down the
top of his left boot, he extracted a long,
bodkinlike instrument from an inner seam. A moment's
work on each of the leg iron locks and he was free.
Taking up Morden's water cup and his own,
he came over to Alec.
"Drink this. Slowly now, slowly. What's your
name?"
"Alec of Kerry." He sipped gratefully at
the extra ration, hardly believing what he'd just
seen. For the first time since his capture, he felt the
beginnings of hope.
Rolan watched him closely, looking as if he'd
reached a not entirely agreeable decision. At last
he sighed and said, "I suppose you'd better come with
me." Pushing his hair impatiently back from his
eyes, he turned to Morden with a thin, unfriendly
smile.
"But you, my friend, you seem to set remarkably
small value on your life."
"Good sir," Morden stammered, cowering back,
"I'm only a humble peasant but I'm certain my
life means as much to me-was
Rolan cut him off with an impatient gesture,
then reached forward to thrust his hand into the neck of the
man's grimy jerkin. He yanked out a thin silver
chain and dangled it in Morden's face.
Lynn Flewelling
"You're not very convincing, you know. Louts though they are,
Asengai's men are far too thorough to miss
a bauble like this."
His voice is different!
Alec thought, watching the strange confrontation in
confusion. Rolan wasn't lisping at all now; he
just sounded dangerous.
"I should also tell you, by way of instruction, that
tortured men are usually extremely thirsty," the
bard continued. "Unless they smell of ale, as you do.
I trust you and the guards had a pleasant supper
together? I wonder what sort of blood is it you're
smeared with?"
"Your mother's moon flow!" Morden snarled, his
simple expression vanishing as he pulled a
small dagger from his legging and lunged at Rolan.
The bard dodged the attack and drove his clenched
fist against Morden's throat, crushing his larynx.
A swift jab of his elbow to Morden's temple
felled the man like an ox; he collapsed in the
straw at Rolan's feet, blood flowing from his
mouth and ear.
"You killed him!" Alec said faintly.
Rolan pressed a finger to Morden's throat, then
nodded. "Seems I did. The fool should've
yelled for the guards."
Alec cringed back against the clammy stone as
Rolan turned to him.
"Steady now," the man said, and Alec was surprised
to see he was smiling. "Do you want to get out of here
or not?"
Alec managed a mute nod, then sat rigidly
while Rolan unlocked his chains. When he'd
finished he went back to Morden's body.
"Now let's see who you were." Sliding the dead
man's dagger into his boot, Rolan pulled up the
soiled jerkin to examine the hairy torso beneath.
"Hmm, that's no great surprise," he muttered,
probing at the left armpit.
Curious in spite of his fear, Alec crept just
close enough to peer over Rolan's shoulder.
"See here?" Rolan showed him a triangle of
three tiny blue circles tattooed into the pale
skin where the arm joined the body.
"What does it mean?"
"It's a guild mark. He was a Juggler."
"A mountebank?"
"No," Rolan snorted. "A keek, a ferret.
The Jugglers carry out
Luck in the Shadows

any sort of dirty mischief for the right
price. They swarm around petty lords like Asengai
the way blow flies gather on a midden." Tugging the
dead man's jerkin off, he thrust it into Alec's
hands. "Here, put this on. And hurry! I'll say
this just once; fall behind and you're on your own!"
The garment was filthy and soaked with blood at the
neck, but Alec obeyed quickly, pulling it on with a
shudder of revulsion. By the time he'd gotten it on,
Rolan was already at work on the lock.
"Rusty son of a whore," he remarked, spitting
into the keyhole. The lock gave way at last and
he opened the door a crack, peering out.
"Looks clear," he whispered. "Stay close and
do what I tell you."
Alec's heart hammered in his ears as he followed
Rolan out into the corridor. Several yards down
lay the room where Asengai's men carried out their
tortures. Beyond that, the door to the warder's room
stood open and they could hear the noise of a rowdy
game of some sort in progress.
Rolan's boots made no more noise than
Alec's bare feet as the two of them crept up
to the open doorway. Rolan cocked his head, then
held up four fingers. With a quick motion he indicated
that Alec should cross the doorway quickly and
quietly.
Alec stole a glance inside. Four guards were
kneeling around a cloak on the floor. One cast the
knucklebones and coins changed hands amid much
good-natured cursing.
Waiting until their attention was focused on the
next toss, Alec slipped across to the other side.
Rolan joined him soundlessly and they hurried around a
corner and down a stairway. A lamp burned in a
shallow niche at the bottom. Rolan took it and
set off again.
Alec knew nothing of the lay of the place and quickly
lost all sense of direction as they made their way
along a succession of twisting passageways.
Halting at last, Rolan opened a narrow door and
disappeared into the darkness beyond, whispering for Alec
to watch his step just in time to save the boy from tumbling
down more stairs that descended less than a pace from
the door.
It was colder down here, and damp. The wavering
circle of light from Rolan's lamp skimmed across
lichen-stained stonework. The floor was stone as well,
rough and broken with neglect.
A final, crumbling set of stairs brought them to a
low,
lynn Flewelling
iron-strapped door. The paving beneath Alec's bare
feet was frigid. His breath puffed out in rapid little
clouds. Handing him the lamp, Rolan went to work on
the heavy lock that hung from a staple in the door
frame.
"There," Rolan whispered as it came free.
"Blow out the light and leave it."
They slipped out into the shadows of a walled yard. The
lopsided moon was low in the west; the sky behind the
stars showed the first hint of predawn indigo. A
thick rime of frost coated everything in the yard:
wood stack, well, farrier's forge-all glinted
softly in the moonlight. Winter was coming early this
year, Alec thought. He could smell it on the air.
"This is the lower stable yard," Rolan whispered.
"There's a gate beyond that wood stack, with a postern
beside it. Damn, but it's cold!"
Scrubbing a hand back through his ridiculous curls,
he looked Alec over again; except for the filthy
jerkin, the boy was all but naked. "You can't go
traveling all over the country like that. Get to the
side door and open it. There shouldn't be a guard, but
keep your eyes open and be
silent]
I'll be right back."
Before Alec could protest, he'd ghosted away in the
direction of the stables.
Alec crouched by the doorway for a moment, hugging himself
against the cold. Alone in the darkness, he felt his
brief burst of confidence ebbing away. A glance at
the stables showed no sign of his strange companion.
Genuine fear stirred just below the fragile threshold
of his resolve.
Fighting it down, he forced himself to concentrate on
gauging the distance to the dark side of the wood stack. still
haven't come this far to be abandoned for weakness,
he berated himself.
Maker Dalna, hold your hand over me now!
Drawing in a deep, silent breath, he darted
forward. He got within arm's length of the wood stack
before a tall figure stepped from the shadow of the forge a
scant few feet away.
"Who's that?" the man demanded, pulling something from his
belt. "Stand and speak, you!"
Alec dove for the stack, throwing himself down behind it.
Something hard dug into his chest as he landed. Grabbing
at it, he closed his hand around the smooth haft of
an ax. Then he was rolling to avoid the heavy club
the man was swinging at his head.

Gripping the ax like a quarter staff, Alec
managed to deflect the sentry's arcing swing. He was
badly overmatched, however, and what little strength he
had left after days of mistreatment soon faded as
blow after blow rained down. Leaping back, he
caught sight of Rolan near the stable door.
Instead of coming to his aid, however, the bard faded
back into the shadows.
That s it then,
he thought.
I got into trouble and he s left me.
Driven by fury born of utter despair, Alec
flew at the startled sentry, driving the man back
with wild swings of the ax's double blade. If he was
going to die in this terrible place, he'd go down
fighting under an open sky.
His adversary recovered quickly and was pressing in for the
kill when they were both surprised by a clattering
uproar nearby. The stable door slammed back and
Rolan burst out mounted bareback on an enormous
black horse. A pack of ostlers, stable boys,
and guards spilled out after him, raising the alarm.
"The gate, damn it! Open the gate!" Rolan
shouted, leading his pursuers in a fool's
chase around the courtyard.
Distracted, the sentry made a clumsy parry and
Alec sprang under his guard with a savage swing. The
blade struck home and the man went down screaming.
Dropping the ax, Alec dashed to the gate, heaved the
heavy bar out of its brackets, and pushed the doors
wide.
Now what?
Looking around, he found Rolan occupied at the far
end of the yard.
A guard had him by one ankle, and a stable hand was
leaping for the horse's bridle. Spotting the open
gate, he reined the horse back on its haunches
and kicked the beast into a furious gallop straight
across the yard. His mount sprang effortlessly over the
well and bolted for the gate. Hauling back on the
reins, Rolan twisted the fingers of one hand into the
black's mane and leaned over its neck, other arm
extended.
"Come on!" he yelled.
Alec reached up just in time. Rolan's fingers
clamped around his wrist, wrenching him off his feet and
across the horse's broad back. Clambering upright,
he locked his arms around Rolan's waist as they
thundered though the gate and down the road beyond.
They skirted the little village nestled against the
walls of the
Lynn Flewelling
keep and flew on along the road down the wooded
mountainside below Asengai's domain.
After several miles, Rolan left the road and
plunged into the thick forest that flanked it. Safe
among the trees, he reined their mount to a halt.
"Here, take these," he whispered, shoving a bundle
of some sort into Alec's hands.
It was a cloak. The coarse fabric smelled
rankly of the stable but the boy wrapped himself in it
gratefully, drawing his bare feet up against the
horse's steaming sides to warm them.
They sat in silence, and after a moment Alec
realized that they must be waiting for something. Presently
they heard the clatter of hooves approaching. It was
too dark to count the riders as they passed, but judging
by the sound, there were at least half a dozen. Waiting
until they were all well past, Rolan turned the
black again to the road and started back in the direction
of the keep.
"We're going the wrong way," Alec whispered,
tugging at Rolan's sleeve.
"Don't worry," his companion replied
with a soft chuckle.
A few moments later he turned aside from the main
road, this time onto a badly overgrown track.
The ground fell away sharply, and branches whipped
at their faces as they cantered along under the cover
of the trees. Halting again, Rolan claimed the
cloak and threw it over the horse's head to keep the
beast quiet. They soon heard the riders again,
moving slower now and calling back and forth to one
another. Two riders ventured down the track,
passing within ten yards of where Rolan and Alec
stood holding their breath.
"He must've been a wizard, I tell you!" one was
saying. "Killing that southern bastard the way he
did, disappearing out of the cell, and now this!"
"Wizard be damned," the other retorted angrily.
"You'll wish you was a wizard if Berin don't
catch up with "em down the road. Lord
Asengai'll skin the whole bunch of us!"
A horse stumbled and reared.
"Bilairy's Guts! This way's hopeless in the
dark. They'd have broke their necks by now," the lead
man grumbled. Giving up, the riders turned back
the way they'd come.
Waiting until all was quiet, Rolan
mounted in front of Alec and handed him back the
cloak.

"What do we do now?" whispered Alec as they headed
down the mountain track again.
"I left some supplies a few miles from here.
I just hope they're still there. Hang on tight.
We've got a rough ride ahead of us."
caret caret Ssj caret caret Eg caret
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Alec opened his eyes to the noonday light.
for
a drowsy moment he blinked up at the branches
overhead, trying to recall where he was and wondering why
the scratchy roughness of the blankets felt so good
against his skin.
Then a sudden onslaught of memories slapped him
fully awake. Scrambling to his knees, he
pulled the blankets around him and looked about in
alarm.
Rolan was nowhere in sight, but their stolen horse was
still in the little clearing, along with the bay mare and the
battered leather pack Rolan had cached here
before venturing into Asengai's domain. Burrowing
back beneath the blankets, Alec closed his eyes
again and waited for his heartbeat to slow.
He was amazed that Rolan had been able to find his
way back here at all. To Alec, exhausted beyond
measure, the ride had seemed one long, impossible
series of difficulties: thickets, streams, and a
skree field they'd crossed on foot. Never
faltering, Rolan had urged him on with promises
of hot food and warm blankets. By the time they'd
reached the clearing, Alec had been too tired and
cold to do more than collapse onto the bracken
pallet that lay ready beneath the shelter of a thick
fir.

The last thing he remembered was listening to Rolan
curse the cold as he joined him beneath their shared pile
of blankets and cloaks.
It was bitterly cold now, despite the brightness of the
sun. Long crystals of frost thrust up through the
mossy loam next to his pallet, like bundles of
tiny glass blades. Overhead, mackerel-
striped clouds ribbed the hazy sky. There'd be snow
soon, the first of the year.
Their camp lay next to a small
waterfall, and the sound of it had gotten into his
dreams. Pulling the stolen cloak around his shoulders,
he went into the bushes to relieve his bladder, then
walked down to the edge of the pool below the falls. Every
bruise and welt protested as he dipped up a
handful of icy water, but he was too happy to care;
he was alive and he was free! Whoever, whatever this
Rolan Silverleaf was, Alec owed him his
life.
But where was the man?
Branches rattled on the opposite side of the
pool as a doe stepped from the trees to drink.
Alec's fingers itched for the taut pull of a bowstring.
"Maker keep you fat until we meet again!" he
called softly. Startled, the deer sprang away
on slender legs and Alec set off to see what he
could forage.
It was an old forest. Towering firs had long since
choked out all but the most persistent undergrowth, so that a
man could easily have driven a cart between their thick,
straight trunks. High overhead, the dense
canopy of interlaced boughs filtered the sunlight
to muted underwater tones. Moss-crusted boulders
studded the slope. Between them, patches of dead fems
whispered dryly as he passed. Finding a
few late mushrooms, he gathered them, nibbling at
one as he went along.
As he passed a large boulder, he was surprised
to find a rabbit dead in a snare. Hoping this was
Rolan's work, he freed the carcass and sniffed it.
It was fresh. Mouth watering at the first prospect of
hot meat in days, he headed eagerly back to the
camp. As he neared the clearing he heard the knock
of steel against a flint and hurried on to show Rolan
their breakfast.
Stepping from the shelter of the trees, he froze in
terror.
O Dalna, they found us!
A rough-clad stranger was standing with his back
to Alec, looking out over the pool. His tunic of
green homespun and leather
lyim Flewelling
breeches were unremarkable; it was the long scabbard
slung low on the intruder's left hip that caught
the boy's attention.
Alec's first thought was to melt back into the woods,
find Rolan. As he took a cautious step
back, however, his heel struck a dry stick. It
snapped loudly and the man whirled about, sword
drawn. Dropping the rabbit and the
mushrooms, Alec turned to bolt. A familiar
voice behind him brought him to a halt.
"It's all right. It's me. It's Rolan."
Still poised to run, Alec took a wary look
back and realized his mistake. It was Rolan, after
all, though he bore little resemblance to the foppish
coxcomb of the night before.
"Good morning," Rolan called. "You'd better go
get that coney you dropped. I've only got one
other and I'm famished!"
Alec's cheeks flushed hotly as he hastily
gathered up the rabbit and mushrooms and brought them to the
fire.
"I didn't recognize you," he exclaimed.
"How can you look so different?"
"Just changed my clothes." Rolan pushed back the
thick brown hair that hung now in damp waves
over his shoulders. "I don't suppose you got a
very good look at me before, racing around in the dark as
we did."
This was true, Alec reflected, sizing his
companion up. Rolan somehow seemed taller in the
daylight, though he was not a large man at all.
Rather, he was slender and fine-featured, with large grey
eyes set over high cheekbones and a long,
narrow nose. His mouth was fine, almost thin, and tilted
at the moment in a lopsided grin that made him look
younger than Alec would have guessed before.
"I don't know, Rolan-was
"Oh, and about the name." The grin tilted a bit
higher. "It isn't actually Rolan
Silverleaf."
"What do I call you, then?" asked Alec, not
particularly surprised.
"You can call me Seregil."
"How's that?"
"Serah-gill."
"Oh." It was an odd-sounding name, but Alec sensed
it was all he was going to get for the moment. "Where were
you?"
"Checking to see if anyone tracked us. There's no
sign of Asengai's men yet, but we'd better
move on soon in case they get lucky. We'll
eat first, though. You look starved."

Alec knelt by the fire, inspecting the two lean
coneys with a rueful smile. "We'd be eating
venison if I had my bow. Those bastards took
everything I owned. I don't even have a knife!
Lend me one and I'll clean these."
Reaching into the top of one tall boot, Seregil
handed him a long poniard.
"Maker's Mercy, that's a beauty!" Alec
exclaimed, running a thumbnail
appreciatively along the edge of the narrow,
triangular blade. As he set about cleaning the first
rabbit, however, it was Seregil's turn to be
impressed.
"You're pretty handy at that sort of thing," he
remarked as Alec opened the belly with a single quick
stroke.
Alec offered him a purplish-brown lobe of
liver. "You want some of this? Good for your blood in
the winter."
"Thanks." Accepting the morsel, Seregil sat
down by the fire and watched him thoughtfully.
Alec colored a little under that frank gaze.
"Thank you for saving my life last night. I'm in
your debt."
"You handled yourself well enough. How old are you,
anyway? You look young to be roaming around all
by yourself."
"Sixteen last summer," Alec replied a bit
gruffly. He was often taken for younger than he was.
"I've lived my whole life in the
woods."
"But not alone, surely?"
Alec hesitated, wondering how much he really
wanted to reveal to this odd stranger. "My father died
just after the summer solstice."
"I see. An accident, was it?"
"No, he had the wasting sickness." Tears stung
Alec's eyes and he bent lower over the rabbit,
hoping Seregil wouldn't notice. "It was a hard
death. Even the drysians couldn't help him in the
end."
caret You've been on your own all of three
months, then?" "Yes. We missed the spring bird
trade, so I had to spend the summer in Stone Tor
working off our debt to the inn where Father lay sick.
Then I came out for the fall trapping, like we always
did. I already had a whole string of pelts, good
ones, when ran into Asengai's men. Now, with no
equipment, no horse, nothing, I don't know-was
He broke off, his face grim; he'd walked the
thin line of starvation before.
Lynn Flewelling
"Don't you have a family somewhere?" Seregil asked
after a moment. "Where's your mother?"
"I never knew her."
"Friends?"
Alec handed him the dressed rabbit and took up the
second. "We kept to ourselves mostly. Father
didn't like towns."
"I see. So what will you do now?"
"I don't know. In Stone Tor I worked in the
scullery and helped out the ostler. I guess I'll
have to go back to that for the winter."
Seregil made no comment and Alec worked in silence
for a moment. Then, watching the steam from the open carcass
rise between his fingers, he asked, "All that back there
last night- was it you they were looking for?"
Seregil smiled slightly as he skewered the first
rabbit on a long stick and propped it over the
fire. "That's a dangerous question to ask a stranger.
If I was, I'd probably kill you just for
asking. No, I'm just a wandering collector of
tales. I've picked up a lot that way."
"So you really are a bard, then?"
"Sometimes. I was up above Kerry not long ago,
collecting stories of the
Faie
who were supposed to have lived up in the Ironheart
Mountains beyond Ravensfell Pass. Being from that
region yourself, you must know something about them."
"The Elder Folk, you mean?" Alec grinned.
"Those were always my favorite stories. We used
to cross trails with a skald who knew all about
them. He said they were magic folk, like trolls or
centaurs. When I was little I used to look for them in
the shadows of the trees, though Father said it was foolish.
'Those tales are nothing but smoke from a liar's
pipe!" he'd say-was
Alec's voice faltered and he broke off, rubbing
at his eyes as if smoke had blown into them.
Seregil tactfully failed to notice his distress.
"Anyhow, a few days ago I ran afoul of
Asengai, same as you. I'm off Wolde now.
I've got a bit of singing lined up there in three
days' time."
"Three days?" Alec shook his head. "You'd have
to go straight over the Downs to get there that quickly."
"Damn! I must be farther west than I thought. I
hear the Downs are a dangerous place for anyone
who doesn't know where the springs are."
"I could show you," Alec offered. "I've been
back and forth
Luck in the Shadows

across them most of my life. Maybe I could
turn up some work there, too."
"Do you know the town?"
"We traded there every fall at the Harvest Fair."
"Sounds like I've found myself a guide." Seregil
extended his hand. "What's your price?"
"I can't take your money," Alec protested.
"Not after what you did for me."
Seregil waved this aside with a crooked grin.
"Honor's for men with money in their pockets; you've
got a long, cold winter ahead. Come now, name your
price and I'll pay it gladly."
The logic was indisputable. "Two silver marks,"
Alec replied after a moment's calculation. Reaching
to clasp hands on it, however, his father's voice
spoke in the back of his mind and he drew back,
adding, "Hard money, and half now."
"Very prudent of you."
As they shook on the bargain, Alec felt a
curving edge against his palm and drew his hand from
Seregil's to find himself holding a large silver
coin. Two fingers wide and covered with fine
designs, it lay heavy against his palm.
"This is too much!" he protested.
Seregil shrugged. "It's the smallest I have.
Keep it and we'll settle up in
Wolde. It's a pretty thing, don't you think?"
"I've never seen anything like it!" What little
currency Alec had seen were crude lozenges of
copper or silver, distinguished only by weight and a
few crude symbols struck in. The designs
on this coin were better than anything he'd seen in a
jeweler's stall.
One side bore the slim bow of a crescent moon,
tipped on its side like a smile with five stylized
rays fanning out beneath it to the lower edge of the coin.
Cradled within the crescent was the figure of a
flame. The obverse showed a crowned woman. She
wore a cuirass of some sort over her flowing
gown, and held a large sword upright before her
face.
caret How did you get it into my hand?" he asked.
Telling spoils the trick," replied Seregil,
tossing him a square of wet sacking. "I'll tend
to the cooking. You go clean yourself
U
P- A quick swim should help."
Alec's smile disappeared. "Bilairy's
Balls, it's nearly winter and you want me to take
a
bath?"
if
we're going to share blankets over the next few
days, yes.
Lynn Flewelling
No offense, but dungeon life hasn't done much
for your genera] ambience. Go on, I'll mind the
fire. And get rid of those clothes! I've got
clean ones for you."
Dubious but not wanting to appear ungrateful,
Alec picked up a blanket and went to the pool.
Noting the lacy edgings of i" that still rimmed the
stones, however, he decided that gratitude only
went so far. Stripping off his rags, he gave himself
a cursor) scrubbing and pulled the blanket around his
waist. As he bent to duck his head under the water, the
sight of his reflection froze him, crouched and
trembling, on the wet stones. Only the day before,
Asengai's men had strapped him to a plank and
titled him into a water butt, holding him under again and
again until he thought his lungs would burst. He'd
had enough of water for now thank you very much.
Seregil smiled wryly to himself as he watched the
boy's hast) ablutions. These northerners seemed
to develop a genuine aversion to water over the winter.
Tugging open his pack, he rummaged out an
extra tunic, breeches, and a belt.
Alec hurried back to the fire and Seregil
tossed him the . clothes. "These should do for you.
We're almost of a size."
"Thanks." Shivering, Alec went off a few
feet and turned away before letting the blanket
drop.
"Asengai's men did a thorough job on you, I
see," saic Seregil, running a critical eye
over the bruises on the boy's bad and thighs.
"Dalna's Hands, there's such a thing as modesty,"
the go) muttered as he struggled into the breeches.
"Never had any use for it, myself, and I don't
see why you're so bothered with it either. Under those
bruises and that scowl- you're fairly pleasing
to look at." Seregil's expression betrayed
nothing more than the thoughtful concentration a man might show
when sizing up a horse he was about to buy.
Indeed, Alec was well favored, Seregil thought,
amused by his companion's discomfort. The boy was
lightly built and supple with dark, intelligent
blue eyes in a fair face that blushed easily and
concealed little. This last was easily remedied, though at
times an honest face was useful. The ragged,
honey-gold hai' looked like it had been
trimmed with a skinning knife, but time would fix that,
too.

Still, there was something more than Alec's appearance that
intrigued him. The lad was neat-handed, and there was a
familiar quickness about him that had little to do with training.
And he asked questions.
Alec finished dressing and reached to put the silver
coin Seregil had paid him into a pouch on his borrowed
belt.
"Wait a second. Watch this," said Seregil,
producing another like it from his own purse. Balancing
it on the back of one hand, he gave a quick snap of
his wrist, pulled his hand out from under it, and caught the
coin before it dropped half an inch. "Want
to try?"
Puzzled but intrigued, Alec tried the trick.
On the first attempt he dropped his coin. On the
second and third try it bounced off his fingertips.
The fourth time, however, he grasped it before it had
fallen more than a few inches.
Seregil nodded approvingly. "Not bad. Now try
it with your left."
When Alec could do the catch with either hand, Seregil
had him try it using only his thumb and
forefinger, and finally to perform the trick with his eyes
shut.
"Ah, but this is too simple for you," Seregil said
at last. "Here, give this a try."
He placed his coin on the ground beside him and rested his
hand to the left of it, an inch or so away. With a
subtle twitch of his little finger, he swept it beneath his
palm without even disturbing the dust. When he raised
his hand, the coin was gone. Shaking it from the sleeve of
his tunic with a comic flourish, he demonstrated how
the snap was done. Again Alec managed it after only
a few tries.
"You've got the hands of a born thief," Seregil
observed. "Perhaps I'd better not show you any more of
those just now!"
Left-handed compliment that it was, Alec returned
the grin as he snapped the coin up his sleeve a
final time. . They ate quickly, then covered all
signs of their camp, burying the fire and tossing their
refuse into the pool. As they worked, Seregil found
himself again pondering what he'd seen of Alec so far,
wondering what he could make of such a boy. Alec
caret fqu'ck and surprisingly well spoken. His
nature-a blend of stubborn persistence and appalling
openness-made for an interesting mix.
With
a
bit
of
po
i
isning greater-than
a
i
itt
i
e
training-his
Shaking his head, Seregil pushed the thought away.
lyim Flewelling
As they mounted to leave, a tiny owl flew across the
clearing and perched in a dead tree. Blinking in the
afternoon light, it fluffed up and let out a mellow
too too too.
Seregil gave the saw-whet a reverent nod; the
Lightbringer's own bird seen in daylight was no
small omen.
"What do you suppose he's doing out so early?"
Alec remarked.
Bemused, Seregil shook his head. "I have
no idea, Alec, no idea at all."
A cold wind carried the first light snow down through the
trees as they set off down the mountainside.
Giving the bay a loose rein, Seregil scanned
the forest around them for any sign of Asengai's
soldiers as he rode along behind Alec. Without a
saddle, the boy had to cling on with knees and hands.
He managed well enough, but it was hard going and
made for little conversation.
They reached the edge of the Downs by late afternoon and
cantered from the shelter of the trees. Before them
monotonous, dun-colored grasslands rolled
away to the distant horizon. The wind moaned
steadily over the waste, sweeping the fine, gritty
snow up into feathery gusts. A rumpled grey
blanket of clouds had sealed itself across the sky.
"Illior's Finger, but I hate the cold!"
Seregil exclaimed, stopping to secure his hood and
tug on a pair of gloves.
"And you the one all for bathing," Alec chided. "This
is nothing compared to what it will be come next-was He
broke off suddenly, staring at Seregil. "You
swore by Illior!"
"And you swear by Dalna. What of it?"
"Only southerners swear by Illior. Are
you from the south? The Three Lands?"
"As a matter of fact, I am," Seregil
replied, enjoying the boy's guileless astonishment.
To most northerners the Three Lands were hardly more
than places of fancy in a bard's tale; he
might as well have said, "I'm from the back of the
moon." "Do you know much of the south?"
"A little. The Gold Road goes down from Wolde
all the way to the country of Mycena. Most of the
caravaneers I've met have been Mycenians, though
there have been a few Skalans, too. Skala's
near there, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's a huge peninsula between the Inner and
Osiat seas, west of Mycena. To the east is
Plenimar, which lies on another peninsula to the east
of Mycena, along the coast of the Gathwayd Ocean.
The Gold Road, as you call it, is the main
trade route between the Three Lands and the northern
freeholdings."
"Which country are you from?"
"Oh, I travel around."
If Alec noticed the evasion, he let it go.
"Some of the traders claim that there are dragons in the
south, and powerful wizards. I saw a
wizard once at a fair." His face brightened at
the memory, easy to read as a tavern bill. "For a
price she'd hatch salamanders from hen's eggs and
make fires burn blue and red."
"Indeed?" Seregil had performed those tired
fakeries a few times himself. Still, he understood all
too well the wonder they could evoke.
"A Skalan trader tried to tell me the streets
of his cities were paved with gold," Alec went on.
"I didn't believe him, though. He was the one who
tried to buy me from Father. I was only eight or
nine. I could never figure out what he wanted me
for."
"Really?" Seregil lifted a noncommittal
eyebrow.
Luckily, Alec was more interested in the matter at
hand. "I've heard that Skala and Plenimar are
always at war."
Seregil gave a wry smile. "Not always, but
often."
"Why?"
"That's an old question, and a complicated one. This time,
I suspect it'll be to gain control of the Gold
Road."
"This time?" Alec's eyes widened.
"They're going to have another war? And way up here?"
"Looks that way. There are those that believe
Plenimar means to drive out the Skalan and
Mycenian merchants and extend their own political
influence over the northern freeholds."
caret You mean by conquering them?"
"Given their past history, I imagine that will be
Plenimar's solution."
"But why haven't I heard any of this before? In
Stone Tor, even at the Harvest Fair, nobody
was talking of war!"
Stone Tor is a long way from the main trading
routes," Seregil reminded him. "The fact is,
very few northerners are aware of it at the moment,
except those who already have a hand in it. As it stands
now, no one will be able to make a move until
spring."
Lynn Flewelling
"But Asengai and that man Morden, are they part of
it?" "An interesting question." Seregil pulled his
hood forward
again. "I think the horses have walked long enough,
don't you?
We need to make some distance before dark!"
The Downs made for smooth riding. Alec
knew of a spring they could camp by and set a steady
pace until dark.
He knew the landmarks well, but could imagine what
it must look like to his companion. Seregil was
clearly uneasy as they left the mountains behind, and
kept looking back over his shoulder as if trying
to use the distant peeks to gauge their progress.
But the mountains were quickly obscured by the lengthening
darkness and windblown snow. The sun, never more than a
pale hint behind the lowering clouds, was their only
guide.
"We'll have to make your food last," Alec
remarked when they'd halted for the night. "Most of the
summer game has moved south-not that I'd be able
to get anything without my bow anyway," he added
bitterly.
"I've got cheese and sausage enough for both of us,"
Seregil told him. "Good with a bow, are you?"
"Good enough." In truth, Alec felt like he was
missing a limb without one. The bow he'd lost at
Asengai's had been the best he'd ever made.
Dismounting, they scavenged around for firewood but found
nothing except low, resinous bushes that burned too
quickly, giving off more light than heat. Bundling up
as best they could against the wind, they sat
close together over their cold supper.
"You said that the fighting between Skala and Plenimar is
an old question," Alec said at last. "What did you
mean?"
"That's a long story," Seregil said with a chuckle,
pulling his cloak tighter. "But a long story can
make a long night seem shorter, I suppose.
To begin with, did you know that the Three Lands were once
one country?"
"No."
"Well, they were, and they were ruled over by a priest
king called a Hierophant. The first Hierophant
and his followers came from somewhere far across the
Gathwayd Ocean over two thousand years ago.
It's from them that your Dalna the Maker comes, along
with Astellas and the others. They made their first
landfall
k
luck in the Shadows

on the Plenimaran peninsula. Benshal, the
capital city of Pleni- mar, stands on the site
of the Hierophant's first city."
Alec's eyes narrowed skeptically at the thought of a
city that old, or his familiar patron
deity having such exotic origins. He kept his
doubts to himself, though, not wanting to interrupt the
tale.
"Over the years, these people and their religion spread
around the Inner and Osiat seas, founding what
eventually became Mycena and Skala," Seregil
went on.
"And it was these people who brought the worship of Dalna
north?"
"That's right. The Hierophant's people worshiped the
Sacred Four: Dalna the Maker and Astellus the
Traveler, whom you know; and Illior Lightbearer
and Sakor of the Flame, who never caught on up in
these parts.
"But getting back to the subject at hand, the unity
of the Three Lands didn't last. As centuries
passed the different regions developed ways of
their own. The Plenimarans, for instance, stayed by the
great Gathwayd Ocean, a body of water larger
than you've ever dreamed of. They're still great
sailors and explorers. It was the Plenimarans who
sailed south beyond the Strait of Bal to discover the
Aurenfaie-was
"Hold on! Aure'nstaj'e? Like the Faie up
beyond Ravensfell?" Alec broke in
excitedly, then felt his cheeks go warm as
Seregil chuckled.
"That's right. Your Elder Folk, properly called
the Hazadrielfaie, are said to be the descendants
of a group of Aurenfaie who went into the northern
lands before the time of the Hierophant. Aurenen lies
south of the Three Lands, across the Osiat and beyond the
Ashek Mountains."
"Then the Aurenfaie aren't human, either?"
"No.
Faie,
in their tongue, means "p"' or "belonging to,"
while
Aura
is their name for Illior; hence,
Aurenfaie,
the People of Illior. But that's another story alt-"
"But they
are
real?" Alec persisted; this was more than Seregil had
let on previously. "Have you ever seen any? What
are they like?"
Seregil smiled. "Not so different from you and me,
really. No pointy ears or tails, anyway.
They're a handsome folk, for the most part. The
main difference between Aurenfaie and humans is that the
"faie generally live for three or four hundred
years."
Lynn Flewelltng
m
"No!" Alec snorted, certain this time that his
companion was pulling his leg.
"Think what you like, but that's what I've understood
to be true. More important, however, is the fact
that they were the first to possess magic. Not that they're
all wizards, of course."
"But priests have magic," Alec interjected.
"Especially the drysians. Long ago, when the
Maker still lived among the people, Dalna came to a
woman named Drysia and revealed to her all the
secrets of the land and its proper use. The
drysians can draw on the power of the earth and they know
the secret uses of herbs and stones. Some even know
the speech of beasts."
Seregil regarded him with that peculiar tilted grin
again. "You've got a touch of the skald, too, I
see. You're correct about priests having magic,
but it's not the same as true wizardry. If you ever
see a real wizard at work, you'll recognize the
difference."
"So all wizards are really Aurenfaie?"
"Oh, nothing of the sort. But they did mix blood
with the Tirfaie."
"Tirfaie?"
"Sorry. A good story teller should always know his
audience.
Tirfaie
is the Aurenfaie word for outsiders. Roughly
translated, it means 'the people of short lives." his
"I guess they'd think so, if they live as long as
you say," Alec allowed.
"Just so. Anyway, during the years when the
Aurenfaie had open commerce with the Three Lands, the
peoples mingled and many of the half-blood children were
born with magic. Some stories even claim that
Aura-or Illior, depending on which side of the
Osiat you're from-sent a messenger in the form of a
huge dragon to teach these half bloods how to use
their powers."
"Dragons are real, too?" breathed Alec, more
wide-eyed than ever.
Seregil grinned. "Don't get your hopes up.
As far as I know, no one's seen a dragon in
Skala since then."
"Skala? But I thought the Plenimarans were
the ones who found the Aurenfaie."
"And I thought you hadn't heard this story before,"
Seregil countered dryly.
"I haven't, but you said that the Plenimarans-was
"They did, but the Aurenfaie got on best with the
Skalans in the end. Most of those who stayed in the
Three Lands settled
X
luck in the Shadows

there. But that was a very long time ago, more than eight
hundred years. Eventually most of the Aurenfaie
withdrew to their own land again."
"Why did they leave?"
Seregil spread his hands. "As with anything, there were
many reasons. But their legacy remains. Wizard
children are still being born and they still go to Rhiminee for
training. That's the capital city of Skala, by the
way."
"Rhiminee." Alec savored the exotic sound of
it. "But what about the wizards? Have you ever seen one?"
"I know a few. We'd better get some sleep
now. I suspect we've a hard few days ahead
of us."
Although Seregil's expression scarcely
changed, Alec sensed once again that he'd strayed
into forbidden territory.
They settled down for the night, sharing what warmth they
could beneath their blankets and cloaks as the wind wailed
across the Downs.
The following morning Alec tried the coin catches
again but his cold fingers were too stiff.
"As soon as we get to Wolde we'd better find
you some gloves," said Seregil, hovering over their
meager fire. He lifted his hands to show Alec the
fine leather gloves he wore. He'd had them on
yesterday, too, the boy realized. "Let me look
at your hands."
Turning Alec's palms up, he clucked
disapprovingly as he examined the cracks and
calluses that covered them.
"Too much rough living. No delicacy of touch."
Pulling off a glove, he slid his palm across
Alec's. The skin was surprisingly smooth.
"I can tell gold from silver in the dark just by the
feel of it. Looking at my hands, you'd think I'd
never done a day's work in my life. But you! We
could dress you up like a gentleman dandy and your hands
would give you away before you ever opened your mouth."
"I doubt I'll ever have to worry about that.
I like those tricks, though. Can you show me something
else?"
"All right. Watch my hand." Without lifting his arm
from where it rested across his knee, Seregil moved the
fingers
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quickly in a smooth ripple, as if drumming
briefly on an invisible tabletop.
"What's that?" Alec asked, mystified.
"I just told you to have the horses ready. And this-was
He raised his right index finger as if to scratch under
his chin, then looked slightly to the left, drawing the
finger back a little toward his ear. "That means we're
in danger from behind. Not every sign is that simple, of
course, but once you learn the system you can
communicate without anyone being the wiser. Say we were
in a crowded room and I wanted to tell you something.
I'd catch your eye, then lower my chin once just a
bit, like this. Now you try it. No, that's too much.
You might as well shout! Yes, that's better. Now
the horse sign. Good!"
"Do you use this a lot?" asked Alec, trying the
danger sign with indifferent results.
Seregil chuckled. "You'd be surprised."
ill
They set off at a brisk canter. Seregil still
found the terrain distressingly featureless, but Alec
seemed to know what he was doing. Finding the spring the
previous night had been heartening evidence of
Alec's abilities as a guide and Seregil
kept his doubts to himself.
Keeping one eye on the sky, the boy scanned the
horizon for landmarks Seregil could only guess
at. Left to himself, Alec was rather quiet by nature.
There was nothing reticent or strained about it-he
simply seemed content to concentrate on the business
at hand.
This soon proved not to be the only thing on his mind,
however. Reining in at another small spring just before
noon, he turned to Seregil as if they'd only
paused for breath in an ongoing conversation and asked,
"Will you be working as a bard in Wolde?"
"Yes. Around the Woldesoke I go by the name Aren
Windover. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
Alec gave him a skeptical look.
"You're
Aren Windover? I heard him sing last spring at the
Fox, but I don't recall him looking like you."
"Well, I guess I don't look much like
Rolan Silverleaf, either, just now."

"That's true," Alec admitted. "Just how many
names do you go by, anyway?"
"Oh, whatever suits. And if you won't take my
word that Aren and I are one and the same, I'll prove
it. Which of my songs did you like the best?"
was "The Lay of Araman," was Alec answered
at once. "The tune stuck in my head for weeks
after but I could never remember all the verses."
was "The Lay of Araman" it is, then."
Seregil cleared his throat and launched into the song,
his voice a rich, lilting tenor. After a moment
Alec joined in. His voice wasn't as fine, but
he could carry a tune.
"Across the sea sailed Araman,
a hundred men he led. His ship was black as
Death's left eye,
her sails were deep bloodred. They sailed
to Simra's distant shore
to answer Honor's call. A hundred men sailed
out to sea,
but none sailed home at all.
For Honor s price is blood and steel
and Death will be your brother. A soldier's life is
full of strife,
but I swear I'd have no other!
On the city walls stood King Mindar,
he watched the ship draw nigh. Five hundred men
were at his back
and gave the battle cry. Then marched they to the
battle plain
to meet the seaborne foe, While Araman and his
hundred men
came all ashore below.
For Honor's price is blood and steel
and with your life you "II buy it. But the ladies
love a fighting man
and there's none that will deny it!
Then Amman strode on the field
and Mindar stepped to meet him. 'allyour lying tongue
has brought us here!"
cried Araman to greet him. "I see your force
is greater,
you have numbers on your side, But by my sword,
I'll see you dead
'ere the turning of the tide."
For Honor's price is blood and steel though
flesh won't stop a sword.
The glory of a soldier's death will be your last
reward!
Then on the plain the armies met
and sword rang out on shield. Helms were cloven,
limbs were hacked,
yet neither side would yield, Until the generals
found themselves
alone upon the plain. Six hundred soldiers,
brave and bold,
would never fight again.
For Honor's price is blood and steel
and well the widows know The worth of Honor to the
lads
now lying down below!
Then toe to toe and blade to blade
the two fierce warriors fought. To steal the heart's
blood of his foe
was each one's only thought. From their wounds the blood
flowed down
to stain the trampled sward And when the tide was turning
Mindar fell to Araman's sword.
For Honor's price is blood and steel
for churl and lord as well And generals often lead their
men
down to the gates of hell!

Bold Amman, the victor now,
lays his blade aside. From his wounds his life
flows out
just like the sea s great tide. The price of Honor
paid in full
with blood and steel and lives. On an empty
plain by an empty shore
the rightful victor dies.
For Honor's price is blood and steel
so harken well, my son. Honor's a damned
expensive thing
if you're dead when the battle's won!"
"Well sung!" Seregil applauded. "With a good
apprenticeship, you might make a passable bard
yourself."
"Me?" Alec said with an embarrassed grin. "I
can imagine what Father would have said to that!"
So can I,
Seregil thought, having decided that the dead man must
have been a pretty dour sort.
They passed much of the afternoon ride trading songs. As
soon as Seregil discovered how Alec blushed at
the bawdy ones, he made a special point of
including plenty of those.
For two days they traveled hard and slept cold,
but the time passed quickly. Seregil proved as
fine a wayfaring companion as Alec could have hoped
for, happy to fill the long hours of riding with
tales, songs, and legends. The only subject
he proved stubbornly reticent about was his own past,
and Alec quickly learned not to press. Otherwise,
however, they got on well enough. Alec was
particularly intrigued by stories of life in the
south.
"You never finished telling me about why the Three
Lands fight so often," he said, hoping for another
story after a particularly long silence that afternoon.
"I do tend to get sidetracked, don't I?
What would you like to know?"
"About that priest king and all, I guess. It used
to be all one country, you said, but now they're three.
What happened?"
lyim Flewelling
"Same thing that always happens when someone thinks someone
else has more land and power than they do-there was a war.
"About a thousand years ago, the various territories
got restless under Hierophantic rule. Hoping
to hold his people together, the Hierophant granted them
dominion, dividing them up into pretty much what are
now Skala, Mycena, and Plenimar. Each had its
own regent, appointed by him, of course.
"It was a logical split, geographically
speaking, but unfortunately Plenimar got the short
end of the stick. Skala controlled the sheltered
plains below the Nimra Range. Mycena had
fertile valleys and established outposts to the
north. But Plenimar, earliest settled of the three,
lay on a dry peninsula with diminishing resources.
To make matters worse, the first rumors of gold
soon came back from the north and Mycena controlled
the routes. What Plenimar did have, though, were
warriors and ships, and it wasn't long before they
decided to use them. Just two centuries after the
division, they attacked Mycena and started a war that
lasted seventeen years."
"How long ago was this?"
"Nearly eight hundred years. Plenimar
probably would've won, too, if Aurenen hadn't
come into the fight in the last years."
"The Aurenfaie again!" Alec cried, delighted.
"But why did they wait so long?"
Seregil shrugged. "The doings of the Tirfaie were of
little concern to Aurenen. It was only when the fighting
neared their own waters that they officially allied themselves
with Skala and Mycena."
Alec thought a moment. "But if the other
countries had all the gold and land and everything, how
come they weren't stronger than Plenimar?"
"They should have been. The wizards of Skala were at the
height of their powers then, too. Even the drysians
were enlisted to the fight and, as I'm sure you can
imagine, they are a force to be reckoned with when they
want to be. Some old ballads speak of
Plenimaran necromancers and armies of walking dead
that could be driven back only by the strongest
magicks. Whether or not these tales are true, it
was the most terrible war ever fought."
"And Plenimar didn't win?"
"No, but they came close. In the spring of the
fifteenth year of the war, Hierophant Estmar was
killed; this sundered the Three Lands forever.
Luckily, the black ships of Aurenen sailed
B*caret .
luck in the Shadows

through the Straits of Bal just after this and attacked at
Benshal, while the Aurenfaie army and their wizards
joined the fighting at Cirna. Whether it was by magic
or simply the force of fresh troops, the power of
Plenimar was finally broken. At the Battle of
Isil, Krycopt, the first Plenimaran
ruler to call himself Overlord, was killed by the
Skalan queen, Gherilain the First."
"Hold on!" Reaching into his purse, Alec
brought out the silver coin. "Is this her, the woman
on the coin?"
"No, that's Idrilain the Second, the present
queen."
Alec turned the coin over and pointed to the crescent
ant! flame symbols. "And what do these mean?"
"The crescent stands for Illior; the flame above
is for Sakor Together they form the crest of Skala."
Skala!
thought Alec as he tucked the coin away.
Well, at leas: I know now where you "re from.
Their third morning on the Downs dawned clear.
Seregil woke first. It had snowed heavily the
night before. Luckily, Alec had spotted an
abandoned burrow just before sunset and they'd spent the
night inside. The hole still stank of its former
inhabitants, but it was large enough for the two of them
to stretch out in. With the pack and Seregil's saddle
jammed in the opening as a windbreak, they'd managed
to keep warm for the first time since they'd come onto the
Downs.
Cramped but warm, Seregil was tempted
to let Alec's soft, even breathing lull him back
to sleep. Looking down at him as he slept, he
examined the planes of the boy's face.
Am I only seeing what I want to see?
he wondered silently, feeling again the instinctual
twinge of recognition. But there would be time for all that
later; for now he had to concentrate on Wolde.
Giving Alec a nudge, he wriggled out of the
burrow. Golden pink light washed across the
unbroken expanse of snow surrounding them, its
brightness dazzling after several days of sullen weather.
The horses were pawing at the snow in search of forage
and Seregil's belly growled sympathetically at the
sight; tired as he was of

tough sausage and old cheese, this morning's scant
breakfast would exhaust the last of the food.
"Thank the Maker for a sight of the sun!" Alec
exclaimed, crawling out behind him.
"Thank Sakor, you mean," yawned Seregil,
pushing his hair back from his eyes. "Of the Four-
Oh, hell, it's too early for philosophy. Do
you think we'll make Wolde today?"
Alec peered hard to the south, then nodded. "Before
sundown, I'd say."
Seregil waded over to the horses and scratched his
bay under the forelock. "Oats for you tonight, my friends,
and a hot bath and supper for me. If our guide's
worth his silver, that is."
Seregil was uncharacteristically quiet as they rode
along that morning. When they stopped to rest the horses
at midday, however, Alec sensed something was up.
Seregil had that same bemused look about him that
Alec remembered seeing when he'd offered to rescue
him from Asengai's keep, as if he wasn't
certain what he was about to do was the wisest move.
"The other night I joked about an apprenticeship
for you," he said over his shoulder as he adjusted his
saddle girth. "What do you think of the idea?"
Alec looked at him in surprise. "As a bard,
you mean?"
"Perhaps apprenticeship isn't exactly the right
term. I'm not a guildsman of any sort, much
less a bard. But you're quick and smart. There's a
lot I could teach you."
"Like what?" Alec asked, a little wary now but
interested.
Seregil hesitated a moment, as if sizing him
up, then said, "I specialize in the acquisition
of goods and information."
Alec's heart sank. "You're a thief."
"I'm nothing of the sort!" Seregil frowned. "At
least not in the sense you mean."
"Then what?" Alec demanded. "A spy like that
Juggler fellow you killed?"
Seregil grinned. "I'd be insulted if I thought
you knew what you were talking about. Let's just say for the
moment that I'm acting as an agent of sorts,
engaged by an eminently respectable gentleman
to collect information regarding certain unusual
occurrences here in the north. Discretion prevents me
from saying
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tilde plus andm
more, but I assure you the goal is noble-even if my
methods don't always seem so."
Hidden somewhere in his companion's suddenly
high-flown, convoluted discourse, Alec suspected
he'd just admitted to being a spy after all. Worse,
he had nothing but Seregil's word that what he was
telling, or half telling him, was the truth. Still, the
fact remained that Seregil had rescued him when he
could more easily have left him behind, and had since offered
him nothing but friendship.
"I imagine you're already fairly skilled
in tracking and that sort of thing," Seregil went on
casually. "You say you're a fair shot with a bow, and
you made good use of that ax, now that I think of it.
Can you handle a sword?"
"No, but-was
"No matter, you'd learn quickly enough, with the right
teacher. I know just the man. Then, of course, there'd
be palming, etiquette, lock work, disguise,
languages, heraldry, fighting-I don't
suppose you can read?"
"I know the runes," Alec retorted, though in
truth he could only make out his own name and a few
words.
"No, no, I meant proper writing."
"Hold on, now," cried Alec, overwhelmed.
"I don't mean to be ungrateful-you've saved my
life and all, but-was
Seregil waved this aside impatiently. "Given
the circumstances of your capture, getting you out of
there seemed the least I could do. But now I'm talking
about what
you
want, Alec, beyond tomorrow, beyond next week.
Honestly, do you really mean to spend the rest of your
life mucking out stalls for some fat
innkeeper in Wolde?"
Alec hesitated. "I don't know. I mean,
hunting and trapping, it's all the life I've
known."
"All the more reason to give it up, then!" Seregil
declared, his grey eyes alight with enthusiasm. "How
old did you say you are?"
"Sixteen."
"And you've never seen a dragon."
"You know I haven't."
"Well, I have," Seregil said, swinging up into the
saddle again.
"You said there weren't any more dragons!"
"I said there weren't any more in Skala. I've
seen them flying under a full moon in winter. I've
danced at the great Festival of

Sakor and tasted the wines of Zengat, and heard
mermaids singing in the mists of dawn. I've walked
the halls of a palace built in a time beyond memory
and felt the touch of the first inhabitants against my
skin. I'm not talking legend or imagination,
Alec, I've done all of that, and more than I have
breath to tell."
Alec rode along in silence, overwhelmed
with half-realized images.
"You said you couldn't imagine yourself as anything more than
what you've been," Seregil went on, "but I say
you've just never had the chance to try. I'm offering you that
chance. Ride south with me after Wolde, and see how
much world there is beyond your forests."
"But the stealing part-was
Seregil's crooked grin held no trace of
remorse. "Oh, I admit I've cut a
purse or two in my time, and some of what I do could
be called stealing depending on who you ask, but try
to imagine the challenge of overcoming incredible
obstacles to accomplish a noble purpose. Think of
traveling to lands where legends walk the streets in
daylight and even the color of the sea is like nothing
you've ever seen! I ask you again, would you be plain
Alec of Kerry all your life, or would you see
what lies beyond?"
"But is it an honest living?" Alec persisted,
clinging to his last shred of resolve.
"Most of those who employ me are great lords or
nobles."
"It sounds like a pretty dangerous line of work,"
Alec remarked, aware that Seregil had once again
side-stepped the question.
"That's the spice of it, though," cried Seregil.
"And you can end up rich!"
"Or at the end of a rope?"
Seregil chuckled. "Have it your way."
Alec gnawed absently at a thumbnail, his brow
creased in thought. "All right, then," he said at
last. "I want to come with you, but first you've got
to give me a few straight answers."
"It's against my nature, but I'll try."
"This war you spoke of, the one that's coming. Which side
are you on?"
Seregil let out a long sigh. "Fair enough. My
sympathies lie with Skala, but for your safety and
mine, that's as much as I'll say on the matter for
now."
Lynn Flewelling
Alec shook his head. "The Three Lands are so far
away. It's hard to believe their wars could reach us
here."
"People will do quite a lot for gold and land, and there's
precious little of either left in the south, especially in
Plenimar."
"And you're going to stop them?"
"Hardly," scoffed Seregil. "But I may be of
some help to those who can. Anything else?"
"After Wolde, where would we go?"
"Well, home to Rhiminee ultimately, though
first-was
"What?" Alec's eyes widened. "You mean to say
that you live
there!
In the city where the wizards are?"
"What do you say?"
Some small, final doubt held Alec back a
moment longer. Looking Seregil in the eye, he
asked, "Why?"
Seregil raise one eyebrow, perplexed. "Why
what?"
"You hardly know me. Why do you want me to come with
you?"
"Who knows? Perhaps you remind me just a bit of-was
"Someone you used to know?" Alec interjected
skeptically.
"Someone I used to
be"
The crooked grin flashed again as Seregil pulled
off his right glove and extended his hand across to Alec.
"So it's settled?"
"I guess so." Alec was surprised to catch a
glimpse of what looked like relief in his
companion's eyes as they clasped hands. It was gone
in an instant and Seregil quickly moved on to new
plans.
"There are a few details to take care of before we
reach town. How well known are you in Wolde?"
"My father and I always stayed in the trader's
quarter," replied Alec. "We generally put up
at the Green Bough. Except for the landlord, though,
most of the people we knew wouldn't be there this time of year."
"Just the same, there's no use taking chances.
We'll need a reason for you to be traveling with Aren
Windover. Here's a lesson for you; give me
three reasons why Alec the Hunter would be in the
company of a bard."
"Well, I guess I could tell how you rescued
me and-was
"No, no, that won't do at all!" Seregil
interrupted. "First of all, I don't want it
known that I-or rather Aren-was anywhere near Asengai.
Besides, I make it a rule never, never,
never
to use

the truth unless it's the last possible option or so
outlandish that nobody would believe you
anyway. Keep that in mind."
"All right then," said Alec. "I could say I was
attacked by bandits and you-was
Seregil shook his head, motioning for Alec
to continue.
Alec fidgeted with the reins, sorting through various
inspirations. "Well, I know it's sort of the
truth, but people would believe that you hired me as a
guide. Father and I hired out sometimes."
"Not bad. Go on."
"Or"-Alec turned to his companion with a
triumphant grin-"perhaps Aren has taken me on as
his
apprentice!"
"Not bad, for a first effort," Seregil conceded. "The
rescue story was very good, actually. Loyalty to one
who saves your life is well understood and seldom
questioned. Unfortunately Aren's reputation is such that
nobody would believe it. I'm afraid he's a
bit of a coward. The guide story, however, is
seriously flawed. Aren Windover is a well-known
figure in the Woldesoke; if bards make their
living as wanderers, why would he need to engage a
guide in the territory he's familiar with?"
"Oh." Alec nodded, a bit
crestfallen.
"But the apprentice idea should do nicely.
Luckily, you can sing. But can you think like a bard?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, suppose you're in a tavern on the
highroad. What sort of customers would you have?"
"Traders, wagoneers, soldiers."
"Excellent! And suppose there's a great deal of
drinking going on and a song is called for. What would
you choose?"
"Well, probably something like the 'The Lay of
Araman." his
"A good choice. And why?"
"Well, it's about fighting and honor; the soldiers
would like that. And it's widely known, so everyone could
join in. And it has a good refrain."
"Well done! Aren's used that song many times, and for just
those reasons. Now suppose yourself a minstrel in a
lord's hall, performing for fat barons and their
ladies."
"Maybe "Lillia and the Rose"? There's nothing
coarse in it."
Laughing, Seregil leaned across to clap Alec on
the shoulder. "Perhaps you should take Aren on as
apprentice! I don't suppose you play
an instrument?"
lyim Flewelling
"Afraid not."
"Oh well. Aren will just have to apologize for your
green skills."
They spent the rest of the afternoon extending Alec's
repertoire as they rode along.
By late afternoon the Downs gave way to the rough,
sloping terrain of the Brythwin River valley. In
the distance they could make out the squares of bare
fields and distant farmsteads that marked the boundary of the
Woldesoke district. The river itself, a black,
tree-fringed line far below, flowed into Blackwater
Lake several miles east of the waterfront town.
Bordered along its northern shore by the great Lake
Wood, the shimmering expanse of water stretched
unbroken to the far horizon.
"You say the Gathwayd Ocean is bigger than that?"
asked Alec, shading his eyes. He'd hunted
along the Lake's shores all his life and couldn't
imagine anything larger.
"By quite a margin," replied Seregil cheerfully.
"Let's move on before we lose the light."
The late-afternoon sun cast a mellow glow across the
valley. Picking their way down the stony
slope, they struck the main road leading along the
river toward Wolde. The Brythwin was low, its
course laced with gravel spits. Stands of ash and
willow grew thickly along the banks, often
screening the river from view.
A mile or so before reaching the lake shore, the road
curved away from the river to skirt a dense copse
of trees. Reining in, Seregil studied the wall
of branches for a moment, then dismounted and motioned for
Alec to follow.
Bare willow branches stroked over them, catching
at hoods and harness as they pushed their way through to a
clearing beside the river. A tiny stone cottage
surrounded by a wattle and daub fence stood on a
rise close by the water's edge.
As Seregil approached the gate a brindle hound
came rushing at them from around the corner of the
cottage, growling and showing its teeth. Alec
retreated hastily back in the direction of his
horse, but Seregil stood his ground. Muttering a
few low words, he made some sort of sign with his
left hand. The dog skidded to a halt on the other
side of the gate, then skulked back the way it had
come.
41
Alec gaped. "How did you do that?"
"Just a little thief's trick I picked up somewhere.
Come on, it's perfectly safe."
A very old, very bald little man answered Seregil's
knock.
"Who's that?" he demanded, peering blankly past
them. A deep scar, faded white against the old
fellow's leathery skin, ran in a ragged line from the
top of his skull to the bridge of his nose.
"It's me, old father," Seregil replied,
slipping something into his outstretched hand.
The old man reached to touch Seregil's face. "I
thought as much when Crusher went quiet like that. And not
alone this time, eh?"
"A new friend." Seregil guided the blind man's hand
to Alec's cheek.
The boy remained still as the dry fingertips ran
swiftly over his features. At no point were names
exchanged.
The old fellow gave a rheumy chuckle.
"Beardless, but no girl. Come in both of you, and
welcome. Sit yourselves by the fire while I fetch
something to eat. Everything's as you left it, sir."
The little house consisted of a single room with a loft
overhead. Everything was neat and spare, the old
man's simple belongings arranged with care on
shelves along the walls.
Seregil and Alec warmed themselves gratefully at the
cheerful blaze on the hearth while their host shuffled
about with practiced efficiency, setting out bread,
soup, and boiled eggs for them at the scrubbed wooden
table.
Seregil wolfed his supper and disappeared into the loft.
When he came down again he was dressed in a bard's
embroidered tunic and striped hose. A
traveler's harp of dark wood inlaid with silver was
slung over his shoulder. He'd washed again, too,
Alec noted in mild surprise. He'd never
met anyone who set such store by washing.
"Do you recognize me now, boy?" Seregil
asked in a haughty, slightly nasal voice,
giving Alec an elaborate bow.
"By the Maker, you really are Aren Windover!"
"You see? What you remembered about Aren wasn't his
face so much as his flamboyant manner, the gaudy
clothes, and the affected way he spoke. Believe
me, I do all that with good reason.
Lynn Flewellfog
When you get right down to it, aside from the fact that
Aren and I are physically identical,
we're nothing alike at all."
Their host let out a dry cackle from his corner by the
fire.
"As for your appearance," Seregil continued, "I've
set out some things for you upstairs. Go clean yourself
up, then we'll see about your hair. Aren would never
allow any apprentice of his to look so unkempt."
The loft was as sparsely furnished as the room below,
containing only a bed, washstand, and clothes chest. A
dusty candle burned in a dusty sconce and by its
light Alec saw a broadsword hanging on the
wall above the bed, its scarred scabbard blackened with
age. On the bed lay a tunic of russet wool,
a new cloak, a pair of soft doeskin
breeches, and a belt with a sheathed dagger and a pouch.
Opening the latter, Alec found ten silver
pennies. A pair of high leather boots sagged
against the bedpost. Both clothing and boots were clean but
worn-more of Seregil's castoffs, no doubt.
Lucky for me I met up with someone my own size,
Alec thought, inspecting the boots more closely. As
he'd expected, there was a dagger pocket stitched
inside the left one. Pulling on the boots, he
slipped his Skalan coin and five of the pennies
into the knife pocket as a precaution against
cutpurses; his father had taught him never to carry
all his money in one place when he went into a town.
As he dressed, he could hear Seregil plucking
away at the harp below. After a moment there came a
light ripple of notes and scattered snatches of
melodies.
He plays as well as he sings,
thought Alec, wondering what other talents would
reveal themselves as he got to know Seregil better.
Below the music, however, he suddenly caught the sound
of quiet conversation. After a moment's hesitation, he
crept to the edge of the loft and strained to hear more. Both
men were keeping their voices low and he could make out
only bits and pieces.
"dis . . days ago. They seem peaceful enough, but
why so many?" the blind man was saying.
"No doubt..." Seregil's voice was harder
to hear. "I suppose, with the mayor."
"Aye, calling himself Boraneus, claims to be a
trade envoy for the Overlord."
Overlord?
thought Alec. He'd heard that term before! And hadn't
Seregil as much as said he'd been sent north to see
what
43
the Plenimarans were up to? Holding his breath,
Alec inched closer to the edge, trying to pick up the
thread of the conversation.
"Did she know him?" Seregil was asking.
"... last evening ... dark, well favored ... a
sword cut ..."
"Which eye?"
"Left, she said."
"Illior's Fingers! Mardus?" For an instant
Seregil sounded genuinely startled. The old man
muttered something, to which Seregil replied, "No, and
I'll do my best to see that he doesn't... more
demon than ..."
Both men were silent for a moment, then Seregil
called out, "Alec! Have you fallen asleep up
there?"
Alec quickly rolled his old clothes into a bundle,
then paused a moment longer for the guilty blush
to pass.
The look that Seregil gave him as he hurried
down the ladder betrayed only impatience, but he was
certain he could feel Seregil's eyes on his
back as he busied himself with packing away their
traveling clothes.
Seregil tucked his harp under one arm and went
to take leave of their host.
"Luck in the shadows," the blind man said, clasping
hands with them at the door.
"And to you," Seregil returned.
@lL
S caret greater-than JS8CARET backslash
Wolde-largest of the isolated trade centers
scattered across the northlands- owed its prosperity to the
Gold Road, a narrow span of the Gallistrom
River, and a tiny yellow flower.
The Gold Road began to the north in the
foothills of the Ironheart Mountains, where gold
had been mined from time out of mind. At Kerry, the
precious metal was smelted and molded into round,
flat ingots called baps and sewn into square
sheepskin bales stuffed with wool. This wool, shorn
from the mountain sheep native to the region, was
especially soft and fine and had since become another
source of wealth for the region. The original
purpose of the bales, however, was merely to protect
the gold, for the road was fraught with hazards, not the
least of which were bandits. Weighing as much as two men, the
bales were difficult to steal but floated if they were
lost in one of the many rivers that crossed the route.
Loaded onto ox-drawn wagons, the
bales were carried on to Boersby, where they were
packed onto flatboats and taken down the
Folcwine to the Mycenian seaport of Nanta.
The country between Kerry and Boersby was desolate
except for a few settled districts. The
caravaneers traveled in large groups with hired
swordsmen and archers to protect them.
IthkhMMININ,..
Luck in the Shadows

The last safe refuge between Blackwater Lake and
Boersby was the town of Wolde on the banks of the
Gallistrom River.
Unlike the placid Brythwin, the Gallistrom was
dangerous, deep, and broad. From its source in the
Ironheart, it swept down through the great Lake
Wood into Blackwater Lake. Originally the
only safe crossing was a slow, precarious system
of ferries. Wagons waiting on the shore for the
next raft across were easy prey for bandits. Many
others were lost to the river itself when strong spring
currents overturned the rafts, sweeping away
men, oxen, and gold.
At last a wide stone bridge was constructed and the
tiny settlement that had sprung up around the
ferry site grew into a village. The area had
riches of its own, as it turned out. Dye- yielding
plants of many sorts grew in profusion between the
lake and the forest, among them the yellow wolde from which the
town took its name. With these plants nearly any
color could be produced, many in rich hues
superior to anything produced in the south. Dyers,
weavers, fullers, and felters set up shop there and
suddenly the wool of Kerry was in great demand.
Bolts of soft, lustrous "Wolde cloth" were now
sought almost as eagerly in the south as the golden baps.
By Alec's day, Wolde was a wealthy guild town
centered around the bridge and protected by a stout
wooden palisade.
The sun was nearing the western horizon when Alec and
Seregil rode up the lake shore to the town
walls. Across the water they could see the many colored
sails of fishing boats making their way back to town
for the night.
"It's early for the gates to be closed, isn't it?"
remarked Seregil as they reined in. "Any time
I've been here before they've been kept open until
well after dark."
Alec looked the palisade over. "The walls are
higher, too."
"State your names and business, if you please," a
disinterested voice called from overhead.
"Aren Windover, a bard," Seregil announced,
dropping into Aren's slightly pompous manner. "I
am accompanied by my apprentice."
"Windover, is it?" The sentry leaned over the
parapet for a better look at the newcomers.
"Why, I remember you! You played at the summer
fair and was the best of all the bards that come. Pass
through, sir, and your boy."
A horse postern swung inward. Alec and
Seregil ducked their
Lynn Flewelling
heads and rode inside. The sentry, a youngish man
in a leather jerkin, extended a long-handled toll
basket down to them.
"That's one copper a horse and a silver half
penny for each rider, sir. We've not seen a
proper bard or skald since you was here last, you
know. Where'full you be staying this time through?"
"I mean to start at the Fishes, but hope for better
before I leave," replied Seregil, motioning Alec
to pay the toll. "By my recollection, it's early
in the day for the gates to be locked. Aren't there more
guards than usual?"
"That there is, sir," the man replied, shaking his
head. "There's been three raids on the caravans
within the last couple of months, two of "em within ten
miles of the town. The caravan- eers are mad as
scalded cats over it, claiming the town's
supposed to guard the road. But the mayor, he's more
worried about Wolde itself being attacked. We've
been building up the palisade and standing extra
watches ever since. It all seems to have calmed
down, though, since them southerners showed up."
"Southerners?" Seregil's feigned surprise was
not lost on Alec.
"Oh, aye. Plenimarans, of all people! An envoy
called Lord Boraneus come to set up trade, as
I hear it."
Boraneus?
Alec stole a glance at Seregil; this was one of the
names he'd picked up eavesdropping at the blind
man's cottage- that and another, something starting with
M.
"Brought a mess of soldiers with him, too," the
gatekeeper went on. "Must be two score or more.
We didn't know what to make of it when word first come
that they was on the way, but it turned out to be a good
thing. They made short work of them bandits,
I can tell you! The taverners claim they're a
rough lot, but they pay well, and in silver. I
warrant you'll pick up a good piece of trade with
'em yourself."
"I have the greatest hopes." Throwing back his
cloak, Seregil produced a silver coin from his
own purse and flipped it to the man. "Thank you for
your most helpful information. I hope you'll drink
my health at the Three Fishes."
Pocketing the coin happily, the sentry waved them
through.
Within the palisade the road wound through the center of the
town toward a market square that spanned both
sides of the bridge.
The streets here were stained with the colorful,
foul-smelling runoff of dyers" shops. In the more
prosperous lanes, raised wooden walkways had
been built to prevent patrons from stain

ing their garments with the mud. Gatherers' carts
trundled from shop to shop all day, loaded with
shipments of pigment-bearing plants and minerals. The
poorest of children had bright rags on their backs; even
the pigs and dogs that wandered the neighborhood
displayed a startling diversity of color. The
clack and thump of the weavers' looms filled the air
and lengths of freshly dyed cloth, hung to dry on
racks strung between buildings and over the streets,
gave the area a perpetually festive appearance
This was familiar territory to Alec, and he felt
a twinge of sadness as he looked around. The last time
he'd been here his father had been alive.
"That's the mayor's hall there, where that Boraneus
fellow is staying," he said as they entered the open
square at the center of the town. Too late he
recalled that his knowledge of Boraneus whereabouts had also
been gleaned while eavesdropping.
Seregil looked over at him, an unreadable
expression on his face, and Alec added quickly,
"Important visitors always lodge with the mayor.
It's the custom here."
"I'm lucky to have so well versed a guide,"
Seregil replied with quiet amusement.
The large, elaborately decorated hall stood
beside the Daman temple. Guildhalls and
craftsmen's shops lined the sides of the square on
this side of the bridge. The Temple of Astellus
commanded the other side of the river, and with it the fishermen
s guild, a tavern, more shops, and several inns.
Seregil took the lead here, riding across the
bridge into the Lake Quarter. As they neared the
waterfront, the streets grew narrower and more winding.
The stink of the dyers' quarter was replaced by the
pungent odors of fish and damp nets.
"Father and I never came down into this part of town,
Alec said, looking nervously around at the weathered
building overhanging the street and the shadowed alleys
between.
Seregil shrugged. "People know how to mind their own
business here.".
The taverns were coming alive now; the sounds of shouting
brawls and snatches of drunken song echoed from all
directions. Someone hissed a soft invitation to them from
a shadowed doorway as they rode by. After several
more turns, they came out at the waterfront.
The palisades extended out into the water on both
sides of the town. Within their embrace lay long
wharves, warehouses, and
taverns, all built on posts above the slope of the
shingle. Looking out over the water, Alec again tried
to imagine how big an ocean must be to outstrip this.
On either side, the shore seemed to curve away
endlessly, the far shore visibly only on the
clearest of days.
Seregil hurried them along down the
street to a narrow building squeezed in among the
wharves. The sign over the open door displayed
three intertwined fish, and from inside came the
raucous clamor of a tavern crowd. A small
knot of loafers had gathered beneath the windows with
pipes and mugs.
Dismounting, he handed Alec his harp and pack.
"Mind the part I've given you," he whispered,
keeping his voice low. "From here on you're the
apprentice of Aren the Bard. You've seen what
he's like; react accordingly. If I'm abrupt with you,
or order you about like a servant, don't be
resentful-it's Aren's way, not mine. Frankly,
I don't envy your position. Ready?"
Alec nodded.
"Good. Then the act begins." With that, Seregil
stepped back and became Aren.
"Take the horses to the stable around the side," he
ordered, raising his voice for the benefit of the
onlookers. "Make certain they're properly
looked after. Then see the tavern keeper about a
room. Tell him I'd have the one at the top of the
house, overlooking the lake, and don't let that
villain charge you more than a silver mark for it, either!
When you've taken care of the baggage, bring
my harp to the common room. Be quick, now."
With this, he disappeared into the warmth of the tavern.
"By the Old Sailor, I guess you been told,
boy!" laughed one of the loiterers, much to the amusement
of his cronies.
Scowling, Alec led the horses around to the stable. In
spite of SeregiPs hasty explanation, he
wasn't sure he liked this turn of events. When
the horses had been seen to, he gathered up the
pack and Seregil's saddle and hurried into the steamy
bustle of the kitchen.
"I'm looking for the tavern keeper," he said,
catching a harried serving girl by the sleeve.
"Taproom," she snapped, nodding curtly toward
a nearby doorway. Leaving the gear by the door, he
went on into the taproom and found himself faced with a
portly, red-faced giant in a leather apron.

"I need lodgings for my master and myself," Alec
informed him, endeavoring to imitate Aren's imperious
manner.
The tavemer scarcely looked up from the tapping of a
fresh barrel. "Big room at the top of the
stairs. Shouldn't be no more than three or four to a
bed tonight."
"My master prefers the room at the top," Alec
said.
"Does he indeed? Well, he may have it for three
marks a night."
"I'll give you one," Alec countered. "We'll
be here for several nights and I'm certain my
master-was
"Your master be damned!" the taverner growled.
"That's my best room, and I couldn't let the
mayor himself nor the whole of the damned Guild
Council have it for less than three! Not when there's
all these southern strangers lolling about with more money
than brains. I could get five a night from any
one of them."
"Begging your pardon," Alec chose his words with
care, "but I think my master, Aren Windover, and
I could bring you in ten times that each night we're
here."
Satisfied with the set of the tap, the taverner shoved his
hands into his belt and glowered down at Alec.
"Well! Begging
your
pardon, my young whelp, but just how do you think you could do
that?"
Alec held his ground stubbornly; his
father'd had a knack for dickering. Thinking back, he
asked, "Do you make more profit from your rooms or
your ale?"
"From the ale, I suppose."
"And how much do you charge for that?"
"Five coppers for a flagon, a half silver for a
jug. What of it?"
Sensing the man's growing impatience, Alec quickly
came to the point. "What you need, then, is something
to attract men to drink. And what attracts drinking
men more than a good bard? You may not know Aren
Windover, but a good many in town do. You put it about
that he's playing at your tavern and I think you'll have
to send out for more ale. I can probably coax a few
soldiers in here, and they'll bring their friends the next
night. You know how fighting men can drink!"
"Aye, used to be one more'self," the tavern keeper
nodded, look- "g Alec up and down. "Come
to think of it, I believe I have heard of this
Windover chap. He's the one drew such a crowd
lyim Flewelling
over at the Stag and Branch last year. Perhaps I
could let you have the room for two and a half."
"I can pay in advance," Alec assured him. Then
carried away with the success of his own
invention, he added for good measure, "Master
Windover is to play for the mayor, you see."
"The mayor, eh?" the tavern keeper grunted in
surprise. "Why didn't you say so! Playing at
the mayor's, and the Fishes as well? All right,
then. Go and tell your master that the room is his for
two marks."
"Well-was Alec mused stubbornly.
"Damn you, do you want my blood? One and a
half, then, but I've got to make a profit,
don't you see?"
"Done," Alec conceded. "But that does include
candles and supper, right? And the bed linens had better
be fresh! Master Windover is very particular about his
bed linens."
"You do want my blood," the landlord growled.
"Yes, yes, he'll get his dinner and he'll get
his cursed bed linens. But by the Old Sailor, he
better be all you say or the fishermen will have the pair
of you for bait."
Alec paid out two nights in advance for good faith,
then toiled upstairs balancing their gear and a
candlestick.
Passing the common sleeping room on the second
floor, he climbed a steeper stairway
to the attic. A short, windowless corridor led to a
door at the far end.
Tucked in the peak of a gable, the room Seregil had
specified was small, with sloping walls on either
side. The narrow bed and washstand nearly filled the
cramped space. Alec found a cheap tallow candle
in a cracked dish on the stand and lit it from his own,
then pushed back the shutters of the window over the bed.
The back of the tavern stood out over the water on
pilings. Looking out, Alec found a sheer drop
down to the water below.
A thick crescent moon cast a glittering trail
across the lake's black surface. It was pleasant
up here at the top of the house, quiet and warm. It
occurred to Alec that he could probably count on one
hand the times he had ever been alone inside a proper
house, and never in a room so high. After pausing a
moment to savor the new sensation, he sighed and headed
back down the stairs.
Looking out over the noisy commotion of the tavern, he
spotted Seregil talking with the host and was struck
once more by the difference between "Aren" and Seregil; their
movements, their
stance, the set of their mouth, all as distinct
as if they really were two separate men.
Seregil glanced up just then and motioned impatiently
for him to come. Dodging past servers with flagons and
wooden trenchers, Alec made his way through the
crowd.
"Of course, we have only just arrived in town,"
Seregil was saying, "but I shall present myself to your
most honored mayor tomorrow." Coughing delicately
into his fist, he added, "I seem to have taken sore
in the throat today, but I'm certain a night's rest
will repair my voice. In the meantime, I am
certain that you will be pleased with my apprentice's
abilities."
The landlord darkened noticeably at this, and Alec
gave Seregil a startled glance, which he pointedly
ignored.
"You mustn't fear," Seregil went on airily.
"This lad is constantly surprising me with his rapid
progress. Tonight you shall have a demonstration of his
talents."
"We shall see, Master Windover," the taverner
growled doubtfully. "Your boy claims he'll be
good for business, so the sooner you start, the better."
Though he made a sort of bow to Seregil, Alec
was certain he caught a glint of
malevolent humor in the man's eye as he left.
"You've been busy," Seregil remarked dryly as
he checked the tuning of his harp. The crowd shifted
restlessly around them, anticipating entertainment.
"There's nothing wrong with your voice!" Alec
whispered in alarm.
"There are a few things I need to do tonight that don't
allow me to be the center of attention for the whole
evening. You'll be fine, don't worry. I understand
you beat our landlord down to one and a half for the room.
I didn't think you'd bring the old robber down below
two. I
am
curious, however, as to how you propose to bring in
Plenimarans."
"I don't know," Alec admitted, "it just seemed
like a good thing to tell him at the time."
"Well, hopefully we'll be on our way before we
have to keep too many of your promises. But in case
we're not, a word of caution-stay clear of the
soldiers, especially if you're out alone. These are
Plenimaran marines, and there's not much most of
them aren't capable of, if you take my meaning." "I
don't think I do," said Alec, puzzled by Sei
Seregil's tone.
Lynn Flewelling
"Then try this. They have a saying among them: "When
whores are few, a boy will do." Got that?"
"Oh." Alec felt his face go hot.
"Anyway, consider yourself warned. Now I think it's
time for you to prove yourself, my bardling."
Seregil rose and cleared his throat before Alec could
make further objections.
"Good people," he announced, gesturing for their attention.
"I am Aren Windover, a humble bard, and this lad
is my apprentice. While journeying to reach your
fair town, I fear I have contracted a temporary
inflammation of the throat. Nonetheless, I pray you will
allow us to offer you entertainment."
He resumed his seat amid enthusiastic cheering and
pounding of mugs. Favorite ballads were called
for, and more ale.
Alec's mouth went dry as a roomful of
expectant faces turned his way. He'd sometimes
been a member of such gatherings, but never the focus of
one.
Seregil passed him a mug of ale with a
mischievous wink.
"Don't worry about this lot," he whispered,
"they've got full bellies and
half-empty jugs."
Alec took a long swallow and managed a weak
grin in return.
Seregil knew the extent of Alec's repertoire
and chose requests accordingly, striking up first with "Far
Across the Water Lies My Love."
Alec's voice, though hardly of bardic quality,
was good enough for this audience. He sang all the
fishermen's songs he knew, and made a passable
job of several of the story ballads Seregil had
taught him on the Downs. This, together with Seregil's
excellent playing, soon endeared them to the crowd.
When his voice began to weaken Seregil pulled out a
tin whistle and struck up a dance tune for variety.
More customers appeared as word spread, pushing in and
calling for ale and songs. Among the newcomers were
half a dozen men in brigandine leather armor and
brimmed helmets. Heavy swords were slung from
their belts. Alec didn't need Seregil to point
these out as the marines he'd been warned against. They
looked like rough customers.
Alec sang for over an hour before Seregil stopped
to beg leave for a small rest.
"Stay and mind the harp," he told Alec, thrusting
the instrument into the boy's hands. "And see that
you get some water to

wet your throat with. Ale's good for the spirit but bad for the
voice. You're doing splendidly!"
"But where are-was
"I'll be back soon."
Alec watched as Seregil made his way toward the
far corner of the room where a tall, broad-shouldered
man sat by himself. The fellow's face was shadowed by a
deep hood, but by his worn leather cuirass and the
long sword at his belt Alec guessed he made
his living as a caravan guard. Seregil exchanged
greetings with the stranger and was invited to join him on the
bench. They were soon deep in conversation.
Having clearly been dismissed for the moment, Alec
let his gaze wander over the rest of the crowd and
discovered a drysian sitting near the door.
Distinguished by her plain robe and the bronze serpent
lemniscate pendant she wore on a leather thong
around her neck, she was already surrounded by a small
crowd of people seeking healing. They stood quietly,
watching with a mixture of hope and awe as she
examined an infant lying on her lap. Curious as
ever, Alec headed over to join them.
The dark braid that fell over her shoulder
as she leaned forward was well streaked with grey, her
weathered face set in stern lines, but her hands were
steady and gentle as she examined the baby. She ran
her hands over the little body, then lifted the child and put
her ear to its chest and belly. Grasping the staff that
leaned against the bench at her side, she spoke a
few soft words over the child, then handed it back to its
mother.
"Boil one of these in a cup of clear water each
morning," she instructed, counting out six dried
leaves from a pouch at her belt. "Add a little
honey and some milk. Cool it and give it to her through
the day. When the last leaf is gone, the child will be
well. On that day place three copper marks on
the altar at Dalna's Temple and give thanks.
You will give me one mark now and the Maker's Mercy
be with you."
She then went on to deal with the others, sometimes dispensing
herbs or charms, sometimes merely praying over the
sufferer. Several fishermen ventured near when she had
finished with the children, and finally a wealthy merchant couple
who timidly presented their young daughter. After the
usual examination, the drysian gave the mother a
bunch of herbs and charged her to give a silver offering
rather than copper, as she had all the
Lynn Flewelling
others. Without a word, the husband paid her the money and the
family left.
Alec was about to turn away when the drysian looked
straight at him and asked, "Why do you suppose I
charged them more?"
"I-I don't know," Alec stammered.
"Because they could afford to pay more," she stated, and
startled him further by giving him a knowing wink. "Perhaps
I could be of some service to your master. You're
lodging here tonight?"
"Yes, in the room at the top," Alec replied,
wondering what she would make of Seregil's sham
illness. "Can I tell him your name?"
"That won't be necessary. Tell him I'll attend
to him later."
She stood to stretch and her staff slid sideways,
clattering to the floor. Without thinking, Alec
retrieved it and held it out to her. In the brief
moment that both their hands were on it, he felt a strong
and not altogether pleasant tremor pass through the wood.
"The blessings of the Maker be with you this night," she said
and disappeared into the crowd.
The singing went on until midnight. Though
Alec's modest repertoire was exhausted
long before that, the drinkers called on Seregil
to keep playing and a number of them stood to lead the
song. When at last the owner announced that he must
put the shutters up, the crowd gave the bard and his
apprentice a rousing round of applause and most
left a coin or two on the table near the door.
Well pleased with his investment, the taverner poured them
each a final mug of ale and, drinks in hand, they
went upstairs.
Collapsing on the bed, Seregil inspected the
night's earnings and passed half the coins to Alec.
"We did well. Thirty coppers, two silver.
You met Erisa, I noticed."
"Who?"
"The drysian. What do you make of her?"
"She seemed like any of the others. Sort of-was He
paused, seeking the proper word.
"Unsettling?"
"Yes, that's it. Not frightening, just unsettling."
"Believe me, drysians can be pretty damn
frightening when they choose to." Before he could expound
on the subject, however, the latch lifted and Erisa
herself slipped quietly in.
"I thought you'd keep the poor lad at it
all night," she scolded. "I suspect you're not
really in need of my ministrations?"
Seregil shrugged, grinning crookedly. "I could
hardly expect to fool you. Alec, run down to the
kitchen, will you? We both need something to eat after all
that ale, and I'm certain Erisa's had no time for
supper."
"Just tea and a little bread for me," said Erisa,
folding her arms. Clearly they were both waiting for
him to leave.
Ordered about again!
he thought as the door closed firmly behind him. He
was more intrigued than irritated, however. This
drysian must be the mysterious "she" spoken of by the
blind man, but who was the hooded swordsman?
Halfway down the passage he hesitated, then
crept back as silently as he could to the door.
"A force of fifty was reported heading into the
Western Barrens above Wyvern Dug," Erisa was
saying. "Connel spotted them near Enly Ford on the
seventh of Erasin, but there's been no sign of them
since."
"I can understand them courting the mountain lords and trying
to get a hold on the Gold Road," said
Seregil, "but there's nothing in that direction
but a few barbaric tribes. What in the world are they
after up there?"
"That's what Connel hoped to learn. He set out
to follow them as soon as we heard what was going on.
Unfortunately, nothing's been heard from him, either-
Alec, please do hurry with my tea."
An unpleasant tingling sensation that had nothing to do with the
burning of his cheeks engulfed Alec briefly as
he hurried downstairs. He took his time heating the
water, dreading having to face her again. When he
returned to the room, however, she simply thanked
him and took her leave.
"Well now, this is a good enough bed, but only wide enough
for one. Where are you going to sleep?" Seregil
yawned, stripping off his tunic. Apparently he
had nothing to say on the subject of Alec's
eavesdropping.
"As your apprentice, I guess I'd be
expected to sleep in the stable," Alec ventured, not
relishing the prospect.
"You're thinking like a tinker's brat. What good would
you be to me out there? Your place is in front of the
door in case we have any visitors in the night.
Make yourself a pallet."
As they settled down to sleep, Alec
found himself thinking of the drysian again.
Lynn Flewelling
"Have you known her long?" he asked, looking up into the
darkness.
"Erisa? Oh, yes."
It became evident after a moment's silence that
Seregil considered this sufficient reply. Alec
decided to press on.
"How did you meet her?"
For a moment he thought Seregil had gone to sleep or
was refusing to answer, but then he heard the bed ropes
creak.
"I had business at Alderis," Seregil told
him. "That's in Mycena, near the coast. It was a
difficult job and I was new at my trade, very
young. Anyway, I botched it and got caught. My
captors expressed their displeasure most
emphatically and discarded what was left of me rather far
from the town. They thought I was dead; I remember
having a few doubts on the matter myself. When I
woke up several days later, I was in a hut and
there was Erisa."
"I'll bet she has powers beyond just healing," Alec
said, remembering the sharp tingle from her staff.
"She can control people if she chooses.
I've seen her do it, though she dislikes the power for the
most part. I'll tell you something, though. She's
saved my life several times, and I hers, but I'm
a little nervous around her. You seldom know what a
drysian's thinking, or how they see things."
"She knew I was listening."
Seregil chuckled in the darkness. "She'd have known
if still was listening. Don't worry, you do it very well
for a beginner. Now you'd better get some rest. We
have a busy day tomorrow. You need outfitting, and I
want a good look at those soldiers."
Alec heard the bed creak again. Below their window,
waves lapped softly at the pilings, lulling him
into a comfortable doze. He was just drifting off when
Seregil's sudden laugh startled him awake again.
"And you've got us singing for the mayor!"
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Alec sat up blinking as Seregil threw open the
shutters early the next morning. Cold air and
early sunlight flooded the room. "I doubt you'd
have heard a prowler in the night, but you blocked the
door nicely," Seregil observed,
tucking his harp under his arm. "While you've been
snoring the morning away, I've been thinking. Your
idea of singing for the mayor was an inspiration. That's
where this Boraneus fellow is staying, after all. I
have a few things to attend to at the market. Find yourself
something to eat and meet me there later so we can see
about getting you properly outfitted. Look for me
at the swordsmith Maklin's in an hour if you
don't see me sooner. Now out of my way!"
As soon as he was gone Alec rose and pulled on
his boots. Outside, the sun shone across the calm
surface of the lake, shimmering around the distant
sails that dotted the waters to the horizon.
Anxious as he was to catch up with Seregil, the
scents of porridge and frying sausage that met him
as he hurried downstairs were too good not
to investigate.
"You're the bard's "prentice, ain't you?" a
woman asked as he paused in the doorway. "Come
in, lad! Your master was just here and said I was to see
you have all you want."
Lynn Flewelling
Seregil must have been generous,
Alec thought as she piled his trencher with plump
sausages and oat porridge, then fetched
a pitcher of milk and some hot ash cakes to go with it.
"However did you get so thin with a master as kind as that,
eh?" She smiled, watching with satisfaction as
Alec tucked in to her cooking.
"He only just took me up," Alec told her
around a mouthful. "I had some hard times before."
"Well, you stick by him, love. He'll make an
honest fellow of you."
Alec nodded agreeably, though he still had certain
reservations on the matter. Leaving a coin of his own
on the table when he'd finished, he set off for the
market.
"All I have to do is go back the way we came in
last night," he told himself, setting off on
foot. But for all his skill in the wilds, Alec
had always found towns rather baffling. One narrow, twisting
street looked very much like another in daylight and before
long he was so turned around he couldn't even find his
way back to the waterfront. Cursing all towns and
those who built them, he gave up and decided to ask
directions.
Unfortunately, there were few people about. The fishermen
had long since gone out, and most of their women were at
the market at this hour, or indoors behind their
shutters. He'd passed several gangs of
children earlier, but the street he found himself in now came
to a dead end in a cluster of warehouses and was quite
deserted. Nothing to do, it seemed, but retrace his
steps and hope for the best.
Turning a corner, he spotted a tavern and
decided to try his luck there. He'd almost reached it
when the door swung open and a knot of Plenimaran
marines spilled unsteadily out into the street. There were
five of them, staggering and singing drunkenly in their
foreign tongue. Spotting Alec before he could duck
back out of sight, they ambled over in his direction.
Giving them a polite nod, Alec tried to hurry
past but one caught the edge of his cloak and yanked
him roughly into their midst. His captor, a
round-faced man with a scar twisting his lower lip,
rattled off some sort of challenge, punctuating it
by poking Alec in the chest with his finger.
"Stupid drinker!" a taller fellow with a black
beard growled, pushing Scar-Lip away and throwing
an arm heavily around

Alec's shoulders. His accent was thick but he made
himself understood. "What my Soldier Brother
says, you is a likely looking man-child to be a
marine. Why you don't join us up?"
"I don't think I'd make much of a soldier,"
Alec replied. Several of them casually felt their
daggers. "What I mean is, I'm not old enough,
big enough-like you!"
A one-eyed soldier fingered the sleeve of Alec's
tunic. "Nice, nice. You too good be Soldier
Brother?"
"No!" Alec cried, turning within the circle of
men. "I respect Soldier Brothers. Brave
men! Let me buy you a drink."
Without warning, One-Eye and Round-Face pinioned
his arms. The bearded soldier tore Alec's
purse from his belt, emptying the contents into his hand.
"Sure, you buy us all many drinks!" he said,
grinning as he inspected the coins. Suddenly his
face darkened, and he thrust something up before Alec's
eyes.
It was the Skalan coin; he'd had it out the night
before and forgotten to put it back in his boot.
"Where you got this, man-child?" the bearded Plenimaran
snarled. "You don't look no filthy Skalan!
What you do having filthy bitch queen money?"
Before Alec could answer, the man punched him hard in
the stomach and spat out, "Filthy spy, maybe?"
Maker's Mercy, not that again!
Gasping for breath, Alec doubled over and they
knocked him down into the half-frozen mud of the
street. Someone kicked him in the back and his vision
blurred with dazzling sparks of pain. Struggling up
onto his knees, he prayed that his cloak hid the
motion of his hand as he reached for his dagger.
"You, Tildus! It's early in the day to be out
torturing children, isn't it?"
Alec couldn't see who'd spoken, but the man's
deep voice carried a welcome north country
accent. The marines paused in their sport as the
bearded man turned.
"Micum Cavish, greetings! Not torturing at
all, just questioning spy."
"That's no spy, you damned fool, that's my
brother's son. Let him go before you strain our
friendship!"
Astonished, Alec craned his neck for a better
look at this Micum Cavish. Catching sight of the
man, he began to understand.
lynn Flewelling
Cavish was the hooded man Seregil had spoken with the
night before. The hood was thrown back now to reveal a
freckled, strongly featured face under a thick
mane of auburn hair. Heavy reddish
brows overshadowed his pale blue eyes, and an even
heavier mustache drooped over the corners of his
mouth. His stance was relaxed, but his right hand, hooked
casually into his belt, was in easy reach of his
sword hilt. The fate he was outnumbered five
to one was apparently not of the slightest concern to him.
"You must forgive," Tildus was saying, "there is much
drink in us. When we see money of the bitch queen
here, we get mad, you see?"
"Since when does a single coin make anyone a
spy?" Micum Cavish's tone was bantering, but his
hand remained at his belt. "He got himself
'prenticed to a bard not long ago. They pick up
all kinds of coins along the caravan route. Up
here silver's silver, no matter whose face it has
on it."
"Mistake, eh?" Tildus grinned tightly,
motioning for the others to get Alec on his feet. "Not
hurt so much, eh, man-child? You singer, maybe we
come hear you sing. Give you good Plenimaran silver!
Come, Brothers, we sober up now and not get into some
more trouble." With that he gathered his glowering men and
lurched off down the alley.
"Thanks," Alec said as they gathered his strewn
money. At closer range, he was
surprised to see that the man's hair was sprinkled with
silver around the temples. "So you're my uncle
Micum?"
The big swordsman grinned. "First thing that came
to mind. It's lucky I happened along when I
did, too. That Tildus is a nasty bastard
to begin with, and worse when he's drinking. What are you
doing wandering around here alone?"
"I was heading for the market, but I got lost."
"Just go back up the street, turn left and keep
straight 'til you get there." Favoring Alec with a
knowing wink, he said, "I think you'll find Aren at
the second tailor's to the right of the corner."
"Thanks again," Alec called after him as Micum
strode away. The tall man raised his hand in a
brief salute and disappeared around the corner.

Alec found Seregil busy haggling over the price
of some tunics. Taking in Alec's disheveled
appearance, he broke off quickly and stepped away from
the booth.
"What have you been up to?"
Alec's tale was quickly told. Seregil raised
an eyebrow at the mention of Micum's intervention but
made no further comment.
"There's a good deal of activity in the square today,"
he told Alec. "Seems we got here just in time.
The Plenimarans are leaving tomorrow and the mayor is
holding a banquet tonight in their honor, quite a grand
affair. He is, however, somewhat at a loss for
entertainment. I've just been working out a way to make
myself conspicuous."
"What are you going to do, sing on the steps of his
house?"
"Nothing so obvious. There's a very pleasant fountain
right across the street from it. I think that's close
enough, don't you?"
He concluded his business with the tailor and they set
off across the bridge to Armorers Street.
The clamor of hammer on metal there was almost more
than Alec could stand, but as they came abreast of a
bowyer's shop, he paused, face brightening
noticeably.
"I don't know much about that sort of thing, but I've
heard Corda's the best," Seregil remarked.
Alec shrugged, not taking his eyes from the display of
bows. "Corda's are fancy enough, but they don't
have the range of Radly's. Either way, though,
they're beyond my means. I'd like to stop in at
Tallman's, if you don't mind. I
don't feel comfortable traveling without a bow."
"Certainly, but first I want to see Maklin about a
sword."
Somewhere behind the front room of the swordsmith's
shop, hammers rang down on steel and Alec had
to resist the impulse to put his fingers in his ears.
Seregil, however, poked happily through the gleaming
collection of swords and knives that covered the
walls. Most of these weapons were the swordsmith's
own work, but one section was given over to an
assortment of older weapons traded in for new.
Seregil paused to look these over, pointing out those of
antique or foreign design, as well as certain
clever modifications. Alec could scarcely hear
him.
Mercifully, the din lessened suddenly as a portly
man in a stained leather apron stepped in through a
doorway at the back of the shop, shouting a greeting
to Seregil.
"Well met, Master Windover! What can I do for
you today?"
lyim Flewelling
liii
"Well met, Master Maklin," Seregil shouted
back. "I need a blade for my young friend
here."
"For me?" Alec asked in surprise. "But I
told you-was
The swordsmith turned an appraising eye on
Alec. "Ever held a sword before, lad?"
"No."
Pulling out a set of calipers, the smith set about
measuring Alec's various dimensions. Kneading his
arm muscles with a serious expression, Maklin
bellowed, "I've just the thing for him!" and disappeared
into the workshop again. He returned with a sheathed long
sword cradled in the crook of one arm. Presenting
the hilt to Alec, he motioned for him to draw it.
"He has the height and span to wield it,"
Maklin remarked to Seregil. "It's a good
blade, well balanced and easy to cast about with. I
made it special for a caravaneer, but the bugger never
called back for it. Not overly fancy, but it's a
lovely bit of steel. I slaked it in bull's
blood during the forging, and you know there's nothing finer
than that short of magicking."
Even Alec could see that the swordsmith was being
modest. The gleaming blade felt like a natural
extension of his arm. It wasn't light, but he felt
a certain natural flow to the movements as
Maklin had him hold his arm this way and that. The
hilt was wire-bound, with a round, burnished pommel.
The bronze quillons arched gently away from the
hilt, terminating in small flattened knobs carved
to look like the tightly curled head of an unopened
fern. The blade was unadorned but mirrored the
light with a faintly bluish sheen.
"A pleasing design," Seregil remarked, taking
the sword in his hands and fingering the quillons. "Not
fancy, as you said, but not cheap-plain, either. See how
the quillons curve away from the grip, Alec?
Just the thing to snap your enemy's sword out of his hand
or break his blade, if you know what you're doing."
Drawing his own sword, he held the two up together
to show Alec the similarity between them. For the first time
Alec noted that the quillons of Seregil's
weapon, which ended in worn dragon's heads, were
notched and scarred with use.
"It's a fine blade, Maklin. How much?" asked
Seregil.
"Fifty marks with the sheath," the smith replied.
Seregil paid his price without quibbling and Maklin
threw in a sword belt, showing Alec how to wrap
it twice around his waist
63
and fix the lacings so that the blade hung at the
proper angle against his left hip.
Back in the street again, Alec tried to thank
Seregil.
"One way or another, you'll repay me,"
Seregil said, brushing the matter aside. "For now,
just promise me that you won't draw it in public
until you've learned how to use it. You hold it just
well enough for someone to give you a fight."
As they passed the bowyer shops again, Seregil
paused in front of Radly's.
"There's no point going in there," Alec told him.
"A good Radly bow costs as much as this sword."
"Are they worth it?"
"Well, yes."
"Then come on. If it comes down to you protecting our
lives with it, I for one don't want you using some
three-penny stick."
Alec's heart beat a bit faster as they entered the
shop. His father, a competent bowyer himself, had often
pointed the place out with uncommon reverence. Master
Radly, he'd told his son, had gifts beyond the
natural for bow making. Alec had never imagined that
he'd enter the place as a customer.
The master bowyer, a stern, grizzled man,
was instructing an apprentice in the finer points of
fletching as they came in. Inviting them to look about
for a moment, he continued on with his instruction.
Alec was in his element here, inspecting the array of
bows with the same relish that Seregil had obviously
felt at the swordsmith's.
Great longbows, six feet tall unstrung, hung
on cords from the ceiling. Crossbows of various
types were displayed on wide shelves, along with
lady's hunters, composite horse bows-nearly every
type common in the north. But Alec's eye
settled on those known simply as the Black
Radly.
Somewhat shorter than the regular longbow, these were
fashioned from the Lake Wood's black yew, a
difficult wood to work. Less experienced bowyers
were likely to ruin half a dozen staves for every bow
they came out with, but Radly and his apprentices had
the knack. Rubbed with oil and beeswax, the black
bows gleamed like polished horn.
Seven of these lay on a long table in the center of the
shop and Alec inspected each one, checking the
straightness of the tapered limbs, the smoothness of the
nocks and the ivory maker's
Lynn Flewelling
plate set flush into the back of the grip. Then,
choosing one, he grasped it on either side of the grip
and twisted sharply; the lower limb of the bow came
free in his hand.
"What are you doing?" Seregil hissed in alarm.
"It's a wayfarer's bow." Alec showed Seregil
the steel ferrule on the end of the limb, with its tiny
pin that locked in place inside the sheath of the hand
grip. "They're easier to carry in rough country,
or riding."
"Easier to conceal, too," Seregil noted, fitting
the sections back together. "Is it as powerful as a
longbow?"
"They can have better than eighty pounds pull,
depending on the length."
"And what, pray tell, does that mean?"
Alec picked up another bow and held it out in
front of him as if to draw. "It means that if you
could get two men to stand one in front of the other, you
could shoot a broadhead arrow through the both of them.
^the'll take down most anything from a hare to a
stag. I've heard they can even shoot through
chainmail."
"They'll draw heart's blood from a brass
weathercock!" said Radly, joining them at
last. "Sounds like you know something of archery, young sir.
What do you think of 'em?"
"I like these." Alec indicated the two he'd laid
aside. "But I'm not certain on the length."
"We'd best check your draw," Radly said.
Alec held out the bow and drew an invisible string
back to his ear while the bowyer stretched a measuring
line between the back of his left forefinger and the angle of
his jaw below his right eye.
"Either of these would do for you," Radly concluded, "or
that there." He pointed to one on the table that Alec had
passed over.
"I'll go with these two," Alec said, sticking by his
first choice.
Radly held the bows up side by side. "Have a
look at the plates."
The shop mark, a black yew scrimshawed into the
ivory, seemed almost identical until he pointed
out a tiny R visible in the crown of the tree on
both of Alec's choices, indicating that they were the
work of the master bowyer and not one of his assistants.
"You've a good eye for a youngster," said the bowyer.
"Come and try them."

Radly strung the bows, then led the way out
through the workshop and into the alley beyond.
At the far end, several targets had been set up.
The first was a simple bull's-eye painted on a
cross section of a large log. The second was
another bull, but to reach the center of it the arrow had
to pass straight through three iron rings hung from
wickets between the target and the archer. The last was
simply eight long willow wands stuck upright in the
ground.
"What's all this?" Seregil whispered as the bowyer
went to adjust the wands.
"I've heard it said that he won't sell a
Black to anyone who can't hit all three
targets," Alec whispered back, strapping a
leather guard to his left forearm.
Returning, Radly handed him a quiver of arrows.
"Now then, let's see you shoot."
Selecting his first shaft with care, Alec sent it
straight into the center of the first bull. Using the
second bow, he repeated the feat easily, shaving
some of the fletching off the first shaft.
At the next target, his first arrow glanced off a ring
and fell short. Looking up at the clear blue
sky, he drew in a deep breath, letting the necessary
calm flow through him. On the second try
he shot true, then repeated the shot just to be sure.
Switching to the other bow, he made three clean
shots in quick succession.
It was a good day for shooting, he decided, relaxing
into the almost supernatural sense of calm and
well-being that came over him at such times. Moving
to face the last target, he let fly four arrows in
quick succession, hitting every other wand and nipping each
off at nearly the same height.
Behind him, Seregil let out a low whistle of
appreciation, but Alec kept his eye on the
targets.
Changing bows, he quickly hit the remaining wands,
shearing them off at a different height. As he lowered
the bow, applause erupted behind him and he turned
to find Seregil, Radly, and several apprentices
grinning approval.
Blushing, he muttered, "I guess I'll take
this one."
Seregil's afternoon foray was a success; he returned
with the news that they were to entertain at the mayor's
banquet that evening. As soon as he'd made
apologies to the innkeeper, he
lynn Flewelling
dragged Alec off to a nearby bathhouse,
then back to their room to put the final touches on his
grooming.
"You look better in this than I do," Seregil
remarked as he adjusted Alec's sash.
Alec wore "Aren's" second-best garments: a
long tunic of fine blue wool edged with
embroidered bands along the hem and sleeves. One
of the scullery girls had been paid to burnish his
boots to a respectable shine.
Seregil himself was magnificent in a crimson
tunic bordered with an intricate black and white
pattern at neck, sleeves, and hem. His dark
hair was bound back with a thin band of scarlet and
black silk twisted into an elaborate knot at
the back. Draping a new cloak of rich midnight
blue gracefully over one shoulder, he pinned it in
place with a heavy silver brooch.
"While I was striking the bargain for our wages with the
mayor's bailiff I was able to quiz him on the
guests," Seregil told him. "Lord Boraneus,
ostensibly a trade envoy, is the head of the
Plenimaran expedition. There's another noble, a
Lord Trygonis, who also seems to have some pull,
though he doesn't say much. With a little sweet talk
to one of the house maids I also found out that
Boraneus and Trygonis are housed in the best
front rooms on the second floor. Besides the
usual honor guard at the banquet, I imagine
there'll be plenty of soldiers scattered around
outside. Now, are you absolutely certain you
understand what we have to do tonight?"
Alec was trying with little success to arrange the folds
of his cloak in imitation of Seregil's. "We sing
until everyone is well into the wine. You'll pause
to tune the harp and break a string. Then I'm sent
home for a new one and you step out for some air. There's
a small servants" stairway at the back of the
house that takes us up to the second floor. I
meet you there and we go up together."
"And you have the extra string with you?"
"In my tunic."
"Good." Seregil reached into the pack lying on the bed
and pulled out something wrapped in a bit of sacking.
Unrolling it, he showed Alec a handsome dagger. The
handle was fashioned from black horn inlaid with
silver. The slender blade was deadly sharp.
"This is for you," said Seregil, balancing the dagger
across his palm for a moment. "It caught my eye
while Maklin was fussing
caret
Luck in the Shadows

over you. It's longer than your other one and better
balanced. A little fancy for a bard's apprentice,
perhaps, but nobody's going to see it in your boot.
If we do our job right tonight, you shouldn't need it
anyway."
"Seregil, I can't-was the boy stammered,
overcome. "I can never repay you as it is and-was
"Repay me for what?" Seregil asked in
surprise.
"For this, for all of this!" Alec exclaimed,
sweeping a hand around the room. "The clothes, the
sword, the bow-I haven't ever made enough in my
life to repay all this. Maker's Mercy, I
haven't known you a week yet and-was
"Don't be silly. These are the tools of the
trade. You'd be useless to me without them. Don't
give it another thought or insult me with talk of
repayment. I can't think of anything that means less
to me than money; it's too easy to come by."
Shaking his head, Alec slid the dagger into the
pocket of his boot and grinned. "It fits."
"Well, let's get to work, then. And may
Illior watch over uk tonight."
The stars were out by the time they set off for the mayor's
hall. A cold wind cut in off the lake and they
pulled their cloaks around them against the cold. As
promised, Seregil had found Alec a pair of
gloves, and he suspected the boy was grateful now
for their warmth.
Not for the first time that day Seregil asked himself what he
was doing dragging a green boy he'd known for less
than a week's time off on a burglary job. Or
what Alec was doing going along with him, for that
matter. Shrewd as he was in some matters, the boy
seemed to place an alarming amount of trust in him.
Never having been responsible for anyone but himself,
Seregil wasn't quite certain what to make of it,
except that taking Alec on as a partner of sorts
out on the Downs had seemed like a good idea at the
time. However much logic might dictate otherwise,
looking at Alec striding along beside him,
Seregil's intuition told him he'd somehow stumbled
into a fortuitous decision.
At the mayor's house they were taken to the kitchen for the
customary meal. The tapestry over the door had
been pulled back and they could see the guests in the
hall being entertained by a juggler. When the last of the
platters had come back to the
kitchen and the wine and fruit had been passed, Aren
Windover was announced.
The great hall was ablaze with firelight and wax
tapers. The trestles had been set up in a U
facing the hearth and the company, made up mostly of
rich merchants, guild masters, and craftsmen of
Wolde, clapped approvingly as Seregil and
Alec took their places on a small platform
set up there. Alec handed Seregil the harp with a
flourish he'd learned less than an hour before, then
stepped back deferentially.
In Aren Windover's most flowery manner,
Seregil introduced himself and made a brief
speech of gratitude to the mayor and his lady. His
words were well received and he struck up the first song
amid a flutter of applause. He captured his
audience at once with a rousing hunting lay, then
moved on to a succession of love songs and
ballads, throwing in a raucous ditty here and there
once he saw that the ladies approved. Alec
took frequent turns at the harmonies and fetched
ale for his master as the occasion demanded.
The one calling himself Boraneus sat in the place
of honor to the right of the fat mayor and Seregil
studied him surreptitiously as he
played. Boraneus was tall, with the high coloring and
thick, blue-black hair of a true Plenimaran.
He was younger than Seregil had expected, no more
than forty, and extremely handsome despite the thin
scar that ran from the inner corner of his left eye to the
cheekbone. His black eyes sparkled rakishly as
he shared some joke with the mayor's wife, but when the
smile faded his face had a veiled, unreadable
quality.
By the Light, that's Duke Mardus-whatever he
calls himself here,
Seregil thought as he played. Though he'd never
seen Mardus before, he knew him both by description
and reputation. The most highly placed officer of the
Plenimaran intelligence system, he was also known
to be a sadistically ruthless inquisitor. Seregil
felt an involuntary chill as Mardus'
impassive gaze rested briefly on him. To have
such a person study your face was the worst sort of
luck.
The other envoy didn't look like he amounted to much.
A narrow, whey-faced fellow with lank dark hair,
Trygonis was apparently doing his dour best
to avoid being drawn into conversation with the garrulous
matrons seated on either side of him.
Splendidly dressed as he was in the regalia of a
Plenimaran diplomat, to Seregil's practiced
eye his pale skin and silent, peering manner

told a different tale. He had more the look of one
who spent his life huddled over books in rooms
where sunlight never penetrated.
Seregil played on for nearly an hour before he
judged the time to be right. Pausing to tune the harp,
he snapped the string and, after a tense, whispered
exchange with Alec, rose and bowed to the mayor.
"My most gracious host," he said, affecting an
air of barely concealed irritation while Alec did
his best to appear shamefaced. "It seems my
apprentice has neglected to bring extra strings for
my instrument. With your kind permission, I will send the
boy back to my lodgings for replacements."
Comfortably into his cups, the mayor waved
agreeably and Alec hurried out.
Seregil bowed again. "If I may ask your further
indulgence, I will take this opportunity to freshen
my throat with the cool night air."
"By all means, Master Windover. I think it may
be some time before we let you go. Your fine singing goes
well with the wine."
Once outside, Seregil made a show of clearing
his lungs and admiring the stars. Spotting a
Plenimaran guard posted near the front of the
building, he asked after the privy and was directed
to the yard in back of the house. As soon as he was
safely around the corner, he pressed into the shadows
and checked again; no guards back here. Alec was
waiting for him beneath the servants' stairs.
"Did anyone see you?" Seregil whispered.
Alec shook his head. "I went across the square,
then doubled back to the other side of the house."
"Good. Now stay close and pay attention. If
anything goes wrong, you're on your own, understand?
If it comes to that, I'll do my best to come back for
you, but your best guarantee is to not get into trouble in
the first place. All right?"
Looking rather less than reassured by this advice,
Alec nodded gamely and followed him up the stairs
to the second level of the house.
The door was locked, but Seregil produced a long
pick. Beyond they found a dimly lit service
passage. Seregil signed
Quickly
and moved to a door at the far end. Beyond it, they could
hear sounds of the revelry below. Opening it the
merest crack,
Lynn Flewelling
Seregil found that they were near the upper landing of the great
staircase.
Just as they were about to make a dash for the guest rooms,
a black-clad marine came upstairs from the hall
and disappeared into one of the rooms overlooking the
street. Emerging a moment later with a small chest,
he went back downstairs. Seregil counted slowly
to ten, then drew Alec behind him into the hall. Moving
quickly to the room the soldier had entered, they found the
door unlocked.
"This is Trygonis' room," whispered Seregil.
"Keep watch, and if you touch something,
anything,
be sure to leave it exactly as you found it."
Against the right wall stood a carved bedstead with a
clothes chest at the foot. A tall wardrobe and a
writing table stood by the window.
"This first, I think," Seregil murmured, kneeling
in front of the chest. After a moment's examination he
drew a small leather roll from his tunic and spread
it out in a workmanlike fashion on the floor beside
him; it contained an impressive collection of
various lock picks and other implements,
each in a narrow pocket of the roll. The chest's
heavy padlock came open on the first attempt.
Except for a brass map tube, the chest contained
little more than the usual mundane articles of clothing
and equipment, all seeming to confirm that the man was a
diplomat rather than a soldier. Quickly shaking out the
rolled parchment from the tube, Seregil moved to the thin
sliver of light at the door and unrolled it to find
a map of the northlands. Alec peered over his shoulder
for a moment, then went back to his watch-keeping
while Seregil studied it more closely, committing the
details to memory.
Small red points had been inked in next to the
Gold Road towns of Wolde, Kerry, and
Sark. Several other points marked remote
freeholdings along the Ironheart foothills,
Asengai's among them.
Nothing so surprising there. Seregil rolled up the
map and replaced the contents of the chest as he'd found
them. The desk yielded nothing of value, but in the
wardrobe he found a small silk pouch containing a
golden disk hung on a golden chain.
One side of the pendant was smooth; on the other a
peculiar, abstract device of intricate lines
and swirls stood out in raised relief.
Try as he might, Seregil couldn't make sense
enough of it

to reproduce it later. Mildly annoyed, he
replaced it and joined Alec at the door. No more
than five minutes had elapsed.
The next room was very much like the first, except for a
dispatch box sitting on the table. It was banded with
nailed strips of brass and secured with an internal
lock rather than a hasp. Moving to the light again, he
examined the lock plate, noting tiny imperfections
in the metal around the keyhole. A less
experienced thief might have dismissed them as pits in
the metal; Seregil recognized the needle holes
lightly plugged with wax and brass dust. Anyone
attempting to force the lock while the device was
engaged would end up with at least one tiny but no doubt
heavily poisoned needle embedded in his hand.
Running sensitive fingertips over the brass nail
heads, he found one on the back left corner that
depressed with a barely audible click.
Double-checking to be sure he hadn't missed any
others, he picked the lock and raised the lid.
On top was a sheaf of documents written in
cipher. Setting these aside, he found a
map much like the larger one, but with only two red
points marked on it: one deep in the heart of the
Blackwater Fens at the southern end of the lake, the
other apparently somewhere in the Far Forest. The point
in the Fens was circled.
Beneath the map was a leather pouch containing another of the
golden pendants.
What in the name of Bilairy are these?
he wondered, frustrated again at not being able to make
sense of the design.
At the clothes chest he felt carefully down through the
layers of tunics and robes until his fingers
encountered studded wood near the bottom. Lifting the
clothing out, he found a rectangular casket a
foot long and perhaps half that deep, its lid
secured only by a hook. His mouth twisted into a
humorless smile as he cautiously opened it;
inside lay a collection of small but effective
torture instruments and several earthenware vials.
More certain than ever that his man really was Mardus,
Seregil took extra care to replace the box as
he'd found it. As he was replacing the clothing,
however, another leather pouch dropped from the folds of a
robe. Probing inside, he found a few
Plenimaran coins, two rings, a case
knife, and some small wooden disks.
There were eight in all, fashioned from some dark wood
and pierced through the center with a square hole. They had
a
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slightly oily feel, and each was carved on one
side with the same frustrating design he'd seen on
the gold pendants.
Now here's a piece of luck at last,
he thought. These crude things didn't look like something
anyone would miss in a hurry. He pocketed one
for later study.
He'd just locked the chest when Alec made a
frantic gesture at the door. Someone was coming.
With Alec at his heels, Seregil moved
smoothly to the window. Swinging the casement wide, he
looked up to find the overhang of the roof within easy
reach.
He'd already pulled himself up onto the slates above
before he noticed the two guards lounging near the
fountain. For a brief second his breath caught in his
throat; he was in plain sight if they looked up.
The noise from the hall must have covered his
scramblings, however, or perhaps they were drunk, for
neither of them did.
Alec snaked out the same way, and Seregil
caught his wrists to help him up. The boy looked
scared, but still had presence of mind enough to gently push the
window shut with his foot on the way up.
The slick slate roof was steeply pitched, but they
managed to get over to the back side, reaching the
servants' stairway without mishap. At the
bottom Seregil grasped Alec's shoulder for a
moment in silent approval, then pointed him off
toward the kitchen door.
Alec was nearly there when a tall figure reached from
the shadows and caught him by the cloak. Seregil
tensed, hand stealing to his dagger. Alec jerked back
instinctively and the man laughed. Just as Seregil was
about to spring to his aid, however, he heard the man
speak and realized this must be one of the soldiers who'd
accosted the boy earlier that day.
"Hey, you sing good in there," the man exclaimed. His
tone seemed friendly enough, but he hadn't released his
grip on Alec's cloak. "You sing more for me now
maybe?"
"I've got to get back in." Stepping away as
far as he could, Alec pulled the harp string from his
tunic and waved it like a pass. "My master needs
this. I'll be in trouble if I make him
wait."
"Trouble?" The man squinted at the string. "No
trouble for you, Cavish's man-child. Go sing some more for the
fat mayor

and my master!" Turning Alec loose, he sent
him on his way with a resounding slap on the back.
Letting out a soundless sigh of relief, Seregil
waited until the way was clear, then skirted back
through the shadows to reappear from the direction of the
mayor's privy.
It was after midnight before they returned to the Three
Fishes. Nonetheless, Seregil insisted on making
ready to leave at first light.
"You did well tonight," he said as he finished
strapping up his pack. "That was quick thinking, with the
window."
Alec grinned happily at the praise and continued
checking over his new equipment. Master Radly had
included an oilskin bow case and a covered quiver
in the price of the bow, to which Alec had added a score
of arrows, linen twine and wax for bowstrings, and
packets of red and white fletching.
Seregil was just turning to say something more when they both
were startled by the sound of someone pounding up the
stairs. Micum Cavish burst into the room.
Panting, he said, "I don't know what you did this
time, Seregil, but a pack of Plenimaran marines
are on their way here right now!"
Somewhere below they heard a door bang open, then the
sounds of heavy feet.
"Grab your things, Alec!" Seregil ordered,
throwing back the shutters.
A moment later Tildus and a dozen Plenimaran
soldiers burst into the room, only to find it dark and
empty.
From the inn window the three of them dropped thirty
feet into water cold enough to knock the breath from their
lungs. Alec floundered, gasping as he tried
to hang on to his gear and keep his head above water.
A strong hand closed over his wrist; Micum
hauled him to a handhold on the slimy pilings
supporting the building.
"Quiet!" Seregil whispered against his ear.
Working their way back to the shallows, they crawled out
onto a narrow mud bank and huddled there as the sounds
of a violent search rang out overhead.
"I doubt you two will be welcome again at the
Fishes," Micum whispered through chattering teeth.
It was a miserably cold vigil they
kept, and dangerous. At one point several marines
found their way under the building, forcing the three
fugitives to turtle back into the icy water
until they were gone. It was over an hour before
Micum judged that it was safe to go.
They made a sorry trio as they staggered from the
shadows of the tavern. Covered in mud, their hair and
clothing stiffened into fantastic configurations, they
moved as fast as their numbed legs would allow, heading
for the market square.
Micum led the way to the Temple of Astel-

lus that stood next to the Fisherman's Guildhall
on the square. It was a plain, windowless
structure, but the large double doors at its front
were elaborately carved with boats and water
creatures. The lintel above displayed the stylized
wave symbol of Astellus the Traveler.
By custom, the doors of the temple were never locked,
and they slipped inside without challenge.
Alec had never been inside the place before, though
he'd passed it often enough. The plastered walls of the
central room glowed with fanciful underwater scenes
and icons showing several of the patron deity's more
noteworthy labors.
Near the central shrine a young acolyte dozed at
his post. Passing quietly, they found their way to a
door at the back of the temple and into the storeroom
beyond.
Offerings, sacks of food for the priests, and oddments
of furniture were stacked carelessly about. Alec
sat down on an upended crate while Micum
cast about, looking for something.
"Isn't it over to the left more?"' asked Seregil.
"I've got it." Micum pulled open a
trapdoor in the floor.
Looking over his shoulder, Alec saw a ladder
descending into the darkness. Cold, earth-smelling air
rose up the shaft.
"Let's hope the mayor neglected to tell his
visitors about this route," Seregil muttered.
Micum shrugged. "A good fight puts the fire of
Sakor in your blood. I think we could all use
the warmth!"
Seregil cocked a wry eyebrow at Alec.
"He works as hard to find trouble as I do avoiding
it."
With a derisive chuckle, Micum climbed down the
ladder. Alec followed while Seregil took a
moment to prop several small crates
to fall over the door when it closed.
Once down, Micum rummaged in a belt pouch and
drew out a small glowing object. Its pale
radiance spilled out through his fingers, spreading a
small circle of light.
"Magic?" Alec asked, leaning closer.
"A lightstone," Seregil told him. "I lost
mine in a dice game two months ago and I've
been fumbling around with flint and steel ever since."
"Too bad it doesn't give off any heat,"
Micum said, chaffing his arms as he led the way down
the runnel.
"Where are we?"
"An escape tunnel leading out of town," Micum
explained. "It has openings near the lake shore and
another just inside the
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woods. The Temple of Dalna has one, too.
The idea was to be able to evacuate the town
secretly if it was ever besieged. I doubt it would
work, though-most likely bring you right up in front
of the enemy. But it was thought up by merchants, not
generals. As it is, Seregil and I have probably
made the best use of them over the last few years."
"Where to now? The cave?" Seregil was
shivering visibly now as he tried to pull his stiff
cloak more closely about him.
"That's the closest place."
The passage ran in a fairly straight line
back from the river. It was hardly wide enough for two
men to pass, and the roof was so low that Micum had
to stoop in places. The damp earthen walls, shored
up at intervals with timber, gave off an
unpleasant chill. Blotches of lichen and pale
fungi sprouted from the support beams. After some
time, the tunnel branched.
Taking the right fork, Micum drew his sword and
whispered over his shoulder, "Look sharp, boy, in
case we have company."
Alec moved to draw his own blade but Seregil
nudged his hand away from the hilt. "Never mind that,"
he said. "You couldn't get by to fight and if you
stumbled, you'd probably run Micum through. If
we meet anyone, fade back with me and stay out of the
way."
But they met nothing except a few rats and
slow-moving salamanders, and soon the tunnel began
to slant upward, ending at a narrow cave. It was
hardly more than a thin cleft in the rock and the floor
of it narrowed sharply to a y making for
uncomfortable going.
Barking shins, hands, and heads against sharp-edged stones,
they clambered up the fissure. Micum pocketed
the lightstone as they reached the top and they pushed their
way through a dense thicket of bramble at the mouth of the
cave.
Looking around, Alec saw that they were somewhere in the
woods; stands of oak, birch, and fir grew
thickly around them. The sinking moon cast netted
shadows through the canopy of branches overhead,
curling darkness beneath the firs. Dawn was a few
hours away and all was still.
Seregil was trembling more violently than the others.
"You never could stand the cold," Micum said,
unclasping his cloak. When Seregil moved to shrug
it away, Micum stopped him with a stern look and
swung it around his shoulders himself.

"Save your pride for warmer days, you damn fool.
The boy and I are bred to it. Your blood's too
thin. Come on."
Still scowling, Seregil tied the cloak strings under his
chin without further protest.
Moving quietly over the snowy ground, they headed
deeper into the forest. The ground rose and
fell sharply, and the shadows were thick, but Micum
went along as confidently as if they were hiking a
highroad.
Halfway up a hillside, they reached another
cave. It was larger than the last and its opening lay
in plain sight. High-roofed and shallow, it narrowed
at the back to a tiny passage leading farther into the
hillside. Alec and Seregil were slim enough to pass
through sideways without much trouble, but Micum grunted
and swore as he worked his way in.
"I don't recall you having so much trouble a few
years back," observed Seregil.
"Shut up, you," Micum wheezed, pulling free
at last.
The crevice twisted sharply several times, threatening
to close altogether, but finally opened into a wider space.
Micum brought out his light again, and Alec saw that
they were in another cave, this one quite large.
Wood lay arranged for a fire in a circle of
stones. Hunkering down beside it, Seregil found a
small jar among the logs and shook what appeared
to be hot coals onto the tinder.
"More magic for you." Grinning, he handed Alec the
jar. Small chips of stone glowed bright as embers
but, like the lightstone, gave off no heat.
"Those are fire stones," he explained. "Be
careful with them. They won't hurt skin but the
second they touch anything that will burn-cloth, wood,
parchment-they ignite. I've seen too many
accidents to carry them traveling."
Flames licked up through the dry wood, dispelling the
chill and darkness. The natural chamber narrowed
overhead to a crevice, and by some trick of the draft
the smoke was drawn neatly up this natural
chimney.
Firewood, folded blankets, and a number of
pottery jars lay on various ledges around the
caves. Piles of dry bracken and fir boughs were
formed into rough pallets against the walls.
"This is snug camp," said Alec, admiring it.
"Micum found it a while back," Seregil said,
huddling over
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the flames as closely as he dared. "Only we
and a few friends know about it. Who was here last?"
Micum inspected the stone shelf that held the jars and
held up a black feather. "Erisa. She must have
stopped here before going into town. Let's see what
she's left in the larder."
Carrying a few of the jars to the fire, he
inspected some marks carefully incised on the wax
seals. "Let's see. There's a bee on these,
that's honey. A wheat stalk, that's hard biscuit.
A bee and a cup-mead. What've you got?"
"I'm not certain." Seregil held a jar closer
to the light. "Dried venison. And here's some
tobacco for you."
"Bless her kind heart." Micum took a pipe from
somewhere inside his tunic and filled it. "I left
my pouch behind in all the scuffle."
"And these two must be herbs," Seregil continued.
"Looks like yarrow and fever bane. Well, thanks
to our good friend Micum Cavish, we're in no need
of healing. I just want to get dry!"
Stripping off their filthy garments, they spread them
by the fire and wrapped up in blankets.
Too cold to concern himself with modesty for once,
Alec noticed that both of his companions had a
number of scars, though Micum's were by far the more
numerous and serious. The worst was a pale rope of
tissue that began just beneath his right shoulder blade. It
curved down around his back to end just short of his
navel. Noticing the boy's interest, he turned
to the light and ran a thumb proudly over the end of the
welt.
"Closest I ever came to Bilairy's
gatepost." Lighting his pipe, Micum puffed out a
few rings of mellow smoke. "It was nine winters
ago, wasn't it, Seregil?"
"I believe it was." Seregil gave Alec a
wink. "A group of us were traipsing up around the
Fishless Sea and ran into a particularly unfriendly
bunch of nomads."
"Unfriendly!" snorted Micum. "I'd never seen
their like before-great hairy giants. We still don't know
where they came from. They were too busy trying to kill
us to answer questions. We stumbled across their camp
by accident one evening, and figured we'd say hello
and try to trade for supplies. But just as we reached
the pickets, a whole pack of them-big as bears and
twice as mean-came charging out of nowhere at us on
foot. We were mounted, but they had us surrounded before
we realized what was going on. The weapons they used
looked something

like a big flail; a long haft with several lengths
of chain attached, each two or three feet long.
Only the links of the chains were flattened and the edges
ground keen as razors. Of course, we didn't
know about that until after we'd started to fight.
Cyril lost an arm, cut clean off, and Berrit
was blinded and died soon after. One of the bastards
took the front legs off my horse and then laid
into me. That's when I got this beauty." He ran a
hand over the knotted ridge of flesh again. "I was
all tangled up in the stirrups, but I managed
to get my sword up in time to block his swing- all
but one of the chains, and that laid me open to the bone right
through my jerkin. If I hadn't blocked the rest,
I believe he'd have cut me in half. Seregil
popped up from somewhere and killed him just as he was going
for another stroke. It's lucky we had the
drysian Valerius traveling with us, or I'd have
crossed over right then and there."
"I suppose this was my worst," said Seregil,
showing Alec deep indentations in the lean muscle on
either side of his left thigh.
"I was exploring an abandoned wizard's keep.
She'd been dead for years, but a lot of her wards
were still in place. I'd been very careful, spotted
all the symbols, disarmed device after device.
She'd been something of a genius in that way and I was
feeling pretty proud of myself. But no matter how
good you are, there's always a trap with your name on it
somewhere, and I found one that day. I missed
a trigger of some sort-never did see it-and the next
I knew my foot went through the floor. An iron
spike shot across, pinning my leg like a speared
fish. Half an inch to the left and I'd have bled
to death. I couldn't reach far enough into the hole to free
myself, short of cutting off my leg. I've no
stomach for pain. From what little I remember, I
did a lot of yelling and fainting until Micum
found me and carried me out. Not a very heroic tale,
I'm afraid."
Alec had stripped the oilskin cover from his bow
to check for damage. Without looking up from his work, he
ventured shyly, "Still, you were brave enough to do all that."
"You've got a short memory all of a sudden,"
Seregil scoffed, passing him the mead jar. "Aren't
you the same half-starved lad who survived
Asengai's dungeons and followed me out, not
to mention what we did tonight? That's a lot to claim
before you're even grown."
tyim Flewelling
Alec shrugged, embarrassed. "That wasn't
bravery. There just wasn't anything else to do."
Micum laughed grimly. "By Sakor, then you've
learned the secret of being brave. All you need is
some training."
Reaching over the fire, he retrieved the mead jar from
Seregil. "So what will you do now?"
Seregil shook his head. "I'd planned to blend
into some caravan and take the Gold Road all the
way to Nanta, but now I'm not so sure. What was
all that fracas about tonight? I was certain nobody
saw us."
"I was watching the house from the square. Everything was
quiet until well after you left. The party broke
up soon after, the guests went home, and the lamps
inside were mostly out. I was just about to leave myself when
all hell broke loose. Someone started yelling,
then there were lights all over the place, and soldiers
running everywhere. I got as close as I could-which
wasn't too hard with all the excitement-and looked
into the hall. That big fellow, Boraneus, had the
mayor cornered. All I heard was that anyone
who'd been at the feast was to be arrested and brought
back immediately. That's when I lit out after you. Those
Plenimarans are a damned well-organized
bunch. I didn't think I was going to get to you in
time."
Seregil tapped his chin with one long forefinger. "If
someone had actually seen us, then they wouldn't be
arresting all the guests. That's a bit of
luck, I'd say."
"And what, exactly,
did
you steal?"
"Just this." Seregil dug into his belt pouch and handed
Micum the wooden disk. "I wanted to show
Nysander the pattern."
Micum turned it over on his palm and tossed it
back to him. "Looks like a gaming piece to me-not the
sort of thing anyone would make that kind of fuss
over. You know, I think you might not have been the only
ones ghosting around there tonight. Could be one of the guards
got a case of light fingers."
"We saw one coming out of Boraneus" room before
we went in, carrying a box," Alec recalled.
"And someone nearly caught us in the other room as we
were leaving. It could have been one of them."
"I suppose so." Seregil frowned into the fire
for a moment. "At any rate, we've certainly
made ourselves look guilty enough, leaving the way we
did. I say we avoid the Gold Road.
We'll find some horses-was

"Find?" Micum interjected wryly.
"comand head cross-country to Boersby
Ford," Seregil went on, ignoring the remark.
"That should be far enough to shake loose of any pursuit.
Then we can take passage down the Folcwine
to Nanta. With any luck, we'll be there in less
than a week. If the weather holds, we can get a
ship across to Rhiminee."
"I think I'd better stay clear of Wolde
until the Plenimarans are well gone," Micum
said, stretching out on a pallet and yawning until his
jaws cracked. "I'll go back with you as far as
Boersby, in case there's any trouble."
"Did they get a good look at you?"
"I'm not sure they didn't. They were right on my
heels all the way to the Fishes. Better safe
than dead, eh?"
Sheltered in their hidden cave, they slept deeply
until afternoon.
"We'd better wait until dark to move on,"
said Seregil, squinting up at the narrow crack of
light from the smoke hole. Pulling his harp from its
case, he satisfied himself that it had survived the
dunkings of the previous night, then set about tuning
it. "We've still got a few hours to kill.
Micum, how would you like to give my young apprentice
a few lessons in swordsmanship?
He'll benefit from learning your methods as well as
my own."
Micum winked at Alec. "What he means is that
my ways aren't as dainty as his, but I manage
to make my way well enough."
"Come on now, old friend," Seregil demurred,
"I'd be hard pressed if I had to face you in a
fight."
"That's true-but it would be the time I
wasn't
facing you that I'd worry about! Come on, Alec,
I'll show you daylight methods."
Micum began with the basics, teaching Alec how
to grip the weapon so that it balanced to his
advantage, what stances presented the smallest
target to an opponent, and simple slash and parry
maneuvers. Seregil finished his tuning and lazily
plucked out a tune, pausing occasionally to offer
advice or argue points of style.
As Alec moved slowly through Micum's drills,
he began to suspect that he was learning from two
masters of uncommon ability. His arm was soon
aching as he tried to deflect Micum's mock
attacks. Though Micum's blade was of a heavier
make than
Lynn Flewelling
his own, the man flashed it about as if it weighed no more
than a glove.
"I'm sorry," Alec said at last, slicking
sweat from his forehead. "It's hard, moving so slow."
Micum flexed his shoulders. "It is, but you have
to learn to control the movements and direct the blade,
not just wave it about until it hits something. Come on,
Seregil, let's show him how it's done."
"I'm busy," replied Seregil, working on a
tricky bit of fingering.
Moving to stand over him, Micum growled, "Put
away that twopenny toy, you tit-sucking coistril,
and show me the length of your blade!"
Seregil laid his harp aside with a sigh. "Dear
me, that sounds rather like a challenge-was
Lunging swiftly past Micum, he sprang
to his feet and drew his sword, then swung a
flat-bladed attack at Micum's sword arm.
Micum blocked and countered. Grinning fiercely and
showering each other with blistering insults, they battled
around the confines of the cave, leaping over the fire pit
and threatening to trample Alec underfoot until he
wisely retreated to the narrow crevice at the
back. From there he watched with delighted
admiration as the two of them moved over the uneven
floor, graceful as acrobats or dancers.
At first it seemed to him that Seregil spent more time
avoiding attacks then returning them-his movements
seemingly effortless as he sprang here and there, his
sword flashing up to block a blow, then dodging
away, making Micum change his stance to follow him.
But Micum was no clumsy bear, either. There was a
powerful grace to his motions, a steady, implacable
rhythm as he pressed his attacks. Soon Alec
couldn't have said if Micum was driving or chasing, if
Seregil was leading or being driven.
The mock battle ended in a draw of sorts;
choosing his moment, Micum side-stepped an
attack, slapped Seregil's blade away, and
skewered a loose fold of his tunic.
At the same moment, however, the wickedly slender
poniard appeared somehow in Seregil's left hand,
its tip pricking through Micum's jerkin just below his
heart. They stood frozen for an instant, then
broke away laughing.
"So arm in arm we tumble down to Bilairy's
gate!" Micum said, sheathing his sword. "You marred
my jerkin, I see."
Luck in the Shadows

"And you ventilated my new tunic."
"By Sakor, it serves you right for pulling that
rat-sticker in the middle of a proper sword fight,
you sneaky bastard!"
"Isn't that cheating?" Alec inquired, emerging from his
crevice.
Seregil gave the boy a wink and a crooked grin.
"Of course!"
"It's no wonder you swear by Illior's Hands,"
Micum growled in mock exasperation. "I always have
to keep an eye on both of yours."
"Illior and Sakor." Alec shook his head.
"You say they're like my gods, but that they've been
forgotten in the north."
"That's right," said Seregil. "Dalna,
Astellus, Sakor, and Illior; all part of the
Sacred Four. You'll need to know more of them, down in
Skala."
Micum rolled his eyes. "We could be here the rest
of the week now. He's worse than a priest on
such things!"
Seregil ignored the protest. "Each one of them
rules a different part of life," he explained.
"And they possess the sacred duality."
"You mean like how Astellus helps with birth and
guides the dead?" asked Alec.
"Exactly."
"But what about the others?"
"Sakor guards the hearth and directs the sun,"
Micum told him. "He's the soldier's friend, but
he also inflames the mind of your enemy and brings on
storms and drought."
Alec turned back to Seregil. "And you always
swear by Illior."
"Where's that coin I gave you?" Taking it,
Seregil turned it to the side with the crescent moon.
"This is the most common sign of Illior. It
symbolizes the partial revelation of a greater
mystery. The Lightbearer sends dreams and magic,
and watches over seers and wizards and even thieves.
But Illior also sends madness and nightmares.
"All the Four are a mix of good and ill, bane and
blessing. Some even speak of them as both male or
female rather than one or the other. The Immortals
show us that it's the natural way of things that good and
ill be mixed; separate one from the other and caret
both lose their significance. That's the strength of the
Four."
"In other words, if some must be priests,
then others must be murderers," Micum noted
wryly.
"Right, so my cheating in a fight is actually a
sacred act."
lyim Flewelling
"But what about the other gods?" asked Alec.
"Ashi, and Mor of the Birds, and Bilairy and
all?"
"Northern spirits and legends, for the most part,"
Seregil said, rising to gather his belongings. "And
Bilairy's just the gatekeeper of souls, making
certain that none go in or out before the time appointed by the
Maker. As far as I know, there was only one other
god great enough to challenge the Four-an evil, dark
one."
"Seriamaius, you mean?" said Micum.
Seregil made a hasty warding sign. "You know
it's bad luck to speak the name of the Empty God!
Even Nysander says so."
"Illiorans!" the big man scoffed, nudging
Alec. "They've got superstitious streaks a
mile wide. It was all legends anyway, started
by the necromancers back in the Great War. And good
true steel took care of them."
"Not without considerable help from drysians and
wizards," Seregil replied. "And it took the
Aurenfaie to put an end to it."
"But what about this other god?" asked Alec, feeling
a chill go up his back. "Where did it come from if it
wasn't part of the Four?"
Seregil snugged down the straps of his pack.
"It's said the Plenimarans brought the worship of the
Empty God back from somewhere over the seas. It's
supposed to have been a pretty unpleasant
business, too-all kinds of nasty ceremonies.
This deity was said to feed off the living energy of the world.
He did grant uncanny powers to the faithful, but
always at a terrible price. Still, there are always those
who will seek such power, whatever the risk."
"And this Empty God is supposed to have started that
great war?"
"The worship of that god would have been well
established by that time-was
"Sakor's Flame, Seregil, a man could grow
old waiting for you to draw breath once you start
talking!" Micum interrupted impatiently.
"We've a long ride ahead of us, and horses to
"find." his
Seregil made him a rude gesture, then went to the
supply shelf and left a few coins.
"We don't have much for the larder, but I think this will
do." He replaced Erisa's feather token with a bit
of knotted cord.
Micum fished a fir cone from a pouch and added it to the
col

lection. "We'll need a sign for you, now that you know
the place," he said to Alec. "It's good manners
to let others know when you've been here."
Alec found a bit of fletching and placed it with the
other things.
Micum clapped him on the shoulder approvingly.
"I guess I don't need to ask you to keep our
secrets."
Alec nodded awkwardly and turned to pick up his
gear, hoping the others didn't see his embarrassed
blush. Whoever these men really were, it felt good to have
their trust.
They left the woods as soon as it was dark and made
their way back to the edge of the farmland surrounding the
town. It was impossible not to leave a trail across the
snow-covered fields, so they kept to the back
roads and lanes as much as possible, eyeing each
farm as they passed.
As the last lights in the distant town winked
out, Seregil paused on a rise overlooking a
prosperous steading.
"That's what we want," he said. "Dark house,
big stable."
"Good choice," said Micum, rubbing his hands
cheerfully. "That's Doblevain's place. He
breeds the best horses in the area. You see to the
animals. Alec and I will find the tack."
"All right," Seregil agreed. "Alec, we'll
continue your education with a lesson in horse thieving."
Keeping to the road and the trampled ground of the
corral, they managed to leave almost no trail at
all as they approached the stable. Just as they reached the
door, however, two large mongrels came out of the
shadows and advanced on them with raised hackles.
Facing them calmly, Seregil spoke softly and
made the left- handed sign Alec had seen him
use on the blind man's dog a few days earlier, with
nearly the same effect. Both curs halted for a
moment, then trotted forward to lick Seregil's hand,
tails whipping happily. He scratched their ears,
murmuring to them in a friendly tone.
Micum shook his head. "What I wouldn't give
to be able to do that! He's got a drysian's own
touch with animals. Must come from his-was
"Come on, we haven't got all night,"
Seregil interrupted
impatiently, and Alec thought he saw him make
some sign to Micum, though he couldn't make out what
it was.
The stable shutters were down, so they decided to risk a
light. Micum reluctantly cracked his
lightstone into two pieces, handing half to Seregil.
By the light of the remaining half, he and Alec
located the small tack room and began pulling
down saddles and gear.
Seregil soon emerged from the rich, sour darkness of the
stalls leading three glossy horses, the dogs still
padding contentedly at his heels.
Snowflakes were spiraling down again as they led their
mounts away from the farm. When Seregil judged they
were out of earshot, they mounted and set off at a
gallop over the fields, trusting the new snow
to cover their tracks.
By sunup they'd covered the miles of open hill
country between Wolde and the Folcwine Forest. They
came within sight of Stook at the forest's northern
border but avoided the town, heading instead down the
highroad through the forest.
New snow lay deep on the road and
weighed heavily on the boughs of the trees that flanked
it. The sky overhead was a stolid, even grey.
Seregil and Micum rode slightly ahead of
Alec, deep in conversation. Studying their
profiles, Alec wondered at how his old life
sometimes seemed years gone already, and with it the simple
hunter he'd been.
Lost in his own thoughts, it took a few seconds for
him to make the connection between the searing pain that suddenly
burned across the top of his left thigh, and the arrow
protruding from his horse's side just in front of the
girth strap. The animal screamed and threw him,
then bolted down the road.
The snow cushioned his fall. Dumbfounded, he
reached down and felt the shallow gash in his leg. The
wound was minor, but the suddenness of it all seemed
to numb him momentarily. It wasn't until he'd
struggled up to check his bow that he truly understood
what was happening. As if time had paused and was now
resuming its normal course, the air around him was
instantly filled with an angry hail of arrows.
"Alec, get down!" Seregil shouted from somewhere
nearby.
Clutching his bow and quiver, Alec dropped and
scrambled on

his belly to the nearest trees. Rolling into their
shelter, he peeked cautiously around a tree
trunk, realizing too late that he was on the
opposite side of the road from Micum. Four
archers stood in the road less than two hundred
feet away, sending out a volley of arrows. Alec
also caught a glimpse of others working their way through
the trees in his direction.
The archers kept up their steady attack; arrows
sang in the air, nipping off a hail of twigs
around him, thudding into the trees he sheltered behind. There
was no sign of Seregil except a third track
snaking off through the snow into the trees beyond Micum.
Left more or less on his own, Alec knew what
his next step had to be.
His heart pounded sickeningly as he fitted an arrow
to the string and took aim at a man for the first time in his
life. A tall archer standing boldly at the edge of the
road presented an easy target, but try as he
might, Alec couldn't seem to hold steady.
Startled by a horse's scream, he released the
shaft high and it sped off uselessly into the trees.
Micum's gelding drove itself into a heap just in
front of him, a shaft protruding from its
throat. Another arrow slammed into the beast's chest and
it gave a final bellowing groan.
"The bastards know their business, killing the
horses," Micum called over to him. "I hope
you have a few shafts left-I'm pinned down here!"
Nocking a second arrow, Alec drew the fletching
to his ear and tried again.
"O Dalna!" he whispered as his bow arm wavered
again. "Let me pull true!"
Damn, he can't do it,
Micum thought in alarm, watching Alec's face.
Before he could decide how to get across to help him,
however, a bandit with a sword rushed him from the trees.
Silently commending Alec to whatever gods he had,
Micum turned to meet the attack.
It was his habit to look into his opponent's eyes
as he fought; m this scarred, swarthy face he read
no fear. Their swords rang out a steady, grim
music as each, conscious of the uncertain foot- "ig
beneath the snow, tried to draw the other into a clumsy
misstep. Suddenly Micum saw the man's gaze
flicker to the left.
Jumping aside, he faced the second swordsman
before the man had time to swing at his back. Thinking
Micum had off-balanced himself, the first man
overextended a lunge and Micum's blade took
him under the ribs.
Even as he jerked the blade free, he caught
movement out of the corner of his eye and barely avoided
a slicing cut at his shoulder from a third
swordsman. Drawing a long dagger with his left
hand, Micum moved back, trying to keep them both
in front of him. These two were younger, less sure of
themselves than the first, but they knew their trade. Learing
like wolves, they stayed wide apart, making it
difficult to defend from both at once. One would
cut at him to draw a parry, while the other tried
to hamstring him on his open side. But Micum had
been in too many fights like this to be drawn. Using his
sword and dagger, he managed to fend off their
attacks and return a few thrusts of his own.
Pinking one of them on the arm, he said easily, "I
think it's only fair to tell you that my purse is
far too light for you to go to such trouble to take it." His
attackers exchanged a quick glance but made no
reply, grimly pressing to break his guard.
"Suit yourselves, then."
The man to his right feinted forward strongly, managing
to nick Micum on the ribs just deeply enough to make
him regret leaving his mail shirt behind in
Wolde. Springing back, however, the man missed his
footing in the churned snow and staggered. Micum
killed him before he'd regained his balance and was just
turning to address his final opponent when a sharp
blow from behind knocked him to his knees. Looking
down, he found a bloody arrowhead protruding from the
front of his leather shirt just beneath his right arm. The two
swordsmen, unable to break through his defense, had
managed to push him out onto the road and into the
archers" range.
Serves me right for not paying attention,
he thought angrily, seeing the final stroke coming
down. Before it could, though, the bravo fell backward
with a red-fletched arrow squarely through his chest.
Ducking for cover again, Micum looked across the
road. Alec knelt behind the dead horse,
returning the archers' shots with a singing volley of his
own. Two lay dead already, and another dropped as
Micum watched.
"By the Flame," Micum gasped. "By the
Flamel"

Seregil disappeared into the forest at the first sign of
ambush. Making a wide circuit, he outflanked
three swordsmen headed in Alec's
direction and then worked his way into their path, concealing
himself behind a fallen tree until they came abreast
of him. When all three had passed, he jumped out
and swung at the hindmost, killing him with a slash
across the back of the neck. The second man turned
in time to catch Seregil's blade in the throat.
Unfortunately, the third man-a great, heavyset
villain armed with a broadsword-had ample time
to face him. He caught Seregil's first blow at
midblade, throwing it back in an attempt to wrench
it free. Seregil maintained his grip, but the force
of the blow sent an unpleasant shock up his arm.
He considered a timely retreat into the woods, but the
snow was too deep for sprinting. Springing back a
pace, he sized up his opponent.
Evidently the other man was doing the same; he
gestured derisively at the slender blade
Seregil carried, spat into the snow, then launched a
mighty swing at his head. Hoping for the best,
Seregil pulled a dagger and ducked under the blade,
throwing himself at his adversary's knees. The
unexpected move caught the man off guard just long
enough for Seregil to bury the knife in his thigh. With a
bellow of pain, the man tumbled backward, dragging
Seregil with him, and immediately rolled to pin
him.
Caught face down under the larger man's bulk,
Seregil choked on the powdery snow. Try as he
might, he couldn't break free. Then the weight
shifted and cold, callused hands were around his throat,
cutting off his wind and shaking him like a rat.
Summoning all his will, he managed to draw up his
leg to reach his boot top. A sizzling haze of
stars swam before his eyes, but practiced fingers found
the grip of his poniard. With the last of his strength, he
drove it back between his assailant's ribs.
The big man let out a startled grunt, then
crumpled over on top of him, still pinning him down.
Gasping for air, Seregil heaved the body aside
and staggered to his feet.
"Illior's merciful today," he panted, bending
to make certain the man was dead.
Something buzzed past his head like an angry wasp and
he flung himself down, pulling his poniard free of the
body. But it was Alec, another arrow ready on the
string, who stepped from
tyim Flewelling
the trees. The boy's left thigh was bloody and he
looked decidedly pale. Micum Cavish was with
him, holding a bloodstained wad of cloth
against his side.
"Behind you." Micum nodded past Seregil's
shoulder.
Turning, Seregil found another ambusher sprawled
dead in the snow not four feet from his back, a
red-feathered arrow through his throat.
"Well," he gasped, standing up to brush off the
snow, "I believe you just repaid me for that bow."
"By Sakor, this child can shoot!" Micum grinned.
"He just put me in his debt back at the road,
then picked off two more as easy as you please. I
saw another take off through the trees when Alec was
coming over to tend me."
"Damn," Seregil muttered as he collected his
weapons and searched the dead men scattered around.
"Get your arrow from that one, Alec."
Alec approached the dead man and gingerly tugged on
the shaft protruding from his neck. As he pulled it
free, the man's head rolled to the side, his open
eyes seeming to fix on his killer. Alec backed
away from him with a shudder, carefully wiping the arrowhead
in the snow before dropping it into his quiver.
Back at the road they gathered the other bodies
into a heap. Alec pulled the arrow from the first man
he'd shot, but before he could clean it,
Micum took it from him.
"That was your first man, wasn't it?" he asked.
"Micum, it's not his way," Seregil warned, knowing
what his friend was up to.
"It's best to do these things proper," Micum
replied quietly. "I did it for you, remember?
It's you should be doing it for him."
"No, it's your ritual," Seregil sighed,
slouching against a tree. "Go ahead, then. Get it
over with."
"Come here, Alec. Stand facing me." Micum was
uncommonly serious as he held up the arrow.
"There's a twofold purpose in this. The old
ways, the soldier ways, say that if you drink the
blood of your first man, none of the others you ever kill
will be able to haunt you. Open your mouth."
Alec shot a questioning look to Seregil, who only
shrugged and looked away. Under Micum's commanding
gaze, Alec opened his mouth. Micum laid the
arrowhead briefly against his tongue, then withdrew it.
Seregil saw the boy grimace, remembered the
salt and copper

taste that had flooded his own mouth years before when
Micum had done the same with him. His
stomach stirred uneasily.
When it was over, Micum patted Alec's shoulder.
"I know you didn't enjoy that much, any more than you
enjoyed killing those fellows. Just remember that you
did it to protect yourself and your friends, and that's a good
thing, the only good reason to kill. But don't ever
get so that you like it, any more than you liked the taste
of the blood. You understand that?"
Alec looked down at the steaming crimson stains
spreading out from the bodies in the snow and nodded.
Xfi caret sI'vKl
s caret il yr'Si caret caret fandfm
1 B-"caret caret ty caret caret caret
ml
In spite of his wound, Micum agreed with Seregil
that dis.they should bolt through as quickly as possible
to Boersby. Giving wide berth to the few steadings and
inns that
lay
along the road, they kept up a steady pace for as
long as Micum could stay in the saddle, slept in the
open, and ate whatever Alec shot. Micum's wound
didn't fester, but it was giving him more pain than he
cared to admit. More aggravating still, however, was
Seregil's increasing silence during the day
and a half it took to reach the banks of the Folcwine.
From past experience, Micum recognized this as a
sure sign that something was amiss; Seregil's
black mood could go on indefinitely if something
didn't happen to shake him out of it.
They rode out of the forest at late afternoon and sat
looking out over the broad course of the Folcwine.
Micum was bleeding again, and it left him faint and
irritable.
"Bilairy's Guts, Seregil, come out with it
before I knock you down!" he growled at last.
Scowling down at his horse's neck, Seregil
muttered, "I wish we'd taken just one of them
alive."
"One of-oh, hell, man! Are you still brooding about
that?" Micum turned to Alec. "A nest of forest
bandits-hardly a rarity in the
Folcwine-surprises him, and instantly

there's some dark plot afoot. I think he's just
piqued that he didn't hear them coming."
Alec looked down at his hands, apparently finding
it politic not to comment.
"All right, then." Seregil turned in the saddle
to face Micum. "We searched the
bodies. What did we find?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Micum snapped. "Not
one solitary thing!"
"That's right. But think again, what
did
they have?"
Micum snorted with exasperation. "Cloaks,
boots, belts, tunics, all local stuff."
"Swords and bows," Alec ventured.
"Locally made?"
"The bows were. I don't know about the swords."
"Looked to be," Micum said slowly, thinking
back. "But what in the name of all-was
"Everything was new!" Seregil exclaimed, as if
they should immediately understand. "Did they have gold,
jewelry, fancy clothes?" he demanded. "Not a
scrap! A little silver in their purses, but not so much
as a luck charm or knucklebone otherwise. So
what we're left with is a gang of ruffians in
new local clothing, carrying new local weapons,
who are either so inept at their trade or of such
austere temperament that they forgo any of the usual
adornments."
With that he sat glowering at the others, thin mouth
twisted in an exasperated grimace.
He looks like a filthy young lordling berating
dim-witted servants,
thought Micum, again resisting the temptation to knock his
friend off his horse.
Alec suddenly straightened in his saddle. "They
weren't bandits at all. They were just rigged out to look
like it!"
Seregil's features relaxed into something like a
smile for the first time that day. "But more than that, they were
foreign to the area. Otherwise, they'd have had no need
to buy everything new."
"When we searched the bodies there weren't any
guild marks, were there?" asked Alec. "You know, like
that Juggler at Asengai's?"
"No, at least none that I recognized. But that
may not be significant in itself."
Micum smiled to himself, watching them go over the
details
lynn Flewelling
of the ambush again like two hounds on a fresh scent.
The boy was hooked for certain.
"So who are they?" he broke in at last.
"Plenimarans? Even if they tracked us, which I
doubt, how could they get far enough ahead of us to set up
an ambush?"
"I don't think they could," said Seregil. "These
fellows were already in place, waiting for us."
Micum stroked down the corners of his heavy
mustache. "But that still means they'd have to have gotten word
of who we were and which way we were corning."
"That's right," Seregil agreed. "It could have been
by magic, or pigeon. In any case, it means
there's a good deal more afoot here than we thought.
All the more reason for staying off the main roads and
getting to Skala as soon as possible. Time may be
shorter than we think."
"If the Overlord's forces-was Micum began, but
Seregil cut him short with a quick glance toward
Alec.
"Sorry, Alec," he said, "we trust you well
enough, but we answer to others in this matter. It's
probably safer this way anyhow."
Seregil looked up at the lowering clouds.
"We're losing the light fast, but we're too
close to town for me to spend another night outside.
What do you say, Micum? Are you well enough
to press on?"
"Let's press on. You've got contacts there,
don't you?"
"At the Tipsy Frog. We'll stay the
night there."
The lamps were lit by the time they reached the town.
Unlike Wolde, Boersby was a rough and ragged
wayside town consisting almost entirely of
establishments catering to the traders. Jumbled together
at the water's edge like thirsty cattle, inns,
taverns, and warehouses competed for frontage with the
long docks stretching out into the river.
With winter coming on, the town was crowded with the last rush
of traders trying to make a profit before the roads
closed until spring.
Seregil led the way to a dubious-looking hostelry
at the edge of town. The battered signboard over the
door displayed a bilious green creature-no
doubt intended by the artist to be a frog- draining a
hogshead.
A sizable crowd milled about in the dim confines of the
main

room, hollering back and forth and pounding on tables for
service. A fire smoldered on the large hearth,
filling the room with an eye-stinging haze. A heavy
plank laid across two barrels served as the bar, and
behind it stood a lean, pasty-faced man in a leather
apron.
"Any rooms?" Seregil inquired, giving the
taverner a discreet hand sign.
"Only got one left at the back, nothin"
fancy," the taverner replied with a quick wink. "One
silver penny per night, in advance."
With a curt nod Seregil tossed a few coins on
the bar. "Send up some food-whatever you've got and
lots of it-and water. We're just off the trail and
hungry as wolves."
The room was hardly more than a lean-to built
onto the back of the tavern. A sagging bedstead against
the far wall, its linen hinting broadly of previous
lodgers, was the only furnishing. A scruffy lad
appeared a moment later with a candle stand and a covered
firepot, closely followed by another with a platter
of roast pork and turnips, and pitchers of ale and
water.
A soft knock came at the door as they were eating.
It was the landlord this time. Without a word, he handed
Seregil a bundle and left.
"Come along, Alec," said Seregil, tucking it
under his arm. "Bring the pack. There's a bathhouse
next door and I could do with a wash. What about you,
Micum?"
"Good idea. I doubt I could stand the
three of us in a closed room tonight." He rubbed a
hand ruefully through the thick, coppery stubble on his
cheeks. "I could do with a good shave, as well, not that
either of you would understand!"
The bathhouse was a drafty establishment. After some
determined haggling with the woman who owned it, Seregil
saw to it that the two splintery wooden tubs the
place boasted of were emptied of their murky contents
and refilled with clean water. For an additional fee
she heated two buckets of water to take off "he
chill. As they stripped down, she brought in towels
and coarse yellow soap, then took their clothes
away to be washed. No stranger to naked customers,
she greeted Alec's hot-cheeked discomfort with open
disdain.
Lynn Flewelling
"You've got to get over that, you know," Seregil
remarked as he and Micum settled in their tubs.
"What?" Alec huddled closer to the room's tiny
fire, waiting his turn.
"This modesty of yours. Or at least the blushing
part."
Micum sank back with a sigh, letting the tepid
water soften the crusted blood around his wound.
Seregil scrubbed himself quickly head to foot
and climbed out again.
"All yours, Alec. Use the soap and have a care
for your nails. I've a notion to elevate our station
in life by tomorrow." He was shivering as he scrubbed the
ragged towel over his hair and shoulders.
"Illior's Hands!" he grumbled. "I swear when
I get back to Rhiminee I'm going to head for the
nearest civilized bath and stay there a week!"
"I've seen him fight through fire, blood,
starvation, and magic," Micum remarked, speaking
to nobody in particular, "but deny him a hot bath
at the end of it and he fusses like a kept whore."
"A lot you'd know about that." Unrolling his bundle,
Seregil shook out a coarse woolen dress and
pulled it on over his head.
Alec gaped in astonishment, and Seregil give him
a wink. "Time for another lesson, I think."
He quickly plaited his hair back into a loose
braid and pulled a few strands free to hang
untidily around his face. Greyish powder from
small pouch dulled his hair and skin. Unwrapping
the rest of the bundle, he pulled out a huge striped
shawl, battered wooden clogs, and a leather
girdle. Satisfied with his work, he tucked the
smallest of his daggers out of sight under his
belt and turned away for a moment, rearranging his
body beneath the loose gown to give the impression of the
stooped frailty of age. When he turned back
again, Alec and Micum saw an unremarkable little
servant woman.
"Would the two gentlemen be good enough to give an
opinion?" Seregil asked in an old woman's
voice heavy with the soft accent of Mycena.
Micum gave his nodded approval. "Well met,
gramma. Where are you off to in that getup?"
"Less said, less heard," Seregil replied,
going to the door. "I'm off to see which way the wind
blows. If anyone asks, just say I had other
clothes, which of course," he added, dropping a rusty
curtsy and flashing his best crooked grin, "I do!"

When their clothes came back, Alec and Micum
returned to their room at the Frog. The candles were
lit and the firepot glowed cheerfully on its tripod
in the center of the room.
"How's your side feel now?" Alec asked.
"Better, but I'll rest easier on the floor,"
Micum said, eyeing the sagging ropes showing beneath the bed
frame. "Just be a good lad and help me make up
a pallet with the cloaks here next to the
door."
Alec laid down blankets and cloaks for him and
Micum sat down gratefully, sword across his
knees.
"Bring your sword over and I'll show you how to keep
a proper edge on it," he invited, taking out a
pair of whetstones.
They worked in silence for a while, listening to the singing of
metal against stone. Bone-tired, Alec was
grateful to find Micum a person easy to be
quiet with. The man's uncomplicated good nature
demanded no idle chatter.
He was rather startled, therefore, when Micum said without
looking up from his task, "You're as quiet as a
stump. You might not think it, but I'm just as nosy as
Seregil in my way."
When Alec hesitated, he continued, not unkindly,
"I never imagined him taking on an apprentice
at all, and certainly not a simple young woods
colt like you. Not that I mean any offense, mind you.
It's just that you've more the look of a gamekeeper's
son than a spy. So tell me, what do you think of
our friend?"
"Well," to be honest, I'm not quite sure what
to think. From the first he's treated me like-as
if-was
He stopped in confusion; he'd seldom been
consulted about his opinions, and had to search for the words
to frame them. Besides, while Micum's open,
jovial manner invited candor, it was clear that he and
Seregil were close friends.
"It's as if he knows all about me," he managed
at last. "And sometimes like he assumes I know all
about him. He's saved my life, clothed me,
taught me all sorts of things. It's just that every so
often it occurs to me that I don't know much about him.
I tried asking him about his home, his family-that
sort of thing- but he just smiles and changes the
subject. He's good at that."
Micum gave a knowing chuckle.
'Anyway," Alec continued, "he seems to think
he can make me into whatever it is that he is, but it
makes me nervous
sometimes. I don't know enough about him to know what he
expects of me! You're his friend and all, and I
wouldn't ask you to break a confidence, but isn't there
something you can tell me about him?"
"Oh, I think so." Micum ran a thumbnail
along the edge of his sword blade. "We first met
years ago up near the Gold Vein
River. We got on well enough and when he went south
to Rhiminee again, I went with him.
"He has an old friend there, Nysander, and it was from
him that I learned most of what I know about our
closemouthed friend. Where he came from and why he left
is for him to tell you. I don't know much of it myself,
except that he has some degree of noble blood that
connects him to the Skalan court. He was hardly
older that you are now when he came to Skala, but
he'd seen some trouble already. Nysander's a wizard,
and he took Seregil on as an apprentice. It
must not have worked out, though-Seregil's no wizard, for
all his tricks with animals-but they've stayed friends.
You'll meet him when you get there. Seregil always
visits him first thing when he comes home from a
jaunt."
"A wizard! What's he like?"
"Nysander? He's a good old soul, kind as the
Maker on a summer's day. A

lot of the other wizards act pretty grand and
mighty, but let old Nysander get a drink or
two in him and he's likely to start conjuring green
unicorns or setting the knives to dancing with the
spoons, for all that he's one of the old
ones."
"Old ones?"
"Wizards live as along as Aurenfaie, and
Nysander's been around a good long time. He must be
pushing three hundred these days. He knew Queen
Idrilain's grandmother, and Idrilain's a grandmother
herself now. He's a great favorite of hers. She
has him to her chambers frequently, and he's always
at banquets."
"Seregil said there were a lot of wizards at
Rhiminee."
"There's a whole place full of them, called the
Oreska House-though it's more like a castle than a
house. Like I was saying, a lot of them are pretty
full of themselves and take him for a doddering old fool,
snub him even. But you just wait until you meet
him, then make up your own mind.
"As for Seregil, don't worry about him. He's
not the trusting type, so if he's chosen to take you
along with him, you can be sure he's pleased with
you-whatever his reasons. One thing 1

can tell you for certain is that he'll lay down his
life for a friend, and never leave a comrade in the lurch.
Never.
He may tell you different-and once you see how he
lives in Rhiminee, you may wonder-but I know him
and he's as true as the sun in the sky. The one thing
he can't forgive is betrayal; you'll do well
to remember that. Somewhere, back before he came
to Skala, someone betrayed him badly somehow and it's
left a mark on him for life. He'll kill
anyone who betrays him."
Alec mulled this over for a moment, then asked,
"What's Rhiminee like?"
"It's the most beautiful city in the world. It's also
rotten with intrigue. The royal family has more
branches than a willow and they're always scheming
against each other for a higher place on the tree.
Political plots, old feuds, secret
lovers, and who knows what else. And more often than
not, when one of them needs a document stolen or some
token delivered in the dead of night, it's our friend
Seregil who does the job. The people who hire him
never actually meet him, mind you, but those who want
his services know how to contact him. You ask for the
'Rhiminee Cat." He's the best and worst
kept secret in the city."
"It's all so hard to imagine." Alec shook his
head ruefully. "He thinks I can do that
sort of thing?"
"I told you before, if he wasn't certain you could,
you wouldn't be here. I wager he sees something in you that
neither you nor I do. Oh, he'd have rescued you
anyway, no matter what, but there must be something
else that's caused him to keep you on with him."
Micum caught his eye and winked. "Now there's a
mystery for you to solve, for 1 doubt you'll ever hear
it from Seregil. In the meantime, though, don't
worry about pleasing him. Just keep your eyes open and
follow his lead."
Slipping back into the room, Seregil threw his
shawl aside and sprawled across the bed to ease the
kinks from his back. Micum and Alec looked at
him expectantly.
"There's a price on Aren Windover's head, and
yours, too, Alec," he informed them. "There was also
mention of an unknown third man. I trust this
information was furnished by the man who got away on the
road the other day."
lynn Flewelling
p caret
VT ii
"Don't start on that," Micum warned. "Who's
offering this reward? Our good mayor of
Wolde?"
"Supposedly. The message came by pigeon
yesterday, saying that we've carried off the guild
money box or some such nonsense."
"How much is Aren worth this time?"
"Twenty silver marks."
"Bilairy's gateposts!" Micum gasped.
"What the hell have you gotten into?"
"Damned if I know." Seregil scrubbed a hand
wearily through his hair. "Where's my pouch?"
Alec tossed it to him and he took out the wooden
disk, regarding it with a puzzled scowl. "This is the
only thing we took. I can't figure what would
make it worth all this trouble, but I guess we'd
better keep a close guard on it, just in case."
Threading a length of leather lacing through the square
hole in its center, he stared at it again for a moment,
then tied the thong around his neck. "If they want it
back that badly, I'm all the more determined to get
it to Skala."
"And how much do they want for me?" Alec asked.
"It's the first time I've been an outlaw."
"Twenty marks, same as me. Not bad for one of
your tender years. They only offered half that for
Micum."
"You're certain there was no mention of me by name?"
asked Micum.
"None at all. Seems you got away clean."
"I've always come and gone as I pleased around there, so
I won't be missed. Are we in danger here?"
"I don't think so. If they had agents in
Boersby, they wouldn't have involved the locals. It
sounds like they sent similar messages all over:
Stook, Ballton, Osk, even Sark. Whoever
they are, they've lost us and they're not pleased. Just the
same, I think we'd best be very careful."
"If they're looking for two men and a boy, I say
we split up." Micum stroked his mustache
thoughtfully. "I believe I'd like to circle back
anyway, have a look at that place you saw marked
on the map, down in the Blackwater Fens. I'll
head out before first light."
"Are you sure you're up to it?"
"I'll ride easy."
"Take our horses with you when you go and send word as

soon as you can. I've already booked passage for
Alec and myself down to Nanta. If you need to find
us, we'll be aboard a river trader called the
Darter.
She's got a black hull with a red cutwater.
Ask for Lady Gwethelyn of Cador Ford."
"Lady Gwethelyn?" Micum grinned. "It's
been a while since I've heard from that good lady.
You're in for a singular treat, Alec my lad!"
"T,
I

"hat's a warm-lookin" wench, even if she is
a bit past her prime, eh, Captain Rhal?"
the helmsman remarked.
The
Darter s
triangular sail was bellied out in the brisk wind,
and Rhal moved to the rail for a better view of his
passenger, still seated in the prow.
The captain was a stocky, dark-haired man of
middling years. Though somewhat balding, he was still
comely enough in a rakish, weather-beaten sort of way
to attract the graces of a good many women in a good
many ports-a fact he was glad to capitalize
on.
"That she is. I've always fancied a trim-cut
wench," he agreed, discounting Skywake's
appraisal of her age; coming from him that
meant anything over the age of fourteen. Though the
lady in question was clearly past the first blush of youth,
she was no beldam. Perhaps twenty-five?
Lady Gwethelyn and her young squire had come
aboard at dawn. After seeing her gear stowed in the
small passenger cabin, she'd asked the captain
if she might sit in the prow, as she was prone
to seasickness and thought that the breeze might help ward
it off until she became accustomed to the motion of the
ship. Her soft, low voice and gentle manner had
charmed him right down to his boots.

The trip downriver might not be so monotonous this
time, after all.
Studying her in the morning light, Rhal found no
cause to alter his first assessment. Her carefully
draped wimple framed a demure, fine-boned
face. Under her mantle she wore a high- necked
traveling gown that showed to advantage a slender
waist and gently rounded bosom. She might be a
bit thin through the hips for some, but as he'd remarked
to Sky wake, he liked his women trim. The chill
wind off the water had brought out the roses in her
pale cheeks, and her wide grey eyes seemed
to sparkle as she leaned toward her traveling
companion to point out some detail on the distant
bank. Perhaps she was closer to twenty?
The
Darter's
primary cargo was generally furs and spices, but
years ago Rhal had found it lucrative to add
an extra cabin below decks, and he often ferried
passengers up and down the Folcwine. The previous
evening, an old servant woman had booked
passage as far as Nanta for the lady and her
squire. In return for a glass of ale, the old
gossip was happy to extol the beauties of her
mistress and bemoan the frailty of health that forced
her to spend the harsh winter months with her relations in
the south.
This was common enough; many of the more well-to-do merchants
in the northlands found themselves southern wives, and often
these ladies preferred to migrate back to their warmer
homelands before the icy grip of the northern winter
brought all normal activity to a halt.
Seeing to it that the sail was properly trimmed,
Rhal went forward to con the river. The Folcwine
was broad and generally forgiving, but this was the season for
gravel bars.
His new position afforded him a better
view of his passengers, and he found himself distracted
again. The ever-present squire- scarcely more than a
raw boy for all his livery and sword-had stepped
to the rail. The woman sat
gazing
pensively toward the shore, hands clasped in her
lap.
Her dress, her manner, the large garnet ring she
wore on one gloved forefinger, all confirmed her a
lady of quality, but Rhal round himself again wondering
about her reasons for traveling, khe'd come aboard with
nothing but a large hamper and one none-too-heavy
trunk. The squire had a battered old pack that
Lynn Flewelling
weighed nearly as much; hardly the baggage of a
gentlewoman. That, together with her lack of women
servants and the late hour at which her passage was
booked, suggested a more interesting possibility. Could
it be she was a runaway wife? One could always
hope, and, by Astellus, he had a week to find out!
While Seregil would have been more than pleased with the
impression he had made upon the captain, his
pensive mood was no ruse.
The previous night, he'd found suitable clothing for
himself and Alec, then checked Micum's
wound and tried unsuccessfully to get him to take the
bed. When all efforts had failed, Seregil had
tumbled into it beside Alec and fallen asleep almost at
once. Aside from the fact that he was worn out from the
events of the last few days, he knew it was the only
way to escape Micum's thunderous snoring.
Sometime later, he'd awakened with the sense of something
amiss. A strong wind had come up in the night. It
gusted around the corners of the building, sighing through the
cracks in the walls. The firepot had died to a
dim glow and he was cold except for the warmth of
Alec's naked back resting lightly against his own.
This in itself was odd, he'd thought, because together with the fact
that he didn't remember disrobing, the boy's
persistent modesty would hardly have allowed him
to sleep naked with anyone else.
Yet that wasn't it, he decided sleepily. By the
faint light of the firepot, he could make out
Micum's bulk on the pallet by the door. Something
wrong there, something obvious-if only his foggy brain
would clear.
Sliding out of bed, he crossed softly to where
Micum lay, disliking the feel of the rough, cold
boards under his bare feet. The sense of unease
grew stronger as he crouched beside him; he
had never known Micum to sleep so quietly.
His friend lay curled on his side, facing away from
Seregil so that he could scarcely hear the man's
breathing. In fact, he couldn't hear any breathing
at all.
"Micum, wake up," he whispered, but his throat
was so dry that hardly a sound came. Dread-thick and
palpable-pressed around him and he grasped his friend's
shoulder, suddenly desperate for him to wake up,
to speak.

Micum was as cold to the touch as the floor beneath
Seregil's feet. Jerking his hand away, he found
it darkly stained with blood. Micum slumped
slowly onto his back, and Seregil saw the gaping
wound in his friends throat where his own poniard was still
lodged. Micum's eyes were open, his expression
one of terrible surprise and sadness.
An anguished cry welled in Seregil's throat.
He lurched back and pushed himself away from the body,
snagging tender skin on the rough planking.
The wind mounted a sudden assault on the house,
slamming one of the window shutters back in a frigid
blast of air. Fanned by the draft, the coals
blazed up for an instant, and by their brief
illumination, Seregil caught sight of a tall
figure standing in the corner nearest the window. The
man was closely muffled from head to knees in a dark
mantle but Seregil recognized the implacable
straightness of back, the slightly inclined head, the
sharp thrust of a cocked elbow under the cloak as an
unseen hand rested on belt or pommel. And, with
an utterly unpleasant mingling of precognition and
memory, he knew exactly how their conversation would
begin.
"Well, Seregil, this is a pretty state I
find you in."
"Father, this isn't how it appears," Seregil
replied, hating the pleading note he heard in his own
voice-the very echo of a past self who'd uttered these
same words in a situation not unlike the present
one-but powerless to sound otherwise. But his older self
was also uneasily aware of his empty weapon hand.
"It
appears
that you have a dead friend on your floor and a catamite in
your bed." His father's voice was just as he remembered:
dry, sardonic, full of calculated
disapprobation.
"That's only Alec-was Seregil began
angrily, but the words died in his throat as the boy
rose naked from the bed with a wanton grace
completely unlike his usual manner. Coming
to Seregil, he pressed warmly against him and
exchanged an arch glance with his father.
"Your choice of companions has not improved."
"Father, please!" A dizzying sense of unreality
closed in on Seregil as he sank to his knees.
"Exile has only strengthened your baser
tendencies," his father sneered. "As ever, you are a
disgrace to our house. Some other punishment must be
found."
Lynn Flewelling
pp-
h
Then, with that rare gentleness that had always taken
Seregil off guard, he shook his head and sighed.
"Seregil, my youngest, what am I to do with you? It
has been so long! Let us at least clasp hands."
Seregil reached to take his father's hand. Shameful
tears burned his eyes as he peered up into the depths
of the hood, hoping for a glimpse of the
well-remembered face. Yet even then a tiny,
sickening tendril of doubt uncurled at the back of
his mind. Alec's hands tightened on his
shoulders as his father's hand closed around his.
"You're dead!" Seregil groaned, trying too
late to pull away from the fleshless grasp that held
him. "Nine years ago! Adzriel sent word.
You're dead!"
His father nodded agreeably, pushing back his hood.
A few strands of dark hair clung to the shriveled
scalp. The sharp grey eyes were gone, leaving two
black craters in their place; the bridge of his
nose was eaten away. Shriveled lips twisted
into the parody of a smile as he inclined his ruined
face, engulfing Seregil in a sullen, mouldy
odor.
"True, but I am still your father," the thing went on,
"and you shall be properly punished!"
A sword flashed from under the cloak and he stepped
back, holding Seregil's severed right hand in his-
comand Seregil had bolted up in the bed, drenched in
sweat, clutching both hands to his heaving chest. There
was no wind, no open shutter. Micum's snoring
rose and fell in a comforting rumble. Beside him, Alec
stirred and mumbled a question.
"It's nothing, go back to sleep," Seregil
whispered, and with his heart beating much too quickly, he'd
tried to do the same.
Even now, with the sunlight glancing off the water and the
rapid chuckle of the current beneath the bow, the ominous,
disorienting feel of the dream haunted him. He'd
certainly had nightmares before but never about his father, not
since he'd left home, and never one that had left
him with such a throbbing headache the next day. A cup
of mulled wine at the tavern had helped, but now it
was creeping back, hammering at his temples and
bringing a bitter taste into his throat. He wanted
desperately to rub his eyes, but the carefully
applied cosmetics prevented even this slight
relief.
"Are you still unwell, lady?"

Seregil turned to find the captain towering over him.
"Just a bit of headache, Captain," he replied,
modulating his voice to the softer tones he'd
adopted for this particular role.
"That's probably from the sun off the water, my
lady. Come around behind the mast. You'll still feel the
breeze, but the sail will shade you from the glare.
I'll have one of the men heat some wine for you; that should
put you right."
Offering his arm, Rhal led his fair passenger back
to a bench attached to the deckhouse. To his
ill-concealed annoyance, Alec followed them back
and took up a station at the starboard rail.
"That boy keeps a close watch on you," Rhal
observed, seating himself next to "Gwethelyn" rather more
closely than the span of the bench required.
"Ciris is a kinsman of my husband's,"
Seregil replied. "My husband has entrusted him
with my safety. He takes his task very
seriously."
"Still, it doesn't seem that a slip of a boy could be
much protection." A sailor appeared with a pitcher
of wine and a pair of wooden cups. Rhal served
Seregil himself.
"I'm certain you have nothing to fear on my account.
Ciris is a fine swordsman," Seregil lied,
sipping delicately at his wine; it had not escaped
his notice that his cup was a good deal fuller than the
captain's.
"Just the same," Rhal replied gallantly,
leaning closer, "I'm making it my duty to watch
over you until we reach port. If there's any
service I can render, day or night, you've only
to call on me. Perhaps you would do me the honor of
taking supper with me in my cabin tonight?"
Seregil lowered his eyes demurely.
"You're very kind, but I'm so weary from my journey
that I shall retire quite early."
"Tomorrow night, then, when you're rested," the captain
parried.
Very well, tomorrow. I'm sure you've many tales that will
entertain my squire as well as myself. We will be
honored."
for the
Captain Rhal rose with a slight bow; the fleeting
look of frus- ration Seregil caught as he
turned away assured him that, at least
moment, he'd held the day.
Lynn Flewelling
"Captain Rhal's out to seduce me," Seregil
announced in their little cabin that evening, applying fresh
cosmetics while Alec held the lantern and a
small mirror.
"What are you going to do?"
Seregil winked. "Go along with him, of course.
Up to a point, anyway."
"Well, you could hardly let him, you know-was Alec
gestured vaguely.
"Yes, still know, though I rather wonder if you do."
Seregil raised an appraising eyebrow at his young
companion. "But you're right, of course.
Letting him under my skirts now would certainly
spoil the illusion I've worked so hard to create.
Still"-dropping into the manner of Lady Gwethelyn,
he looked up at Alec through his lashes-"this
Captain Rhal is a handsome rogue, wouldn't you
say?"
Alec shook his head, unsure whether Seregil was
being serious or not. "Are you going to sleep with all that
on your face?"
"I think it might be wise. If the man is
determined enough to invite a married woman to his cabin
on the first day, I certainly wouldn't put it past
him to find some excuse to wander in here during the night.
That's why I'm also going to wear that."
He gestured toward the fine linen nightgown on the
bed. "The key to successfully traveling in a
disguise is to maintain it at all times, no matter
what. Unlace me." Standing up, he held his
hair to one side while Alec undid the back of the
gown. "The practice may come in handy for you
someday."
From this angle, Alec was uneasily aware of the
completeness of Seregil's disguise. Throughout the day,
watching from across the deck as Seregil played
Gwethelyn for the captain and crew, he'd
been halfway taken in himself.
The illusion was considerably diminished, however, as the
gown fell away and Seregil began untying his
false bosom. It was his own creation, he'd
explained proudly-a sort of close-fitting linen
undershirt, the modest breasts consisting of domed
pockets stuffed with balls of soft wool.
"Better than some real ones you'll run across," he
said with a grin. "I think I can do without that for now,
though." He tucked the garment carefully away in the
chest. "As the defender of my honor, it's up to you
to keep our good captain from discovering their loss, should
he appear."
"You'd be safer with Micum along."
Luck in the Shadows

"Micum hates working with me when I go as a
woman. Says I'm "too damned pretty
by half and it makes him nervous."
"I can understand that," Alec replied with a
self-conscious grin. "Lady Gwethelyn" sounded a
troubling chord in him, as well. Seregil's
convincing illusion stirred up a confusion that Alec
hadn't the philosophy to put into words.
"You'll do fine. Besides, a lady is
allowed some protection of her own." Smiling,
Seregil pulled a small dagger from the sleeve of
his discarded gown and tucked it under his pillow. "I've
heard that Plenimaran women are expected to use these
on themselves if some stranger invades their bedchamber,
so as to protect their husband's honor. I call that
adding injury to insult."
"Have you ever been to Plenimar?" Alec asked, sensing
the opening for a tale.
"Just along the borders and territories, never into the
country itself." Seregil pulled on the nightdress
and set about braiding his hair over one shoulder.
"Strangers don't pass unnoticed there. Unless
you have some good honest reason for going there, it's better
to stay away. From what I've heard, spies there have
extremely short lives. I find more than enough
to keep me busy in Rhiminee."
"Micum says-was Alec began, but was interrupted
by a heavy knock at the door.
"Who's there?" Seregil called in Gwethelyn's
voice, wrapping himself in a cloak and signaling for
Alec to retreat to the curtained servant's
alcove.
"Captain Rhal, my lady," came the muffled
reply. "I thought some tea might help you
to sleep."
Alec peeked out of his alcove, and Seregil
rolled his eyes. "How very thoughtful."
Alec stepped forward on cue as Rhal came in,
taking the steaming pitcher with a bow that effectively
blocked further progress into the room.
"I was just about to put out the candle," Seregil said with a
yawn. "I shall have a cup, and I'm sure I shall go
directly to sleep. Good night."
Rhal managed a strained bow and left, but not before
shooting a decidedly unfriendly glance in Alec's
direction.
Alec closed the door firmly and turned to find
Seregil shak- mg with silent laughter.
By the Four, Alec, you'd better watch your
back," Seregil
Lyim Flewelling
whispered. "My new swain is jealous of you! And the
way you met him at the door-was
He broke off, wiping his eyes. "Ah, I'll
sleep soundly tonight knowing my virtue is so well
guarded. But I believe your constancy deserves a
reward. Pour the tea and we'll have a tale!"
When they'd settled comfortably on either end of the bunk
with their cups, Seregil took a long sip
and said expansively, "So, what would you like to hear
about?"
Alec thought for a moment; he had so many questions, it was
difficult to know where to begin. "The warrior queens of
Skala," he replied at last.
"Excellent choice. The history of the queens is
the essence of Skala itself. You recall me. saying
that the first of these queens appeared during the first great
war against Plenimar?"
Alec nodded. "Queen Gera-something."
"Gherilain the First. The Oracle's Queen, she's
sometimes called, because of the circumstances of her
crowning. At the start of the war Skala was ruled from
Eros by her father, Thelatimos. He was a good leader,
but Plenimar was at the height of her strength and by the
tenth year it looked as if Skala and Mycena were
going to fall. Plenimar had overrun Mycena as far
as the Folcwine River years before and controlled the
farmlands and territories to the north. With their
superior sea power and ample resources, they had
every advantage."
"And they had the necromancers," Alec interjected.
"And their armies of walking dead, you said."
"I see that certain subjects stick in your mind.
I believe I said that legends mention
rumors
of such things. The Plenimarans are known for their
brutality and thoroughness both during battle and after.
It's a short step from there to monsters, wouldn't you
say?"
Noticing that Alec looked a little crestfallen, he
added kindly, "But it's important to have a good ear
and a sharp memory; you're well equipped in those
respects. In our trade you have to sift every tale,
separate the true weave from the embroidery, as it
were.
"But to resume my tale, things looked quite hopeless
that tenth winter of the war. In desperation, Thelatimos
resolved to consult the Afran Oracle. This meant
making a long, dangerous journey to Afra, which
lies in the hills of central Skala. But he
reached the precinct by the solstice and asked what he
should do. The royal scribe who accompanied him
took down the Oracle's

reply word for word. Thelatimos later had it
inscribed on a golden tablet that is displayed to this
day in the throne room at Rhiminee. It reads:
'So long as a daughter of Thelatimos" line
defends and rules, Skala shall never be
subjugated."
"Those words changed the course of history forever.
Since the Afran Oracles were renowned for the
accuracy and wisdom of their prophecies,
Thelatimos, though rather surprised, decided to follow
the edict. The divine covenant was proclaimed and
his four sons duly stepped aside in favor of their
sister Gherilain, a girl just your age and the youngest of
his children.
"There was a great deal of controversy among the
generals as to whether the Oracle meant for an
untried girl to take over the actual leading of the
armies. Thelatimos meant to follow the letter of the
prophecy. Declaring his daughter Queen, he
instructed his commanders to prepare her for war. As the
story goes, they had other ideas. They gave her a
bit of training, dressed her up in fine armor, and
stuck her in the center of a sizable bodyguard at the
rear of the army. During the next battle, however,
young Gherilain rallied her guard, led them to the
front, and personally killed the Overlord
Krysethan the Second. Although the war continued
another two years, her actions that day bought Skala
and her allies enough time for the Aurenfaie to arrive. From
that day no one doubted Gherilain's divine
right to lead."
"And there have been queens ever since?" asked Alec.
"No one ever questioned the Oracle's words?"
"Some did. Gherilain's son Pelis secretly
poisoned his sister when he was passed over as king,
then took the throne, claiming that the Oracle had
really meant 's long as the daughter of Thelatimos
rules" rather than "a daughter of the line of
Thelatimos." Unfortunately for him, there was a
devastating crop failure during his second year
of rule, quickly followed by an outbreak of plague.
He died, along with hundreds of others. As soon
as his niece, Agnalain, took the throne things
began to improve."
"But what if a queen had no daughters?"
"That's come up a few times over the last eight
hundred years. Queen Marnil was the first. She had
six fine sons but no acceptable successor. In
desperation she journeyed to Afra where the Oracle
instructed her to take another consort, specifying that
she choose a man on the basis of bravery and
honor."
"What about her husband?" asked Alec.
lyim Flewelling
"That did present a problem, since the
Oracle wasn't very specific. Since then,
various queens have interpreted the directive in a
number of ways. Some even used the office as a
sort of reward. Queen Idrilain's grandmother,
Elesthera, had more than thirty "consorts," but
even the Skalans considered this rather eccentric."
"How could a queen produce legitimate heirs
if she slept with any man who took her fancy?"
Alec exclaimed, looking scandalized.
"What does legitimate mean, after all?"
Seregil said with a laugh. "A king may be
cuckolded if his wife can fool him into thinking that her
lover's child is his own, not a difficult thing to do. But
any child a queen bears is her own, no matter who
the father was, and therefore a legitimate heir."
"I guess so," Alec conceded with obvious
disapproval. "Were there any bad queens?"
"The usual mix over the years. Divinely
instituted or not, they're still human."
Alec shook his head, grinning. "All these stories
and histories. I don't see how you remember
all that!"
"One has to, to do any sort of business among the
Skalan nobles. Importance is judged by which
branch of the line one is related to, how
far back you can trace noble blood, which consort one
is descended from, whether your ancestor was directly
descended from a female or male branch, whether
or not they were legitimate-I could go on, but you get
the idea."
He set his cup aside and stretched. "And now I
think we'd both do well to turn in. I've a
busy day tomorrow dealing with our good captain, and you've
got your work cut out for you defending my honor!"
A
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Seregil jerked awake
just
before dawn, a strangled groan crawling up his
throat. He tried to choke it back, but the muffled
croak was enough to bring Alec from his alcove.
"What is it? What's wrong?" the boy whispered,
groping his way across the cramped cabin.
"Nothing, just a dream."
Alec's hand found his shoulder. "You're shaking like a
spooked horse!"
"Strike a light, will you?" Seregil clasped his
aims tightly around his knees, trying to quell the
fit of trembling that shook him.
Alec quickly lit a candle at the companionway
lantern and regarded Seregil with concern. "You're
pale as anything. Sometimes the quickest way to make a
nightmare pass is to tell it."
Seregil let out a long, slow breath and motioned for
him to draw up the cabin's single chair; he was
certainly in no hurry to sleep again.
"It was morning," he began softly, staring at the
candle flame. "I was dressed and about to go on
deck. I called for you but you weren't around, so I
went alone.
"The sky was a hideous, boiling purple, the light
through the clouds harsh and brassy-
lyim Flewelling
you know, the way it is just before a thunderstorm? The ship
was in ruins. The mast was snapped off, with the sail
hanging down over the side, the deck all littered
with wreckage. I called out again, but there was no one
on board but me. The river was black as oil. There
were things floating in the water all around the ship,
too-severed heads, hands, arms, bodies-was
He scrubbed the back of one hand across his
mouth. "What I could make out of the shore was a
desolate waste, the land burned and torn up.
Smoke from ruined fields flowed out over the water and
as I watched it seemed to gather itself, moving toward the
ship in great coils and billows. As it came
closer I began to hear sounds. At first I couldn't
make out their direction, but then I realized it was
all around me. It was the-the things in the water. They were
all moving, limbs flexing and kicking, the faces
twisting into horrid expressions as they rolled in the
water."
He heard a small gasp of revulsion from Alec;
to a Dalnan, there was nothing more horrible than a
desecrated corpse. Seregil drew another
shaky breath and forced himself to continue.
"Then the ship lurched and I knew that something was
climbing up the torn sail. I couldn't see what
it was but it jerked the vessel around like a fishing
float. I clung to the far rail, waiting for it.
I knew that whatever it was, it was unspeakably
vile-that the very sight of it was going to shatter me.
Yet even in the midst of my terror, a small,
sane part of my mind was screaming that there was something
terribly important that I should be remembering. I
didn't know if it would save me, but it was
imperative that I think of it before I died. And then
I woke up."
He managed a faint, self-mocking laugh. "There
it is. Sounds rather silly, telling it like that."
"No, it was a bad one!" Alec shuddered. "And you
still don't look too well. Do you think you can
sleep some more?"
Seregil glanced at the brightening square of the window.
"No, it's almost morning. You go back to bed, though.
No sense both of us losing sleep over nothing."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, you were right about telling it. It's fading
already," Seregil lied. "I'll be fine."

As Seregil moved through the details of the morning, the
nightmare did begin to fade, but in its wake came
a strong sense of unease. His headache had
returned, too, shortening his patience and unsettling
his stomach. By noon he was so out of sorts that he
retreated to his place by the cutwater, hoping to be
left alone. Alec seemed to sense that he would do
well to make himself useful elsewhere, but the captain
was not so easily put off.
Traveling in disguise always posed complications, but
Seregil was finding his current role more
restrictive than usual. RhaFs inopportune
attentions were more than he felt up to dealing with in his
present state. The captain found frequent
opportunities to make himself available to Lady
Gwethelyn, noting points of interest along the
shore, inquiring after her comfort, suggesting innumerable
diversions for her young squire. He accepted her
apologies graciously enough, but was firm in his
intention to entertain them at supper that evening.
Soon after the midday meal, Seregil excused himself
and spent the remainder of the afternoon dozing in the cabin.
By the time Alec roused him to prepare for dinner he was
feeling considerably better.
"Sorry to leave you on your own up there," he
apologized as Alec worked at a knotted lacing
on his gown. "Tomorrow we'll find a way to get in some
training. Lady Gwethelyn can keep to her cabin with
her squire in attendance. Swordplay would be rather
awkward down here, but I'm sure we can come up with
something. More signing and palming tricks, maybe.
That's something you have to keep at or you'll lose it."
Wriggling out of the wrinkled garment, he lifted a
fresh gown from the trunk and dropped it over his head.
When Alec had pulled the lacings snug, he
carefully draped a gauzy wimple over
his hair, binding it with a silk cord and arranging the
folds to spread gracefully over his shoulders. In
addition to the garnet nng, he added a heavy chain of
twisted gold and large pearl earrings.
"Illior's Fingers, I'm famished," he said as
he finished. "I hope I can manage to eat in a
ladylike fashion. What's for supPer?
Alec?"
The boy was regarding him with a perplexed expression.
Blushing a bit, he blinked and replied, "We're
having stewed fowl. I dressed out the birds for the
cook while you were asleep."
Lynn Flewelling
He paused, then added with a grin, "And from what I
heard from the sailors today, this disguise of yours is
working."
"Oh? What did they have to say?"
"The cook claims he's never seen the captain so
taken with a woman. Some of the others are taking bets
on whether he'll have his way with you before we reach
Nanta."
"Highly unlikely. I trust you to see to your
duty, Squire Ciris, until we're safely
ashore."
Rhal opened the door at their knock.
He'd donned a fusty velvet coat for the occasion
and had given his beard a proper trimming as well.
With an inward groan, Seregil presented his hand and
allowed himself to be escbrted in.
"Welcome, dear lady!" Rhal exclaimed,
pointedly ignoring Alec as he drew Seregil's
arm through his own. "I hope you'll find everything to your
liking."
A small table stood neatly set for three, the
wine already poured, fine wax candles alight in
place of the malodorous oil lanterns.
"Why, you look fresh as a spring rose at
dawn," he went on, seating Seregil with
practiced courtesy. "It pained me to see you
looking so peaked this afternoon."
"I'm much better, thank you," Seregil
murmured. Alec gave him a quick wink behind
Rhal's back.
Both fowl and wine proved to be excellent.
Conversation during the meal was somewhat strained, however.
Rhal made little effort to include Alec, and
replied somewhat stiffly when the boy made several
pointed allusions to Lady Gwethelyn's
fictitious husband. Having grown accustomed to his
part, Alec was clearly beginning to revel in
it.
"You must give us news from the south, Captain,"
Seregil interjected when a particularly grim
pause threatened.
"Well, I suppose you've heard about the
Plenimarans?" Rhal took a large, blackened
pipe from a nearby rack. "With your permission, my
lady? Thank you. Before we sailed from Nanta the
week before last, news came through that the old
Overlord, Petasarian, was ailing again and not
expected to last long. That bodes ill for the rest of
us, if you ask me. Being Skalan born, I
don't care much for the Plenimarans, but Petasarian
has held to the treaties these last five years. That
heir of his, young Klystis,

is another matter. They say he's been ruling in
all but name this last year, and it looks to most like
he's sharpening up the swords again. Rumor has it
that he may even have a hand in the old man's illness,
if you take my meaning. What I pick up along
the coast is that there's a good many in Plenimar who
think the Twelfth Treaty of Kouros should never have
been signed, and that those who say so are anxious
to get Petasarian out of the way so his son
can set things to rights."
"Do you think there could be a war?" Seregil
effortlessly counterfeited feminine alarm.
Rhal puffed sagely at his pipe. "Skala and
Plenimar hardly know what to do with themselves when they're
not killing each other off, though I hold the
Plenimarans are generally the ones to kick the
beehive. Yes, I think they're getting ready
to go at it again, and mark my words, this time it'll be a
bad one. Those that have business over that way say that
there's an uncommon amount of ship building going
on in Plenimaran ports. The press gangs are
out in force, too. Sailors are getting shy of
taking shore leave there."
This was fresh news to Seregil, but before he could
pursue it further they were interrupted by the cabin boy
who'd been sent in to clear the table. While the cloth
was being changed, Rhal unlocked a small cabinet
over his bunk and brought out a dusty decanter and
three small pewter cups.
"Aged Zengati brandy. Quite rare," he confided as
he poured. "My trade connections in Nanta
give me access to a good many luxuries of this
sort. Come, Squire Ciris, let's drink the
health of our most excellent lady. May
she continue to delight the eye and gladden the heart of
those privileged to look upon her."
Though he spoke to Alec, his gaze never left
Seregil's face as he raised his cup to his
lips.
Seregil lowered his eyes modestly, sipping at the
fiery spirit.
Alec lifted his cup again, adding with apparently
ingenuous gallantry, "And to the fair child she
carries, my next cousin!"
Rhal choked on his brandy, going into a brief coughing
fit. Seregil looked up in startled amusement, but
managed to compose himself by the time Rhal recovered.
"I would not have spoken of it had not my dear cousin, in
his youthful enthusiasm, broached the indelicate
subject," Seregil murmured, setting his cup
aside. Mycenian ladies of quality were noted for
their modesty and discretion.
Ipn Revelling
But Rhal was clearly less put off than Alec
had intended. Seregil could guess at the new train
of thought behind those dark eyes.
After all, if a woman's already plowed and planted
and still has a pleasing shape, what harm can be done?
"My lady, I had no idea!" he said,
patting her hand with renewed warmth.
The cook entered with a tray of covered bowls and
Rhal set one in front of him. "No wonder
you've been off your feet. Perhaps the dessert will be more
to your liking."
"Indeed?" Seregil lifted the lid from his dish with a
small expectant smile, then froze, the color
draining from his face. Inside maggots writhed over
severed ears, eyes, and tongues. A hot wave of
nausea and panic rolled over him. Dropping the
lid with a clatter, he rushed from the room.
"Don't be alarmed, boy!" he heard Rhal say
behind him. "It's quite common in her condition-was
Reaching the rail, he sagged over it and vomited up
his supper, dimly aware that Alec was at his side.
"What's wrong?" the boy demanded in an urgent
whisper when he'd finished.
"Get me below," groaned Seregil. "Get me
below now!"
Alec half carried him down the companionway to their
cabin, where Seregil collapsed on the bunk and
buried his face in his hands.
"What happened?" Alec pleaded, hovering
anxiously over him. "Should I go for the captain, or
fetch some brandy?"
Seregil shook his head violently, then raised his
head to look up at the boy. "What did you see?"
"You ran out!"
"No!
In the bowls. What did you see?"
"The dessert, you mean?" Alec asked in confusion.
"Baked apples."
Striding to the cabin's single small window,
Seregil threw it open and inhaled deeply. Fear,
keen as a dagger's point, coursed through him; every
instinct screamed for him to arm himself, watch his back,
run somewhere,
anywhere.
His head was pounding again, too, twisting his empty
belly into a painful knot.
Turning to face Alec again, he said softly,
"That's not what 1 oo", The dishes were full of a
steaming mess of-was He stopped
icctilde tilde ui less-than greater-than
amtietv that had over

whelmed him at the sight. "Never mind. It's not
important. But it wasn't baked apples."
A convulsive shudder racked him and he sagged against
the cabin wall.
More alarmed than ever, Alec drew him to the bunk and
made him sit down again. Seregil curled into the
corner at the head of the bunk, back pressed to the
wall. But he was still master of himself enough to send Alec
to Captain Rhal with Lady Gwethelyn's
apologies; it seemed that in her present state,
she could not bear the odor of certain foods.
When Alec returned, he found Seregil pacing
restlessly in the narrow confines of the cabin.
"Bolt the door and help me out of this damned
dress!" Seregil hissed, but could scarcely stand still
for the unlacing. When Alec had finished, he pulled
on his leather breeches beneath his nightdress, wrapped
a mantle about his shoulders, and returned to his
corner of the bunk, sword hidden between the pallet and the
wall behind him.
"Come here," he whispered, motioning for Alec to sit
beside him.
Pressed shoulder to shoulder with Seregil, Alec could
feel the occasional fits of trembling that still seized
him, and the feverish heat of his body.
But Seregil's voice was steady, though barely
audible. "Something's happening to me, Alec. I'm
not sure what, but you should know about it because I don't
know how I'm going to end up."
With that said, he told Alec of his latest
nightmare, and of the unreasoning dread that had come over
him before.
"It's either magic or madness," he concluded
grimly. "I'm not sure which would be worse. I've
never felt anything like this. The-things in the bowls?
I've seen sights a hundred times worse and
scarcely given it a second thought. I may be a
lot of things, Alec, but I'm no coward! Whatever
this is, I imagine things are going to get worse before
they get better-if they get better." He fugged
distractedly at the wooden disk hanging around his
neck. If you want to move on without me, I'll
understand. You don't dgwe me anything."
Maybe not," Alec replied, trying not to think about
how
Lynn Flewelling
frightened he suddenly felt, "but I wouldn't feel
right about it. I'll stay on."
"Well, I won't hold you to that, but thank you."
Drawing up his knees, Seregil cradled his head
on his arms.
Alec was about to retreat to his alcove when he
felt another shiver rock through Seregil. Leaning
back against the wall, he stayed silently
by him well into the night.
Seregil struggled free of another nightmare just before
dawn. Throwing open the window, he dressed quickly,
then sat watching the sky brighten. The anxiety of the
dream gradually faded, but the first hint of a renewed
headache seemed to grow with the light. Before long he
heard Alec moving around in the alcove.
"You've had another bad night," the boy said, not
bothering to make it a question.
"Come hold the mirror for me, will you?" Seregil
opened a pouch of cosmetics and set to work. Dark
circles stood out like bruises under his eyes; the hand
holding out the mirror was not as steady as it had been a
week before.
"I think Lady Gwethelyn will keep mostly to her
cabin today. I'm not up to lengthy dissemblements," he
said, inspecting his handiwork when he'd finished.
"Besides, it will give us a chance to get on with your
training. It's high time you learned to read. In
fact, you can hardly manage our trade without it."
"Is it difficult?"
"You've caught on to everything else I've thrown
at you," Seregil assured him. "There's a lot
to it, but once you know the letters and their sounds, it comes
quickly. Let's take a short walk on
deck first, though. I could use
Lynn Flewelling
the air before attempting breakfast. Let the captain
see how ill I look and perhaps he'll leave us
alone."
It was snowing in earnest this morning; wet, heavy
flakes draped into a heavy curtain about the ship,
deadening sound and making it impossible to see much farther
than the end of the bow. Every rope and surface was
outlined in white, and the deck was a mass of slush.
Captain Rhal stood by the mast, giving orders
to several men at once.
"Tell Skywake to keep her in the middle of the
channel if he can figure out where it is!" he
called to one sailor, jerking a thumb in the
direction of the helmsman. "Keep dropping that lead
until this clears. We're less likely to get
hung up so long as we stay well out in the
channel. By the Old Sailor, there's not enough
breeze to fill a virgin's- Well, good morning
to you, my lady. Feeling better, I trust?"
"The motion of the ship is most unsettling,"
Seregil answered, leaning on Alec's arm for good
effect. "I fear I shall have to spend the remainder of
our journey below."
"Aye, it's filthy weather, and damned early for it
this far south. At this rate we'll be lucky to reach
Torburn by dark tomorrow. It's going to make for a long
day, so if you'll excuse me- Ciris, why
don't you fetch your mistress some hot wine from the
galley?"
With this, he strode off toward the helm.
"I don't know whether to be relieved or
insulted!" Seregil chuckled under his breath. "Go
fetch us some breakfast. I'll meet you below."
Despite the strange visions of the previous night,
Seregil wasn't prepared for what he saw in the
porridge Alec brought back. Pushing his bowl
away, he retreated to the bunk.
Alec frowned. "It's happening again, isn't it?"
Seregil nodded, not caring to describe the slithering
mass he saw in the bowl, or the stench that wafted up
out of the teapot. Gathering up the dishes, Alec
carried them away and returned with a mug of water and a
bit of bread.
"You've got to get at least this into you," he urged,
pressing the cup into Seregil's hand.
Seregil nodded and downed it quickly, doing his best
to ignore the disturbing sensations that skittered across his
tongue.

"You won't last long on that," Alec fretted.
"Can't you manage a little bread? Look, it's
fresh from the ship's oven."
Alec unwrapped a napkin and showed him the thick
slice. Sweet, yeasty steam curled up in the
sunlight and Seregil's empty belly stirred at
the fragrance. As he reached for it, however, maggots
erupted out of the bread, tumbling through the boy's fingers
onto the table.
Seregil averted his eyes with a grimace. "No, and
I think it might be better if you took your meals
elsewhere until this is over.
They commenced the writing lesson later that morning.
Seregil's battered leather pack yielded up
several small rolls of parchment, quills, and a
pot of ink. Crowded together over the small table,
Alec watched Seregil draw the letters.
"Now you try," he said, handing Alec the quill.
"Copy each letter underneath mine and I'll tell you
its sound."
Alec knew as little about handling a quill as he did
about swordplay, so they paused for a brief lesson
in penmanship. He was soon inked to the wrists, but
Seregil saw progress being made and
held his tongue. After he'd mastered the characters,
Seregil took the quill and swiftly spelled out
their names, then the words for bow, sword, ship, and
horse. His script flowed graceful and elegant
next to Alec's smudgy scrawls.
Alec watched all this with growing interest. "That word
there; that means me?"
"It means anyone named Alec."
"And this is "bow." It's as if these little marks have
power. I look at them and the things they stand for just pop
into my head, like magic. That one there doesn't look
anything like a bow, yet now that I know the sounds of the
letters, I can't look at it without seeing a bow in my
head."
"Try this." Seregil wrote out "Alec's
Black Radly bow" and read it aloud, pointing
to each word in turn.
Alec followed along, grinning. "Now I
picture my own bow. Is it magic?"
"Not in the sense you mean. Ordinary words simply
preserve ideas. Still, you have to be careful. Words can
lie, or be misunderstood. Words don't have magic,
but they have power."
Lynn Flewelling
"Well, the mayor of Wolde wrote a
letter to the mayor of Boersby and it said something like
"Aren Windover and his apprentice stole my
money. Capture them and I'll reward you." Because
the mayor of Boersby knows the mayor of Wolde,
he reads and believes. Did we steal the money?"
"No, we just went through those rooms and you-was
"Yes, yes," Seregil snapped, cutting him
short. "But the point is that a few words on a
piece of paper were all it took to convince the mayor
of Boersby that we did!"
Seregil stopped suddenly, realizing he was
practically shouting. Alec shrank back, looking
as if he expected a blow. Seregil pressed his
palms down on his knees and took a deep breath.
The headache was back from wherever it had been lurking,
andwiththe pain came an extraordinary surge of
anger.
"I'm not feeling very well, Alec. Why don't you
go above for awhile?" It was an effort to speak
calmly.
Jaw set in a stubborn line, Alec strode out
without a word.
Sinking his head into his hands, Seregil wrestled with the
sudden, inexplicable surge of conflicting emotions.
He wanted to go after him, try to explain and
apologize, but what was he going to say?
Sorry, Alec, but for just a moment there I really
wanted to throttle you?
"Damn!" He stalked around the confines of the tiny
cabin. The pain in his head swelled to a blinding
ache. Beneath the pain, a vague urge began
to resolve itself into an almost sensual feeling of need.
It flowed through him, drawing his lips back from his
teeth in a terrible, vulpine smile, filling every
fiber of him with the desire to lash out. He wanted
to grasp. He wanted to strike. He wanted to rend
and tear-
He wanted-
And then, in a final searing flash, it was gone, taking
the worst of the headache with it. When his vision cleared
he found himself grasping the hilt of the penknife they'd
been using. Somehow he'd driven it into the tabletop with
such force that the little blade had snapped in two.
He didn't even remember picking it up.
The room seemed to spin slowly around him as he
stood looking down at the broken knife.
"Illior help me," he whispered hoarsely.
"I'm going mad!"
Hurt and confused, Alec paced the deck.
Until last night Seregil had treated him with
nothing but kindness and good humor; if not always
communicative, he'd certainly been evenhanded and
generous.
Now out of the blue, this coldness.
The shock of the morning's events gradually faded,
allowing worry to replace his anger. This was what
Seregil had been trying to warn him of last night,
he realized. Of course, he had only
Seregil's word that this was some new aberration; what if
he'd been crazy all along?
And yet he couldn't forget his conversation with Micum
Cavish back in Boersby. Alec had trusted
Micum from the start, and this behavior just didn't fit
with what he'd told him that night. No, Alec
decided, Seregil wasn't to blame for this
behavior.
He didn "t have to get me out ofAsengai's,
he reminded himself sternly.
I've said I'll stand by him through this and I will!
Nonetheless, he couldn't help wishing that Micum had
come south with them.
Alec wandered the deck disconsolately that night,
ignoring the questioning looks the sailors exchanged as
he passed.
Seregil's erratic behavior had continued throughout the
day. Still unable to eat that evening, he'd grown more
agitated and irritable as the night wore on.
Alec had tried to talk to him, calm him, but only
succeeded in upsetting him more. Seregil had finally
ordered him out again, speaking slowly through clenched
teeth.
It was too cold to sleep above, so Alec
retreated to the companionway, his back to the cabin
door. He was just dozing off when Rhal came below.
"What are you doing out here?" the captain asked in
surprise. "Is something amiss with your lady?"
The lie he'd rehearsed earlier came out smoothly
enough. "My snoring disturbed her sleep, so I
came out here," Alec replied, rubbing his stiff
neck.
Rhal frowned down at him a moment, then said,
"You're
Lynn Flewelling
welcome to my bunk. It doesn't look like
I'll be needing it, not with this weather."
"Thank you, but I think I better stay close, in
case she needs me," Alec replied, wondering
at this unexpected generosity.
Just then a hoarse cry came from inside the
cabin, followed by what sounded like a struggle.
Scrambling to his feet, Alec tried to prevent
Rhal from rushing in. "No! Let me-was
The burly captain thrust him aside like a child.
Finding the door bolted, Rhal kicked it open and
took a step inside.
Behind him, Alec watched with alarm as the man stopped
abruptly, then reached for the long knife at his
belt.
"What the hell is this?" growled the captain.
Alec let out a small groan of dismay.
Haggard and white, Seregil stood swaying in the far
corner, sword in hand. His nightgown was torn down
the front, effectively dashing any illusion of
Lady Gwethelyn. For a moment it looked as if he
might attack. Instead, he shook his head
slightly and tossed his sword down on the bunk.
Waving one thin hand, he motioned for them to enter.
Alec moved to Seregil's side. Rhal remained
where he was by the broken door.
"I'll ask you this once," he said slowly, his
voice dark with anger. "Whatever it is you're up
to, has it endangered my ship or my crew?"
"I don't believe so."
Rhal sized the two of them up for a long
moment. "Then what in the name of Bilairy are you
doing waltzing around in women's rigging?"
"There were some people I needed to get away from. If I
tell you any more, then you
will
be in danger."
"Is that so?" Rhal looked skeptical.
"Well, I'd say it was either political or
you've got one angry husband after you. The
Darter
wasn't the only ship at Boersby that night.
Why load this onto me?"
"I heard you were a man of honor-was
"Horse shit!"
Seregil smiled slightly. "But it's no secret
that you've no great love for Plenimar."
"That's true enough." Rhal took another long
look at him. "I see what it is you're aiming
to make me believe. Assuming I buy it, which
isn't saying I do, it still doesn't explain all
the mum

mery that's gone on since you came aboard. You've
played me for a cully, and I don't care much for
that!"
Seregil dropped wearily onto the bunk. "I'm
not going to explain my motives; they don't concern
you. As for your attentions to the late Lady
Gwethelyn, the boy and I both did everything we could
to discourage you."
"I'll grant that, I suppose, but it's still my
inclination to escort the pair of you over the side."
"You'd have a bit of explaining to do to your crew,
wouldn't you?" Seregil suggested with a meaningful lift
of an eyebrow.
"Damn you!" Rhal ran a hand over his beard in
frustration. "If any of my men find out about this-the
story would travel the length of the river before spring!"
"That's easily avoided. We dock at
Torburn tomorrow. Lady Gwethelyn can disembark there,
pleading ill health. I understand there are some wagers
riding on whether or not she'll give you a tumble?
If you like, I can be seen emerging from your cabin in the
morning, winsome smile playing about my lips-was
Rhal darkened again. "Just see to it that both of you
keep to your cabin until we arrive. Play your
parts until you're out of sight of my ship and don't
ever let me set eyes on either of you again!"
Striding furiously out, he collided with the first mate
in the hall. Before the man had time to do more
than grin, Rhal snarled, "See to your duties,
Nettles!" and slammed into his own cabin.
"Well, that was undoubtedly one of the most
embarrassing moments of my life," Seregil
groaned, bravado falling away. "It's no
easy matter, facing down a big, angry sailor
in nothing but a woman's nightgown."
"You threw your sword away!" Alec exclaimed
in disbelief, pushing the door back into place.
"We'd have fought if I hadn't. Win or lose, you
and I couldn't afford the results. How would we have
explained things if I'd killed him, eh? You
defending my virtue? The crew would kill you in an
instant, and Illior only knows what they'd do with
Lady Gwethelyn. If he'd killed me, things
would turn out just about the same. No, Alec, it's
best to talk your way out whenever you can. As it stands,
I don't think our secret could be in safer hands.
Besides, he interests me. Blustering rogue that he
is, I suspect he's intelligent and shrewd enough
when women aren't involved. You never know when someone like
that might be useful."
lyim Flewelling
"What makes you think he'd ever help you?"
Seregil shrugged. "Intuition, maybe.
I'm seldom wrong."
Alec sat down and rubbed his eyes. "What was all
that commotion before we came in?"
"Oh, just another of those nightmares," Seregil
replied, affecting a nonchalance he didn't
feel. He didn't like to think what might have
happened if Alec had been in the cabin with him when
he'd thrashed his way up out of this latest one.
Sitting up, he reached for his cloak on top of the
trunk. The torn nightdress slipped off his
shoulder, revealing a patch of reddened skin on his
chest, just above the breastbone.
"What's this?" asked Alec, reaching to move the
wooden disk aside for a better look.
Icy fingers clamped around Seregil's heart.
Overwhelmed by a sudden, inexplicable fury, he
caught Alec by the wrist and shoved him roughly
away. "Keep your hands to yourself!" he snarled.
Yanking the cloak around his shoulders, he retreated
into the corner of the bunk. "Go to bed.
Now.

his
Hunched in his alcove much later that night, Alec
heard Seregil stir.
"Alec, you awake?"
"Yes."
A long pause followed, then, "I'm sorry."
"I know." Alec had been thinking and already had the
beginnings of a plan. "Micum said you know a wizard
at Rhiminee. Do you think he could help you?"
"If he can't, then I don't know who can." There was
another pause. Alec heard something like a dark
chuckle, and the sound raised the hair on the back of
his neck.
"Alec?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful, will you? Tonight, for just an instant-was
Alec tightened his grip on the sword lying across his
knees. "It's all right, now. Go back
to sleep."
Their last day aboard the
Darter
was a long one. Seregil spent the morning staring
morosely out the window.

Alec maintained a careful distance, preoccupied with
his own plans. By afternoon, he was ready to chance
Rhal's displeasure and went above.
He settled behind the cutwater, hood
pulled up against the wind. By the time they neared
Torburn just before sundown, he'd managed to speak
with the helmsman and several of the other sailors without
their captain noticing. If it was up to him to get them
both to Rhiminee, then he had to know how to get there.
To Rhal's relief, Lady Gwethelyn did not
appear until the ship had put in at Torburn.
The first mate's tale, already gleefully if
discreetly spread among the crew, had amply
explained both the silence of the lady and his sudden
coolness toward her. Surreptitious nods and
nudges were exchanged all around the deck when she
finally came above to disembark.
No one but Rhal noticed, however, when the lady
slipped a small something into his palm as he handed
her down the gangway. Unwrapping the little silk
square later that night in his cabin, he found the
garnet ring his strange passenger had worn.
"A peculiar character, and no mistake." he
exclaimed under his breath. Shaking his head in
bemusement, he hid the ring safely away.
The cart bumped along over the rutted dirt road
through the rolling Mycenian countryside. Seregil
sat "huddled in his cloak beside Alec on the single
rough bench. It wasn't as cold here yet
as it had been in the northlands, but snow wasn't far
off and the chill seemed to get into his bones.
He found that if he stayed very still he could clear his
mind, holding both the pain in his head and the increasingly
frequent fits of irrational rage at a
manageable level. It was exhausting work. In his more
lucid moments he was relieved at how well
Alec was managing, though the fact that the boy had not
yet slipped away, despite ample justification
and opportunity, continued to baffle him.
Their first night ashore in Torburn, they'd taken
a tiny room near the riverfront and changed back
into their stained traveling clothes. It was then that Alec
had calmly outlined his plan.
"You're sick," he began, looking very
deliberate. "Since you think this Nysander is the
only one who can help, I say we push on for
Rhiminee."
Seregil nodded.
Taking a deep breath, Alec continued, "All right
then. The way I understand it, the fastest route this time
of year is to go overland to

Keston, then take a ship to the city-one that goes
by way of a canal at somewhere called
Cirna. I don't know where any of those places
are. You can help me or I'll ask directions as
we go, but that's what I mean to do."
Seregil began to buckle on his sword. After a
moment's hesitation, however, he handed it instead
to Alec. "You'd better take this, and these."
He gave Alec his belt dagger and a small,
razorlike blade from the neck of his cloak.
Alec took them without comment, then said almost
apologetically, "There's one more."
"So there is." Seregil drew the poniard from his
boot and handed it over, fighting back another twinge
of hot rage as he did so.
It was an uncomfortable moment for both of them, each
knowing perfectly well that these precautions would be
useless if Seregil made up his mind to retrieve
his weapons. Alec, Seregil noted, kept his own
weapons about him.
"How many days will it take to reach Keston?" Alec
asked when they were done.
Seregil lay back on the bed and fixed his gaze
on the rafters. "Two, if we ride hard, but I
doubt I'll be able to do that."
His head hurt again; how long now until another
fit came on? A brisk walk in the
night air might have helped, but he was too sick
to attempt it. Better to concentrate on helping
Alec with the details at hand.
"I'll need money," Alec said. "What do you have
left?"
Seregil tossed him a purse containing five
silver marks and the jewelry he'd worn aboard the
Darter.
Turning out his own pouch, Alec added two copper
halfs and the Skalan silver piece.
"Hang on to the jewels for now," Seregil
advised. "You're not dressed well enough to hawk them
without attracting notice. Sell the clothes,
though."
"They won't bring much."
"Illior's Hands, money's not the only way
to get something! I should think you've been around me long
enough to have learned that."
lyim Flewelltng
It was dark by the time Alec entered the Torburn
marketplace. Only a few of the booths around the
square were open, but he finally found a clothier. The
dealer proved to be a shrewd bargainer and he came
away with a disappointing four silver pennies.
He let out a harsh sigh, tucking the coins
away. "That's not going to make my task any
easier."
Passing a woman frying sausages on a
brazier, he paused longingly, then moved on still
hungry.
An hour later, after some hard bargaining, he was the
owner of a battered pony cart. Though hardly more than
a large box set on a single axle, it looked
sturdy enough. This, and the purchase of a few modest
provisions, left him with exactly two copper
halfs and the Skalan coin. Buying a horse was
clearly out of the question.
Time I turned thief for good,
he thought, still stinging from Seregil's parting admonition.
He returned to the inn for a few hour's sleep, then
slipped quietly downstairs just before dawn.
Letting himself out a side door, he pulled on his
boots and headed for the stable.
Great droves of silver-gilded clouds moved
slowly past the sinking moon. Alec's heart
hammered uncomfortably in his chest as he lifted the
latch on the stable door. With a silent prayer
to Illior, protector of thieves, he crept
in.
A guttering night lantern gave enough light
for him to avoid the drunken stable hand snoring in an
empty stall. Moving on, a shaggy brown and white
pony caught his eye. Throwing a halter around its
neck, he led the beast out to the nearby alley where
he'd hidden the cart and harnessed it. With this completed,
he hurried back to the room.
Seregil was awake and ready to go. One look told
Alec that his night had not been a peaceful one.
Despite this, he eyed Alec's cart and pony with a
shadow of his old crooked smile, his face just
visible in the failing moonlight.
"Which one did you pay for?" he asked softly.
"The cart."

By sunrise they were well on their way to Keston.
The road wound through rolling winter-bare farmland and
countryside and they met only a few wagons and
an occasional patrol of the local militia. With the
harvest in and the Gold Road closing down until
spring, Mycena would be a quiet place through the
winter.
Seregil sank deeper into gloomy silence through the
day, answering Alec's few attempts at
conversation in such a dispirited manner that he soon gave
up. When they stopped for the night at a
wayside inn, Seregil retired immediately, leaving
Alec to sit alone over his ale in the common room.
By the next morning Seregil's hunger had faded
to a hollow ache; even the thought of water nauseated
him.
Worse still, he was feeling guilty about Alec. The
boy had proved too honorable to run off, but how
he must be regretting his vow to stay. Seregil was
trying to gather the strength for pleasant conversation as they
road along when a hint of motion caught his eye off
to the left. He turned quickly, but the field was
empty. He rubbed at his eyes, thinking it was a
trick of his weakened body, but the flicker came
again, just on the edge of his vision.
"What's the matter?" asked Alec, giving him a
puzzled look.
"Nothing." Seregil scanned the empty
countryside. "Thought I saw something."
The annoying flicker came repeatedly as the day
went on, and by afternoon he was more tense and withdrawn than
ever. It might be some new quirk of the madness growing
in him, he thought, but well-tried instincts counseled
otherwise. Another violent headache had also grown
through the day, leaving him too dull-witted and queasy
to give the matter proper consideration.
Pulling his cloak tight against the cold wind, he
kept watch and fought off the desire to sleep.
They spent that night in the hayloft of a lonely
farmstead. Seregil's nightmares returned in force
and he woke up bathed in a cold sweat at dawn.
An undefined sense of anxiety gnawed at him;
he couldn't recall the details of the dream, but the
wary sidelong glances he caught from Alec
suggested that he'd been more restless than usual. He
was just considering asking the boy about it when he thought he
saw motion in a dark corner of the
lyim Flewelling
barn. Alec was busy with the harness and didn't see
him brace, reaching for the sword that no longer hung
at his side. There was nothing there.
This will be his fourth day without eating,
Alec thought as they rattled off down the road again.
Wan and hollow-eyed as Seregil looked, he was
bearing up better than Alec had imagined
possible. Physically, that was; Seregil's odd
behavior was increasingly alarming.
Today he sat hunched over like an old man,
despondent except for occasional bursts of intent
alertness. At those moments, a terrible glitter
came disinffhis eyes and his fists would clench
until it seemed his knuckles must surely break
through the skin. This new development, coupled with the
strange events of the previous night, did not bode
well.
Alec was beginning to be as frightened of Seregil as he
was for him.
He hadn't intended to sleep the previous night, but
the exhaustion of the past few days caught up with him
and he'd dozed off. In the middle of the night he'd
awakened to find Seregil crouched less than a
foot away, eyes shining like a cat's in the dark, his
breathing was so harsh it was almost a growl. Motionless,
he simply stared at Alec.
Alec wasn't certain how long they'd remained
frozen like that, staring each other down, but Seregil
finally turned away and threw himself down in the straw.
Alec had spent the remainder of the night keeping
watch from a safe distance.
In the morning neither of them spoke of the incident.
Alec doubted whether Seregil recalled it at
all. But that, together with Seregil's nervous vigilance
today, strengthened his resolve to not close his eyes again
until he could lock his companion safely in a
ship's cabin at sea.
Driving along in daylight, however, Alec
could see all too clearly how Seregil was
suffering. Reaching behind the bench, he pulled out one of
their tattered blankets and laid it over his
shoulders.
"You're not looking so good."
"Neither are you," Seregil croaked through dry lips.
"If we drive through the night, we might make
Keston by tomorrow af

ternoon. I could probably manage the reins for a
while-if you need to sleep."
"No, I'll be fine!" Alec replied quickly.
Too quickly, it seemed, for Seregil turned away
and resumed his morose vigil.
The sense of pursuit grew stronger as the day
dragged on. Seregil was beginning to catch glimpses
of whatever it was that stalked him, a glimmer of
movement, the blur of a dark figure that disappeared in
the blink of an eye.
Just after midday he started so violently that Alec
laid a hand on his arm.
"What is it?" he demanded. "You've been doing that
since yesterday."
"It's nothing," Seregil muttered, but this time he was
certain he'd caught sight of someone on the
road far behind them.
Soon after, they topped the crest of a hill and came
upon a Dalnan funeral. Several well-dressed
men and women and two young children stood by the road, singing
as they watched a young farmer driving an ox and plow in
the middle of an empty field. The winter soil
gave way grudgingly before the plowshare, coming up in
frozen plates of earth. An elderly woman
followed the driver, scattering handfuls of ash from a
wooden bowl into the fresh furrow. When the last of it
was gone, she carefully wiped out the inside of the dish
with a handful of earth and poured it out onto the ground. The
farmer turned the ox and plowed slowly back over it.
A dusting of snow floated down as Alec and
Seregil rattled past in their cart.
"It's the same as in the north," Alec remarked.
Seregil glanced back listlessly.
"The way they plow the ashes of the dead back into the
earth, I mean. And the song they were singing was the same."
"I didn't notice. What was it?"
Encouraged by his companion's show of interest,
Alec sang:
"All that we are is given by you, O Dalna,
Maker and Provider.
In death we return your bounty and become
one with your wondrous creation.
Accept the dead back into the fertile earth that new
life may spring from the ashes
And at the planting and at the harvest will the dead be
remembered.
Nothing can be lost in the hand of the Maker. Nothing can be
lost in the hand of the Maker."
Seregil nodded. "I've heard that-was
Breaking off suddenly, he lunged for the reins and
yanked the pony to a stop. "By the Four, look
there!" he gasped, looking wildly across the field
on their left. A tall, black-swathed figure
stood less than a hundred yards from the road.
"Where? What is it?"
"Right there!" Seregil hissed.
Even at the distance of a bow shot Seregil could see
something amiss in the lines of the figure, some profound
wrongness of proportion that disturbed him more than the
fact that Alec obviously could not see it himself.
"Who are you?" Seregil shouted, more frightened than
angry.
The dark figure regarded him silently, then bowed
deeply and began a grotesque dance, leaping and
capering about in a fashion that would have been ridiculous
if it wasn't so horrible. Seregil
felt his whole body go numb as the nightmarish
performance continued.
Shuddering, he shoved the reins into Alec's hands.
"Get us away from here!"
Alec whipped up the pony without question.
When Seregil looked back, the weird creature
had vanished.
"What was
that
all about?" Alec demanded, raising his voice to be
heard over the rattling of the cart.
Trembling, Seregil gripped the edge of the seat and
said nothing. A few moments later he looked up
to find the thing walking in the road ahead of them. At
this range he could see that it was too tall to be a
man. And there was too much distance between the shoulders and the
head, not enough between shoulders and hips, so that the arms
appeared immensely long, its movements graceless
but powerful. It looked back over one sloping
shoulder and beckoned to him, as if to hurry him toward
some destination.
"Look there!" Seregil cried in spite of himself,
gripping Alec's arm as he pointed. "All in
black. Bilairy's Eyes, you
must
see it now!"
"I don't see anything!" Alec replied, the
edge of fear clear in his voice.

Seregil released him with a snarl of exasperation.
"Are you blind? It's as tall as a-was
But even as he pointed again it vanished with a parting
wave of its arm. An icy wave of fear rolled
over him.
Throughout the remainder of that leaden afternoon his dark
tormentor toyed with him, playing an evil game of
hide-and-seek. First Seregil would spy it far off,
spinning madly in the middle of a bare field. A
moment later it would appear beside him, striding beside the
cart close enough to touch. A troop of Mycenian
militia rode by and he saw it lurching along
unnoticed in their midst; soon after it rode past in
the opposite direction on the back of a farm
wagon.
Alec clearly could not see it and Seregil soon
gave up calling his attention to it; whatever the
visitations meant, they were for him alone.
The worst came just as the sun was stooping to the
horizon. He hadn't seen the specter for nearly
half an hour. Suddenly a wave of
appalling coldness engulfed him. Jumping
unsteadily to his feet, he whirled to find the
creature crouched in the tail of the cart, arms
outstretched as if to gather both Alec and him to its
breast. The hem of its black sleeve actually
brushed Alec's head.
Then it laughed. An obscenely rich chuckle
bubbled up from the depths of the black hood andwiththe sound
came a charnel stench so revolting that Seregil
retched dryly even as he grappled with Alec for the
boy's sword.
Obviously convinced that Seregil had gone
completely mad at last, Alec fought him for it and
they both toppled over the side.
They came down hard with Seregil on top. The
pony continued on a few yards, then shuffled to a
stop. Looking up, Seregil saw that the cart was
empty.
He rocked back on his heels and drew in deep,
shuddering breaths, one hand pressed to his chest.
"Look at me!" Alec demanded angrily,
scrambling up to grasp him by the shoulders. "Never
mind about the pony. It's not going anywhere. You've
got to tell me what's going on! I want to help
you, but damn it, Seregil, you've got
to talk to me!"
Seregil shook his head slowly, still staring over his
shoulder at the cart. "Get us off the road before
dark!" he whispered.
"Aura Elustri mdlrei
-"
"Tell me what you saw!" Alec cried, shaking
him in frustration.
Lynn Flewelling
Seregil focused on Alec then, clutching at the
front of the boy's tunic in desperation. "We must
get off the road!"
Alec regarded him for a long moment, then shook his
head resignedly. "We will," he promised.
They came to a ramshackle crossroads inn just before
dark. Seregil's legs buckled as he stepped
down from the cart and Alec had to help him inside.
"I want a room. No, two rooms," Alec
told the innkeeper curtly.
"Top of the stairs." The man eyed Seregil
nervously. "Is your friend here sick?"
"Not so sick that I can't pay," Seregil said,
forcing a smile. It took all his concentration to make
it convincing and as soon as he was out of the man's sight
he dropped the pretense, sagging against
Alec as they climbed the narrow stairs.
Suddenly he was tired, so tired! He was already
half asleep as Alec lowered him onto a bed.
He dozed, woke, dozed again. Alec was there for a
time. He tried to help Seregil drink, but he
wasn't thirsty, just tired. Presently, Alec
left and Seregil heard a key turn in the lock.
It was all very strange, but he was too sleepy
to think about it anymore. Turning onto his side,
he drifted deeper into a murky doze.
He woke up shivering sometime later. The room had
grown cold and Alec was crowding him off the bed against
the wall, digging an elbow into the small of his back
in the process. Twisting a bit, he tried
to reclaim some space, but it was just too cold
to sleep. Could the window be open? Did this room have
a window? It seemed to him it didn't.
Giving up, he opened his eyes to check and found the
night lamp still burning.
"Damn it, Alec, move-was
The words died in his throat.
It wasn't Alec pressing against him, but his
tormentor, the black specter. It lay face up,
arms crossed over its breast in the frightful parody
of a tomb effigy. It remained perfectly
motionless as Seregil dragged himself over the foot of the
bed and scrambled for the door. Too late he
remembered hearing the key turn; he was locked in.

"Alec! Alec, help me!" he shouted, pounding
on the door. Dizzying panic constricted around his
chest like bands of iron.
"No one will hear you."
The creature's voice was like a high wind rushing through
the naked branches of winter trees-sardonic,
inhuman, the embodiment of desolation. Seregil
turned and the dark thing sat up, its upper body
levering in a single rigid motion like the folding of a
clasp knife. In the same unnatural fashion
it bent forward slightly and stood up. It seemed
to fill the cramped room.
Seregil tried to cry out again, but no sound came out.
"He can't help you now." Waves of frigid
cold radiated from the figure, and with it the same
terrible stench.
"What are you?" Seregil demanded in a strangled
whisper.
The specter advanced a step, halving the distance between
them. "You led a good chase," it replied in its
soft, moaning voice. "But there is no
escape, no forgiveness for such as you."
Seregil flattened himself against the wall, eyes
darting about the room for some cover, finding none.
"What do you
want?"
"Don't you know? Such a pity to die in ignorance.
But it is all one to us. You are a thief, and we
want back what you have stolen. You can elude us no
longer."
"Tell me what it is!"
Anger and despair mingled with his fear to recall a
tentative shred of courage.
Stretching its arms out across the ceiling, the loathsome
thing wheezed out another blast of sepulchral fetor.
He was going to die; not knowing why seemed the final
injustice.
The figure laughed again as it reached down for him, the
sound of its voice tugging at the last roots of his
sanity.
"No!"
Snarling, Seregil sprang at it.
For a brief second his hands seemed to grasp at
some distorted form, then he slammed into the far wall.
When he whirled about, the creature was standing by the
door.
Another of the strange fits of blood lust came
over Seregil then and this time he welcomed it, opening
himself to the strength it lent. He ached with it, was driven
mad with it as he flew at the dark thing. The night
candle was kicked over and went out but still he fought on,
finding the creature with his hands, feeling the chill of it
slip away again and again.
Suddenly his fingers found purchase. The form grew
solid
lynn Flewelling
and he clawed at it, seeking a throat with his hands.
It toyed with him, fending him off without returning his
blows.
The game did not last long, however. Huge
talons sank suddenly into his chest and the world
erupted in a searing blast of pain. Mercifully, his
mind went out.
Alec lay half strangled on the cold floor
beside Seregil. In the darkness he couldn't see what
had happened to his hand, but it hurt like hell.
"What's going on up there?" the landlord shouted
angrily from the far end of the passage. "I'll not have
my house torn up in the middle of the 'night, do you
hear?"
"Bring a light. Hurry!" Alec
gasped, struggling one-handed to his knees.
The landlord appeared in the doorway, candle in one
hand, a stout cudgel in the other. "Sounds like
someone's being" murdered up-was
He stopped short as his light fell over them.
Seregil lay unconscious or worse, blood
staining the breast of his shirt and his throat. Alec
realized he probably didn't look much better.
His nose was bleeding where Seregil had struck him,
and his face and neck were badly scratched. Cradling
his left hand against his chest, he saw what looked like
a round, raw burn in the center of his palm.
"Hold the light down," he told the innkeeper.
Kneeling over Seregil, he made certain his friend
was still breathing, then pulled the neck of his shirt open
and gasped in dismay.
The last time he'd seen the reddened area on
Seregil's chest had been aboard the
Darter.
Now there was a bloody wound in the same spot.
Holding the palm of his throbbing hand to the light again,
Alec saw that his burn and this mark were exactly the
same size and shape.
On the floor beside Seregil lay the wooden disk,
the useless trinket he had stolen from the
mayor's house because it wouldn't be missed. Picking
it up gingerly by the broken leather thong, Alec compared
it to the strange burn on his palm and the one on
Seregil's chest.
It matched perfectly. Looking closer, he could
even make out the print of the small square opening in
its center.

It was right in front of us all the time!
he thought in silent anguish.
Haw could he not have known? Why didn't I see?
He'd been awakened by the sound of Seregil crashing
about in the next room and gone to see what was the
matter. In his haste he forgot the lamp and cursed
angrily to himself as he'd fumbled the key into the lock
of Seregil's door. The hallway was dark, the
room inside darker still. In spite of the noise,
he'd been unprepared for the attack that came the
moment he stepped in.
When cold fingers grasped at his throat, Alec's
only thought was how he could defend himself without injuring
Seregil. He was trying to get a better grip on
Seregil's tunic when his hand slipped inside the
neck of it. Finding the thong under his hand, he'd
grabbed for it, felt it sliding away as
Seregil drew back. Then the terrible pain.
"What sort of foolishness is this?" the landlord
demanded, looking over Alec's shoulder. Then the
man was backing way, making a sign against evil.
"You've killed him with sorcery!"
Alec thrust the disk out of sight. "He's not
dead. Come back here with that light!"
But the man fled. Cursing in frustration, Alec
stumbled to his own room and struck a light.
What was he to do with the cursed disk? Throwing it into the
fire seemed to be the wisest course of action, yet
doubt stayed his hand; Seregil had thought it valuable
enough to steal, and later had said he was determined to get it
to Rhiminee.
Handling it only by the leather lacing, he found a
patched tunic in Seregil's pack and rolled the
disk up in it. Shoving it to the bottom of the pack,
he carried their gear downstairs and hurried back for
Seregil. The innkeeper and his family had
barricaded themselves in the kitchen storeroom and,
despite his various pleas and assurances, refused
to come out.
In the end he had to get Seregil down by himself,
carrying the unconscious man across his shoulders like a
slaughtered deer. Once downstairs, he
laid him on a table and went through the kitchen again to the
storeroom.
"You in there!" he called through the door. "I need a
few supplies. I'll leave money on the
mantelpiece."
There was no reply.
A candle stood in a dish on the sideboard.
Lighting it with an ember from the banked fire, he
cast about for food. Most of it was locked in the
storeroom with its owner but he still managed
Lynn Flewelling
to come away with a basket of boiled eggs, a jug of
brandy, half a wheel of good Mycenian cheese,
some new bread, and a sack of pippins. Going out to the
well, he discovered a jar of milk let to cool and
added that to his haul.
Stowing everything beneath the seat of the cart, he used their
blankets and a few from the inn to make a pallet in
the back.
When everything was ready, he carried Seregil out to the
makeshift bed and carefully wrapped him up.
Except for his labored breathing, Seregil looked
like a dead man on a bier.
"Well, he won't get any better sitting
here," Alec muttered grimly, slapping
the reins over the pony's rump. "I said we were
going to Rhiminee, and that's where I mean to go!"
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fl vestige of his living consciousness
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sensed the passage of time. There
ww was a change of some sort, but what?
Slowly he became aware of pain but it was
muted, experienced at a distance.
Very odd.
Smells came with the pain, the smell of illness,
infection, the unwashed odors of his own body from which his
fastidious nature recoiled even as he rejoiced in
the ability to discern them. Perhaps he wasn't dead,
after all? He had neither explanation for his
predicament nor memory of his past and now even the
pain was slipping away again. Silently,
helplessly, he willed it back, but it was gone.
He was alone. And lonely-
Alec drove as hard as he dared, determined to reach
the seaport by the following day. He stopped only
to rest the pony and tend Seregil's wound.
The burn on his own hand made his arm ache
to the elbow, but it was scabbing over already. Inspecting
Seregil's breast in daylight, however, he found that
the wound there was still raw, with angry lines of infection
fanning out from it.
Lynn Flewelling
He stopped at the next farmstead they came to,
hoping to beg a few herbs and some linen. The old
wife there took one look at Seregil and
disappeared back into her kitchen, returning a few
moments later with a basket containing yarrow salve and
aloes, clean linen rags, a flask of willow
bark tea and one of milk, fresh cheese, bread, and
half a dozen apples.
"I-I can't pay you," he stammered, overwhelmed
by such generosity.
The old woman smiled, patting his arm. "You
don't need to," she said in her thick Mycenian
accent. "The Maker sees every kind deed."
The countryside fell away into gentle slopes as
Alec drove westward toward Keston. By the
following afternoon they came down into more settled country.
There was a different scent on the breeze here. It was
a water smell, but with an unfamiliar tang.
Gulls wheeled overhead, much larger than the little
black-headed ones on Blackwater
Lake. These birds had long yellow beaks and
grey wings tipped with black. Great flocks of them
flew overhead or picked their way over empty
fields and rubbish heaps.
Topping a rise, Alec saw in the distance what could
only be the sea. Awestruck, he reined in and stared
out over it. The sun was low. The first golden stain of
sunset spread a glittering band across the
silver-green water. A scattering of islands lay
like knucklebones cast along the coastline, some dark
with trees, others bare chunks of stone thrusting above
the waves.
The road wound on down to the coast, ending in a
sprawling town that hugged the shore of a broad bay.
"You must be an inlander."
An old tinker had come up beside the cart. Wizened and
bandy-legged, the fellow was bowed nearly double under the
large pack he carried. What Alec could see of
his face beneath the brim of his battered slouch hat was
dark with stubble and dust.
"You've the look of an inlander finding the sea for the first
time. Sitting there gape-mouthed like that, you couldn't be
nothin' else," the old relic observed with a rusty
chuckle.
"It's the biggest thing I ever saw!"
"Looks even bigger when yer in the middle of "er,"
the tinker

said. "I was a sailor in me youth, before a shark
took me leg for dinner."
Twitching his dusty cloak back, he showed Alec
the wooden peg strapped to the stump of his left leg.
Cleverly carved to resemble the limb it replaced, the
end of it was made in the shape of a wooden clog that
neatly matched the real one on his other foot.
"Trampin" all the day, I don't know which foot
gets more sore. Might you offer a fellow traveler
a ride into town?"
"Climb up." Alec reached to aid him.
"Much obliged. Hannock of Brithia, at your
service," the tinker said, settling himself on the bench.
There was an expectant pause.
"Aren. Aren Silverleaf." Alec felt a bit
silly giving the old man a false name, but it was
becoming a habit.
Hannock touched a finger to the brim of his hat.
"Well met, Aren. What happened to your friend in the
back here?"
"A bad fall," Alec lied quickly. "Tell
me, do you know Keston town?"
"I should say I do. What can I do for you there?"
"I need to sell this cart and find passage
to Rhiminee."
"Rhiminee, is it?" Hannock rubbed at his
bristly chin. "By the Old Sailor, you'll be
damned lucky to find passage this close to winter.
It'll come dear, too. More than you're likely
to realize from this contraption and a spavined pony. But
don't fret yourself, boy. I've a friend or two in
most any port you can name. Leave it to old
Hannock."
Alec was soon glad of the tinker's company.
Keston was a bustling town, full of rambling
streets laid out with no rhyme or reason that he
could make out; the lanes that Hannock directed him
down were little more than broad pathways between the tenements
that stood cheek by jowl with warehouses and taverns.
Gangs of sailors, reeling with high spirits of one
sort or another, jostled in the dark alleyways and
snatches of songs and curses seemed to come from all
directions.
"Yes, I've still a friend or two along the
quays," said Hannock as they reached the
waterfront. "Let me ask around a bit and
I'll meet you back at the Red Wheel.
You con the sign yonder? Two shops down from that,
at the next warehouse, there's a drayman, name of
Gesher. He'll probably take this rig off
lyim Flewelling
your hands. It'll do you no harm to mention my name in the
bargaining."
Hannock's name notwithstanding, Drayman Gesher
ran a bleak eye over the cart, the exhausted
pony, and its equally exhausted driver. "Three
silver trees, not a penny more," he said gruffly.
Alec had no idea what the relative worth of a
silver tree might be, but was happy enough to unload
the rig and be done with it. With the understanding that they would
close the deal when Alec brought the cart back, he
hurried off to the Wheel. Leaving Seregil well
covered, he went inside.
He found the old tinker seated at a long table
joking with a weathered man in seafaring garb.
"Here's the lad himself," Hannock told his
companion, pushing a pot of beer Alec's way.
"Sit down, boy. Aren Silverleaf, this is
Captain Talrien, master of the
Grampus.
As fine a mariner as you can hope to find on the two
seas, and I should know. We first sailed together
with Captain Strake, me as mate and him but a
green slip of a cabin boy. He's agreed to work out
a passage for you and your unfortunate friend."
"So you're short on jack, eh?" Talrien
grinned, getting right to the point. His skin, brown as
an old boot from salt and sun, contrasted sharply with
his pale hair and beard. "How much have you got?"
"I can get three silver trees for the pony and the
cart. Is that a good price?"
Hannock shrugged. "No, but it's not a bad one,
either. What do you say, Tally? Will you take the
lad?"
"That's scarce a single passage. Mighty
important that you get to Rhiminee, is it?"
Talrien drawled, settling back in his chair.
When Alec hesitated a moment too long, he
laughed, holding up a hand.
"Never mind, then, it's your own business. Tell you
what I'll do. I'm short a man this time out; for
three silver I'll take your friend and you can work your
passage. You'll have to bunk in the hold, but you're
in luck there, for the cargo is grain and wool. Last
voyage we carried granite cobbles. If that's
agreeable to you, let's cross palms on it and
call it done."
"Done it is," Alec replied, clasping hands with
him. "Many thanks to you both."

Talrien had a longboat moored at the quay.
After loading in his few remaining possessions,
Alec and Talrien carefully lifted Seregil
into the bottom of the boat.
Seregil was paler than ever. His head lolled
limply from side to side as wavelets nudged the
longboat against the stone footing of the quay. Tucking
a wadded cloak behind his friend's head. Alec looked
down at him with a pang of fear.
What if he dies? What will I do if he dies?
"Don't you worry, lad," Talrien said kindly.
"I'll see to it he's made comfortable. You go sell
your wagon and I'll send the boat back for you."
"I-I'll be here," Alec stammered, suddenly
reluctant to leave Seregil in the hands of
strangers. But what else was there to do? Clambering
into the rickety cart for the last time, he flicked the
reins over the pony's dusty rump.
Mycenian silver trees turned out to be
rectangular lozenges of silver, each with the rough
shape of a tree struck into it. Clutching the coins,
he ran back as fast as he could to the
docks.
As he came within sight of the deserted quay, a
sudden thought stopped him in his tracks. Before they'd
left the
Darter,
hadn't Captain Rhal spoken of Plenimaran
press-gangs working the ports?
"By the Maker," he groaned aloud, dread settling
like heavy ice in his belly. In his haste and
weariness, had he handed Seregil over to a clever
pair of rogues? Cursing himself, he stamped up and
down in the cold, squinting into the darkness for any
sign of movement. He hadn't even thought to ask
Talrien which of the ships was the
Grampus backslash
It was a still night. Waves lapped gently against the
quay. The faint sounds of men singing happily over
their mugs in nearby taverns made his vigil all
the more lonesome as he stood in the darkness. A bell
sounded aboard one of the ships at anchor, its tone
muted and distant.
He was just calling himself ten kinds of fool when he
caught sight of a light moving toward him over the
water. It disappeared for a moment, obscured by the
hull of some ship, then reappeared, still
bobbing steadily his way with the splash of unseen oars.
A wiry, redheaded sailor scarcely older than
himself brought the little craft neatly alongside the
dock. Alec didn't know much of press-gangs,
but this didn't have the look of one.
lyim Flewelling
i
"You the new hand for the
Grampus!"
the boy inquired, shipping his oars and looking up at
Alec with a brash grin. "I'm Binakel, called
Biny by most. Haul in then, "less you fancy
spending the night on the jetty, which I don't. By the
Old Sailor it's colder'n a cod's balls
tonight!"
Alec had hardly clambered down onto the stern
bench before Biny was pulling away. He talked a
steady stream as he rowed, needing no prompting or
encouragement as he rattled on with hardly a pause
for breath. He had a tendency to jumble one topic in
with another as things occurred to him, and a good deal of it
was profane, but Alec managed to sift out enough to set
his mind at rest by the time they drew alongside the
sleek hull of the
Grampus.
Captain Talrien was a good-tempered master, according
to Biny, whose highest praise was that he'd never known
his captain to have a man flogged.
The
Grampus
was a coastal trader. Carrying three triangular
sails on tall masts, she could deploy twenty
oars on each side when need be, and ran
regularly between the port cities of Skala and
Mycena.
The crew was in a fury of preparation on deck.
Alec had hoped to speak with Talrien again, but the
man was nowhere to be seen.
"Your friend's down here," Biny said, leading him below.
Seregil lay asleep in a deep nest of wool
bales. More bales and plump sacks of grain were
packed into the long hold for as far as Alec could see
by the light of Biny's lantern.
"Mind the light," Biny warned as he left. "A
spark or two in this lot and we'll go up like a
bonfire! Keep it on that hook over your head
there, and if ever we meet with rough seas, be sure
to snuff it."
"I'll be careful," Alec promised, already
searching for fresh bandages. Those covering
Seregil's stubborn wound were badly stained.
"Cap'n sent down food for you, and a pail of
water. It's there around the other side," Biny
pointed out. "You ought to speak to Sedrish tomorrow about that
hurt of your friend's. Old Sedrish is as good a
leech as he is a cook. Well, g'night to you!"
"Good night. And give my thanks to the captain."
The bandage lint had stuck to Seregil's wound and
Alec carefully soaked it loose, lifting aside
the stained pad to find the raw
A.
Luck in the Shadows

spot looking worse than ever. There was no evidence
that the old woman's salve was doing any good, but
Alec applied it anyway, not knowing what else
to do.
Seregil's slender body had quickly failed
to gauntness. He felt fragile in Alec's hands
as he lifted him to wrap the fresh bandage. His
breathing was less even, too, and now and then caught
painfully in his chest.
Laying him back against the bales, Alec brushed a
few lank strands of hair back from Seregil's
face, taking in the deepening hollows in his
cheeks and at his temples, the pallid whiteness of
his skin. A few short days would bring them
to Rhiminee and Nysander, if only Seregil could
survive that long.
Warming the last of the milk over the lantern, Alec
cradled Seregil's head on his knee and tried
to spoon some into him. But Seregil choked weakly,
spilling a mouthful down his cheek.
With a heavy heart Alec set the cup aside and
stretched out beside him, wiping Seregil's cheek with a
corner of his cloak before pulling it over both of them.
"At least we made it to a ship," he whispered
sadly, listening to the labored breathing beside him.
Exhaustion rolled over him like a grey mist and he
slept.
-
a stony plain beneath a lowering leaden sky stretched
around Seregil on all sides. Dead, grey
grass under his Jeet. Sound of the sea in the distance?
No breeze stirred to make the faint rushing sound.
Lightning flashed in the distance but no rumble of thunder
followed it. Clouds scudded quickly by overhead.
He had no sense of his body at all, only of his
surroundings, os if his entire being had been reduced
to the pure essence of sight. Yet he could
move, look about at the grey plain, the moving
mass of clouds overhead that roiled and churned but
showed no break of blue. He could still hear the sea,
though he could not tell its direction. He wanted
to go there, to see beyond the monotony that surrounded him,
but how? He might well take the wrong direction,
moving away from it, deeper into the plain. The thought
froze him in place. Somehow he knew that the plain
went on forever if you went away from the sea.
He knew now that he was dead and that only through
Bilairy 's gate could he escape into the true
afterlife or perhaps out of any
Lynn Flewelling
existence at all. To be trapped for eternity on this
lifeless plain was unthinkable.
"O Illior Lightbringer," he silently
prayed, "shed your light in this desolate place.
What am I to do? his
But nothing changed. He wept and even his weeping
made no sound in the emptiness-
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"0!
Ih, yes, they was here all right. I'm not soon
likely to forget them!" the innkeeper declared, sizing
up the two gentlemen. The sallow one would try and
stare it out of him, but the comely, dark- complected
gentleman with the scar under his eye looked to be a man
who understood the value of information.
Sure enough, the dark one reached into his fine purse
and laid a thick double tree coin on the rough counter
between them.
"If you would be so good as to answer a few questions, I
would be very grateful." Another of the heavy
rectangular coins joined the first. "These young men were
servants of mine. I'm most anxious to find them."
"Stole something, did they?"
"It's a rather delicate matter," the gentleman
replied.
"Well, you've missed 'em by nigh onto a week,
I'm sorry to say. They was a bad sort, I
thought, when first I laid eyes on 'em. Ain't that
so, Mother?"
"Oh, aye," his wife assured them, eyeing the
strangers over her husband's shoulder. "Never should have
taken them in, I said after, empty rooms
or no."
"And she was right. The yellow-haired one tried
to murder the other in the night. I locked
Lynn Flewelling
me'self and the family in the storeroom after I
caught 'em at it. In the morning they was both gone.
Don't know whether the sickly fellow was living or
dead in the end."
The innkeeper reached for the coins but the dark man
placed a gloved fingertip on each of them.
"Did you, by chance, observe the direction they
took?"
"No, sir. Like I said, we stayed in the
storeroom 'til we was certain they was gone."
"That's a pity," the man murmured, relinquishing the
coins. "Perhaps you would be so good as to show us the rooms
in which they stayed?"
"As you like," the innkeeper said doubtfully, leading them
up the stairs. "But they didn't leave nothin".
I had a good look "round right after. It was damned
odd, that boy wanting the key to the outside of the
other's door. Locked him in, I guess, then
took after him in the dead of night. Oh, you should have
heard the noise! Thumpin" and caterwauling- Here
we are, sirs, this is where it happened."
The innkeeper stood aside as the two men glanced
around the cramped rooms.
"Where was the fight?" the pale one asked. His manner
was not so obliging as that of his companion, the innkeeper
noted, and he had a funny sort of accent when he
spoke.
"This here," he told him. "You can still see a few
dibs of blood on the floor, just there by your foot."
Exchanging a quick look with his companion, the dark
man drew the innkeeper back toward the stairs.
"You must allow us a few moments to satisfy our
curiosity. In the meantime, perhaps you would be so kind as
to carry ale and meat to my servants in the yard?"
Presented with the opportunity for further profit, the
innkeeper hustled back downstairs.
Mardus waited until the innkeeper was out of
earshot, then nodded for Vargul Ashnazai to begin.
The necromancer dropped to his knees and took out
a tiny knife. Scraping at the spots of dried
blood scattered over the rough boards, he
carefully tapped the shavings into an ivory vial and
sealed it. His thin lips curved into an unpleasant
semblance of a smile as he held the vial up between
thumb and forefinger.
153
"We have them, Lord Mardus!" he gloated, lapsing
into the Old Tongue. "Even if he no longer
wears it, with this we shall track them down."
"If they
are indeed those whom we seek," Mardus replied in
the same language. In this instance, the necromancer
was probably correct in his assumptions, but as
usual, Mardus made no effort to encourage him.
They all had their roles to play.
With Vargul Ashnazai trailing dourly behind him,
Mardus returned downstairs and gave the innkeeper
and his wife an eloquent shrug.
"As you said, there is nothing to be found," he told
them, as if abashed. "However, there is one last
point-was
"And what would that be, sir?" asked the innkeeper,
clearly hoping for another lucrative
opportunity.
"You said they fought." Mardus toyed with his purse
strings. "I am curious as to the cause. Have you any
idea?"
"Well," replied the innkeeper, "as I said, they
was at it hammer and tongs before I got up there at
all. Time I got the lamp lit and found my
cudgel, the young one already had the other
fellow laid out. Still, just from what I saw looking
in, it "peared to me they was fighting over some manner
of necklace."
"A necklace?" exclaimed Vargul Ashnazai.
"Oh, it was a paltry-looking thing, weren't it?" the
wife chimed in. "Nothing to kill a fellow over!"
"That's right," her husband said in disgust. "Just a bit
of wood, 'bout the size of a five-penny piece,
strung on some leather lacing. Had some carving done
on it, as I remember, but still it didn't look like
anything more than some frippery a peddler would carry."
Mardus offered the man a bemused smile. "Well,
they were a bad pair, just as you say, and I suppose
I'm well rid of them. Many thanks."
Tossing a final coin to the innkeeper, he went out
to the yard where his men stood ready.
"Have you any doubts now, my lord?" Ashnazai
whispered, trembling with suppressed rage.
"It seems they've eluded us once again," Mardus
mused, tapping a gloved finger thoughtfully against his
chin.
"He should have been dead a week ago! No one could
survive-was
lynn Flewelling
Mardus smiled thinly. "Come now,
Vargul Ashnazai, even you must see that these are no
ordinary thieves we are pursuing."
Casting an approving eye over the empty country
surrounding the crossroads inn, he turned to the
group of armed men. "Captain Tildus!"
"Sir?"
Mardus inclined his head slightly toward the inn.
"Kill everyone, then burn it."

i
caret ga k
caret
Alec felt like cheering aloud as the mainland slipped
under the horizon their first day out. The sheer emptiness
that surrounded the ship-the endless sky, the biting cold
of the wind, and frozen spume thrown up by the prow as the
Grampus
raced gaily along under full-bellied sails-all
this seemed to cleanse him down to the bone.
He worked hard, to be sure. The sailors
relegated him to the lowliest tasks, not out of any
meanness but because he would not be with the ship long enough to be
worth training. Though his hand was still sore and both hands
were soon cracked from the salt and cold, he worked with a
good will at any task he was assigned:
sanding decks, hauling slops, and helping in the
scullery. Whenever he could find a free moment, he
went below to tend to Seregil.
Despite Alec's diligent care, however, his
companion was clearly failing. The infection was
spreading across Seregil's thin chest, and hectic
fever spots bloomed over his cheekbones, giving his
face its only color. A sickly odor clung
about him.
Sedrish, the ship's cook and surgeon, gave
Alec what help he could, but none of his remedies
seemed to have any effect.
"At least you can still get something into
Lynn Flewelltng
him," Sedrish observed, watching Alec patiently
coax a sip of broth between Seregil's cracked
lips. "There's hope so long as he'll drink."
Alec was working his way through a tangled pile of
rope their third day out when the captain happened by.
The weather was holding fair and Talrien appeared
to be in a high good humor.
"It's too bad you're leaving us at Rhiminee.
I believe we could make a pretty passable
sailor of you," he remarked, bracing easily against
the rail. "Most inlanders spend their first
voyage heaving their guts over the side."
"No problems that way," Alec replied, brightening
up a bit. "Just some trouble finding what Biny
calls my 'sea legs.""
"I noticed. That first day when the swells were heavy
you rolled around like a keg in the bilge. When you set
foot on land again, it'll be just as bad for a bit.
That's why sailors always head straight for the
taverns, you know. You sit and drink long enough, and
pretty soon you feel like you're back on the
rolling deep. Makes us feel more at home."
Just then a cry came down from the masthead. "Land
sighted, Captain!"
"We've made good time," Talrien said, shading his
eyes as he looked across the water. "See that dark
line on the horizon? That's the isthmus. By tomorrow
morning you'll see one of the great wonders of the world."
Alec woke feeling queasy the next morning. The
motion of the ship felt different, and he couldn't hear
waves against the hull.
"Hey, Aren," called Biny, sticking his head down
the hatchway. "Come above if you want to see
something."
On deck, Alec found they were riding at anchor in
a narrow harbor. A crowd had gathered at
the rail.
"What do you think of that?" Biny asked proudly.
A thin mist steamed up from the surface of the sea. The
first rose-gold light of dawn shone through it, bathing
the scene before them in a layer of pale, shifting
fire.
Sheltering cliffs soared up out of the mists on either
side of the harbor. At its head lay Cirna, a
jumbled collection of square,

white-plastered buildings that clung like swallow's
nests to the steep slopes above the jetties.
Catching sight of him, Talrien waved an arm.
"That's one of the oldest cities in Skala. Ships
were putting in here before Ero was built. You can see the
mouth of the Canal over there, to the left."
Looking across the water, Alec saw that a huge
channel had been cut through the cliffs at the head of the
bay. Flanking the mouth of it were enormous pillars
carved in relief. Each reached five hundred
feet or more from the waterline to the top of the cliff and
was surmounted by an elaborate capital. At this
early hour, flames and black smoke still issued from
the huge oil flares that topped them.
"How would you make anything that big?"
Alec exclaimed, trying to grasp the scale of
what he was seeing.
"Magic, of course," scoffed Biny.
"And hard work," Talrien added. "Queen Tamir
the Second built it when she founded Rhiminee.
They say it took a hundred wizards and a thousand
workmen two years to build the Canal. Of course,
that was back in the old days, when there were enough
magicians about to be spared for such labor. It's
five miles from end to end, but less than three
hundred feet wide. And those beacons, atop the
pillars there? You can see them for miles. We steered
in by them last night." Turning, he waved a hand at
the gathered crew. "Come on, you lot! We've got
work to do."
The
Grampus
carried cargo for Cirna, and they put in alongside
one of the docks that jutted out from the shore. Alec
saw to it that Seregil was moved to an out-of-the-way
nook in the hold, then went above to watch the bustling
activity on shore. At closer range he could
see that the tops of the great pillars were not alike. The
one on the left was carved in the form of a fish emerging
from a wave. Even from across the harbor he
could make out the scales on its sides, the
graceful curve of the fins. The capital on the right
appeared to be a stylized flame.
"Why are they different?" he asked Sedrish, shading
his eyes.
"Those are the pillars of Astellus and Sakor, of
course," the cook replied as if amazed at his
ignorance. "Illior and Dalna are at the other
end. They say those old builders figured if they
were
Lynn Flewelling
P
going to muck up the natural lay of the land so, they'd
better tip their caps to the gods when they got all
done."
Talrien stood at the top of the gangplank with one
of the sailors, calling out cargo numbers for the man
to record in the log. On the dock below, the various
merchants to whom the cargo belonged kept similar
track.
Alec studied them with interest. Instead of tunics,
they wore long belted coats that reached below the knee
and leather breeches like those that Seregil favored.
Many wore broad- brimmed hats with a long
colorful feather or two stuck at an
angle in the band.
Another vessel was unloading at a neighboring
wharf; a single glimpse of their cargo was enough to draw
Alec down for a closer look. Ducking through a
throng of sailors and dock hands, he joined the
crowd gathering around a makeshift corral that had
been roped off for the horses that were being led ashore.
He'd seen plenty of horses in his life, but never
the match of these.
These creatures were as tall as the black mare he'd
left behind in Wolde, but not so heavily made. Their
legs were long, tapering from rounded haunches to dainty
hooves, and they bore their proud heads on
well-arched necks. Their coats and manes had none
of the rough shagginess Alec was accustomed to, but shone
in the morning sun as if they'd been polished.
Despite the commotion around them, the animals showed
no skittishness as they milled about. Most were bays,
with a few chestnuts and blacks mixed in. The one that
immediately caught Alec's fancy, however, was a
glossy black stallion with a white mane and
tail.
"They're something, ain't they?" Biny remarked,
appearing at his elbow.
"They are that," Alec agreed. "I've
never seen anything like them!"
"I shouldn't think so. Them's Aurenen horses, just
come up from the south."
"Aurenen!" Alec grabbed Biny's arm and pointed
toward the ship. "Are there any Aurenfaie there? Do
you know what they look like?"
"Nah, that's a Skalan ship. The Aurenfaie
don't come up here. Ships like that one trade in
Viresse and bring the cargo-horses, jewelry,
glass, and the like-back to the Three Lands to sell for
theirselves."

Viresse. Seregil had once mentioned that only
one port in Aurenen was open to foreigners.
"Horses like them are only for the nobles and the rich,"
Biny went on. "I heard once that the Queen herself
wouldn't never ride no other kind in battle, nor
the Princess Royal, neither. And her the head of
all the cavalry in Skala."
The stallion Alec had admired came near and he
couldn't resist reaching out to it. To his delight, the
beast pushed its slim head against his hand and nickered
contentedly as he stroked its velvety nose and
forelock. Lost as he was in admiration of the horse,
it wasn't until a gloved hand reached out
to stroke the stallion's neck that he noticed Biny
and the rest of the crowd had melted back. Turning, he
found himself face-to-face with a young woman as
exotic as the horse itself.
Dark chestnut hair, drawn back from a sharp
widow's peak, hung in a thick braid down the
back of her mud-spattered green cloak. A few
strands of it had escaped to frame her heart-shaped
face in soft, curling wisps. As she turned
to Alec, frozen in awe beside her, he saw the
startling blue of her eyes, the flush of healthy
color in her cheeks. For a moment his only thought was
that here stood the most beautiful woman he'd ever
seen. And an extraordinary one at that, for instead
of a gown she wore close- fitting doeskin
breeches beneath a green tabard edged in white. The
front of the tabard was richly embroidered with the emblem
of a pair of crossed sabers supporting a crown.
A heavy silver gorget at her throat flashed in
the sunlight, and a long sword hung from a military
baldric slung across her chest.
"He's a beauty, isn't he?" she remarked.
"Uh, yes." Alec hastily turned his gaze
back to the horse.
"Were you thinking of buying him?" she asked
as the horse leaned over the rope to rub his chin on
Alec's shoulder. "He's certainly taken to you."
"No! Oh, no-no, I was just looking." Alec
stepped back acutely aware of how filthy and
worn his own clothing was. "I just never saw
Aurenfaie horses before."
Her sudden smile made her look girlish in
spite of the sword. "I spotted him right off, but
I didn't want to buy him away from you if you'd
already made up your mind." Stroking the horse's
nose, she spoke softly to it. "What do you say,
my fine fellow? Shall I take you home?"
Lynn Flewelling
As if in answer, the stallion snorted and pushed his
head against her hand.
"I guess that settles it," said Alec, pleased
that his favorite should get such a fine mistress.
"I'd say so," she agreed. The horse dealer had
been hovering nearby and at her gesture came over
to them, bowing deeply. "Your horses are as fine as
ever, Master Roakas. This gentleman and I have
decided that I should take the black with white. What
are you asking?"
"For you, Commander, two hundred gold sesters."
"Fair enough. Captain Myrhini has the
purse."
"Many thanks, Commander. Will that be all this time?"
"No, I still have to pick out a few for the Guard, but
I wanted to grab this one before someone else did.
Would you ask one of my escort to saddle him for
me?" Turning back to Alec, she smiled again.
"Thanks for your help. You must tell me your name."
"Aren Silverleaf."
Another soldier in green and white led the saddled
stallion back. Swinging lightly up, she reached
into the wallet at her belt.
"Silverleaf, is it? Well, good luck to you, Aren
Silverleaf." She tossed him a coin that glittered
yellow as it spun through the air. He caught it
deftly, hardly taking his eyes from her to do so.
"Drink my health. It'll bring me luck."
"I will, thanks," Alec called after her as she
rode away. Turning quickly to the soldier, he
asked, "She's beautiful! Who is she?"
"You didn't know?" the man exclaimed, looking him
up and down. "That was Princess Klia, youngest
daughter of the Queen. Quite a day for you, eh boy?"
The crowd surged forward to the corral again and several
strangers clapped Alec on the back, envying him
his brush with royalty.
Biny elbowed his way through the press. "What's that
she tossed you?"
Alec held up the gold coin. Smaller than his
Skalan silver piece, it was stamped on one
side with the same design of crescent moon and
flame and on the reverse with the profile of a man.
"A half sester? You could drink her health for a
couple of days on that!" Biny gave him a playful
jab in the ribs.

"A princess!" Alec marveled, shaking his head.
"Oh, we see her all the time up here. She's
second in command of the Queen's Horse Guard now,
under her brother, and has quite an eye for the beasts. Come
on, they've started loading already. We'd better
start back."
With their own cargo dispatched, Talrien's crew was
now stowing slender clay wine jars below deck. After
these came crates of chickens that Talrien ordered
lashed down amidships on deck. The rest of their
voyage would be enlivened by the cackling and crowing of the
birds, as well as their stink and the clouds of feathers
they shed.
By late morning everything was secured and they sailed out
to join the other vessels waiting to enter the
Canal; ships were carefully spaced out to avoid
any mishaps that might block the narrow channel.
Soon after they dropped anchor, a skiff sailed
up to them and a stout little man in a greasy slouch hat
climbed aboard. Talrien spoke briefly with the
harbor master and paid out the tariffs for anchorage and
passage. When he'd gone, Talrien waved
Alec over.
"One-hour wait," he said. "Tell Sedrish
to get a meal up, will you?"
Alec relayed the message, then took hot water
and some broth down to Seregil. By the time he came
up again, several of the ships ahead of them had passed
into the Canal's dark opening. A bright mirror
flash came from the heights near the top of the
Astellus column and the stout galley moored next
to them hauled anchor, unfurled a single sail, and
glided off into the dark cleft.
At last the lookout called down, "There's our
signal, Captain!"
"That's it, men!" Talrien shouted. "Break out the
oars and stand to your locks."
While the anchor was being raised, several of the
sailors set up torches fore and aft. Others
pulled back a section of the deck and brought
out the long oars stored there. Each oar was passed through
a round, rope-padded lock in the ship's rail,
twenty to a side. At the captain's signal, the
mate climbed up on a hatch and began to sing.
Picking up the rhythm he set, the oarsmen pulled
in practiced unison and the ship slid smoothly
forward over the calm face of the bay. Captain
Talrien stood at the tiller, steering her into the
echoing dimness beyond the pillars.
Lynn Flewelling
The sun had already passed noon, and little sunlight
penetrated far into the chasm. It was colder inside and
smelled of salt-drenched stone. Alec was standing with
Sedrish when he happened to look up.
"Are those stars?" he asked in amazement. The narrow
strip of sky was pricked with faint points of light.
"It's the high walls, shutting out the sun. I
fell down a well when I was a lad and it was just the
same. About the only time there's much light in here is
at high noon."
Rough stone towered overhead on either side, seeming
to bear down over the vessel. Small freshets of
water flowed down here and there, tumbling off the uneven
rock face. In places, the surface of it gave
back a glassy reflection that puzzled
Alec.
"That's from the magicking," Sedrish explained. "In
places it's shiny smooth like that; others, like over
there, the rock just dripped and ran like wax down the
side of a candle. I wouldn't have liked to been in here
when them wizards was blasting away, I can tell you!"
Their passage was a quiet affair. The narrow
space around them gave back every whisper and splash
and the effect seemed to subdue even Biny. When the
lookout at last shouted, "Half way sighted,
Captain," his voice reverberated in a succession
of ghostly echoes up and down the canal.
Alec was wondering how on earth anyone could tell
distance in such a place when he caught sight of
something white against the right wall up ahead. As they
drew nearer, he could see that it was a huge statue
of polished marble standing in a shallow niche carved into the
wall. The figure glowed like a pale lantern in the
dimness.
"Who's that?" Alec asked.
"Queen Tamir the Second." Sedrich touched a
hand respectfully to his forelock as they passed.
"Skala's had good queens and bad, but old
Tamir was one of the best. Even the balladeers can't
improve much on the life she led."
Alec squinted through the gloom as they passed the
statue. The sculptor had visualized his
subject striding into the wind; her long hair streamed
behind her, and the robes she wore were molded to the
gracious curves of her form. Much of her left
side was covered by an oval shield and in her right hand
she raised a sword as if saluting the passing
vessels. Her face was neither ex

ceedingly beautiful nor terribly plain, but her
proud stance and fierce expression spoke across the
centuries.
"After the Plenimarans destroyed the old eastern
capital of Ero, she just up and moved the
survivors across to the other side and had this Canal
cut through," Sedrish went on, lighting his pipe from a
lantern. "That must be better than six hundred
years ago now. Aye, there was no stopping her, they
say. She was raised as a boy up in the mountains
because her uncle had seized the throne. No good come of
that, of course; that's what got Ero destroyed. When
he was killed in battle, this nephew of his steps
forward and says, "By your leave, I'm a girl."
Her uncle had murdered just about everyone else of the
blood, so they crowned her on the spot.
During her reign she beat back the Plenimarans,
was lost at sea during a battle, then turned up
a year later and took back the throne and ruled
"til she was an old woman. Quite a character, she
was. Queen Idrilain's said to be a good deal like
her."
As they sailed out into Osiat waters at the western
end of the Canal, Alec craned his neck to see the
carved tops of the pillars flanking this entrance. He
recognized the representation of Dalna; a sheaf of
grain bound with a serpent. The other, a coiled
dragon crowned with a crescent moon, must be that of
Illior.
The
Grampus
turned south down the coast with a good following wind.
The winter sea shone like polished steel in the
late-afternoon sunlight.
Rocky, steep-sided islands of all sizes
punctuated the coastline, rising out of the water like
ruined fortresses. Some were overgrown with copses of
dark fir or oak; those with any sort of harbor were
inhabited by colonies of fishermen. A few trading
ships were still plying this route and Talrien hailed
back and forth with them using a speaking
trumpet.
The Osiat was alive with more than sea traders.
Alec soon spotted his first school of porpoise.
Leaning over the rail, he watched dozens of them
leap and sport alongside the ship, their dark backs
arching through the waves as they escorted the ship for
several miles. Soon after, he saw another
school leaping in flight before the dire form of the ship's
namesake, a grampus. Though not large as whales
go, it looked positively enormous to Alec. The
thought of such monsters swimming about under their very keel
left him with a decidedly uneasy feeling.
Lynn Flewelling
The western shore of Skala presented a rugged
face. The harsh granite bones of the country lay
exposed at the coastline and again in the peaks of its
mountainous spine. Between these two stony extremes
lay fertile terraces and valleys, the forests and
harbors where the Skalan people had found purchase
centuries before. Above the surf-scoured ledges of the
shore, the higher ground sloped back from the sea in a
series of ascending undulations to meet the inland
mountains.
Looking shoreward, Alec could make out wagons and
riders moving along a coastal highroad.
A company of horsemen gave off glints of metal
through the cloud of dust that half obscured their
numbers.
"That there's the Queen's Highroad," Biny informed
him. "It runs all 'round the peninsula, then up the
isthmus and clear to Wyvern Dug."
That evening they put in at a little harbor to unload a
shipment of wine and some of the poultry crates, taking
on a consignment of copper bars in exchange.
When the hold was quiet again, Alec settled down
next to Seregil, hoping to get a little more broth
into him. But after a few spoonfuls he choked and
Alec gave up. SeregiFs breathing was harsher
now, rattling in his throat as his chest slowly rose
and fell. As he listened, Alec felt despair
crystallizing into a hard lump in his throat. Unable
to bear it any longer, he dug down into Seregil's
battered pack and found the knotted scarf containing the
jewelry. Stuffing it into his tunic, he hurried
above in search of the captain and Sedrish.
"You've got to look at him," he told them,
trying to keep his voice from wavering. "I don't
think he'll make it at this rate."
In the hold Sedrish bent over Seregil's still form,
then shook his head. "The boy's right,
Captain. The man's sinking."
Talrien felt Seregil's pulse, then sat down
on a barrel frowning. "Even if we make
straight for the city, passing all ports of call,
I don't know that it will be soon enough."
"But you could do that?" Alec asked.
Meeting Alec's bleak, determined gaze,
Talrien nodded. "I'm master of this ship. I say
when she sails and where. It won't do my business
any good to come in a week late-was
"If it's money, then maybe this will help." Alec
pulled the handkerchief from his tunic and handed it to him.

Opening it, Talrien found the heavy gold chain,
earrings, and the gold half sester Klia had given
Alec.
"I wasn't supposed to sell those things-he
didn't want me to." Alec gestured
anxiously in Seregil's direction. "If it's not
enough, I think he can more than repay you once we
reach the city."
Talrien retied the cloth and handed it back.
"I'll have you in Rhiminee by noon tomorrow. We can
talk about price later on. Sedrish, fetch this
boy some ale."
When they'd gone, Alec lay down next
to Seregil and pulled both their cloaks over them,
hoping to lend the sick man some of his warmth.
Seregil's skin was moist and cold, his eyes
deeply sunken beneath braised-looking lids. For an
instant Alec thought he saw a faint expression of
pain across his features.
With tears stinging behind his own eyes, Alec grasped
one cold hand and whispered, "Don't let go!
We're too close now, don't let go."
Again he thought he caught the faintest flicker of
emotion in that still face. Probably it was only a
trick of the light.
-
the plain again. Unchanging emptiness and moaning wind.
Ah, it was all too maddening! He wanted
to curse, yell, kick, strike out. All he could
do was spin around and around like an idiot, sweeping the
horizon for some sign.
But in the midst of his fury he caught sight of a
dark figure in the distance. The dark stalker, his
final adversary in life, had it followed him even
here?
But no, even across the gulf of distance that separated
them he could make out the figure of a man,
the hood of his dark cloak drawn back to reveal the
pale aval of a face. And the man was calling to him.
No, singing!
He could not catch the words but the melody was so
lovely, so filled with welcome and promise, that
tears sprang to his eyes. How far? How long
to reach him? Impossible to judge distance in this cursed
barren place, but no matter. He would run to him,
Jor he suddenly felt wondrously light as he
skimmed over the dead grass and stones. He was
running-no, he was flying! The Jeeling of release,
of joyous movement was dizzying. The ground beneath him
blurred and the figure ahead waited with open arms
-v -8-a.-caret iandment
m-
w "caret rather

Lynn Flewelling
to receive him. Too soon and not soon enough he reached
him, was caught by him and held above the ground, for
suddenly he had form again, as the man stopped his song
and smiled kindly upon him. And such a face! It was
as beautiful and serene as a god's. The skin had the
color and sheen of purest gold and gathered in
supple folds at the corners of his eyes
and mouth as he smiled. One eye was covered with a
patch, but even this failed to mar the perfection of those
features. The other eye, deep and richly blue as
a sapphire or a summer sky, gazed at him with
depthless love.
"You have come at last, my wounded one."
The voice held the very embodiment of all the love
and tenderness he had ever hoped to find in his short,
violent life.
"Help me, take me from this place!" he begged,
grasping at the being's arms, cold and rigid as stone
beneath his hands.
"Of course," answered the god, for surely that must
be what he was-Bilairy or Illior, come
to rescue him from this terrible place.
Gathering him close, the god cradled him like a child
against his chest, stroking him with his cold, gentle hand.
"We will pass through the gates and over the sea together,
you and I. Give to me the gift you have brought and we shall
go at once."
"Gift? But I brought no gift," he stammered,
his heart suddenly hammering like a sharp, tiny fist in
his chest.
"But you did." The god's hand stroked his head, his
shoulder, opened his shirt to lay bare his
chest, which ached with the thundering of his pulse. "There, you
see? his
The sickly odor rose in his nostrils again as a
searing shaft of pain impaled him. Looking down,
he saw the small wound that gaped just over his heart;
from it, as if from a bloody socket, peered an eye
as wonderfully blue as that of the god. A perfect
match. And suddenly he was struggling in vain against the
iron grip that held him as the golden-skinned god
reached to reclaim it-
The
Grampus
pounded south through the night. Coming on deck just after
dawn, Alec saw towering grey cliffs off the
port bow and a cluster of islands lying close to shore
ahead of them.
Luck in the Shadows

"Rhiminee harbor, just inside those islands,"
Talrien shouted over the wind.
Rhiminee was the largest of the western ports, and the
most heavily fortified. A series of long
granite moles had been constructed between three
smaller islands that ranged across the harbor mouth,
leaving two openings to allow for the passage of
friendly vessels. As the
Grampus
passed through one of these sea gates, Alec saw that
the broad causeways bristled with catapults and
ballistas. A similar arrangement of moles
joined two smaller islands within the harbor itself,
dividing it into inner and outer zones like the bailey of a
keep.
The sailors furled all but one sail and they
glided into the outer harbor, steering past scores of
vessels already anchored there. Long, swift war
galleys with scarlet sails and two banks of oars
were moored near the causeways, their bronze ramming
beaks just visible at the waterline. Merchant ships,
square barges, and small, high-prowed caravels
rode at anchor by the dozens.
The sea gate to the inner harbor had been constructed
as a wide chute that afforded no cover to any
vessel entering its constricts. Ballistas were mounted
on either side and the facing walls of the chute were built
in a series of tiers, so that companies of archers could
harry any enemy ship that breached this inner defense.
The land embracing the harbor itself rose sharply back
on all sides. Even before they had cleared the inner
fortifications, Alec caught sight of the
citadel above. It was huge; the main city spread
over the tops of several hills set half a mile
back from the water, and he judged it must be three
miles wide at least. Sheer stone walls
surrounded the city, hiding from view all but a few
glittering domes and towers visible over the parapet.
The only approach from the harbor seemed to be a
twisting road enclosed between long stone walls.
Alec was no tactician, but recalling that
Rhiminee had been built to replace a city
destroyed in war, it looked to him as if the
Skalans didn't intend to lose a second
capital.
Beyond the inner moles, a jumbled sprawl of
buildings clung to the base of the cliffs below the
citadel. As the ship was rowed toward an empty
wharf, Alec looked with growing dismay at the bustling
waterfront, the relief he'd felt at reaching the
city quickly giving way to alarm at the prospect of
trying to find a single wizard somewhere in the
incomprehensible city before him.
Lynn Flewelling
He caught Biny by the sleeve as the young sailor
hurried by. "Have you heard of a place called the
Oreska House?"
"Who ain't?" Biny exclaimed, jerking a thumb
at the upper city. "See that shiny bit, over to the
left? That's the top of the great dome on it."
Alec's heart sank further; he'd have to find some
way to get Seregil up there, traversing the width
of the city. He fingered the packet of jewels inside
his tunic, silently resolving to get Seregil to the
Oreska House before nightfall even if he had
to buy a wagon to do it.
Several men had come on board to speak with Captain
Talrien. Alec was just turning to go below when one of
them caught sight of him and touched his sleeve.
"Are you the friend of the sick man?" the stranger asked.
Taken by surprise, Alec turned to find a
tall, thin old man smiling down on him. His
long, good-natured face was seamed with age around the
eyes and brow, and his short beard and the curling hair
that thickly fringed his balding pate were silvery
white, yet he stood as straight and easy as
Alec himself. The dark eyes beneath the unruly white
eyebrows revealed nothing but friendly interest. By his
clothes-a simple surcoat and breeches under a
worn cloak-Alec took him for a trader of some
sort.
"What business do you have with him?" Alec
asked warily, wondering how he'd known of
Seregil's presence on the ship.
"I have come to meet you, dear boy," the old man
replied. "I am Nysander."
A lee's legs felt shaky as he led Nysander
A into the hold.
A*bar "It is as I feared," the wizard
murmured, *8Vcupping Seregil's face between his
hands. "We must get him to the Oreska House at
once. I have a carriage waiting. Fetch the
driver."
Cold with dread, Alec found the driver and helped
him bundle Seregil, well wrapped in cloaks
and blankets, into the carriage.
In the meantime, Nysander spoke briefly with
Captain Talrien, pressing a purse into his
hands. Talrien nodded his thanks and turned to make
his farewells to Alec.
"Many thanks, Captain," Alec said warmly,
wishing he could find better words.
"You've a brave heart in you, Aren Silver-
leaf." Talrien clapped him on the shoulder.
"May it bring you luck."
"It has so far," replied Alec, glancing
anxiously toward the carriage. "I just
hope the luck holds a bit longer."
As the carriage set off at last, Nysander knelt
beside Seregil and peeled away the dressing. A
single glance was enough; recoiling, he laid the
bandages back in place.
"How long ago did this happen?" he asked, glad
that his back was to the boy.
lynn Flewelling
"Five days."
Shaking his head, Nysander began a series of silent
incantations. If this was indeed what he suspected,
who but Seregil could have survived such an attack?
When he'd finished, he sat back to take a
second look at the boy. Pale and grim, he
sat clutching Seregil's pack and sword, eyes
darting back and forth between his companion and the spectacle
of the city passing by the carriage window.
Worn to a shadow,
thought Nysander,
and scared to death of me.
This was a wild-looking lad to be sure, with his rough
northern clothes and tousled hair. Nysander noted the
ragged bandage bound around the boy's left hand, and how
he held it palm up on his knee as if it pained
him. Taut lines scored his chapped young
face, making him look older than his years. There
was a great weariness about him, too, and an air of
uncertainty. Yet beneath all that Nysander sensed the
ingrained determination that had carried both him and
Seregil through whatever evil had overtaken them.
"Another Silverleaf, eh?" Nysander smiled,
hoping to put him at ease. "Seregil claims it
is a fortuitous name. I hope that you have found it so?"
"At times." The boy glanced up for just an instant.
"He told me never to use my real name."
"I am certain he would not mind if you told it
to me."
The boy blushed. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm
Alec of Kerry."
"A short name, that. They call me Nysander i
Azusthra Hypirius Meksandor Illandi, High
Thaumaturgist of the Third Oreska. But you must
call me Nysander, for that is how friends address one
another here."
"Thank you, sir-Nysander, I mean," Alec
stammered shyly. "I'm greatly honored."
Nysander waved this aside. "Nothing of the kind.
Seregil is as dear to me as a son, and you have brought
him back. I am in your debt."
The boy looked up at him again, more
directly this time. "Will he die?"
"That he has survived this long gives me hope,"
Nysander replied, wishing he could be more encouraging.
"You did well to bring him to me. But however did the
two of you meet?"

"He saved my life," answered Alec. "It was
almost a month ago now, up in the Ironheart
Mountains."
"I see." Nysander looked at Seregil's still,
white face, wondering if he would ever hear his side
of the story.
After a moment's silence, Alec asked, "How did
you know we were coming?"
"A week ago I was suddenly blinded by a vision of
Seregil in some desperate difficulty." Nysander
signed heavily. "But such visions are fleeting
things. By the time I had managed to recapture it, the
crisis seemed to have passed. I had my first
glimpse of you then, too, and sensed that he was in
capable hands."
The boy colored again, fidgeting with the hem of his
worn tunic.
"I have had other flashes of your progress over the
past few days. You are a most
resourceful young man. But now tell me what has
happened, for I see that you are wounded as well."
Nysander continued his discreet appraisal of the boy
while Alec gave an account of their escape from
Asengai's domain and subsequent adventures.
A bit of gentle magic satisfied him that
Seregil had been very astute in his choice of
companion, although his friend's reason for taking on the
youngster at all remained something of an enigma.
In describing the blind man's house outside
Wolde, Alec admitted to his eavesdropping and
seemed relieved when Nysander merely smiled.
"They spoke of a man called Boraneus,"
Alec told him, "but then Seregil called him
Mardus. He sounded upset or surprised when he
said the name."
Nysander frowned. "As well he should. You saw this
man?"
"At the mayor's hall. Seregil got us in there
as minstrels, so he could get a look at him, and the
other, a diplomat of some sort who was traveling with
him."
"This Mardus, was he a tall, dark fellow with a
scar under one eye?"
"From here to here." Alec drew a finger from the
inner corner of his left eye to his cheek. "You could
call him handsome, I guess, but there was something cold
about him when he wasn't smiling."
"Excellent! And the other?"
Alec thought for a moment. "Shorter, thin, with the look
of a town dweller. Thin, greyish hair." He
shook his head. "He wasn't
Lynn Flewelling
one that you took much notice of. Anyway, we,
ah, well-we burgled their rooms that night."
Nysander chuckled. "I should hope so. And what did
you learn from your burglary?"
"That's where we found the-was
Nysander held up a warning hand, then pointed questioningly
to Seregil's chest.
Alec nodded.
"Then we must speak of that later," warned the wizard.
"Tell me everything else, however."
"Well, I was keeping watch most of the time while
he worked. He found several maps. He and Micum
Cavish talked about those later on, after we left
Wolde. There were some places marked, towns in the
northlands. Micum's gone to find one marked in the
Fens. I'm afraid that's all I know about it.
Seregil will have to tell you the rest."
Let us hope you can,
thought Nysander again.
His expression must have betrayed his concern, for Alec
suddenly exclaimed, "You
can
help him, can't you? He said if you couldn't, then no
one could!"
Nysander gave the boy's hand a reassuring pat.
"I know what must be done, dear boy. Go on,
please. What happened after that?"
Nysander chuckled appreciatively at Alec's
description of their hasty escape from Wolde, but
grew serious as he tried to explain Seregil's
frightening decline aboard the
Darter
and the difficult journey that followed.
"And through all that, he never spoke further to you of
what he discovered in Wolde, or of those men?"
"No, Seregil wouldn't talk about any of it much
after we left town. He kept saying it was safer
if I didn't know certain things."
Nysander regarded Alec in bemusement; even in one
so young it was surprising to find such unquestioning trust-if
trust it was. Familiar as Nysander was with
Seregil's powers of persuasion, he still
wondered that Alec should have followed him so far and through
so many trials on the strength of little more than a few
tales and fewer empty-handed promises.
No, thought Nysander, trust there certainly must have
been, and he had no doubt of Alec's loyalty,
but there was something else at work here. Seregil would
never have involved a green boy

in the burglary in Wolde if he himself had not sensed
something
deeper in Alec's character and been taken with it.
Apprentice
indeed!
Alec shifted nervously. "Is something wrong?"
"Certainly not!" Nysander smiled. "I was lost in
my own
thoughts for a moment, a habit we wizards often drop
into.
Seregil and Micum were both working for me when you met
them. At a more opportune time I will explain what
that
entailed."
Distracted as he was by Seregil's condition, Alec
couldn't help looking out at the passing city now and
then. Carts, horses, litters, and
pedestrians of all descriptions thronged the
streets. The road leading up to the citadel was
enclosed in curtain walls on both sides and the
stonework seemed to trap the noise and amplify it.
This road ended at the broad outer gate of the city.
Half a dozen blue-clad guards flanked the
entrance, armed with swords and pikes, but traffic
passed freely. Once through the gate they slowed,
moving through an inner barbican, and then passed under the
archway of a second gate, its ancient pediment
decorated with carvings of fish. Beyond lay the largest
marketplace Alec had ever seen.
The stone-flagged square stretched away on all
sides, jammed with hundreds of wooden booths.
Their colorful awnings rippled in the brisk wind.
A broad avenue had been left open through the center
of the square to allow for traffic, and narrow side
lanes branched out from it into the wilderness of shops.
From all sides came the clamor of the city:
voices shouting, animals braying, the pounding of
artisans at work, and the rumble of the carts that flowed in
a steady line in both directions along the street.
Tall, white-plastered buildings, some as much as
five stories high, ringed the market square.
Everywhere he looked there were people.
Continuing on, they plunged into the maze of streets and
neighborhoods that spread over the hills.
Structures of all sorts lined the streets, in
some cases even overhanging it with walkways and
elaborate solariums. Wagons and riders
filled the streets; children, dogs, and pigs darted about
underfoot.
As the dizzying spectacle flowed by, Alec
recalled with horror his original plan to bring
Seregil through Rhiminee alone.
Lynn Flewelling
The broad avenue they followed opened periodically
into broad, stone-paved circles from which other streets
radiated like the spokes from the hub of a wheel. Under
other circumstances Alec might have asked Nysander
about them, but the wizard had grown silent again, watching
Seregil's shallow breathing with apparent concern.
Holding his tongue, Alec saw that they were entering an
area of larger, more elaborate buildings.
Presently they came to another of the open circles,
this one centered around a circular colonnade some
forty feet in diameter and bordered on one side
by a wooded park.
"The Fountain of Astellus, a spring which has never
gone dry since the founding of the city,"
Nysander remarked, indicating the colonnade. "The
original city was centered around it. We are nearly
to the Oreska."
Halfway around the circle, their driver veered to the
left onto another broad, tree-lined avenue.
High walls lined the street on either side,
presenting blank faces of smooth stone or plaster
except for the broad bands of decoration bordering the
tops and gateways. Some patterns were painted,
others done in mosaics of colored stone or tile.
He would later learn that these decorated walls,
screening the elegant villas beyond, were not merely
decorative; in the Noble Quarter one might be
directed to "the house in Golden Helm Street
with the red serpent gate" or "the house with the black and
gold circles in a blue border."
Small marble pillars stood at intervals along the
streets here, each one carved with a figure
representing the name of that street. Small gilded
helmets marked the way that Alec and Nysander
followed.
"Are those all palaces?" Alec asked, catching
glimpses of carved and painted facades beyond the
walls.
"Oh, no, just villas. Many are owned
by members of the Queen's Kin," Nysander replied.
"Aunts, brothers, cousins so far removed one must
consult the Archives to ascertain from which obscure
third brother of what queen or consort they are
descended."
"Seregil said it was a complicated place, but that
I'd have to learn all about it," replied Alec,
looking rather glum at the prospect.
"Quite true, but I am certain he will not expect you
to learn overnight," the wizzard assured him. "You
could have no better

teacher than Seregil for such matters. If you will
look ahead, however, you will see a true palace."
Golden Helm Street ended at the huge walled
park surrounding the Queen's Palace. The
carriage turned onto a cross street and they
passed an open gate, Alec glimpsed an
expanse of open ground and beyond it a sprawling
edifice of pale grey stone decorated along the
battlements with patterns of black and white.
Continuing on, they came to another great enclosed
park. The gleaming white walls seemed to have been
erected for the purpose of privacy rather than
defense, however, for the graceful arch through which
they passed had neither door nor portcullis.
As they entered the grounds Alec let out a yelp of
surprise. Within the embrace of the surrounding
walls, it was as if the seasons had suddenly rushed
forward into summer. The sky overhead was the same
pale winter blue as before, but the air around them was
cool and sweet as a spring morning. On every side
stretched carefully laid out lawns and beds of
brilliant flowers and blooming trees. Robed
figures moved among them or reclined on benches.
Alec blinked in disbelief as he caught sight of
an enormous centaur playing a harp beneath a nearby
tree.
The creature had the body of a tall chestnut
stallion, but rising from its withers was the hirsute
torso of a man. Coarse black hair overhung
his brow in a long forelock and grew in a mane down
his back. Nearby a woman floated cross-legged
ten feet above the ground, lazily tossing globes
of colored glass into the air and directing their motion
in time to his music.
Nysander waved to the centaur as they wheeled past and the
creature returned the greeting with a nod of his great
head.
In the center of all these marvels stood the
Ore'ska House itself, a soaring structure of
gleaming white stone surmounted by a faceted,
onion-shaped dome that flashed brightly in the
sunlight. Slender towers topped with smaller
domes and studded at intervals with carved oriels
stood at each of the building's four corners.
A set of broad stairs led up to the main entrance
where half a dozen servants in red tabards stood
waiting. Two men hurried forward with a litter as the
carriage came to a stop; a third shouldered the
battered pack and Alec's meager bundle. At
Nysander's nod, Seregil was carried inside.
The main building was centered around a huge atrium
lit by the natural light streaming in through the clear
glass dome above.
lyim Flewelling
Rising up from a splendid mosaic floor, the inner
walls were broken by five levels of balconies and
walkways decorated with more elaborate Skalan
carving and tile work.
Nysander strode across the atrium and through one of the
large archways that flanked it. Beyond lay a
staircase that spiraled gently upward, giving
onto a landing at each level. At the third landing
they walked down an interior corridor
lined with doors, found another stairway, and climbed
again.
The place was teeming with people in all manner of
dress. Those that appeared to be servants or
visitors paid them little heed, but Alec noticed that
the wizards, whom he distinguished by their long,
colorful robes, invariably drew back from them as
if in fear or disgust. Several made strange
signs in the air as they passed and one, a boy whose
white robe had only simple bands of color at
the sleeves, collapsed in a faint.
"Why do they keep doing that?" Alec whispered
to Nysander.
"I shall explain presently," Nysander murmured.
Leading the way along one of the fifth-floor
walkways, he stopped at a heavy door.
"Welcome to my home," he said. Opening the door
for the litter bearers, the wizard motioned for Alec
to preceed him.
Stepping in, Alec found himself in a narrow,
tunnel-like space. Stacks of boxes, crates,
and sheaves of parchment filled whatever space there was from
floor to ceiling. A single, narrow pathway allowed
access to the inner rooms; two people might have been able
to squeeze past one another, but it would be
at the risk of setting off an avalanche.
The room beyond, though cluttered, was bright and spacious
by comparison. Looking up, Alec realized they were
at the top of one of the corner towers. Colored
only by the sun and sky above, the thick leaded panes
of the dome were set in swirling patterns interspersed
with complicated symbols.
The tower room was filled with an amazing collection
of things, the complete order of which was probably known
only to Nysander himself. Shelf upon shelf of books,
racks of scrolls, hangings, diagrams, and
charts covered every inch of wall space. More books were
stacked in precarious piles on the floor and on the
stairs that curved up to a walkway beneath the dome
overhead.
Around the room stood three large worktables and a high
desk. Two of the tables were hopelessly laden; among
the general

clutter Alec noticed braziers, pots, covered
jars, several skulls, and a small iron cage.
On the third table a thick book lay open on a
stand surrounded by a collection of fragile glass
vessels and rods. The desk was also relatively
clear, though a dusty formation of candle
drippings cascaded to the floor from one corner of it
where, over the years, one candle had been set into the
guttering pool of its predecessor.
Hooks and nails had been driven in anywhere there
seemed to be room, and from these were hung an array of
things ranging from dried leaves and skins to a complete
skeleton of something that was decidedly not human.
Nysander went to a small side door at the right
side of the room and sent the litter bearers through with
Seregil. Alec followed them into a small
whitewashed chamber. In the middle of the room was a
rectangular table of dark polished wood inlaid with
ivory; a smaller one of similar design stood
against the right-hand wall with a simple wooden chair.
At Nysander's command, the servants placed
Seregil's litter on the floor next to the long
table and withdrew. No sooner had they gone than a
thin young man in a spotless blue and white robe
hurried in with an armload of leafy branches. His
curly black hair was closely cropped and the
sparse black beard edging his cheeks accentuated the
gaunt planes of his pale, angular face.
Setting his bundle down beside the smaller table, he
brushed a few leaves from the front of his robe and
glanced down at Seregil, his pale green
eyes narrowing with distaste.
"Ah, just in time!" Nysander said. "Alec, this is
Thero, my assistant and protege. Thero, this is
Alec, who has brought Seregil back to us."
"Welcome," Thero said, though neither his voice nor
his manner evinced any warmth.
"Are the preparations complete?" asked Nysander.
"I've brought extra branches, just to be certain."
Looking down at Seregil again, the young wizard
shook his head. "It seems we'll need them."
With There's terse assistance, Alec pulled off
Seregil's filthy hmic and cut away the linen
bands covering the dressing. Thero, who'd handled the
tunic as if it were smeared with excrement, took a
step back, making a quick warding sign as he did
so.
"What is it?" Alec exclaimed in growing alarm.
"Nysander, please! Why do people keep doing that?"
lyim Flewelling
"You and Seregil have been in contact with a telesm of the
most dangerous sort," the wizard replied
calmly, bending to scrutinize the wound. "You are
both tainted with a miasmal effluence most offensive
to any with thaumaturgic powers."
Glancing up, Nysander saw Alec's
blank look and gave the boy an apologetic
smile. "Forgive me. What I mean is that you
two have been in contact with a cursed object of some
sort and, while only the physical effects are
apparent to the ordinary observer, to a wizard you both
smell like you just crawled out of a cesspit."
"I should say so!" Thero concurred wholeheartedly.
Kneeling beside Seregil, Nysander drew a small
silver knife from his belt and gently pressed the
flat of the blade here and there against the seeping flesh,
his unruly eyebrows drawing together as he noted the
round mark left by the wooden disk. Setting the
blade aside, he sat back on his heels,
frowning.
"It is time I saw the cause of all this."
Alec opened Seregil's pack and pulled out the
old tunic. He hadn't touched the bundle since
the night of the strange attack.
"Place it there, in the center of the small table,"
Nysander instructed. "We must work with extreme
care. Are you ready, Thero?"
Unrolling the tunic, he lifted the disk out with a
long pair of silver tongs. "Just as I feared,"
he muttered. "Thero, the jar."
His assistant placed a small crystal
jar on the table and Nysander dropped the disk into it.
There was a brief flash of light as he set the lid
in place and the jar sealed seamlessly shut.
"That much is done, at least," Nysander said,
dropping the jar unceremoniously into his pocket.
"Now we must see to the purification. We shall begin with
you, Alec, for we will need your assistance with
Seregil. Come now, there is no need to look so
apprehensive!"
Thero positioned the chair at the center of the room and
motioned for Alec to sit. Gripping the arms
nervously, Alec watched as Thero fetched a
tray.
Nysander patted his shoulder. "There is nothing to fear,
dear boy, but you must not speak again until I tell
you that I have finished."
Producing a lump of blue chalk from a wallet
on his belt, the wizard drew a circle on the
floor around the chair and added a

series of hastily scrawled symbols around its
perimeter. Meanwhile, Thero poured water from a
silver ewer into a silver bowl on the side table,
then selected three branches from the bundle on the
floor, laying them out neatly beside the bowl.
The branches were of three different types: white
pine trimmed so that the long needles at the tip formed
a sort of brush; a simple birch switch; and a
straight branch covered in round green leaves that
gave off a sharp, unfamiliar aroma.
Adding a shallow clay dish of ink and a fine brush
to the arrangement, Thero placed a thick wax candle
behind the bowl and lit it with a quick snap of his fingers.
"Everything's ready," he said, moving to stand behind
Alec's chair.
Nysander stood over the bowl, hands held palm
downward above it, and spoke a few quiet words.
Instantly a soft glow radiated up from the
surface of the water, followed by a sweet,
pleasant fragrance that filled the room. Taking up
the small dish and brush, Nysander painted blue
symbols on Alec's forehead and palms, taking
special care with the wounded hand.
This step completed, he passed one of the aromatic
branches several times over the candle flame,
dipped it in the glowing water, and sprinkled Alec from
head to foot, repeating the flame and water process
several times. The droplets glowed with the same
magical light as the water in the bowl. They clung
to Alec's skin and clothing, winking like
fireflies.
Laying aside the first branch, Nysander passed the
birch switch through the flame and water and struck
Alec lightly on his cheeks, shoulders, chest,
thighs, and feet, then snapped the stick in two.
Small puffs of brown, foul-smelling smoke
rose up from the splintered ends. He uttered a few
more, incomprehensible words; the sweet perfume of the
water intensified, dispelling the odor.
Finally, he took up the pine branch and repeated the
spargetaction. This time the glowing drops vanished as
they touched Alec, leaving a faint tingling sensation in
their wake. At a final command from Nysander, the
painted symbols simply vanished.
"Your spirit is cleansed," Nysander told him,
tossing the last branch onto the table. "I suggest
you do the same with your body while we prepare
Seregil."
Alec glanced anxiously at Seregil.
Lynn Flewelling
"There is time," Nysander assured him. "Thero and
I have preparations of our own to make. The task before
us is an arduous one. I shall need you refreshed and
ready. For Seregil's sake, if not for your own, do
as I ask. My servant Wethis will
conduct you down to the baths. You may also deliver a
message for me to Lady Ylinestra on your way.
Please tell her that I shall be detained."
Thero paused on his way out with the tray, giving his
master a look Alec couldn't quite decipher. "If
you'd like to go to the lady yourself, I can begin the
preparations."
"Thank you, Thero, but I must keep my mind clear
for the ceremony, as must you," replied Nysander.
Thero gave his master a respectful nod. "Come
along, Alec his
A lanky, towfieaded youth answered There's
summons.
"This is Wethis," the young wizard said. Turning on
his heel, he disappeared back into the side room
without a backward glance.
Alec looked back at Wethis just in time to catch
him making a sour face at There's back. As the
two of them exchanged guilty grins, Alec
realized how ill at ease he'd been among the
wizards.
"We're to stop at the chambers of someone called
Ylinestra," he told Wethis as they began the
winding descent back down. "I'm supposed
to deliver a message to her for Nysander.
Do you know who she is?"
"Ylinestra of Erind?" Wethis shot him an
unreadable look. "Everyone knows who she is, sir.
Come this way, her chambers are in the visitors'
wing."
"She's not an Ore'ska wizard?"
"No, sir, a young sorceress up from the south
to study." They walked on a moment in silence, then
Wethis stole another sidelong glance at Alec.
"You're the one who came in with Lord Seregil,
aren't you, sir?"
"Yes," he replied, thinking
Lord
Seregil? "And you don't have to call me sir. My
name's Alec."
Continuing down through the warren of stairways and
passages, they came out on a gallery overlooking
the atrium. From here, Alec saw that the mosaic on
the floor below depicted an immense, scarlet
dragon crowned with a silver crescent. Its leathery
wings were outstretched in flight; beyond its coiling
body, as if seen from a distance, lay what Alec
took to be the harbor and walled city of Rhiminee
itself.
181
"That must be the dragon of Illior," he observed,
leaning over the rail for a better look.
"The very one."
Stopping at the last door on the gallery, Wethis
knocked and stepped back to make way for Alec.
A woman opened the door, her welcoming smile
one a man could happily die for. It vanished as
soon as she saw the two of them, however. Suddenly
Alec couldn't have spoken a word if his life
depended on it.
Ylinestra was stunningly beautiful. Framed in a
mass of raven hair, her face was at once
delicate and sensual. Her eyes were the deep,
velvety purple of a summer iris. The
loose-flowing garment she wore was made of
embroidered silk so sheer it did little more than tint
the voluptuous body it draped.
Alec, who had never seen a naked woman before,
stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to think.
Wethis stood to one side in respectful silence.
"Yes?" Ylinestra demanded imperiously, folding
her arms beneath her breasts.
"I've come from Nysander," Alec said, finding his
voice at last. He wanted desperately to keep
his eyes on hers, but the onslaught of her
gaze was too much. Knowing that he'd be lost if he
looked lower than her shoulders, he finally settled
on her chin and blurted out his message. "He-he
said to tell you that he'll be late."
"Did he say when he
would
come?" she demanded, her tone ominous.
"No," Alec replied, resisting the strong urge
to fall back a pace.
"Thank you," she snapped and slammed the door in his
face. A series of loud crashes from behind it quickly
followed as Alec and Wethis beat a hasty
retreat.
"If I'd known what your message was, I'd
have warned you about her temper," Wethis apologized.
"She and Nysander are lovers, you see. I think she
must have been expecting him in Person."
were''His lover!"
The latest one, anyway," Wethis answered with
obvious
admiration. "Nysander's one of the few Oreska
wizards who
doesn't hold with celibacy. Far from it, in
fact. Still, I'm not cer
n
eve
n he is a match for Ylinestra, if you know what
I mean."
Lynn Flewelling
Lowering his voice, he added with a knowing wink, "But
I'll warrant she's worth the trouble!"
Reaching the atrium, Wethis led Alec into a long
gallery lined with statuary of every size and
description.
"This is just the anteroom of the baths," he
explained, seeing Alec's look of wonder. "The
really unusual things are in the museum across the
way. Lord Seregil could show you around there; he knows
the place better than some of the wizards."
Steamy air enveloped them as Wethis swung back
a large door and ushered him into an immense vaulted
chamber. Having always associated washing with chilly
streams and drafty bathhouses, Alec wasn't
prepared for the opulence that now lay before him.
At the center of the huge chamber lay a broad
octagonal pool lined with red and gold tiles.
Marble griffins with gilded wings stood at four
opposing corners and spewed arching streams of water
into it. The tinkling plash of falling water echoed
pleasantly around the chamber.
The walls of the room were decorated with frescoes
depicting water nymphs and undersea scenes. Beneath
these, set into the floor in the same manner as the
pool, were individual tubs. Attended
by servants, a number of other bathers were already making
use of these. Alec could feel the warmth of the heated
floor through the soles of his boots.
A carved bench, clothes rack, and the largest looking
glass he'd ever seen were arranged around the tub
prepared for him. Nearby a servant stood ready
with a basket, and another was approaching with a tray of
food. The scented water in the tub did look
inviting, but Alec felt acutely uncomfortable
undressing under so many eyes. Noting his hesitation,
Wethis shooed the servants off and turned away
himself while Alec slipped hastily into the water.
"Looks like Nysander wants you to eat," Wethis
observed pushing the tray of food over to him.
In spite of his resolution to hurry, the aromas
wafting up from the various bowls stirred Alec's
empty belly. Taking up a spoon, he hastily
wolfed down a few mouthfuls until a fiery red
sauce brought him to an abrupt, choking halt.
Grinning, Wethis handed him a goblet of cool
water. "You'd better slow down.
Skalan food can take you by surprise if you're
not used to it."

"I guess so!" Alec croaked, holding out his
cup for more water. Taking a last piece of bread,
he pushed the rest away. "You want any of this?"
"No," Wethis declined with a bemused smile.
"I'll take it away."
Alec ducked his head under, scrubbing his fingers through his
hair. When he came up again he found a young bath
servant preparing to assist him. Grabbing the sponge
out of the startled servant's hands, Alec sent him off
with a dark look.
Making cursory use of the soap, he clambered out
to find that his soiled clothing had been removed.
Clean linen, a loose shirt, soft leather
breeches, and a fine scarlet surcoat were laid out
on the rack. A broad belt of embossed leather
hung over the shoulder of the coat.
"Where's my bow?" he demanded in some alarm as
Wethis returned. "Where are my sword and
purse?"
"Your purse is here." Wethis handed it to him.
"Weapons are not allowed in the Oreska House.
They'll be kept safe for you until you
leave."
The bath attendant drifted hesitantly back as
Alec finished dressing, offering him a tray of
oils and combs. Alec was about to wave the boy away
again when he caught sight of himself in the glass. For the
first time in his life, he saw his entire image at
once and scarcely recognized the finely dressed
figure he saw reflected there. His hair stuck
out in damp disarray. Feeling a little awkward, he
accepted a comb and took a moment to smooth it back.
Returning to the wizards tower, Alec found that
Seregil had been washed and laid naked on the
larger table in the side room. His thin, pale body
looked frailer than ever against the dark wood.
Angry lines of infection bloomed across his breast like
a vile, livid flower.
Nysander was standing on a chair, drawing a blue
chalk circle on the ceiling overhead. A
corresponding circle had already been drawn on the
floor around the table. He'd changed clothes during
A'ec's absence; the voluminous robe he wore was
of the finest blue wool, the breast and sleeves
richly patterned with gold
em
broidery. A wide belt decorated with
enameled plaques and
S1
'k tassels accentuated the spareness of his frame,
making him seem taller than ever. An embroidered
velvet skullcap balanced Precariously on the
back of his head.
lyim Flewelling
"Ah, back so soon? I trust you found yourself
well served?" Nysander stepped lightly down from the
chair and looked Alec over. Pocketing the chalk,
he wiped his hands absently on the skirt of his
robe, leaving dusty smudges across the front of it.
"Skalan dress suits you, dear boy, although your
hair seems to have retained the wild fashion of the
north."
He waved a deprecating hand at his own garb.
"No doubt you find my appearance more wizardly now?
There is of a similar opinion, and I find it
easiest to humor him. I would be every bit as
effective in my ragged old coat, or stark naked
for that matter, but he does insist-was
Thero came in just then and Nysander gave Alec a
wink that put him very much in mind of Micum Cavish.
Alec was directed to "stand at the head of the table.
Looking down, he studied Seregil's
empty face as Thero quietly arranged the final
items for the ceremony. The materials were much the
same, with the addition of a slender ivory wand and
knife. When he'd finished, he took up his
position at Seregil's feet.
Nysander stood beside the table, hands clasped before him.
After a moment of silence he looked at Alec.
"We shall begin, now. You may find the ceremony
disturbing, but remember that we are doing this to save
Seregil's life and make him whole again. Once
the process has begun, you must not speak or cross
out of the circle. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Alec replied, shifting uneasily.
Nysander went to work with the ink and brush, and over the
next hour covered Seregil's hands, brow, and
breast with an intricate web of interconnected
symbols. A particularly dense band outlined the
area around the strange wound.
After another invocation, he proceeded with a
spargefaction similar to the one he'd performed on
Alec. As before, the beaded droplets retained their
bright glow against Seregil's skin and by the time Nysander
had finished, his body was encased in a gleaming
mantle of them.
Nysander took up a birch switch and
Alec winced as the wizard brought it down hard enough
to raise thin welts across Seregil's skin. At the
final blow of the switch, the droplets lost their
light, then disappeared.
Chanting in a clear, strong voice, Nysander
broke the switch over his knee. Foul brown
smoke rose in thick twin columns from the
splintered ends, swirling around the confines of the

magic circle like a whirlwind in a barrel. It
had a fearsome stink and Alec and There choked, half
blinded, in the midst of it.
Unaffected, Nysander purified the ivory wand in
flame and water and drew a glowing sign in the air
above Seregil. The sigil writhed in a quick
succession of patterns and disappeared with a loud pop,
taking the smoke with it.
Motioning for Alec's attention, Nysander raised one
hand and made a brief gesture. It took the boy
a moment to realize that he was using Seregil's
silent hand language.
Hold him.
There joined Nysander in a fast, rhythmic chant as
they scattered water over Seregil with pine
branches. The droplets danced and
sizzled across his bare skin like water on a hot
griddle, then disappeared. Points of reddish light
winked into existence where they had been. Alec thought at
first that they were drops of blood, but they quickly
swelled to fingertip size, taking on an uncanny,
spiderlike shape. They moved like spiders, too,
and Alec felt a keen revulsion as the glowing things
skittered over Seregil's helpless body, across his
mouth, his eyelids and lips.
Around the wound they swarmed out in such numbers that
Alec stepped back, instinctively raising his hand
in a warding sign. Before he could complete it, however,
Nysander's hand closed over his. With a stern
gesture, the wizard firmly indicated that Alec
should not repeat the gesture.
By the time they'd finished, Seregil was scarcely
visible beneath a seething mass of the spidery things. His
breathing had grown harsh in his throat and he stirred
restlessly, rolling his head from side to side.
Signing for There and Alec to hold him down,
Nysander raised the ivory wand over Seregil's
chest and traced another intricate series of
patterns on the air. When he was satisfied with the
design, he drew a final circle around it. A
swirling breeze sprang up above them.
Seregil's breathing quickened to short, painful panting
as the
glowing things were pulled off his body and drawn up
into a
small, tightly twisting column. When the last of
them had been
ined away, Nysander and There cried out in unison,
their voices
ooming in the confines of the tiny room. The very air
reverberj*ed
in a manner transcending the mere power of a human
voice.
he swirling cloud of red lights winked out; and
blackened husks

from the air crackled underfoot like tiny shards of
glass.
Lynn Flewelling
They carefully cleared the remains from Seregil's
body and the surface of the table, then began again from the
beginning.
Seregil grew increasingly restless as they continued.
Within an hour he was physically resisting their
efforts; by the fourth cycle of spargings Alec and
Thero had to use all their strength to hold
him down. During the worst of his throes, Seregil
clawed at his own chest, shouting unintelligibly.
Nysander paused to listen, then shook his head.
Another hour and they were all to the point of
exhaustion. Alec's face and neck were scored with the
marks of Seregil's nails. Thero had a bruise
darkening over his left eye and his nose was bleeding from
a sudden kick. The black cinders lay almost three
inches deep on caret the floor and broken
branches were piled around Nysander's ankles.
At last the wound opened, draining thick, bloody
pus. They were soon all smeared with it as Seregil
continued to arch and struggle. When Nysander paused
to sponge the area clean, they saw that the mark of the
disk had reappeared. Alec could make out some of the
enigmatic pattern and the mark of the square hole at
its center.
Late-afternoon light was shining down through the tower dome
by the time they completed the last of the purifications. A
few of the red lights sprang up under the sprinkling
of the pine tip, and finally none at all. Seregil
grew quiet again, his breathing a soft, steady moan.
Using the ivory knife, Nysander gently pricked
the skin where the pulse throbbed at the base of
Seregil's throat. A drop of bright
blood welled up, nothing more.
Reaching overhead with the wand, he broke the blue chalk
circle on the ceiling, then bent and scratched across
the one on the floor. Straightening wearily, he
kneaded at the back of his neck with one hand.
"He is cleansed."
"Will he get well now?" Alec asked
uncertainly, seeing little improvement.
Nysander stroked Seregil's damp hair back from
his forehead with a fond smile. "Yes. He would not have
survived the ritual, otherwise."
"You mean he could have died from this?" Alec gasped
grasping the edge of the table to steady himself.
Nysander clasped him by the shoulders, looking
earnestly into his face. "He would certainly have
died otherwise, and perhaps

gone on to something far worse after death. I did not
tell you that before because I did not want you distracted
by such concerns."
"Shall I send for Valerius now?" asked Thero.
"Please do. I believe you will find him in the
atrium."
"Who's Valerius?" asked Alec.
"A drysian. Seregil is damaged in
body as well as in spirit. That will require special
healing."
This, at least, was something Alec understood. He set
to work clearing away the remains of the ceremony.
Gingerly picking up a few of the blacked stars, he
found them as brittle as the dead spiders they
resembled.
"What are they?" he asked, dropping them in disgust.
"A corporeal manifestation of the evil that came
into him through the disk," Nysander replied, sifting a
handful through his fingers. "It is very difficult to affect
anything of insubstantial nature. By means of the
procedure you just witnessed, I was able to draw the
evil from Seregil's body bit by bit, binding it
to a small amount of matter to lend it a tangible
form. I could then act upon it by magic to dissipate it.
These ashes are simply the residue of the temporary
physical form I imposed upon it."
"Is it difficult?"
"More draining than difficult. But you must be
exhausted, wrestling with our poor friend here for so long.
How do you suppose an old fellow of nearly
three centuries must feel?"
Alec blinked. "Micum said you were the oldest of the
wizards, but I never-was
"I am hardly the oldest of all, my boy,
merely the eldest in residence at the Oreska,"
Nysander corrected. "I know of several others
half again as old as myself. As wizards go, I am
in my prime. Please do not go making an
antiquity out of me just yet!"
Alec began a stammered apology, certain he'd
given offense, but Nysander chuckled and reached
to ruffle his hair. "If Micum spoke of me,
he must have told you not to fear me. Speak youi mind
honestly, and I shall like you the better for it."
"I'm still getting used to all this," Alec
admitted.
"I am not surprised. Once Seregil is
settled, you and I shall have a nice, comfortable chat."
Alec went back to his task in silence, wondering
what he- would have to say to a wizard, even one as
friendly as Nysander. "e was soon startled out of his
reverie, however, by the sound of someone entering the front
room.
lyim Flewelling
"What's the brat gotten himself into this time?" a
brusque voice bellowed.
The owner of the voice, a wild-looking man in rough
clothing, strode into the room, bringing with him
the smells of fresh air, wood smoke, and wild
growing things freshly gathered. Thero trailed in the
newcomer's wake, his thin mouth pursed into a
vaguely disapproving line.
"Valerius, old friend!" Nysander greeted the man
warmly. "How fortunate to find you in Rhiminee
today. I have dispelled the magic, but he still requires
considerable healing."
Tossing a battered satchel onto the table, the
drysian scowled down at Seregil. Valerius"
unkempt black hair stood out in violent disorder
beneath the cracked brim of his disreputable felt hat.
His beard bristled belligerently, and the rich black
thatch that covered the backs of his hands and forearms and
curled forth from the unlaced neck of his tunic gave
him a bearish look. His clothes, like those of most
drysians, were plain and stained with hard travel. His
heavy silver pendant and smooth-worn staff, together
with the pouches of every size and description hanging from the
belt girding his ample middle, marked him as a
drysian. Deep lines bracketing his mouth warned
of a formidable nature.
"I believe it was curse magic of some sort,"
Nysander informed him.
"I can see that," Valerius muttered,
brown eyes glittering as he ran his hands over
Seregil's body.
"What's this?" he asked, tapping a finger under the
open wound.
"The imprint of a wooden disk Seregil wore
next to his skin for several days. I do not know
whether the mark is the result of magic, or
happened when this boy inadvertently pulled the thing
off. Alec, you did say you noticed a reddening of the
skin there a few days before the final incident?"
Pinned by the drysian's sharp attention, Alec
nodded.
"Never seen anything like this, but it stinks of sorcery."
Valerius wrinkled his nose as he examined the
faint tracery still visible. "Best to have it off."
The wizard cupped a hand over the mark for a moment,
then shook his head slowly. "I think it would be
better to leave it as it is for the time being."
"The last thing Seregil wants is another scar on
his pretty
% %
Luck in the Shadows

skin," Valerius glowered. "Especially one as
distinctive as this! Besides, who knows what this
thing means?"
"That was my first thought," Nysander concurred,
unperturbed by the drysian's manner. "Nonetheless,
I feel it would be best to leave it as it is."
"Some mystical presentiment, no doubt?"
Valerius gave a derisive snort. "Suit
yourself, then. But
you
explain it to him when he makes a fuss."
Shooing everyone from the room, the healer set to work.
Wethis was summoned to assist him, and soon the
room was choked with clouds of steam and incense.
Nysander cleared a space at one of the less
cluttered worktables and There and Alec joined him.
"Illior's Hands, that was thirsty work." He
spoke a quick spell and a tall, burlap-wrapped
jar appeared on the table before them, a crust of melting
snow clinging to the coarse material. Alec reached out
a tentative finger to see if it was real.
"Mycenian apple wine is best well chilled."
Nysander smiled, delighted with Alec's open
amazement. "I keep a supply up on Mount
Apos."
The three of them settled down over the mild, icy
wine, waiting for the drysian to finish.
Poor Wethis scatted in and out on errands for
Valerius so often that Nysander finally propped the
front door open so they wouldn't have to keep letting
him in.
Valerius emerged from the casting room at last,
streamers of vapor trailing from his beard. Dropping
unceremoniously onto the bench beside Alec, he
unhooked a cup from his belt and helped himself to the
wine. Ignoring their expectant looks, he
drained the cup at one gulp and let out a deep,
satisfied belch.
"I've gotten the last of the poison out of his
blood. He'll mend now," he announced.
"Was it acotair?" Thero inquired.
Valerius saluted him with his cup. "Acotair it
was. An uncommon poison, and very effective.
I daresay it leached into his skin from the disk,
weakening him so that the magic could work more quickly."
"Or from a distance," suggested Nysander.
"Possibly. The combination would have killed most men,
considering how long he wore the damned thing."
"Well, you know Seregil and magic," Nysander
sighed. "But
lynn Flewelling
you are fortunate not to have handled it any more
than you did, Alec."
"What did you mean, about Seregil and magic?"
asked Alec.
"He resists it somehow-was
"You mean he fouls it up!" scoffed Valerius.
The drysian's derisive tone bothered Alec
less than Thero's discreet smirk; he found he
was liking Nysander's assistant less all the time.
"Whatever the case, it has saved his life," said
Nysander. "And Alec's as well, judging by his
description of Seregil's behavior. Had he
decided to kill you, dear boy, I doubt you could have
stopped him."
Recalling the look on "Seregil's face that
night in the barn, Alec knew Nysander spoke the
truth.
"He'll sleep for another day, perhaps two," said
Valerius. "He should stay in bed a week; knowing
him, five days will have to do. But no less than that,
mind you. Lash him to the bedposts if you have to.
I'll leave some herbs for an infusion. Force as much
of it down him as you can, and make him eat. Nothing
to drink but water and lots of it. I want him
properly purged before we let him go. Thanks for the
wine, Nysander."
Rising to his feet, he swung his satchel over his
shoulder. "Strength of the Maker be upon you!"
Alec watched him stride out, then turned
to Nysander. "He knows Seregil, doesn't he?
Are they friends?"
Nysander smiled wryly, considering the question. "I cannot
recall hearing either of them use the term in relation
to one another. Still, I suppose they are, after their
own peculiar fashion. But I suspect you will have
an opportunity to form your own opinions over the
next few days."
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
Lynn Flewelltng
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-was
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.
"Rhiminee?" 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-was
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 blaz- ing hearth. Shelves along the
walls held neatly arranged collections of
scrolls and books interspersed with more arcane
objects.
Lynn Flewelling
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 talbned 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
Oreska 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 Rhiminee
to be trained," he ventured at last.
"Wizards, scholars, madmen, they come seeking the knowledge
amassed and preserved by the Third Oreska. 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 Oreska?"
"The first mages who came here from Aurenen were the
original Oreska," 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 Oreska at Ero when
magical powers became apparent among the
half-blood children of Aurenfaie and humans.
Unfortunately, the fellowship of the Second
Oreska 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 Rhiminee, with the
understanding that they would contribute to the defense of
Skala. The new alliance established at that time was
deemed the Third Oreska. 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 Aurenfaie 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 Aurenfaie- But
I am lecturing you as if you were a novice! Let
Us
re
turn to your room. Seregil is still deep within himself
and
Lynn Flewelling
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 Oreska, an army could not get to you."
"But if Mardus is such a powerful wizard-was
"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
y a salt cellar; it would overturn. He would
try again and the
lyim Flewelling
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 Oreska 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 ex
ist 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." his
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 me situation."
lyim Flewelling
"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 Oreska. 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
Oreska 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
Luck in the Shadows

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 Oreska 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 Rhiminee.
"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 nouhink, 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 oo vary greatly in their
ability. Of those few who did trickle into he
Oreska each year, I found none that suited my
purposes until nero. Whatever else you may
think of him, he is tremendously Rented. There is
no facet of our art he cannot grasp. The fact
nat he was of my old master's family made him
seem all the
lynn Flewelling
more suitable at the time. All that, together with the
fact that 1 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 Oreska, 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. "Forwith 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
203
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."
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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-was
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.
Lynn Flewelling
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?"
i caret
-C

Lynn Flewelling
"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 Rhiminee at the end of
Rhythm, I took ship to Nanta and spent two
days listening around the docks. Rumor nad it that there
were an unusual number of ships being refitted
Plenimaran ports, Karia in particular. This
confirmed what
w
ey already heard from Korbin.
. Moving north, I poked around Boersby,
learning that a delegation of Plenimaran merchants had
stopped there a month
Ier
to discuss overland trade routes. A contingent of
fifty
lynn Flewelling
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 My- cenian 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 ye 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?"
Lynn Flewelling
"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-was
"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 jiiark 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
Lynn Flewelling
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, disthen. By your oath as a
Watcher-was
"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-was
"It was magic, dear boy, evil magic,"
Nysander said softly.
Seregil shivered and ran a hand back through his hair.
"After-af 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-was
His chest was heaving now and Alec placed a hand on his
shoulder.
"Blue," Seregil gasped, "something so blue-to "
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 nov. dear boy?"
"Yes," Seregil rasped, passing a hand over his
eyes.
"Rest, then, and think no more of these things for now. I
hav less-than heard enough." Rising, Nysander
went to the door.
"Well I haven't!" Seregil struggled up on
one elbow. "No: 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
aw
ay, shaking his head. He busied himself with the fire for a
mo-
f
,
en
*
a
ft
g
r Nysander had gone, then pulled the chair up beside
tie bed.*
That black creature you fought with," he began,
fidgeting
lyim Flewelling
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
Oreska House to take his nightly constitutional.
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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
lynn Flewelling
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 dissurprise, 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
Rhiminee 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, 1

mean since the ship-with the wizards and healers
and-was 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-was
"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 Ore'ska
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"
a
Pe-mouthed wonder. Alec made no reply as he
slowly made his
Wa
y 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

olars were there examining a tapestry. Nearby, a
girl in
Lynn Flewelling
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-was
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
Tikarie 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 Tikarie 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 Drought together again before that happened?"
They'd rejoin and the dyrmagnos would live again. As
I re'
a
few other parts of him are somewhere down in the vaults,
Lynn Flewelling
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 familial 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 ig-

nored 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 Rhiminee.
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 Aurenfaie horse stood by him,
lyim Flewelling
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 Rhiminee 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 Oreska 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, 1 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-was
"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 ypur 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, Rhiminee 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
Lyim Flewelling
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
Rhiminee 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 Rhiminee 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 cav-
Lynn Flewelling
airy 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-
In
8 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.
Lynn Flewelling
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 er/while 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
lynn Flewelling
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 Oreska 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 pelibacy 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.
"erhaps he means to put my wisdom into action."
I doubt it. And isn't it sort of dangerous,
teasing a wizard?"
Lynn Flewelling
"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-was
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, 1 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-was
"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."
***
Luck in the Shadows

"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 Aurenfaie as
consort."
"An Aurenfaie?"
"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 Aurenen. The Aurenfaie 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 Aurenen, 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 Aurenen. This time they were
laying claim to lands down near Mount Bardok.
Once they got into western Aurenen, they decided
they might as well have the rest of it.
"During her campaign there, Idrilain fell in
love with a handsome Aurenfaie 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 'overs as much as she liked," Alec
recalled.
"But they usually only did so to gain an heir.
Idrilain already
lyim Flewelling
had a daughter. But there was also the matter of
Corruth being Aurenfaie."
"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, comand
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 Rhiminee 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 Aurenen 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
Aurenfaie?"
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
Aurenfaie mature more slowly. A man of
fourscore years is close to Bilairy's gate,
while an Aurenfaie 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-was
"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
Rhiminee, 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."
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 leg

endary at the Oreska 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, 1 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," rhero answered. "Letters in
Vardarus" own hand were produced. He could have
pleaded forgery, or that magic had been used
to
a
"ter 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
lyim Flewelling
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 seand 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
U to work."
They followed Nysander down to the Oreska gardens and
into
a
thick stand of birch surrounding a small pool.
Lynn Flewelling
"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 There's feet.
"A cold fish for a cold fish!" he announced with
otterish glee before dashing back into the water.

Scowling, Tbero 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
Lynn Flewelling
understand their ridiculous noise or the strange
grimacing that accompanied it.
Then the smallest of the three moved closer, making
ne backslash backslash backslash 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-was
"Thero, no! I think he's-was 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 There's robe, Nysander
managed to yank him to safety just as the startled
animal leapt forward, lash ing 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
jO backslash i,
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
Nysan
r
P
ut
him right. I'm just glad we got here soon enough.
I still
Lynn Flewelling
that'
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-was
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 nbs
back until the poor bastards looked as if they'd
grown wings. Cut caret 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
Lynn Flewelling
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!" Andwitha 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-was
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 Oreska."
Micum scowled. "It had better be a short
fury. I don't fancy sitting in Rhiminee 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."
Lynn Flewelling
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 Oreska 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.
1 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 to t 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
w
ith the horse. "He doesn't stay around long,
does he?"
nr

Lynn Flewelling
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 caret 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-was
"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."
SggSga
"ra caret STILL-SGI
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caret caret caret But backslash
Tattered clouds were scudding across the face of the moon
comwhen 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.
Rhiminee 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 handftils 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 Rhiminee!"
Settling beside him, Alec looked out at the wild
beauty of the night and let out a happy sigh. "It
feels like the beginning oi 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
Lynn Flewelling
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-was 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-was
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 randdalong 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
Aurenfaie, 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, "he remainder of the ground level, and the
stories above, were
Lynn Flewelllng
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.
Lynn Flewelling
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 midra koriatuan cyris."
For a brief second, Alec caught the soft glow
of magical symbols like those he'd seen at the
Ore'ska 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.
B6kthersa backslash was
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 din- greater-than ng 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
Lynn Flewelling
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
Oreska.
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 Oreska 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-was 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 Oreska
wizards won't hire out to just anyone. But you do run
into it now and then, so it's always wise to be
carefiil."
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.
caret That's yours?" Alec asked, never having
seen the like.
"Won it in a dice game." Wending his way across
the room, keregil looked around for a place to set the
lamp, finally balanc
ln
g caret 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
lyim Flewelling
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 Oreska 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
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be left for the "Rhiminee 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
Oreska 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
s
he 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 *"
k
priesthood.
caret Carry the Light," she said, fighting back
another yawn.
"There is no darkness," Seregil returned.
Fastening on the
ma
sk, he walked into the Circle of Contemplation.
Lyim Flewelling
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
Oreska 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 We 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
Lynn Flewelling
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!
De
ath, and life in death. The eater of death gives
birth to monsters. Guard you well the Guardian!
Guard well the Vanguard
an
d the Shaft!"
Lynn Flewelling
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.
sg caret a
we caret caret andzzt
i caret so caret caret ss
bar I
t
Seregil stored away the mystery of the Oracle's
words and launched back into Rhiminee life..
News that the Rhiminee Cat had reappeared
spread quickly, and intrigue jobs for various
nobles-together with inquiries on Nysander's
behalf-were plentiful enough to keep him out most
nights.
Alec clearly resented being left behind, but
Seregil was not ready to expose the boy to the dangers
of the city just yet. Instead, he did his best to make
it up to him during the day, showing him wonders and
drilling him endlessly in the myriad skills necessary for
survival in their precarious profession.
Swordplay was paramount, and they spent
most mornings practicing in the upstairs sitting
room, bare feet scuffing softly over the rush
matting as they circled slowly, moving through the basic
blocks and parries with wooden practice battens.
Unfortunately, these proved to be the most grueling
lessons. Alec was old to be just starting and, hard as
the boy worked, progress was discouragingly slow.
The only other subjects Seregil pursued on
any regular basis were reading and lock work.
Otherwise, he tended to proceed in whatever
direction caught his fancy at the moment. One day
they might spend several hours poring

over scrolls of royal lineage or sifting through the
gems in the chest from the mantelpiece, Alec
wide-eyed as Seregil extolled their properties
and how to value them. Another day they might
traipse off in disguise to practice with a band of
market acrobats who knew Seregil as Wandering
Kail. Dressed in gaudy tatters and besmudged
with dirt, Alec watched gleefully as Seregil
juggled, walked ropes, and mugged for the crowd.
Alec's own clumsy first efforts were greeted as
inspired clowning.
Often they simply walked the labyrinthine
streets of the city, exploring its various wards and
markets. Seregil had small bundles of
necessities stashed in disused attics and sheds all
over Rhiminee, kept against the event that he should have
to go to ground quickly.
Gradually, Seregil introduced Alec to more
clandestine procedures-a little innocent housebreaking,
or making a game of evading the notice of the
Harbor Watch in the rough byways of the Lower
City.
As the weeks passed, Alec realized that aside from
certain rapidly diminishing ethical qualms, he
had never been happier. The dark days in Mycena were
quickly fading to uncomfortable memories and Seregil,
healthy and back in his favorite setting, was once
again the wry, dashing figure who'd first captured his
imagination.
In spite of the odd hours they kept, Alec found
it difficult not to break the habit of rising with the
sun. Seregil was seldom awake that early, so
he'd slip quietly downstairs to break his fast
with the innkeeper's family.
The kitchen was an agreeable place at that hour.
Whatever misgivings Thryis might have had about him that
first night, she had soon taken to Alec and
made him welcome in the group that gathered around the
scrubbed oak table each morning.
Savoring the fragile peace that lingered before the onset
of each day's work, Diomis, Cilia, and Thryis
planned the day's meals while Cilia suckled her
baby. The sight of her round, bared breast made
Alec blush at first, but he soon came to regard
it as one of the simple pleasures of the day.
As far as Seregil's "lessons" went, there
seemed to be an inexhaustible variety of unrelated
matters to master. Reading, lock
Lynn Flewelling
work, and so forth all made sense, but his insistence on
Alec's mastery of such things as etiquette was
something of a surprise.
One night, after the shutters were up and the day servants
dismissed, Seregil dressed them both in voluminous
formal robes and took him down to the kitchen for
supper.
"There's more to disguise than changing your clothing,"
Seregil lectured as they sat down. "You must know
the manners proper to any situation, or all the
decking out in the world won't carry off your ruse.
Tonight we dine among the nobles at a fine villa on
Silvermoon Street, attended
by servants."
Cilia and Thryis bowed gravely to them from the
hearth. Bluff, bearded Diomis grinned as he
dandled his grandson on his knee. "Old mother here was
head cook to some of the finest houses in Rhiminee before
Lord Seregil stole her away. You won't find
better fare at a prince's table. Mind you show
appreciation though, young sir, or she's like to crack
you on the pate with a ladle. It's a risky thing,
I always say, eating in sight of the cook."
"Consider yourself duly warned." Seregil drew
Alec's attention to the dishes. "We'll begin with the
table service."
The green-glazed plates and bowls seemed thin as
eggshell to Alec. Each one was lightly etched with
an intricate circular design at the center.
Small cups of similar design stood to the right of
each plate.
"This is Ylani porcelain. Very delicate, very
costly, and made only in a small town in the
northern foothills near Ceshlan. Notice how
translucent it is, held to the light; the green
tint is in the overglaze. The simple design at
the center of each piece is the traditional stylized
marigold, always considered tasteful and
correct. However, it also shows that your host did not
spend the extra time and money to have a set made in his
personal design. This could indicate several things.
He is, perhaps, not as wealthy as he wishes
to appear. On the other hand, he might simply be
conservative or uninspired in such matters. Or it
could be that he's entertaining you on his second-best
service, which is another thing altogether. You'd have
to investigate further to sort out which.
"The use of this porcelain does portend the sort
of dinner you will have, however. Only fish is served on
it, never meat. Please note that a table knife is
provided in addition to a spoon; never eat with your
own dagger. The wine is Mycenian, a very fine va

riety called Golden Smoke. This betokens
shellfish of some sort, for nothing else would be served
with such a wine. Send in the first course, my good
woman!"
Doing her best to look grave, Cilia set a
broad, shallow dish before them. In it half a dozen
spherical things roughly the size of a fist sat in a
few inches of water. They were a dark greenish-
black and bristled with nasty spines that waved slowly
about.
"This is a shell fish?" Alec asked, poking
dubiously at the closest one.
"There are many types," Seregil replied. "These
are urchins. Children pick the smaller varieties from the
tide pools along the shore and sell them by the
basketful in the markets. These larger ones are
brought in by fishermen who lower traps for crabs and
lobsters. Just about everyone in Rhiminee eats them;
the trick is to do it the right way according to your
surroundings. First, let's see how you'd do it."
Alec looked at him in disbelief. "As they are?
Seregil, those things are still moving!"
Thryis snorted derisively from the hearth, but
Seregil motioned her to silence. "Cooking spoils
both the flavor and the texture. Go on! I wouldn't
give it to you if it wasn't edible."
Still doubtful, Alec pulled the smallest urchin
gingerly from the bowl by one of its spines. Halfway
to his plate the spine pulled loose and he ended
up juggling the prickly horror the rest of the way with
both hands. Once he had the thing where he wanted it,
he rolled it this way and that with his spoon, wondering
how to proceed. Discovering an opening of sorts on the
underside, he tried prying at it with the tip of his
knife. The shell immediately crushed
into fragments under the blade. Water, broken
spines, and bits of soft grey and yellow matter
splattered up the front of his robe.
"Excellent!" Seregil laughed, tossing him a
napkin. "Whenever you present yourself as an inland noble
on his first visit to the coast, do it just that way.
I've never yet seen anyone get through their first
urchin without smashing it to bits. Now, if you
w
ere in some local tavern, posing as a workman or
farmer in for market day, you'd do it like this."
Picking an urchin out of the dish with a light, sure
touch, Seregil cracked it against the edge of the table and
pulled back tne caret fragments of shell
to expose the contents.
"These grey bits here are the body. You don't
eat that," he
lynn Flewelling
explained, scraping them out with a finger. With them came
a conical ring of white fragments that looked like tiny
carved birds. "And those are the teeth. It's the
yellow parts you're after, the roe."
Plucking out several slender, gelatinous lobes,
Seregil ate them with apparent relish.
"I got them at the docks early this
morning," Cilia told him. "I made the
fisherman give me a bucket of seawater and kept
them down the well all day."
"Lovely flavor!" Seregil tossed the emptied
shell into the fire behind him. Wiping his hands and lips
with a napkin, he said, "Those are tavern manners and
they'll serve well anywhere outside the Noble
Quarter, provided you want to be taken for a common
sort. However, we are dining in Silvermoon
Street, as you recall, and here they will not do at
all. Observe.
"First, the hanging sleeves of a formal robe are
pushed- never rolled-halfway back to the elbow, no
farther. You may place your left elbow on the
table, never the right, although it's generally acceptable
to rest your wrist on the edge. Food is handled with the
thumb and first two fingers of each hand; fold the others
under, like so. Good. Now pick up the urchin with your
left hand, handling it lightly, and hold it so you can
see the mouth. Now, crack the shell with a single sharp
stroke of your knife. Once it's open, clean out
the waste with the tip of your knife, then use your
spoon to scoop out the roe. The empty shell goes
on your plate. Never speak with a full mouth. If
anyone addresses you, simply curve a
finger in front of your lips and finish what's in your
mouth before answering."
Alec managed to puncture himself badly on the
spines before he mastered the art of handling the things, and his
fingers kept cramping from being held back so
unnaturally. The roe, when he finally managed
to extract a few intact lobes, had an
unpleasantly viscous texture in his mouth and it's
salty sweet flavor was revolting. Relying
heavily on the pale, oak-flavored wine, he
managed to get two down before his stomach rebelled.
Grimacing, he pushed his plate away.
"These are awful! I've found better eating under
rotten logs."
"You don't care for them?" Seregil deftly
split his fourth urchin. "We'll have to cultivate
your tastes, I'm afraid. In Rhiminee, just about
anything that comes out of the sea is considered a
delicacy. Perhaps you'll find this next course more

to your liking." He motioned to Cilia. "Have you ever
tried octopus?"
As the weeks passed, Seregil remained
frustrated by Alec's poor progress at
swordplay. The situation finally came to a
head during one of their morning sessions a month or
so after their arrival.
"Keep your left side
back backslash was
he chided for the fifth time in half an hour, giving the
offending shoulder a sharp poke with his wooden blade.
"Stepping forward like that after you block gives your
opponent twice the target. Your enemy has only
to do this-was Seregil slapped Alec's blade
smartly aside and feigned a cut across the boy's
belly. "And there you are, holding your guts in your
hands!"
Alec silently positioned himself again, but Seregil
could see the tension in his stance. The boy turned his
next feint clumsily, then brought his shoulder around
again as he tried a counterattack.
Before he could stop himself, Seregil parried and gave
him a sharp tap across the neck. "You're dead again."
"Sorry," Alec mumbled, wiping the sweat out of his
eyes.
Seregil cursed himself silently. In all the time
he'd known him, this was the first time he'd seen the boy
look defeated. Fighting down his own impatience,
he tried again. "It's not natural to you yet, that's
all. Try imagining how you'd hold yourself
pulling a bow."
"You hold the bow with your left hand and draw with your
right," Alec corrected. "That puts your right
shoulder back."
"Oh, yes. Well, let's hope that you end up
better at swordplay than I ever did at
archery. Now, once again."
Alec managed to parry an overhead swing but
followed it with another unsuccessful counter.
Seregil's wooden blade caught him hard at the
base of the throat and drew a few drops of
blood.
"By the- Oh, damn!" Breaking his batten in two
over his Knee, Seregil tossed the pieces
aside and inspected the jagged scratch on the boy's
neck.
'Sorry," Alec repeated, staring over
Seregil's shoulder, toned again."
"I'm not angry with you. As for that-was He motioned
toward the fragments of the batten. "That's just to break the
bad luck.
Lynn Flewelling
'Cursed be the weapon that tastes the blood of a
friend." Let's have a look at the rest of the
damage."
Alec tugged the sweat-soaked jerkin off over his
head and Seregil inspected the bruises scattered
darkly over his chest, arms, and ribs.
"That's what I thought. Illior's Fingers, we're
doing something wrong! You've caught on to everything
else so quickly."
"I don't know," Alec sighed, dropping into a
chair. "I guess I'm hopeless as a
swordsman."
"Don't say that," Seregil chided. "Clean yourself
up while I fetch lunch. I've an idea or
two how we can help you."
Seregil returned from the kitchen with a steaming platter
of tiny roasted birds stuffed with cheese and
currants and some darkly mottled mushrooms that
looked vile and smelled delicious.
"Clear a spot, will you?" he puffed, resting the
heavy tray on the corner of the dining table.
"Thank the Maker, something that lived on dry land,"
Alec exclaimed hungrily, pushing books and
rolls of parchment aside; Thryis had served
another variety of raw shellfish the night before and
he'd gone to bed hungry.
He had thrown on a clean shirt while Seregil
was gone, neglecting in his haste to tuck it
in or do up the lacings. The linen swirled loosely
around his lean hips as he hurried to fetch cups from
a shelf. His fair hair, properly trimmed at
last, shone when he passed through a patch of
sunlight.
Seregil caught himself staring and hastily turned his
attention to the food.
"This isn't going to be another lesson in manners,
is it?" Alec asked, eyeing the array of eating
utensils suspiciously as he reached for one of the
tiny birds.
Seregil rapped him smartly over the knuckles
with a spoon. "Yes it is. Now watch."
"Why is all the food in Skala so hard to eat?"
Alec groaned as Seregil demonstrated the
tricky business of eating the tiny auroles without
lifting them from the plate or disturbing the bones.
"I admit I've had Thryis make us some of the more
difficult dishes, but if you master those, the rest will
be simple," Seregil

assured him with a grin. "You mustn't underestimate the
importance of such customs. Say you've managed
to gain admittance to some lord's house by posing as the
son of an old comrade he knew in the
wars. You've studied the battles, you know the names of
all the pertinent generals, your accent is correct,
and you're dressed perfectly. The minute you reach out
of turn into the common platter, or spear a fried
eel with your knife, you're under suspicion. Or
imagine you're trying to pass yourself off as a sailor
down in the Lower City. If you mistakenly call
for a wine that would cost a month's wages, or eat
your joint with fingers folded daintily back, it's
highly likely you'll next be seen floating face
down in the harbor."
Chastened, Alec took up his spoon again and began
picking at the bird before him. "But what about my
sword training?"
"Ah, yes. Well, I suspect the problem may
be more me than you."
Alec eyed him skeptically. "Micum said you're
one of the best swordsmen he's ever known!"
"That's the problem. With me, it's all here."
Seregil tapped a finger over his heart.
"Swordplay comes as naturally to me as breathing; it
always did. It's all aggression and skill and
intuition. So every time you drop your guard or turn
your shoulder forward, I lunge in and exploit the
mistake. All I've managed to do so
far is make you doubt yourself. No, this is the one thing
I can't teach you. That's why I've decided to send
you out to Watermead."
Alec looked up sharply. "But we've hardly-was
"I know, I know!" Seregil interrupted, hoping
to forestall another argument over Alec being left out
of his work. "It's only for a week, and the rest of it can
wait that long. I have to deliver Beka's commissioning
papers anyway, so we'll ride out today."
Just then a brisk rap sounded at the door, startling
Alec.
"Don't worry," said Seregil. "Anyone who can
still knock after climbing my stairs is a friend. That
you, Nysander?"
"Good day to you both." The scent of magic clung
around the wizard as he strode in, though he was
dressed in the same ordinary clothing he'd worn the
day Alec had first seen him on the docks. "Ah,
I see I am in time for one of Thryis'
excellent meals!"
Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow. "I thought we were
to meet tonight?"
Lynn Flewelling
"In truth, I have rather missed seeing Alec. You have
been keeping him very busy.
Unfortunately, that is not my only reason for coming.
I should like your opinion on this."
Drawing a small scroll tube from his pocket,
he handed it to Seregil. A wax seal still dangled from
one of the ribbons tied around it.
"It's one of mine," Seregil remarked in
surprise, examining the seal. His look of
puzzlement deepened as he extracted a sheet of
creamy vellum from the tube and glanced over it. "This
is a note I wrote to Baron Lycenias last
spring, thanking him for a week's hunting at his
estate. You sent me there yourself, remember? That
business about Lady Northil."
"I suggest you read it over carefully."
"Let's see; the crest is in order, and it's
dated the third day of Lithion. That should be right.
"My Dear Lycenias i Marron, allow me
to again proffer my heartfelt thanks for a most
enjoyable-" Yes, yes, the usual rubbish; fine
hunting, laudable companionship, what a-was
He broke off with an incredulous laugh.
"Bilairy's Balls, Nysander! It appears
I'm thanking him for several nights of
carnal
pleasure, as well. As if I'd take
on that reeking tub of guts!"
"Keep reading; it gets worse."
Seregil read on, eyes flashing indignantly, but
an instant later he went pale. Carrying the letter
to the window, he inspected it closely, then reread
it.
"What's wrong?" Alec demanded.
"This isn't good." Seregil tugged at a stray
strand of hair as he studied the note. "For all
intents and purposes, this is my handwriting, right
down to the great flourish connecting the final word of the letter
to my signature-which I always do to prevent exactly
what has somehow happened here."
"Someone's changed what it says?"
"They certainly have. "Regarding Tarin Dhial, you
may rest assured of my complete support."
No, this isn't good at all!"
"I don't understand. What's wrong?" Alec said,
turning to Nysander.
"Tarin Dhial is an encrypted form of the name of a
Plenimaran spy caught buying information from several
Skalan nobles," Nysander explained. "They were
all executed as traitors two months ago."
"Argragil and Mortain," said Seregil, nodding
thoughtfully.

"Both guests of Lycenias that same week I was
there. I had no idea what they were up to at the time!
I suppose you've checked this for magic?"
"Not a trace. Unless you can prove forgery, this could
be most damaging."
"But how did you come into possession of it?"
"It was sent anonymously to Lord Barien this
morning."
"The
Vicegerent?"
"Oh, yes. Fortunately I have several Watchers
among his staff. One of them recognized your seal and
waylaid the document before it was seen. There may be
other copies, however. I shudder to contemplate the
colossal scandal that could arise should one of these fall
into the wrong hands. Such embarrassment for the Queen is
unthinkable, a perfect coup for the Lerans!"
Unnoticed by the others, Alec looked up sharply
at this last comment, then stole a quick glance at
Seregil's face. Certain suspicions he'd
been nursing for some time were beginning to take clearer
shape.
"There are only three forgers capable of this
quality," Seregil mused.
"Fortunately, two of them are right here in the city.
It shouldn't take long to find out if they're
involved. I've already tried to tie them into the
Vardarus business with no success. Still, for something as
large as this, I can't imagine the Lerans going too
far afield. They're better organized than
usual but probably still fiercely insular. That's
always been their undoing in the past."
"I shall leave it to you for the time being," said Nysander,
standing to go. "Keep me closely informed and if things
should turn ugly, depend on me to remove you from
harm's way. Farewell, Alec."
"If things turn ugly for me, then you'll have
problems of your own!" Seregil warned, accompanying
him to the door.
x
"Seregil? Is all this because you're Aurenfaie?"
Alec blurted out suddenly.
Thunderstruck, Seregil turned to stare at him.
"Where did you near that?"
"You mean after all this time you
still
had not told him?" exclaimed Nysander, equally
shocked.
caret Then it's true?" Alec was grinning
now.
"Actually, I was waiting for him to figure it out for
himself," caret eregil countered, shifting
uncomfortably under Nysander's
Lyim Flewelling
displeased gaze. "Well done, Alec. I'm just
surprised it took you so long."
"Indeed?" Nysander said, giving him a last dark
look. "Then the two of you have
much
to discuss. I shall leave you to it. Farewell!"
Returning to the table, Seregil sank his head in his
hands. "Really, Alec. Of all the moments
to choose!"
"I'm sorry," Alec said, coloring hotly.
"It just came out."
"Who told you? Thryis? Cilia? Someone at the
Oreska?"
"I figured it out myself, just now," Alec
admitted. "It's the only explanation that makes
sense. The way your friends speak of you, all the
stories-after a while I began to wonder how someone
so young could have done so much. I mean, looking at you
I'd say you were no tilde more than twenty-five,
but Micum's older than that and he spoke
once of meeting you when he was a young man, so you must
be a lot older than you look. Once I figured
that out, then things you'd told me or refused to tell
me came back and I started wondering even more. Like
why half the books here are written in
Aurenfaie-was
"How in the world did you know that?"
"Nysander showed me some Aurenfaie writing while
we were staying at the Oreska House. I can't read
it, but I recognize the characters. I've had plenty
of time to poke around, you know, all these nights you've
been gone."
"Very enterprising of you," said Seregil, wincing a
bit as the barb struck home. "But why didn't you
ask earlier?"
"I still wasn't sure until Nysander said it would be
a terrible scandal if the Lerans could make you out
to be a traitor. Micum and Nysander both said
you're related to the Queen. The best thing for the
Lerans would be if a relative of the Queen who is
also a friend to her daughter, former apprentice to her
favorite wizard, and an Aurenfaie was caught
selling information to the Plenimarans."
Alec hesitated. "You're not angry, are you?
I'm sorry I just blurted it out like that in
front of Nysander but suddenly it was all-was
"Angry?" Seregil laughed, raising his head at
last. "Alec, you constantly exceed my highest
expectations!"
"Except at swordplay."
"But we've settled that. Go on now. Pack
whatever you think you'll want." Jumping up,
Seregil headed for his room. "I've got

an extra saddle somewhere. And be sure to take your
bow. Beka's quite an archer herself."
"You're not still sending me away?" exclaimed
Alec, crestfallen.
"And why wouldn't I?"
"With everything Nysander just told you? How can we just
ride off like that with you in trouble?"
"I can be back in town by tomorrow evening."
"So you're getting me out of the way!"
Going to Alec, Seregil clasped him gently by the
back of the neck and looked earnestly into his eyes.
"This is dangerous work. How can I concentrate on
the task at hand if I'm constantly worrying about
losing you down some dark alley during a chase? I
won't feel right taking you along until I think you
have some way of protecting yourself. That's why
it's so important for you to learn to use your sword.
Go to Micum; learn from him. He can teach you more in a
week than I could in half a year, I
promise."
"You never thought I was so helpless before we got
to Rhiminee," Alec grumbled, trying to pull
away.
Seregil tightened his grip slightly, holding him
in place. "Oh, you're anything but helpless, my
friend. We both know that." Releasing him, he added,
"But trust me when I tell you that you haven't yet
seen the Rhiminee I know."
"But what about the Lerans? Can you leave with all that
going on?"
"That letter was delivered this morning, so it will be at least
a day or two before they begin to guess that it's
missing. Even then, I doubt they'll act right
away."
"Why not? If they have another copy they could just
deliver it to someone else."
"They won't do anything until they learn what
happened to the first copy, and that's not going to happen
until
I'm
ready to let them," Seregil assured him
with caret a grim smile. "Now go get Packed.
The day's half over already and we still have to buy you a
horse!"
one horse, Two swans, and three daughters
caret JK
*andcaret More backslash mi
caret
li
The livestock marketplace lay just outside the
city walls by the Harvest Market gate. Mounted
on a borrowed horse, Alec looked around
eagerly as they rode among the horse traders"
enclosures there.
"That's who we want," Seregil said, pointing out a
woman in a dusty riding kirtle and boots. At
the moment she was engaged in a heated discussion with
several of her fellows beside one of the corrals.
Dismounting, Seregil led Scrub over and joined the
circle of conversation. The trader nodded to him and
hooked a thumb at a large wooden building a
few hundred yards away.
"Damn fool thing to do," she grumbled. "Look at
my poor beauties, what it does to them!"
"The new Butcher's Hall, you mean?" asked
Seregil, wrinkling his nose. A faint
breeze carried the sickly sweet smell of the
place and the cries of ravens and gulls fighting over
the piles of discarded entrails in the pits beyond the
slaughterhouse.
Leaning on the upper rail of the corral, the horse
trader watched her horses stamping nervously as they
scented the wind. "We've petitioned before to have a
market of our own, farther away from the damned
butchers, but the Council can't be bothered with us, it

seems! Cows, pigs, sheep; they're too dim
to mind the smell of blood if they was swimming in it.
But my poor beauties there- look at "em! How
am I supposed to show you a steady beast when they've
all got that stench up their noses?"
"Petition the Queen's Court directly,"
Seregil advised. "Idri- lain understands horses
a good deal better than the fat merchants on the
Council of Streets and Markets."
One of the other traders nodded. "Aye, that's not a
bad idea."
"You and I, Mistress Byrn, we've done enough
business for me to trust the quality of your beasts."
Seregil pointed to Alec, who was already scrutinizing
the herd. "I think my friend here favors
them, too. Let's have a closer look."
With a pleased nod, the trader tucked the hem of her
woolen skirt up into her belt and climbed over the
rail.
Seregil waded into the herd beside her, rubbing necks and
rumps and crooning softly to them. Following in his
wake, Alec marveled at how the animals seemed
to calm under his hand. Other horses crowded up to their
mistress.
"They're just a pack of great colts, as you see,"
she said, grinning at Alec over their backs.
"Northern stock mostly, with a few drops of
'faie mixed in here and there. They're strong and
they're smart. I doubt you'd find better between here
and Cirna."
Alec wandered among the shifting herd, trying to sort
out those that showed the best natures and conformations from those
he only liked the looks of. He was just reaching out
to stroke a pale sorrel filly when a shove from
behind nearly knocked him off his feet. A dark
nose pushed under his arm and he found a brown mare
nipping at his belt pouch.
"You, Patch!" the horse dealer shouted. "Get out
of that, you hussy!"
The mare, a plain-looking beast, looked
longingly back at Alec as she sidled away.
Despite her unremarkable appearance,
ne
was taken with the disdainful set of her ears. He put a
hand put to her and she butted him under the arm again,
nuzzling at his belt.
. "It's the leather she's after," the dealer confessed.
"Crazy for it as others are for apples. She's a
losel with the tack, I'll warn you."
"All the same, she's not half bad," Seregil
remarked, coming
ov
er to see.
Lynn Flewelling
Running a critical eye over joints and hocks,
Alec noticed an irregular spot of white
hair the size of a child's hand just behind her right flank.
"How did she come by this scar?" he asked.
The woman smoothed a hand fondly over the mark.
"Wolves got into my enclosure last winter.
Killed three foals before we got out with the torches.
One tore at her here, as you see, before she brained
it with a kick. She's a feisty one, my Patch, and
stubborn, but she has a smooth, strong gait and
she'll go all day for you. Saddle her, young
sir, and see what you think."
A gallop across the open ground around the
marketplace was enough to win Alec over. The mare showed
no skittishness, and took the reins well.
"That's settled, then," Seregirsd approvingly as
he paid out the money.
Moving his saddle and pack onto Patch, Alec
slung his bow over one shoulder and followed Seregil
onto the Cirna highroad.
Several miles out from the city they turned onto a
road leading up into the hills. Seregil seemed
to be in no particular hurry and they rode easily,
giving the horses their head and enjoying the crisp,
clear afternoon.
Winter was beginning to take hold in Skala now,
though the breeze still carried the stinging scent of
smokehouse meats, yellowed hay, and the last sour
tang of the cider presses from the farmsteads they
passed along the way.
They'd ridden for some time in comfortable silence when
Seregil turned to Alec and asked, "I suppose
you're wondering why I didn't tell you sooner?"
"You never say much about yourself," Alec replied with a
touch of reproach. "I've gotten used to not
asking."
"Delicate manners will get you nowhere with me,"
Seregil advised, nonplused. "Go on, ask
away."
"All right. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"Well, at first it was because you had so many
misconceptions about the 'faie," replied
Seregil. "You seemed to think we were all great
mages or nectar-sipping fairy folk."
Alec's cheek went hot as he recalled the
childish fancies he'd shared with Seregil in their
first days.
Seregil shot him a sidelong grin. "Oh, you
northern barbarians do have some strange notions.
Anyway, I decided I'd better let you get
used to me first. Then I got sick."

He paused, looking a little sheepish himself. "I've
been meaning to tell you since we got to the city,
really, but- I don't know. The right moment just
didn't seem to come. What I said to Nysander is
sort of true; I am proud of you for figuring it out
on your own. What else would you like to know?"
What wouldn 't I like to know!
thought Alec, wondering how long this strange humor
of Seregil's would last. "How old are
you?"
"Fifty-eight, come Lenthin month. In the
reckoning of my race, that doesn't make me all
that much older than you, though I've certainly had more
experience. It's difficult to draw comparisons between
Aurenfaie and human ages; we mature
differently. Under Aurenfaie law, I'm not old
enough yet to marry or hold land." He chuckled
softly. "For the most part, I've done very well for
myself in Skala."
"Because you're related to the Queen?"
"To some degree, though it's a very distant and
threadbare tie. Just enough to have gotten me an
introduction and a place as a high-class servant.
Lord Corruth, consort to Idrilain the First, was a
cousin of my grandmother's mother. My claim to Skalan
nobility is a tenuous one at best."
Alec'd had hints enough from both Micum and Nysander
to know better than to ask Seregil why he'd left
Aurenen in the first place. "What's it like there, in
Aurenen?"
Seregil rode on in silence for a moment, his face
half turned away. Alec feared he'd taken a
misstep after all and was about to take back the question when
Seregil began to sing.
The language was unfamiliar, yet so liquid, so
graceful in the ear that it seemed Alec could almost
grasp it-and that if he did it would reveal a depth
of meaning his own language could never achieve. The
melody, simple yet haunting and full of longing,
brought tears to his eyes as he listened.
Seregil sang it a second time, translating so
that Alec could understand.
"My love is wrapped in a cloak of flowing
green
and wears the moon for a crown. And all around has
chains of flowing silver.
Her mirrors reflect the sky. O, to roam your
flowing cloak of green
under the light of the ever-crowning moon.
Will I ever drink of your chains of flowing silver and
drift once more across your mirrors of the sky? his
Looking out across the empty winter fields,
Seregil said in a husky whisper, "That's what
Aurenen is like."
"I'm sorry." Alec shook his head sadly.
"It must be painful, thinking about your own country when
you're so far away,"
Seregil shrugged slightly.
"Youri nala molkrat vy pri nala
estin."
"Aurenfaie?"
"An old proverb. 'Even sour wine is better
than no wine at all." his
Afternoon shadows were creeping down the hills as
Seregil turned from the highroad and led the way
onto a stone bridge over a large stream. A
flock of swans grazing in the bordering field
took flight at their approach, rising into the air
with a great beating of wings.
Unslinging his bow with surprising speed, Alec brought
down two of the great birds and nudged Patch into a
canter to retrieve them.
"Well shot!" Seregil called after him, turning
his horse loose to drink. "Just yesterday I was
wondering if you were out of practice."
Alec rode back with the birds slung from his
saddlebow. "Me, too," he said, dismounting to let
Patch drink. "At least I won't come in
empty-handed. Are we almost there?"
Seregil pointed up the valley. "That's
Watermead. We'll have missed supper but I'm
sure Kari won't send us to bed hungry."
A few miles above them they could see open meadows
and a cluster of buildings nestled against the
edge of the mountain forest. Below the main house flocks
of sheep wandered like clouds across the face of the hills.
Darker herds moved across some of the other meadows.
Alec squinted at the distant house, wondering what
his reception would be.
"Don't worry. You'll be part of the family in no
time." Seregii reassured him.
"How many of them are there again?"
"Three girls.8Beka's the oldest. She'll be
eighteen in Lithion,

I think. You'll spend a good deal of time this week
looking down her sword. Elsbet's fourteen and
has the makings of a scholar. I expect she'll be
entering the school at the Illior Temple soon.
The youngest girl is Illia, just six years old and
already the mistress of the whole estate."
"I hope Micum's wife doesn't mind having
me underfoot," Alec said, still feeling shy.
"Kari?" Seregil laughed. "By now Micum's
told her all about the poor orphan boy I've
dragged south. I'll be lucky to get you back! As
for being underfoot, I doubt there'll be much time for that."
Seregil whistled and Scrub splashed up from the
stream. Patch, however, had waded out into the
middle and seemed content to remain there despite any
urging from Alec. Whistle and call as he might, the
mare staunchly ignored him. Giving up at last,
he stood scowling on the bank.
"Dark looks won't do it," Seregil chuckled.
"I think you're going to have to get your feet wet."
"I'll wet more than that," Alec grumbled, looking
at the brownish slime that coated the rocks of the
streambed. Suddenly, however he broke into a grin.
Taking an archer's tab from his purse, he held the
bit of leather out and called, "Hey you, Patch!"
The mare's head came up at once, ears forward.
Snuffling loudly, she came close enough to nip at it
and Alec snagged her by the head stall.
"You'll spoil that beast," Seregil cautioned,
splitting an apple for his own horse. "Teach her
to come at your whistle, or you'll have to buy a tannery
to keep her."
When they reached the summit of the hill they found the
gate of the wooden palisade that surrounded the main
house open to them. A pack of enormous hounds
bounded out of the shadows as they entered the walled yard,
growling suspiciously until they caught
Seregil's familiar scent. He dismounted and one of
them, a grey-muzzled old male, rose
on his hind legs and rested his paws on his shoulders,
looking him in the eye. Others milled happily
around Alec, slapping him with their plumed tails and
sniffing hopefully at the swans hanging at his
saddlebow.
"Hello, Dash!" Seregil rubbed the hound's head
affectionately before pushing him off. Wading through the
pack, he led the way to the door.
Lynn Flewelling
Kari was the first to see them as they entered the main
hall. The tables had been pushed back against the
walls for the night, and she and her women sat spinning
around the central fire. Meeting her eyes across the
room, Seregil caught a fleeting glimpse of the
old apprehension:
No, it's too soon, we've only just gotten him
back.
That look had given him a degree of satisfaction
in the early days, before the rivalry between them had
mellowed into friendship. Now it saddened him a little that his
sudden appearance still evoked the same flash of
resentful alarm.
Before he could reassure her, however, a bundle of
dark braids and flying skirts streaked from the
direction of the kitchen. Dropping his
saddlebags, he scooped Illia up and received a
resounding kiss on the cheek.
"Uncle! Look, Mother, Uncle has come after
all!" she cried, kissing him again. "But you can't
take Father away with you, you know. He's promised
to take me riding tomorrow."
Seregil looked down the length of his nose at her.
"Now, that's a fine welcome."
"Illia, where are your manners?" Kari laid her
distaff aside. She was dark like her daughter, with a
gentle oval face that belied her brisk manner.
"Seregil hasn't ridden all this way just to have you
hang on him like a burr."
Undeterred, Illia peered over Seregil's
shoulder at Alec. "Is this the brave boy who
saved Father from the bandits?"
"It is indeed," Seregil answered, pulling
Alec forward with his free hand. "Alec's the best
archer in the whole entire world, and he shot two
enormous swans on the way here especially for your
mother. They're outside on his saddle if your dogs
haven't eaten them already. He's come to learn sword
fighting from your father and Beka, but I'm certain
he'll be a fine playfellow for you, in between
lessons. You may have him for a week if you
promise not to maul him to death. What do you say
to that?"
Looking over at Kari, Seregil answered her
look of relief with a wink.
"Oh, he's handsome!" Illia exclaimed,
climbing down to take Alec's hand. "You're almost
as handsome as Uncle Seregil. Can you sing and play
the harp like he does?"
"Well, I can sing," Alec admitted as the little
girl hauled him toward the hearth.
"Let the poor boy catch his breath before you take
at him," her mother chided. "Run out to the stable and
fetch your father and sisters. Scat!"
With a last beaming smile for Alec, Illia dashed
off.
"Come and sit down by the fire, both of you," Kari
said, motioning for her women to make room. "Arna,
find some dinner for our friends, and see that a fire's
laid in the guest chamber."
The eldest serving woman nodded and disappeared out a
side door; the other women retired to a smaller
fire at the back of the hall. Turning to Alec,
Kari took his hands in hers.
"You're welcome in our home, Alec of
Kerry," she said warmly. "Micum told
us about the ambush in Folcwine Wood. I owe you a
great deal."
"He's done as much for me," Alec replied,
feeling awkward. Just then, however, Micum burst in
with Illia on one shoulder and an older girl in
tow. In his woolen breeches and leather vest he
looked every inch the country squire.
"Well, this is a happy surprise!" he cried.
"The little jackdaw here says Alec's looking for a
real swordsman."
Swinging Illia down, he clasped hands with the two of
them. "Beka will be in as soon as she cleans up.
One of her mares had a bad foaling this afternoon."
Drawing the older girl to his side, he said, "And
this quiet one here is Elsbet, the family
beauty."
Elsbet touched Alec's hand in a quick greeting.
Dark hair framed a face very like her mother's, soft
and gentle.
"Welcome to Watermead," she murmured, her hand
trembling against his for an instant. Blushing to match
Alec, she hastily sat down by her mother.
"You must be thirsty after your ride," Kari said,
giving Seregil a mischievous look. "If I
know you, you talked the whole way. Would you
dare sample this season's beer? For once I think
it's almost fit to drink."
Micum nudged Alec playfully as she went out.
"This is the first season since we came south that
I've seen her satisfied with her beer. Mind you,
she's the finest brewer in the valley, but she's never
left off saying that northern hops give a finer
taste."
"I think I've heard her mention it a few times,"
Seregil
lynn Flewelling
concurred wryly. "Illia, do you think you could fetch
my saddlebags there by the door?"
The little girl's eyes went round. "Presents?"
"Who knows?" he teased. "But here's Beka at
last."
A tall girl in a stained tunic and breeches
burst in, her face lit by an expectant
smile.
"Any news, Seregil?" she cried, stooping
to hug him.
"Patience, Beka. At least say hello
to Alec first."
Of all the girls, Beka alone had taken after her
father. Freckles peppered her fair skin,
and an unkempt mare's tail of coppery red hair
tumbled over her shoulder as she leaned forward to clasp
hands with Alec. She had rather too much of her father's
features to be beautiful, but her sharp blue eyes
and ready smile would never let her be called
homely either.
"Father says you're quite an archer," she said, looking
him over in friendly appraisal. "I hope you brought
that bow of yours. I've never seen a Black
Radly."
"It's there by the door," Alec replied, suddenly
more at ease than he'd been since their arrival.
"Here they are!" Illia puffed, dragging the
saddlebags over to Seregil. "Did you remember
what I asked you for?"
"Illia, you beggar!" her mother scolded, returning
with a pitcher and mugs.
"Why don't you reach in and see what's there while
I try your mother's excellent beer?" Seregil
suggested, taking a long sip. "Sheer delight,
Kari. Better than that served at the royal table of
Mycena."
Alec sampled his own and didn't doubt
Seregil's sincerity, though Kari obviously did.
"Well, it's better than last year's,"
she allowed.
Illia, meanwhile, had worried open the first bag.
"These must be for Beka," she said, pulling out a
pair of glossy cavalry boots. "She's going
to be a horse guard."
"A rider in the Queen's Horse Guard,"
Beka corrected, looking hopefully at
Seregil.
Micum shook his head in mock despair. "We
haven't had a moment's peace since she heard you were
back."
Seregil drew a scroll case from his coat and
presented it to her. Prying off the seal, she shook out
the papers inside and scanned quickly down through them,
her grin broadening by the second.

"I knew you could do it!" she cried, giving
Seregil another exuberant hug. "Look, Mother,
I'm to report in a week's time!"
"There's not a finer regiment," Kari said, slipping
an arm about Beka's shoulders. "And think how much
quieter it will be without you crashing in and out!"
As Beka sat down to try on the new boots,
Micum reached to take his wife's hand; her smile
did not match the sudden misting of her eyes.
"She's your daughter, right enough," Kari sighed,
clasping his hand tightly.
Illia burrowed deeper, finding a tobacco pouch for
Micum and a larger bag for her mother.
"Oh, Seregil, you needn't have-was Kari began,
then broke off as she pulled out a handful of papery
hop cones and a knot of wizened roots.
"Cavish hops!" she cried, holding the cones to her
nose. "This brings my father's hop yard back to me
as if I were standing in it! All the cuttings I brought
with me here died out years ago. Oh, Seregil, how
good of you to think of it. Someday perhaps I'll be able
to brew a proper beer again."
Seregil saluted her with his cup. "I want to be
the first to broach a keg of the batch that pleases you."
Rescuing a finely bound book from Illia's
impatient pillaging, he handed it to Elsbet.
"The dialogs of Tassis!" the girl breathed,
examining the cover. Any trace of shyness fled as
she opened the volume and ran a finger down the first
page. "And in Aurenfaie! Where did you ever find
it?"
"I'd rather not say. But if you look toward the
middle, I think you'll find something else of
interest."
Elsbet's eyes widened as she drew out a small
square of parchment and read Nysander's invitation
to visit at her earliest convenience.
"Someone must have mentioned your interest in the Oreska
library to him," Seregil said, affecting innocence.
Torn between terror and delight, Elsbet stammered,
"I wouldn't know what to say to him."
"He's pretty easy to talk to," Alec told
her. "After a few minutes you feel as if you've
known him all your life."
Elsbet returned to her book, blushing more hotly
than ever.
Lynn Flewelling
"Uncle!" Illia rocked back on her heels
with an indignant look. "There's nothing else in
here!"
"And my lady supposes herself forgotten! Give
me your kerchief and climb up in Alec's lap.
Don't be shy-he has lovely young ladies
sitting on his lap all the time. You're quite used to it,
aren't you, Alec?"
Alec gave Seregil a dark look over the top
of Illia's head, not appreciating the gibe.
"Now," said Seregil, pinching the corners of the
kerchief together and holding it up, "what was it
you asked for last time I was here?"
"Something magic," Illia whispered, dark eyes
fastened on the kerchief.
Making a great show of incantations and gestures,
Seregil handed it back to her. She unfolded it
to find a small ivory carving on a chain.
"What does it do?" she asked, hanging it about her
neck at once. Before Seregil could reply,
however, a swallow fluttered in through the smoke hole
and lit on Illia's knee. Blinking in the
firelight, the little bird began to preen.
"It's a drysian charm," Seregil told her as
she reached out to stroke its shiny blue wing. "You must
be very gentle with the birds it brings to you and never use it
for hunting. Study them as much as you like, but put the
charm away when you're finished so that they can fly
away."
"I promise," Illia said solemnly. "Thank
you, Uncle."
"And now it's time for your swallow to fly off in search
of its supper," said her mother fondly, "and for you, my
little bird, to fly off to your bed."
With a final kiss for Seregil, Illia went out with
her mother. Elsbet retired to a quieter corner with the
new book.
"Alec, I bet Beka would like a look at that
black bow of yours, before it gets too dark,"
Micum suggested. "Get her to show you her horses
in return."
"I've got some beauties," Beka said proudly
as he fetched his bow and quiver. "Pure
Aurenfaie blood, and some mixed. You'll have to try
them out while you're here."
Micum turned to Seregil and raised an eyebrow
when they'd gone. "He's just the thing to occupy her
while she waits to re

port. But what am I supposed to teach him that you
couldn't yourself?"
Seregil shrugged. "You know me. I have no patience
with beginners. Can he ride in with you and Beka at the
end of the week?"
"Of course," Micum said, sensing something in the
wind. "Something going on back in Rhiminee?"
Seregil pulled out the damning letter Nysander had
intercepted. "Seems Lord Seregil has run
afoul of the Lerans at last. I've got a forger
to track down."
Micum quickly scanned the letter. "Does Alec
know?"
"Yes, and he's none too happy about being put out
of the way. Keep him occupied and make a
swordsman of him for me. It's the only thing
holding him back. By the Light, Micum, you've
never seen such a sponge for learning. It's all I
can do to keep ahead of him!"
"He puts me a great deal in mind of you at that
age."
"I could do worse, then. Now, assuming this week
goes well, I'd like to arrange a little something
special for him when he gets back."
"Smooth his feathers, eh?" Micum asked with a knowing
look. "What did you have in mind?"
"I think you'll settle in quite well here,"
Seregil said with a yawn as he and Alec settled
down for the night in the broad guest chamber bed.
Alec watched the play of the firelight across the
whitewashed walls of the little room, arms crossed beneath
his head. "Do you think Micum will really have better
luck teaching me?"
"Would I have brought you all the way out here if I
didn't?"
"And what if you're wrong?"
"I'm not."
Alec fell quiet, but Seregil sensed
something was still worrying him.
"Go on, speak out."
Alec sighed. "I still feel like you're getting me out
of your way."
"I am. But only for the week, just as I told you."
Rising on one elbow, he looked down at Alec.
"Listen to me now. I may make my living lying and
tricking, but I'm always
lyim Flewelling
honest with friends. There'll be times I choose not
to tell you something, but I won't lie to you. That's a
promise and there's my hand on it."
Alec clasped it sheepishly, then settled back
against the bolsters. "What are you going to do when you get
back?"
"I'll check with Nysander first, see if his sources
have found anything else. Then there's Ghemella, a
gem cutter in Dog Street, who's known to do a
tidy little side business in forged seals."
"How will you get her to talk?"
"Oh, I'll manage something."
Seregil woke well before dawn the next morning.
Alec had gravitated to the far edge in the night, and
lay now curled in his usual tight ball, one arm
sticking stiffly over the side, fingers half
curled. Resisting a wayward impulse to touch the
tousled mass of yellow hair scattered over the
pillow, Seregil dressed in the hall and set off
for the city at a gallop.
He reached Nysander's tower rooms before noon and
found the wizard at work with Thero over a scroll.
"Any new developments?" asked Seregil. "Not
as yet," replied Nysander. "As we expected,
they were wise enough not to send more than one of the forgeries at
a time. I think we may still have a bit of leeway
before their next attempt."
"Then this is all I have to work with." Seregil pulled
the forged parchment from his coat again and fingered the wax
seals on the ribbons. "These have to be Ghemella's
work. I don't know anyone else capable of this
quality. Look at this."
Taking his own seal stamp from a pouch, he held it
next to the wax imprints; they were indistinguishable.
He'd designed the original himself: a griffin
seated in profile, wings extended, one forepaw
upraised to support a
Lynn Flewelling
crescent. The forger had caught every nuance of the
design, as well as several tiny imperfections
Seregil had specified in the original
to make such a forgery easier to catch.
"She knew very well whose seal it is, too," he
added wryly. "Lord Seregil has had a number of
over-the-counter dealings with her."
"There's no chance these were somehow struck with the
original?" asked Thero, examining the seal. "I
seem to recall you breaking into noble houses to steal
impressions."
"Which is why I make a point of not letting my own
seal out of my possession," Seregil replied
curtly, tucking it away.
"You will look into this yourself, I trust?" said Nysander.
"Oh, yes indeed."
"Very well. In the meantime, I must ask you to leave
the letter with me."
Surprised, Seregil met the old wizard's
level gaze for a moment, then handed the document over
without comment.
Ghemella's first thought was to ignore the hesitant
rapping at the door. The gold had just reached the
proper color for pouring, and if she left off now
she'd have to start all over again. The shop door was
shut and the shutters put up; any fool could see
she'd closed for the night.
Reaching into the forge with her long tongs, she
gently lifted the crucible from its ring over the
coals. The troublesome knock came again just as she
bent to pour it into the mold. It disrupted her
concentration, and a few precious droplets spilled
uselessly onto the sand packing the wax form. She
set the crucible back on its iron stand with a hiss
of exasperation.
"I've closed!" she called, but the rapping only
intensified. Heaving her great bulk up from the stool,
the jeweler lumbered to the small window and
cautiously cracked a shutter. "Who is it?"
"It's Dakus, mistress."
A hunched old man shuffled into the slice of light
from the window, leaning heavily on a stout stick. His
crippled back kept him from raising his face to the
light, but Ghemella recognized the gnarled hand
clamped over the head of the stick. Like most
craftsmen, she always noticed hands. A wave of
revulsion rippled

over, her slack flesh as she unbarred the door and
stepped back to admit the dry little grasshopper of a
man.
Against the rich backdrop of the shop he was more hideous
than she recalled. Pointed spurs of
bone sprouted from his knuckles, wrists, and the
prominent bones of his ravaged face, looking as if
they would burst through the taut yellow skin at a touch.
Hobbling toward the warmth of the forge, he settled himself
on the stool and turned his one good eye to her. It had
always offended her sensibilities, the way that bright,
clear eye glittered in such a face, like a
precious Borian sapphire glittering up from a
clod of dung.
"So many pretty things!" the old relic wheezed,
fingering a half-finished statuette on the workbench.
"You're looking prosperous as ever, dearie mine."
Ghemella kept her distance. "What are you selling
tonight, old man?"
"What would I have to sell to such a rich woman?"
replied Dakus, giving her the ruins of a leer.
"What except the occasional bit of information that these
old ears glean as I beg at the back doors and
waste heaps of the more fortunate? Are you still in the
market for secrets, Ghemella? Fresh, shiny
secrets? I've offered them to no one else as
yet."
Slapping a few sesters down on the bench in front
of him, she stepped back and folded her arms across
her broad leather apron.
The old man pulled a copper vial from his pouch.
"Baron Dynaril has murdered his lover with
poison bought from Black Rogus. His manservant
made the purchase at the Two Stallions a
week ago."
Ghemella produced a gold coin for this and Dakus
placed the vial on the workbench.
"Lady Sinril is with child by her groom."
The jeweler snorted and shook her head.
Nodding agreeably, Dakus reached into his
tattered tunic and produced a sheaf of documents.
"And then there's these gleanings of a poor beggar's
wanderings. More to your taste, I think."
"Ah, Dakus!" the jeweler purred, taking the
sheets eagerly and sorting through them. The pages
differed in size and quality and several were wrinkled
or stained. "Lord Bytrin, yes, and Lady
Korin. No, this is worthless, worthless, perhaps this-and
this!"
lyim Flewelling
Choosing out seven documents, she set them apart.
"I'll give five gold sestets for these."
"Done, and the blessings of the Four be showered on you for your
generosity!" cackled the beggar. Sweeping up the
small pile of coins and rejected
papers, he shuffled out into the night without a backward
glance.
Ghemella barred the door after him and allowed herself a
sly smile. Nudging aside the stool Dakus had
sullied with his deformed backside, she drew up
another and settled down to peruse the stolen papers more
closely.
Meanwhile, the crippled beggar hobbled down Dog
Street and into the deeper shadow of a deserted
alleyway. When he'd made certain that no one
else lurked there, he pulled a flat clay
amulet from around his neck and knocked it against the
wall until it shattered. A wrenching spasm
gripped the frail old body for an instant as the
magic drained away, leaving Seregil young and whole
again.
Retching dryly, he rested his hands on his knees and
waited for the accompanying wave of nausea to pass.
A number of major magicks had this residual
effect to one degree or another, just one more
delightful side effect of his baffling magical
dysfunction.
Straightening at last, he felt for the reassuring
smoothness of his face and limbs, then took out a
shielded lightstone and shuffled through the papers
Ghemella had rejected.
He'd provided a tempting selection: documents,
personal correspondence, declarations of illicit
love, all from various influential persons. Most
were old, things he'd picked up on various
nocturnal excursions. Salted through these, however,
were three half-finished letters from the pen of Lord
Seregil. Knowing the method of his would-be
detractors, he'd taken care to make them
suitably ambiguous. Ghemella had taken all
three.
Smiling darkly, Seregil headed back to the
jeweler's shop to begin his patient vigil.
Alec slid his blade away from Beka's and
jumped back, leaving her off balance. For the first time
in half an hour, he managed to get past her
defense and score a touch.
"That's right! Hold her, hold her!" Micum
cried. "Now pull back the way I showed you. Just
right. Again now!"
It had been snowing heavily since early morning, so
they'd cleared the hall for a practice area. Alec
had made good progress over the last three days and
neither he nor Micum wanted to chance losing ground.
Kari had been patient about it all,
merely insisting that the tables be moved to protect the
tapestries. She and Elsbet had then retired to the
kitchen for the morning, but Illia remained perched beside
her father, cheering gleefully every time Alec bested her
sister. It hadn't happened often so far.
Beka rubbed her side with a rueful grin. "You're
improving, all right. I think Seregil will be
pleased."
Her face was flushed under its freckles and her
eyes sparkled with the same gleam Alec had seen in
Micum's and Seregil's during mock battles.
She looked older with her hair braided back, and the
close-fitting jerkin showed the gentle swell of her
breasts more than the shapeless tunics she usually
wore.
lyim Flewelling
As she raised her sword again, he found himself so
distracted by the deadly grace with which she moved that her
sudden overhand swing took him completely off guard
and cost him a new bruise on his shoulder.
"Damn, I did it again!" Grimacing, he
assumed a more wary stance.
"Concentration," Micum advised. "Watch your
opponent, look wide, see everything. A flick
of the eye, a change in balance, the way she
holds her mouth, anything that can tell you what she's
thinking of doing next. And don't tense up; it
makes you slow."
Trying to keep all this in mind, Alec worked
backward, drawing Beka, making her follow him.
The bound wire grip of the hilt felt warm and
familiar against his palm as he executed a
respectable attack of his own. Catching her blade
in the curve of one quillon, he twisted hard and
almost succeeded in disarming her.
"Hooray for Alec!" Illia crowed, clapping
her hands in delight as her champion pressed his
advantage.
Beka knew that trick, however, and quickly taught
him one of her own. Hooking his ankle with her foot,
she pulled one leg out from under him. Alec fell
heavily backward as his sword spun away across the
flagstones.
Beka pinned him none too gently with a foot on his
chest and rested the tip of her blade lightly against his
throat. "Cry mercy!"
"Mercy!" Alec dropped his hands in submission.
When she released him, however, he grasped her other
ankle and brought her tumbling down beside him. Leaping
astride her, he pulled the black dagger
from his boot and rested the flat of it against her throat.
"Cry mercy yourself," he gloated.
"You cheated!" sputtered Beka.
"So did you."
"Seregil
will
be pleased!" Micum groaned, shaking his head.
"It sounds like someone's slinging anvils around out here!"
Kari laughed, striding in with an armload of
trenchers. "The pack of you go find somewhere else
to make your racket. I've got a meal to get
on."
Servant and laborers quickly filled the hall for the
midday meal. Stamping snow from their feet, they
pulled out the tables and soon everyone was seated over a
hot meal.

Micum spent most of the meal planning a new saw
pit with the reeve. It did not escape his notice,
however, that Alec and Beka had their heads together in
some discussion of their own. Judging by the evident
disinterest of Elsbet, who sat on Alec's other
side, the subject probably revolved around
swordplay or archer's tack.
Kari leaned close, following her
husband's eye. "You don't suppose she's
falling in love, do you?" she whispered.
"With a commission to the Queen's Horse in her
pocket?" Micum chuckled. "Our Beka's too
hardheaded for that."
"Still-he's a good lad."
"Don't give up hope," Micum teased.
"He's too wild for Elsbet's taste, but
Illia would have him in a minute. She says so at
least twice a day."
Kari gave her husband a good-natured nudge in the
ribs. "Get on with you! The last thing I need in this
family is another man with wandering feet. And if
Seregil's taken this boy up, you can bet your head
he's got them."
Micum hugged her close. "You'd be the best
judge of that, my patient love."
At the meal's end, Micum pushed back from the
table. "I should be getting over to Lord Quineas'
soon. I promised him a game of nine stones the
other day. You'll come with me, won't you, Kari? You
haven't seen Lady Madrina in weeks."
"Me, too! Me, too!" Illia shouted, jumping
into her father's arms. "I want to show Naria the charm
Uncle Seregil brought."
"Well, let's just take the whole bunch of you,
then," Micum cried, swinging the little girl into the
air.
Beka exchanged a glance with Alec. "We were going
to hunt along the river trail."
"She doesn't want to see Ranik," Illia
taunted.
"Let him fawn over Elsbet for a change,"
Beka shot back. She's the one who thinks he's
such a fine gentleman."
"And he is," Elsbet retorted primly.
"He's a scholar,
and
a Pdget as well. Just because he isn't always out
shooting at things we way you are-was
, "That's a lucky thing for the neighborhood,"
Beka scoffed, that donkey-handed looby couldn't
shoot a bull in the arse if it was standing on his
foot. Come on, Alec. You can ride windrunner
again."
Lynn Flewelling
I
Horses nickered expectantly as Alec and
Beka entered the stable. Going to Windrunner, he
heaved the blanket and saddle over the
chestnut stallion's glossy back. He felt a
bit guilty when Patch craned her neck over the
stall at him; still, the chance at an Aurenfaie mount
was something he wasn't about to turn down.
"There's something special I want to show you,"
Beka said, giving him a mysterious look as she
buckled her horse's saddle girth.
Setting out across country, they gave their mounts free
rein. Plumes of new snow trailed after them as they
galloped and wheeled over the bare fields. Alec
tried to explain the maneuvers he'd seen Captain
Myrhini's riders perform and they dashed back and
forth, yelling and tilting their bows for lances.
"I can hardly believe it!" Beka cried, reining
in beside him. "In a few days I'll be with them."
"Won't you miss your family?" ventured Alec.
His short stay at Watermead had shown him a life
he'd never known. It was a noisy, bustling
household with servants, dogs, and Illia
underfoot much of the day but, like the Cockerel, there was an
air of warmth and security about it that he liked.
Beka looked away over the hills, watching the
last of the ragged clouds scudding across the sky.
"Of course," she said, heading her mare toward the
river. "But I can't stay here forever, can
I? I'm not cut out to be like Mother, raising a
family and waiting around for a man who goes off for
months at a time. still want to be the one who's gone.
I should think you'd understand that."
Alec smiled. "I was just thinking how nice your
life must have been, being in one place all the time.
Still, I know what you mean. My father and I wandered
around in the same forests my whole life. Then along
comes Seregil with his tales of far-off places,
wonders I could hardly imagine-I guess I
didn't take much convincing."
"You're lucky, being with him the way you are," Beka
said with a trace of envy. "He and Father-all they've
done together? Someday I want to ride with them, but first
I need to make my own way. That's why I wanted
so badly to join the Queen's Horse."

They rode for a moment in silence, then Beka asked,
"What is it like, anyway, being with him?"
"You'd like it. It's never the same from one day to the
next. I don't think there's anything he doesn't
know at least something about. And then there's Nysander.
I've tried telling Elsbet about him, but it's
hard to explain how someone can be so powerful and so
ordinary at the same time."
"I've met him. Do you know it was he who first
suggested I join the Guards? Then he laughed and
made me promise never to tell Mother he said so.
Isn't that odd?"
Alec thought he could see what the old wizard had
been up to; Beka would make a fine Watcher.
The swans had abandoned the frozen stream. Turning
upstream, they rode a mile or more without seeing any
sign of game. Giving up the hunt, they challenged
each other at clout and wand shooting. Beka's
grey-and-white fletched shafts seldom came
closer to the mark than his red ones.
"Come on," she said at last, noticing how low the
sun had fallen, "we'd better gather our arrows.
I want to show you my surprise."
Following the stream again, they reached the wooded hills
and rode into the trees. At a bend they dismounted and
Beka led the way to a broad, half-frozen
pool. Signing for Alec to keep quiet, she
settled behind a fallen tree and pointed across to the
other side.
Two otters were playing in the open water. Paddling
to shore, they humped up the snowy slope and launched
themselves back down again, sliding merrily on their
smooth bellies into the water. Clucking and
grunting all the while, they repeated the performance
over and over while Alec and Beka watched in
silent delight.
"They remind me of Seregil," Alec whispered,
propping an elbow on the tree trunk. "Nysander
turned him into an otter once when we were at the
Oreska House. There's this special spell-I
can't remember what he called it-but Nysander says
the kind of animal you turn into has something to do with
what kind of person you are."
"An otter, eh?" said Beka, considering the
matter. "I would've taken him more for a lynx or a
panther. Did he do it to you, too?"
"I turned into a stag."
Lynn Flewelling
"I guess I can see that. What do you suppose
I'd be?"
Alec considered the matter. "A hawk, I bet,
or maybe a wolf. A hunter, anyway."
"Hawk or wolf, eh? I'd like that," she
murmured.
They watched the otters in silence, each one savoring
the sense of companionship that had grown up so
easily between them.
"Well, come on, we'd better get
back," Beka whispered at last. As they headed
back to the horses, she turned to him and asked,
"You're fond of him, aren't you?"
"Who? Seregil?"
"Of course."
"He's been a good friend?"' he replied, puzzled
by the question. "Why wouldn't I be fond of him?"
"Oh." Beka nodded as if she'd expected a
different answer, then, "I thought maybe you were
lovers."
"What? his
Alec stopped dead, staring at her. "What put
that
in your head?"
"I don't know," Beka bristled. "Sakor's
Flames, Alec, why not? He was in love with Father
once, you know."
"With Micum?" Alec leaned against a slender
alder. The tree swayed under his weight, sifting
snow over the two of them. It dusted Beka's hair
with a veil of sparkling crystals and filtered down the
neck of Alec's tunic to melt into points of
coldness against his skin.
"How do you know that?" he demanded, flabbergasted.
"Mother told me ages ago. I'd heard
things growing up and finally I asked. It was pretty
one-sided, according to her. Father was already in love with her
when he and Seregil met, but Seregil didn't
give up for a while. He and Mother didn't care much
for one another in those days because of it, but they're friends
now. She won out, and he had to accept it. Still, I
remember once when I was very young, hearing Mother and
Father arguing. Father said something like, 'Don't make me
choose, I can't do it!" Mother told me that it was
Seregil he was talking about. So I guess he
loves Seregil, too, in his own way, but they were
never lovers."
Alec chewed over this unexpected revelation; the more
he learned of southern ways, the more incomprehensible
they seemed.

Watching the girls trying to teach Alec a country
dance in the hall one snowy afternoon toward the end of the
week, Micum realized he was going to miss the boy
when he was gone.
Just as Seregil had predicted, Alec had
settled in well with his family and already seemed a
part of it. Kari's heart had gone out to him at
once, and the girls treated him like a brother. He'd
picked up swordplay damn fast, too,
without Seregil's impatient jousting to contend with.
Kari stole up behind Micum and clasped her arms
around his waist as she watched the progress of the dance
lesson. The steps were complex and there was a lot of
good-humored chaffing as Alec jostled to and fro between
Beka and Elsbet.
"I wish I'd given you such a son," she
whispered.
"Don't let Beka hear you say that!" Micum
chuckled.
Kari was doing her end-of-the-week mending by the kitchen
window when Alec wandered in with his bow.
"Do you have any beeswax?" he asked.
"It's there on that shelf by the herbs," she said,
pointing with her needle. "There are some clean rags
over there if you need them. Why don't you put the
water on to heat and sit with me awhile. You go home
tomorrow and I haven't had you to myself all week."
Alec swung the kettle hook into the fireplace
and sat down on a stool beside her, bow across his
knees.
"It's good having you here," she said, her needle
flashing in the sunlight as she stitched up a tear in
one of Illia's kirtles. "I hope you'll come
back to us often. Seregil doesn't come out
as much as we'd like. Perhaps you can influence him for me."
"I don't think anyone influences him very much,"
Alec said dubiously, then added, "You've known him
a long time, haven't you?"
"More than twenty years," Kari replied. "He's
part of the
Alec rubbed wax into his bowstring and smoothed it
over with nis fingers. "Has he changed much since you
first met him? Be- mg Aurenfaie and all, I
mean."
Kari smiled, thinking back. "It was before we'd
married that
lyim Flewelling
I first met Seregil. Micum came and went as
he pleased, just like now, but always alone. Then one fine
spring morning he showed up at my father's door with
Seregil in tow. I remember seeing him that first
time, standing there in the kitchen door, and thinking to myself,
"That's one of the most beautiful men I've ever
seen, and he doesn't like the looks of me one
bit!" his
Kari took up a new piece of mending. "We
got off to a rather rough start, Seregil and I."
"Beka told me."
"I thought she might have. How mature he
seemed to me then. I was only fifteen. And now
look at me." She smoothed a hand over her
hair, where scattered strands of silver were mingled with the
dark. "A matron and mother of three girls, and
Beka older than I was then. Now he looks so
young to me, still the handsome boy. In the reckoning of his
own people he
is
young and will be long after I've been tilled into these
fields."
She looked pensively down at the vest on her
lap. "I think it troubles him, to see Micum
getting older, knowing sooner or later he must lose
him. Lose us all, I suppose, except perhaps
Nysander."
"I never thought of that.
"Oh, yes. He's lost friends already that way. But you
asked me how he's changed. He has, but more in his
manner than in his looks. There was a bitterness in
him back then that I seldom see anymore, though
he's still a bit wild. He's been a good friend to us,
though, and brought Micum safely back to me more times
than I can say."
She left unsaid the fact that more often than not it was
Seregil who had led her husband into danger
in the first place. This boy was cut from the same cloth
as they, and Beka, too, to her mother's sorrow. What
could you do but love them and hope for the best?
ClThat caret
13aret
53aret 1
s'93aret iffcaret z9213kslash

caret equals F
lee rose before dawn his last morning at
Watermead, but found that Beka was up caret before
him. Dressed for riding, she sat nding a broken
catch pin on her bow case in the hall. Beside her
lay a few small packs containing all she would
take with her to the Guard barracks.
"You look ready to go," he said, setting his pack
down next to hers.
"I hope so." She worked an awl through a stubborn
piece of leather. "I hardly slept last night,
I was so excited!"
"I wonder if we'll see much of each other in the
city. Where we live isn't too far from the palace
grounds."
"I hope so," replied Beka, inspecting the new
catch. "I've only been in Rhiminee
a few times. I'll bet you could show me all kinds
of secret places."
"I guess I could," Alec said with a grin,
realizing how much of the city had become familiar to him
since his arrival.
The rest of the family soon appeared and they settled
down to their last breakfast around the fire.
"Can't Alec stay a little longer?" begged Illia,
hugging him tightly. "Beka still beats him a lot.
Tell Uncle Seregil he needs more lessons!"
Lynn Flewelling
"If he can beat your sister just some of the time, then
he's a pretty fair swordsman," said
Micum. "You remember what your Uncle
Seregil said, little bird. He needs Alec
back."
"I'll come back soon," Alec promised,
tweaking one of her dark braids. "You and Elsbet
haven't finished teaching me to dance yet."
Illia cuddled closer, giggling. "You
are
still awfully clumsy."
"Guess I'll go check on the horses," Beka
said, setting her breakfast aside half eaten.
"Don't dawdle, Alec. I want
to get on the road."
"You've got the whole day ahead of you. Let him
eat," chided her mother.
Beka's restlessness was infectious, however, and
Alec hurried through his porridge. Shouldering his
pack and bow, he carried them out into the courtyard
only to find that Beka had put his saddle on
Windrunner. Patch shifted resentfully behind the
Aurenfaie horse, tethered on a lead rein.
"What's this?" he asked. Turning, he saw the
others beaming at him.
Kari stepped up and kissed him soundly. "Our
gift to you, Alec. Come back to us whenever you can, and
keep an eye on this girl of mine in the city!"
"You'll see me at the Sakor Festival,"
Beka said gruffly, embracing her. "That's just over
a month away."
Kari pressed a handful of Beka's wild,
coppery hair to her cheek. "As long as you
remember whose daughter you are, I know you'll be
fine."
"I can't wait to join you there," exclaimed
Elsbet. "Write as soon as you can!"
"I doubt barracks life will be much like what you'll
get at the temple school," Beka said
with a laugh. Swinging up into the saddle, she gave a
final wave and followed Alec and her father out through the
palisade gate.
They reached the city just after midday. It was
Poulterer's Day in the outer market, and every sort of
fowl-from auroles to peacocks, quail to geese,
live or plucked-were on display. Each poultry
dealer had a bright pole standard mounted over his wares
and these, together with the usual strolling vendors of
sweetmeats and trifles, gave the market a
festive look despite the low

ering sky overhead. Drifts of multicolored
feathers blew in the breeze as the three travelers
rode through the honking, cackling, twittering din.
Alec smiled quietly to himself, recalling his fears
the first time he'd entered Rhiminee. This was his home
now; he'd learned some of its secrets already and would
soon know more. Gazing about, he suddenly caught
sight of a familiar face in the market crowd.
Same protuberant teeth, sly grin, and moldy
finery. It was Tym, the young thief who'd cut his
purse at the Sea Market. Taking advantage
of the slowed traffic by the Harvest Gate, he'd
latched on to a well-dressed young man,
evidently cozening him with the same tricks he'd
used on Alec. A girl in a tattered pink gown
clung to the mark's other arm, aiding in the distraction.
still
owe him a bit of trouble,
thought Alec. Dismounting, he tossed his reins
to Beka.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Just saw an old friend," he replied with a dark
grin. "I'll be right back."
He'd already learned enough from Seregil to approach the
thieves unnoticed. Biding his time, he waited
until they'd lifted the unwitting victim's
purse, then came up behind them and grasped Tym's
arm. His triumph was short-lived, however, and it was
Micum's recent training that saved him.
Newly honed instincts read the thief's sudden
movement just in time. Alec caught at his wrist,
halting the point of Tym's dagger scant inches from
his own belly.
Tym's eyes narrowed dangerously as he tried
to jerk free; easy enough to read the message there. The
girl stepped in to screen her compatriot's knife
hand and Alec prayed that she wasn't ready with a
blade of her own. In the press of the
crowd, she could easily stab him and disappear before
anyone was the wiser. She made no attack, but
Alec felt Tym tensing.
"We have a mutual friend, you and I," Alec said
quietly. "He wouldn't be very pleased if you killed
me."
"Who's that?" Tym spat back, still pulling against
Alec's grasp.
"It's a trick, love," the girl cautioned. She
was scarcely older than Elsbet. "Do Mm and
move on."
"Shut up, you!" Tym growled, still glaring at
Alec. "I asked you a question. Who's this friend of
ours?"
Lynn Flewelling
"A comely, openhanded fellow from over the sea,"
Alec replied. "Handy with a sword in the shadows."
Tym glared an instant longer, then grudgingly
relaxed his stance. Alec released his wrist.
"He should've told you never to grab a brother from behind
like that unless you mean to deal with him!" Tym hissed,
yanking the girl to his side. "If you'd done that in
a back alley, I'd have you lying dead right now."
Sparing Alec a final scornful look, he and the
girl disappeared into the crowd.
"Did you catch your friend?" Beka inquired when
Alec reappeared.
"Just for a moment." Alec mounted and wrapped the reins
around his hand. It was still trembling a little.
From the market they turned south to the barracks gate
of the Queen's Park, where Beka showed her commissioning
papers to the guards. Giving her father and Alec a
final farewell embrace, she rode in without a
backward glance.
Micum watched through the gateway until she was out of
sight, then heaved a deep sigh as he turned his
horse back toward the Harvest Market. "Well,
there she goes at last."
"Are you worried about her?" asked Alec.
"I wouldn't have been, a year ago when there wasn't
a war brewing for spring. Now I don't see any
way around it, and you can bet the Queen's Horse will
be some of the first into the fray. That doesn't leave her
much time to get used to things. No more than five or
six months, maybe less."
"Look how far I've come with Seregil in a few
months," Alec pointed out hopefully as they headed
for the Cockerel. "And he had to start from practically
nothing with me. Beka's already as good with a bow and
sword as anyone I've seen, and she
rides like she was born on horseback."
"That's true enough," Micum admitted. "Sakor
favors the bold."
In Blue Fish Street, they slipped in through the
Cockerel's back gate and went through the
lading-room door and up the stairs with hoods well
drawn up. Micum took the lead on the hidden
stairs, speaking the keying words for the glyphs with the
same absent ease as Seregil.
Following him in the darkness, it occurred to Alec that
Micum, too, had come and gone here freely over the
years, always certain of welcome. Everything Alec
had learned of the

friendship between these two seemed to come together and spin itself
into a long history in which he had only the most
fleeting foothold.
Reaching the final door, they stepped into the cluttered
brightness of the sitting room. A crackling fire cast
a mellow glow over the chamber. The place seemed
more disordered than usual, if that was possible.
Clothing of all sorts hung over chairs and lay
piled in corners; plates, papers, and scraps of
wizened fruit rind cluttered every available
surface. Alec spotted a mug he'd
left on the dining table a week ago still standing
undisturbed, as if to anchor his right of presence
until his return. A fresh litter of metal
fragments, wood chips, and scattered tools ringed
the forge on the workbench beneath the window.
The only clear spot left in the room was the
corner containing Alec's bed. A suit of fine
clothes had been neatly laid out there, and against the
pillow was propped a large placard with the words
Welcome Home, Sir Alec!
written on it in flowing purple letters.
"Looks like he's been busy!" Micum remarked,
eyeing the mess. "Seregil, are you in?"
"Hello?" A sleepy voice came from somewhere beyond
the couch.
Stepping around, Alec and Micum found him
sprawled in a nest of cushions, books, and
scrolls with the cat on his chest.
Seregil stretched lazily. "I see you left
each other in one piece. How did it go?"
Grinning broadly, Micum settled on the couch.
"Just fine, once I managed to undo all your
wrongheaded teaching. You may get a few
surprises next time you cross blades."
"Well done, Alec!" Pushing the cat
aside, Seregil stood up and stretched again. "I
knew you'd get the hang of things. And not a moment
too soon, either. I may have a job for you tonight."
"A Rhiminee Cat job?" Alec ventured
hopefully.
"Of course. What do you think, Micum? It's just
an over-thesillandout-again sort of thing in Wheel
Street."
"I don't see why not. He's not ready to storm the
Palace yet, "W he should be able to look out for
himself on something like that if he doesn't attract
too much attention." . Seregil ruffled Alec's
hair playfully. "Then it's settled. The job's
yours. I guess you'd better have this."
Lynn Flewelling
With a dramatic wave of his hand, Seregil
produced a small, silk-wrapped parcel and
presented it to Alec.
It was heavy. Unwrapping it, Alec found a tool
roll identical to the one Seregil always carried.
Opening it, he ran his fingers over the ornately
carved handles: picks, wires, hooks, a tiny
lightwand. On the inner flap of the roll a small
crescent of Illior was stamped in dull silver.
"I thought it was about time you had one of your
own," said Seregil, clearly pleased with Alec's
speechless delight.
Alec glanced back at the forge. "You made these
yourself?"
"Well, it's not the sort of thing you see in the
market. You'll be needing a new history, too.
I've been giving it some thought."
Micum nodded toward the placard. "Sir Alec?"
"Of Ivywell, no less." Seregil dropped
Alec a slight bow before collapsing into the couch
opposite Micum. "He's Mycenian."
Alec went to the bed and looked more closely at the
clothing.
"So Lord Seregil will be returning to the city in time
to prepare for the Festival of Sakor, as usual?"
observed Micum. "And not alone this time?"
Seregil nodded. "I bring young Sir Alec,
only child and last surviving heir of Sir Gareth of
Ivywell, a genteel but impoverished Mycenian
baron. In hopes of giving his scion a chance in
life, Sir Gareth has left his son ward to an
old and trusted friend Lord Seregil of Rhiminee."
"No wonder he died poor," Micum threw in
wryly. "Sir Gareth seems to have been a man of
questionable judgment."
Ignoring this, Seregil confined his attention to Alec.
"By situating the now defunct and completely
fictitious estate of Ivywell in the most
remote region of Mycena, we kill several
birds at a shot. Any unusual mannerisms you
might display will be put down to your provincial
upbringing. There's also less chance that anyone will
expect to know a common acquaintance. Thus Sir
Alec's background is at once suitably
genteel and safely obscure."
"The fact that he's neither Skalan nor
Aurenfaie would make him a tempting target for
any Leran hoping to get at Lord Seregil," added
Micum.
"A jilt!" said Alec.
"A what?" laughed Seregil.
"A jilt, the bait," he explained. "If you
want to trap something

big, like a bear or mountain cat, you stake out a
kid and wait for your beast to show up."
"All right, then. You'd be our jilt. If any
bears do show up, just be your sweet, innocent self,
feed them everything we want them to know, and report
everything they say back to me."
"But how would they get to me?" asked Alec.
"That won't be difficult. Lord Seregil's a
social sort. His house in the Noble Quarter has
already been opened and word's getting around. I'm sure
the news will reach the right ears sooner or later. In
a few days we'll throw a big party to introduce
you to society."
Micum favored his friend with an affectionate grin.
"You scheming bastard! So what else did you get
up to while we were gone?"
"Well, it's taken until today, but I think
I've found our forger. You recall Master
Alben?"
"That blackmailing apothecary you burgled a few
years back during that business for Lady Mina?"
"That's the one. He's moved his shop to Hind
Street since then."
"How'd you find him?"
"I was pretty certain Ghemella was our seal
forger. Since she also buys stolen papers, I
planted some of mine with her and last night she led me
straight to him. It's only a matter now of finding
his cache to see if there's anything usefiil to be
had. If he is the one who forged the letter from me, then
my guess is he's probably made a
copy or two for himself just to hedge his bets. And if
we can get our hands on those we can squeeze him for
names."
"Is that the job tonight?" asked Alec, an eager
gleam in his
e
ye. "The sooner we clear your name, the better."
Seregil smiled. "Your concern for my tattered
honor is deeply appreciated, Sir Alec,
but we'll need another day or so to prepare for that
one. Don't fret, now. Everything's under control.
In the meantime, however, I think you'll find tonight's
little exercise worthy of your new skills."
Wheel Street, a quiet, respectable boulevard
of modest back garden villas, lay on the fringe
of the Noble Quarter. Well dressed so as
to attract no attention, Alec strolled along beside
Lynn Flewelling
Seregil and Micum just after dark-three gentlemen out
enjoying the night air.
The narrow houses were decorated Skalan style with
mosaics and carvings. The ground level of some had
been converted into shops; in the dimness Alec made out
the signs of a tailor, a hat maker, and a gem
dealer. The street ended in a small
circular court in front of a public stable.
Riders and carriages bustled in all directions;
the sounds of entertainment could be heard here and there as they
walked past.
"That's ours, the one with the grapevine pattern over the
door," whispered Seregil, indicating a brightly
lit house across the way. "Belongs to a minor lord with
some connection to shipping. No family, three
servants: the old manservant, a cook, and the
maid."
Several horses were tethered in front and they could
hear the noise of pipes and fiddles being tuned.
"Sounds like he's having a party," whispered
Micum. "Suppose he's engaged extra
servants for the evening?"
"Those can be the worst sort, forever bumbling
into places the regular staff can be counted on not
to go," Seregil warned Alec. "And guests, too!
Keep your ears open and remember, all we're after
is a correspondence case. In and out, nothing
fancy. According to my information, he keeps the case in
a desk in his study, that room there at the left
corner of the second floor, overlooking the
street."
More carriages rumbled by, destined for
houses up and down the cobbled street. "It's too
busy out here," said Alec. "Is there a back way
in?"
Seregil nodded. "The house backs onto a
walled garden, and a common beyond. This way."
Crossing the street a few houses down, they went
through a narrow alley into the little common. Such areas had
been left open throughout the city to assure pasturage
in time of siege. At the moment it was occupied by a
flock of sleeping geese and a few pigs.
Creeping softly along, they counted gates until
they found the one leading into the back garden of the house in
question. The wall was high, the gate stoutly barred from
within.
"Looks like you'll have to climb," Seregil
whispered, squinting up. "Be careful going over;
most of these places have the walls topped with spikes
or sharp flints."

"Hold on!" Alec tried to make out Seregil's
expression through the darkness. "Aren't you two coming with
me?"
"It's a one-man job; the fewer the better,"
Seregil assured him. "I thought this is what you
wanted, a first trial on your own?"
"Well, I-was
"Would I send you in alone if I didn't think you
could handle it?" Seregil scoffed. "Of course not!
Best leave me your sword, though."
"What?" Alec hissed. "I thought I had to be
armed so I could
do
jobs!"
"Generally speaking, yesst But not this time."
"What if someone sees me?"
"Honestly, Alec! You can't just go hacking your way
out of every difficult situation that arises. It's
uncivilized," Seregil replied sternly. "This
is a gentleman's house; you're dressed as a
gentleman. If anyone catches you, just act
chagrined and drunk, then claim to have stumbled into the
wrong house."
Feeling a good deal less confident all of a sudden,
Alec unbuckled his sword and started up the garden
wall. He was halfway to the top when Micum
called softly, "We'll meet you back here when
you've finished. Oh, and look out for the dogs."
"Dogs?" Alec dropped down again. "What
dogs? You didn't say anything about dogs!"
Seregil tapped himself sharply between the
eyes. "Illior's Fingers, what
am
I thinking of tonight? There's a pair of Zengati
hounds, snow-white and big as bears."
"That's a fine detail to forget," growled Micum.
"Here, let me show you what to do." Taking Alec's
left hand, Seregil folded down all the fingers
except the index and fourth, then turned the palm
downward.
"There. All you have to do is look the dog in the eye,
make we sign by snapping the little finger down-like this-and
say Peace, friend hound' as you do it."
"I've seen you do that trick. That's not what you
said," Alec remarked, repeating the hand sign.
"Soora thasdli,
you mean? Well, you can say it in Aurenfaie I*
you like. I just thought it might be easier for you
to remember in your own language."
"Peace, friend hound," Alec repeated, performing the
hand
S1
ch"not. "Anything else I should know?"
lyim Flewelling
"Let's see, the spikes, the dogs, the
servants- No, I think we covered it that
time. Luck in the shadows, Alec."
"And to you," Alec muttered, starting up the wall
again.
The top of the wall was indeed set with spikes and
thick shards of broken crockery. Clinging to the edge
of the wall, he pulled his cloak up from behind and wadded
it up on top of the sharp points in front of him.
Hooking an elbow over the thick material, he
tugged the cloak strings loose from his neck.
The garden below appeared to be empty, though muffled
sounds of the familiar kitchen variety issued from a
half-open door at the back of the house. Hitching
himself swiftly over the top of the wall, Alec
lowered himself by his fingertips and dropped down the other
side.
The garden centered on an oval pool. Graveled
walkways showed pale in the darkness between planting
beds and leafless trees. An especially large
tree growing close to the carved balcony running the
length of the second story looked to provide the
easiest way in.
The shadows closed in around Alec as he stole
toward the tree. He moved silently, careful
to avoid the gravel paths. He was in reach of the
trunk when something large stirred just beside him.
Hot, wet jaws closed firmly on his right arm,
just above the elbow.
The white hound might not have been quite as large as a
bear, but Alec was not about to argue the point. The beast
did not growl or tear at him, but held him fast,
regarding him with eyes that shone yellow in the dimness.
Fighting down the impulse to struggle or cry out,
Alec quickly made the left-handed sign and
croaked,
"Soora,
friend hound."
Not seeming to mind the mixed translation, the dog
obliged immediately, padding off into the darkness without a
backward glance. Alec was up the tree and reaching
for the marble balustrade almost before he realized he was
moving again.
Dry leaves had collected in little piles on the
balcony. Stepping over these, he inspected the two
windows that flanked an ornate door leading into the
house; the door was locked, the darkened windows
covered with heavy shutters.
With a silent nod to Illior, he set to work on the
door. Sliding a wire along the edge, he found
three separate locks. Moving on to the larger
window, he found two equally stubborn
mechanism


there. The third window, scarcely large enough to admit
a child, was secured with a single shutter.
During a lesson on housebreaking, Seregil had
once remarked that the way least likely was often least
barred. Alec pulled a thin strip of limewood from
the roll and worked it around the edges of the shutter. In
less than a minute he found the two hooks
securing it. These yielded readily and the shutter
swung back to expose a small panel of leaded
glass. The room beyond was quite dark.
Praying that any occupant would have set up an alarm
by now, he went to work with the wire again and threw the single
hasp lock with no difficulty at all. The pane
swung in on silence. Slipping the tools back
into his coat, Alec pulled himself up by the window
frame and wriggled in feet first. Lowering himself into the
room, his foot struck something that overturned with a
clatter.
He dropped in with his back to the wall and listened for
an outcry; none came. Groping in the darkness, he
pulled out the lightstone.
An overturned washstand lay on the floor
beside him.
Thank the gods for carpets!
he thought wryly, righting it and replacing the basin and
pitcher.
The spacious bedchamber was plainly furnished
by Rhiminee standards. A broad bed with hangings of
translucent silk took up much of one end of the
room. A dressing gown draped carelessly across the
foot and a thick book propped open against the
bolsters, together with the remains of a fire on the marble
hearth, all warned of recent occupation.
There were several tall wardrobes and chests against the
other walls. A gaming table stood next to the single
deep armchair drawn up before the fireplace.
Thick, patterned carpet gave underfoot as Alec
moved across to an interior door. Finding it
unlocked, he pocketed the light and took a
cautious peek through.
A corridor ran the length of this level, with
several other dgors on each side. Halfway
down the right-hand wall was a staircase leading down.
Light came up from below, and with it music and the sounds of
lively conversation.
Alec stepped out into the corridor and closed the
door of the edroom behind him. Picturing the
location of the study, he oved quickly down the
corridor to a pair of doors at the far
was The one in question was secured with a complicated lock.
lynn Flewelling
Feeling nervous and exposed, Alec tried one
pick and then another. Twirling a third in, he
closed his eyes and explored the wards by feel.
The master of the house evidently set great value
on privacy; like those on the windows, this was no common
device. The endless lessons at SeregiFs
workbench paid off, however. The lock gave and he was
in.
A writing desk and chair stood between two tall
windows overlooking the street. A glance outside
found the avenue busier than ever. Pulling the
drapes shut, Alec took out the lightstone and sat
down to begin his search.
A few items lay arranged in orderly fashion
on the polished desktop: ink wells, a bundle
of uncut quills, and a sand shaker stood ready on
a silver tray beside a tidy stack of parchments.
Next to these was an empty dispatch box. Finding
nothing of note, he moved on to the drawers.
The wide central drawer was flanked by two narrow
ones. The central one was locked but
yielded readily. Inside were packets of
correspondence tied up with silk cord, a stick
of sealing wax, a sand brush, and a penknife.
The left drawer was lined with silk and contained four
locks of hair. Each had been carefully tied up
with ribbon and one, a thick curl of raven black,
was adorned with a jeweled pin. Reaching over these
tokens, Alec found a velvet pouch containing a
thick golden ring and a small ivory carving of a
nude man.
The third drawer held a more mundane
collection-used blotting paper, wax tablets,
styluses, a tangled skein of twine, a litter of
gaming stones-but nothing resembling a correspondence
case. Going to the door, Alec checked the
corridor again and then continued with his task.
Pulling out all three drawers, he lined them up and
discovered the narrow ones to be a full hand's-breadth
shorter than the central.
The desk was a casework piece, enclosed on the
bottom as well as the sides. Peering in, he
saw that the cavity for the central drawer ran to the
back of the desk, separated from the side drawers
by thin wooden dividers on either side. These also ran
the depth of the desk. Small leather-faced
blocks were fixed to the bottom of the cavity to keep the
drawer flush with the front skirt when closed.
Similar stop blocks were in the side drawer
tracks. but there was a difference. Just behind these, the
cavities ended

in wooden panels that sealed off whatever space lay
beyond. Inexperienced he might be, but the whole
costly, overly complicated structure of the piece
seemed to promise at least one secret compartment.
Sliding his arm into each of the three spaces, Alec
pressed and tapped with no success. As he sat
back in exasperation, wondering what Seregil would
do, his gaze wandered to the dispatch box. A memory
leapt to mind; Seregil toying with a similar box
during their burglary in Wolde, finding a secret
mechanism.
Running his hands slowly over every surface of the
desk, he finally located a tiny lever concealed
next to the right front leg. When he shifted it,
however, nothing seemed to happen, not even a
telltale click. Perspiration beaded his upper
lip as he knelt and inspected the interior of the
desk again.
This time he noticed something he'd missed
before. The unfinished wood on the bottom of the
central drawer track showed the parallel wear
marks that one might expect to find; these he'd seen.
But halfway in, toward the center of the panel, a
faint, curving scuff could just be made out, arcing from a
point midway between the two more pronounced marks and
terminating abruptly at the right-hand divider.
Looking closer, he realized that there was also the
tiniest hairline gap between the lower edge of the partition
and the bottom of the desk. If not for that arcing scratch,
he might have passed it off as nothing more than the
result of the wood shrinking in the dry winter air,
causing a joint to pull apart.
He pressed the hidden lever again, at the same time
pushing firmly against the edge of the partition closest
to him. Pivoting on unseen pins, the partition swung
into the central opening and out over Alec's lap,
revealing a small triangular compartment attached to the
far end. Grinning in silent triumph, Alec
lifted out a leather folder and heard the muffled
crackle of parchment. Cramming it into the front of his
coat, he quickly put everything else back the way
he'd found it.
Back in the corridor, he locked the study door
again for thoroughness" sake. No sooner had
the last ward fallen into place, however, when he
heard footsteps on the staircase behind him. There was
no time to unlock the door or retreat to the
bedchamber at the far end of the hall; the light of a
candle was brightening rapidly toward the head of the
stairs.
In desperation, Alec tried the door of the room
next to the
Lynn Flewelling
study; the handle turned smoothly under his hand.
Ducking inside, he put his eye to the crack of the
door.
Two women had just reached the top of the stairs. One
carried a candelabra and by its light he could see that
both were expensively dressed and quite beautiful.
"He said to look on the second shelf to the right of the
door, a thick folio bound in green and gold," the
younger one said, peering around the hallway.
"This is a lucky night indeed, Ysmay,"
remarked her companion. "One so seldom has a
chance to visit his library. But which room is it?
It's been so long since I was last up here."
Jewels winked in the dark coils of the young woman's
hair as she turned Alec's way. More jewels
sparkled in the intricate necklace that
covered her chest. In fact, Alec saw, the
necklace was very nearly the only thing covering her
breasts. The bosom of the dress was cut so low the
top of one nipple peeped out from the fretwork of
gems and gold.
"I must thank you again, dear aunt, for bringing me
tonight!" the girl exclaimed. "I nearly swooned
when you presented me to him. I can still feel his lips
on my hand."
"A fact I pray your esteemed father never
learns," her aunt replied with a low, musical
laugh. "I felt just the same the first time I met
him. He's one of the most charming men in Rhiminee,
and so handsome! But take care, my dear. No woman
has ever held his fancy for long, or man either. But
now for that excellent manuscript. Which room is
it?"
"This one, I think," replied the girl, making
straight for the room where Alec was hiding. He
pressed back against the wall behind the door, hoping
for the best,
"La, this isn't it," the aunt exclaimed as the
candles illuminated a bedchamber similar to the one
at the back of the house.
"Is it
his
room?" breathed Ysmay, stepping toward the bed.
"I shouldn't think so. See that painted chest there?
Mycenian work. Not his sort of thing at all. Come,
my dear, I think I have my bearings now."
As soon as the women had disappeared into a room down
the corridor, Alec bolted silently for the first
bedchamber. Not daring to chance the lightstone again, he
found the dim outline of the little window and made for it.
He hadn't gone three paces when a large,
callused hand

clamped over his mouth. Another seized his right arm,
pinning it behind his back as he twisted and struggled.
"Hold him!" a voice hissed from somewhere across the
room.
"Got him!" a deep voice rasped next
to Alec's ear. The hand across his mouth clamped
tighter. "Not a sound, you. And quit yer wigglin'!"
A lightstone appeared and his captor swung him
roughly about to face it. Alec gave another
convulsive twist, then froze with a strangled grunt
of astonishment.
Standing there, one arm propped on the corner of the
mantel, was Seregil. At his waved
command, the man holding Alec released him and he
spun to find himself facing Micum Cavish.
"By the Flame, boy, you're worse than an eel
to hang on to!" Micum exclaimed softly.
"Did you get the case?" asked Seregil.
"Yes, I got it," Alec whispered, casting a
nervous glance in the direction of the door. "But what
are you doing in here?"
Seregil shrugged. "And why shouldn't I be in my own
bedroom?"
"Your own-
Yours?"
sputtered Alec. "I went through all that to burgle
your
house?"
"Not so loud! Don't you see? We wanted to make
sure you had a proper challenge."
Alec glared at the two of them, cheeks aflame,
all his careful work reduced to a ridiculous
charade. "By breaking into your own house? What kind
of a challenge is that?"
"Don't take on so," Seregil said in honest
consternation. "You just got into one of the most difficult
houses in the city! I admit, I removed a few
of the more deadly wards, but do you think just any
common tickler could have gotten past those locks you
found?"
"This is the last place we'd send you into if we
didn't think you were ready," added Micum.
Alec chewed this over angrily for a long moment,
arms locked across his chest. "Well, it was pretty
hard. The study door was nearly the end of me."
"You see!" Seregil cried, throwing an arm around
Alec's shoulders and giving the boy a rough hug.
"For plain housebreak- ing I'd say you
acquitted yourself boldly. In fact, you surprised
us both by weaseling in through that little window. Remind me
to
Lynn Flewelling
see to that tomorrow, will you? And that was a quick bit of thinking
when the ladies wandered through."
Alec pulled back, eyes narrowing suspiciously
again. "You
sent
them!"
"Actually, that was my idea," said Micum. "You were
having such an easy time of it. Admit it now, it will
make a better story later on with that."
"So what now?" asked Alec, still wary. "Tonight, I
mean."
"Tonight?" Seregil's grin went crooked. "Why,
tonight we have guests to attend to."
"The party? This party? Now? You said before you were doing that
in a couple of days!"
"Did
I? Well, it's a-lucky thing we're already
dressed for the occasion. By the way, how did you like your
new room?"
Alec grinned sheepishly, recalling the woman's
remark about the painted Mycenian chest in the room
where he'd hidden. "From what little I saw of it, it
seems very-useful."
Reluctantly following Micum and Seregil
downstairs, he found himself faced with a room full of
elegant strangers.
Dozens of thick candles lit the room, their honeyed
scent like the distillation of long-dead summers. Their
radiance was given back everywhere in the flash of
jewels and the sheen of silks and polished leather.
The salon itself was no less elegant than those who
occupied it. The high walls of the room had been
painted to look like a forest glade, the tops of
life-size oaks extending up across the vaulted
ceiling overhead. Garlands of brightly flowering vines
adorned the trees, and between their trunks
distant mountains and ocean vistas were visible.
Musicians played on a carved balcony
overhead.
Seregil paused halfway down the great staircase
and laid a hand on Alec's arm.
"Most honored guests!" he called, assuming the
formal manner he'd used while playing Lady
Gwethelyn aboard the
Darter.
"Allow me to present my ward and companion, Sir
Alec of Ivywell, lately of Mycena. Make
yourselves known to him, I pray you, for he is new to our
great city and has made few acquaintances."
Alec's mouth went dry as dozens of expectant
faces turned to him.
"Steady now," whispered Micum. "Just remember
who you're

supposed to be." Slipping the boy a covert luck
sign, he moved off into the crowd.
At the bottom of the stairs, a servant stepped
forward with a tray of iced wine. Alec took a cup
and drained it in a hasty gulp.
"Go easy with that," Seregil murmured, propelling
him gently forward. Playing the gracious
host, he made a circuit of the room, moving
smoothly from one knot of conversation to another.
The guests seemed to be mostly minor nobles and
wealthy merchants associated with "Lord
SeregHave's" business interests. There was much talk
of caravans and shipping, but the most popular topic
was clearly the possibility of war in the spring.
"I hardly think there can be any question," sniffed a young
nobleman introduced to Alec as Lord Melwhit.
"Preparations have been going on since summer."
"Indeed," a portly lord grumbled over his wine
cup. "You can hardly come by a decent stick of
lumber these last few months with the requisitioners
snapping up everything in sight. I doubt I shall be
able to complete my solarium before spring!"
"Wolde cloth?" a woman exclaimed nearby.
"Don't speak to me of Wolde cloth! With all the
new tariffs, I can scarcely afford a new riding
mantle. And gold? Mark my words, Lord
Decius, before this is over we shall all be reduced
to wearing beads and feathers."
"And what a delightful fashion that would prove,"
exclaimed her companion.
Trailing along with Seregil, Alec suddenly found
himself face-to-face with the two women he'd
seen upstairs.
"Allow me to introduce a very dear friend of mine,"
said Seregil with a hint of his wicked smile.
"Lady Kylith, may I present Sir Alec
of Ivywell. Sir Alec, Lady Kylith of
Rhiminee, and her niece, Lady Ysmay of
Orutan."
Executing his best courtly bow, Alec felt his
cheeks go warm. Lady Kylith's velvet gown
draped a form still slender and elegant; like those worn
by most other women of fashion present, it left her
bosom nearly bare beneath a tissue of thinnest silk
and a heavily jeweled necklace.
"What a fortunate young man you are!" purred
Kylith, envel- dgPing the boy in a languorous
dark-eyed gaze that sent his heart locking again. "Our
friend Lord Seregil is one of the most cultured
gentlemen in the city, well versed in all the
pleasures
lyim Flewellfng
Rhiminee has to offer. I am certain you will find
your time with him most enjoyable and instructive."
"You flatter me, dear lady," murmured
Seregil. "But perhaps I might presume on our
friendship? Would you partner Sir Alec in the
first waltz? I believe the musicians have just
struck up one of your favorites."
"A pleasure," replied Kylith with a curtsey.
"And perhaps you would return the boon by partnering my
niece. I did, after all, promise her an
evening of wicked pleasures, and I cannot think of a
greater one than to dance with you."
Blushing prettily, Ysmay accepted Seregil's
arm. At this signal, the other guests formed couples
and assembled for the dance.
Kylith extended her hand to Alec with a dazzling
smile. "Will you do me the honor, sir?"
"The honor is mine, I assure you," Alec
replied. The words sounded wooden and foolish to his
ears but he pressed on as best he could. "I must
warn you, though, I've never been called a
graceful dancer."
Taking her place in front of him, she gave him
another melting look. "Think nothing of it, my
dear. The instruction of inexperienced young men is one
of life's unrivaled pleasures."
Seregil set about a playful flirtation with Ysmay
while keeping one eye on Alec. As expected,
Kylith put the boy at ease in no time. Another
dance or two under her influence, and Alec
would feel like he'd moved in such society his whole
life. She'd had that same affect on Seregil
years before.
Beginning as a courtesan in the Street of Lights,
Kylith had risen to nobility when a headstrong young
lord had brooked the strenuous opposition of family
and class to marry her. Over the years her beauty,
discretion, and lancing wit had earned her a degree
of acceptance and drawn in the best of Rhiminee
society to her famous gatherings. The finest artists
and musicians of the day were to be found in her house,
mingling with adventurers, wizards, and ministers of the
highest offices. Few outside of the Queen's
Park knew more than she of what went on in the
council chambers and bedrooms of Rhiminee.
It had been for just such a reason that Nysander had
introduced Seregil to her after the end of his
ill-fated apprenticeship.

Charmed by his mysterious past and questionable reputation,
Kylith had drawn him into her bright circle and, for a
brief time after the death of her husband, into her bed.
He'd never been certain if she'd guessed him
to be the faceless, unpredictable "Cat" of
Rhiminee fame rather than a mere
intermediary, but she often relayed requests for
services to him, knowing that results were generally
swift.
Whatever the case, she was one of the few nobles in whose
discretion he had any faith. If Alec should
falter in his role tonight, she would not broadcast the
fact. And Alec did appear to be enjoying her
company.
Keeping up his side of the agreement, he turned his
full attention on Ysmay and flirted
outrageously with her until she quivered in his arms.
Alec was midway through his second dance with Kylith
when Micum laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Forgive me, lady, I must borrow your partner for a
moment," he said, bowing to Kylith. "Alec, a
word?"
Trouble?
Alec signed as Micum walked him toward the
front entrance of the hall. The big man's grim
sidelong glance was answer enough.
In the small entrance chamber at the front of the
house they found Seregil boxed in by four
bluecoats. Another was binding his hands in front of
him. Seregil's old manservant, Runcer,
stood wringing his hands and weeping nearby.
An officer wearing the chain of a Queen's Bailiff
rolled up a black-ribboned scroll as Micum
and Alec approached. Seregil's stony
expression revealed nothing.
"What's going on here?" Micum demanded.
"And who might you be, sir?" replied the
bailiff.
"Sir Micum Cavish of Watermead, friend of Lord
Seregil. This boy is his ward, Sir Alec of
Ivywell. Why are you arresting this man?"
The bailiff consulted another scroll and took a
second look at the two of them. "Lord Seregil
of Rhiminee stands accused of treason. I am also
charged to instruct Sir Alec not to attempt to leave
the city."
Eyeing the man with chilly dignity, Micum asked
quietly, "Am I to understand he is under
suspicion as well?"
Lynn Flewelling
"Not at present, Sir Micum. But those are my
instructions."
"Seregil, what's happening?" asked Alec,
finding his voice at last.
Seregil gave a grim shrug. "Some sort of
misunderstanding, apparently. Make my
apologies to the guests, would you?"
Alec nodded numbly. Glancing down at
Seregil's bound hands, he saw him give the sign
of Nysander's name, one long forefinger curled tightly
over his thumb.
"Come along, my lord," said the bailiff, grasping
Seregil's elbow.
"Where are you taking him?" Alec demanded, following
as the guards led Seregil out to an enclosed black
cart.
"That's not for me to sayea.sir. Good evening."
Climbing in behind Seregil, the bailiff motioned to the
driver and the cart rumbled off down the cobbled street.
"Seregil said to go to Nysander," Alec whispered,
feeling Micum beside him.
"I saw. We'd better go."
"But what about the guests?"
"I'll have a quick word with Kylith. She'll manage
things."
Alec watched miserably as the cart disappeared into the
night. "Where do you think they're taking him?"
"It's a Queen's Warrant arrest, so it'll be
Red Tower Prison," Micum said, looking
bleak. "And that's one place not even Seregil can
get out of on his own."
LL
LLJ
Alec and Micum were halfway to the Oreska
House when a tiny message sphere winked into being in
front of them.
"Alec, Micum, come to the Cockerel at once!"
Alec blinked in surprise. "That was Thero."
"Bilairy's Balls!" muttered Micum,
changing direction.
At the Cockerel they found Thero waiting for them, but
not his master.
"Where's Nysander?" Alec asked, somewhat taken
aback that Thero also knew how to enter Seregil's
closely warded rooms.
"With the Queen," the young wizard replied, looking
stiffly out of place in the midst of SeregiFs
mess. "He sent me to meet you. He'll join us
here as soon as he's able."
"I take it he was as surprised by the arrest as we
were?" asked Micum, tossing Seregil's sword
belt onto the table.
"Events have moved more rapidly than any of us
anticipated. Nysander is quite worried over the
fact that Idrilain did not consult with him before
ordering the arrest."
"But what happened?" fretted Alec, pacing in
frustration. "Nysander stopped the letter! Seregil said
they'd never dare to send another without knowing what
happened to the first."
Lynn Flewelling
"I have no idea. The Queen sent word that he'd
been taken to the Red Tower, nothing more. Was the arrest
carried out discreetly?"
"If it hadn't been for Runcer, we might have
missed it altogether," glowered Micum.
Thero rubbed his chin pensively. "That's a hopeful
sign, anyway."
For the first time in their brief acquaintance, it occurred
to Alec that Thero must be a Watcher, too. With this
revelation came the certainty that it was this fact, rather
than any personal feelings for Seregil, which
engaged his interest now.
"Do you think they'll-was Memories tightened
coldly in Alec's chest. "Do you think they'd
torture him?"
Thero arched an eyebrow, considering. "That would depend
on the severity of the charge, I suppose."
"The bailiff said treason."
"Ah. Yes, I'd say it was quite likely."
"Damn it, Thero, show some sense!"
Micum growled, catching at Alec's arm as the
boy went pale. "Steady now, there's no use
thinking like that. Nysander would never allow it."
"I doubt Nysander could interfere," Thero countered,
oblivious to Alec's distress. "The Red Tower
is protected by magic as well as bars; Nysander
and I did some work in there ourselves. Not only that, but
given Nysander's close association with Seregil,
he can't afford any suggestion of interference with the
law."
"What are we going to do?" asked Alec.
"We're going to sit here and wait for Nysander, as
ordered," Micum said calmly. Giving Thero a
dark look, he added, "Meanwhile, there's no use
wasting time in idle speculation."
Nysander felt a certain relief when the royal
messenger led him to the Queen's private audience
chamber rather than the Great Hall. There had always been
little need for ceremony between them; he had known
Idrilain since infancy, and though he had always
afforded her the respect due her station, their ties of
mutual affection generally allowed them to drop
formality in private. Something in her cool
greeting, however, conveyed a warning.
Even in her evening robe, greying hair
free over her shoul-

ders, Idrilain looked like the warrior she was.
Joining her at the small wine table, Nysander did
his best to mask his rising uneasiness. Neither spoke
until they had saluted each other with their wine cups
and taken the ritual sip, signifying their pledge
to speak honestly.
"You have arrested Seregil," Nysander said, getting
directly to the point. "On what charge?"
"Treason."
The wizard's heart sank; somehow, their enemies had
outflanked them. He must proceed with caution and
respect. "Upon what evidence is he being charged?"
"Lord Barien received this earlier today." Idrilain
pushed a rolled document across to him.
He recognized the opening lines; it was based on
one of the half-finished letters Seregil had sold
to Ghemella. Like the last, it had every mark of being
authentic except its contents. Handwriting,
signature, ink-all were consistent.
"It appears genuine, I admit," Nysander said
at last. "And yet I do not believe that it was
composed by Seregil. May I inquire as to your
opinion?"
"My opinion is irrelevant. It's my duty
to deal in facts," she replied. "So far no
evidence of tampering, magical or otherwise, has
been discovered on that parchment."
"And yet you must have doubts or I would not be sitting
here with you now," Nysander suggested gently.
The regal mask slipped just a bit at that. "I
don't know Seregil well, Nysander, but I know
you. I know that you've been worthy of my trust, and that
of the three queens before me. It's difficult for me
to believe that anyone you hold in such esteem could be a
traitor. If you know anything about this, you'd better
tell me now."
Nysander drew the forged letter he'd intercepted from his
coat and handed it to her. "I came into possession of
this a week ago. Believe me when I tell you that
I would have spoken to you at once if I had the
slightest doubt as to Seregil's innocence. The
initial content is based on a letter Seregil did
in fact write, but the damning lines were added by the
forger. I have spoken with Seregil about it and have every
reason to believe that he speaks the truth."
Idrilain's face darkened again as she compared the two
letters. I don't understand. If these are false, then
they're masterpieces
lyim Flewelling
of forgery. Who would go to such lengths to discredit a
person of such small importance? Forgive the
bluntness of an old soldier, Nysander, but aside
from his friendship with you and my children, what is Seregil but
an exiled wastrel noble with a bit of trader's
sense? He has no power at my court, no
influence."
"True. Which leaves nothing of significance
except his rather tenuous connection to you, or perhaps even
to me. And who but the Lerans would find this of value?"
"The Lerans?" Idrilain said derisively. "A
bunch of narrow- minded malcontents mouthing the
empty threats even their great- grandparents didn't
believe! By the Four, Nysander, the Lerans have been
nothing more than a political bugbear since the time
of Elani the Fair."
"So it is generally believed, my lady. Yet you
must remember that I was a boy at the wedding of your
ancestor and namesake, Idrilain the First, when she
took the Aurenfaie, Corruth, as her consort.
Seven generations later, who but a handful of old
wizards recall the shouts of anger outside the
temple during the ceremony? Yet I tell you,
my Queen, that at this moment I hear them as
clearly as I did then. "A Skalan lord for the
Skalan people!" they screamed as the Queen's
Horse rode out with swords and clubs. And it was not
only the rabble who protested, but nobles, as well,
who felt their honor usurped by foreign blood. I
saw these same nobles stand by Queen Lera through her
oppressive reign. I watched the public
protests when her half sister Corrathesthera took
the throne after Lera's death."
"And yet my ancestor Corruthesthera reigned
unchallenged by any revolution, and her descendants
after her."
"And two of those queens died under questionable
circumstances."
"Rumors! Elani died in the Great Plague, and
Klia was poisoned by Plenimaran assassins."
"So history has decided, my Queen. Yet there
was talk to the contrary at the time."
"Nothing was proven in either case. And without proof to the
contrary, you're left standing on smoke," Idrilain
asserted stubbornly. "Which brings us back
to Seregil. Perhaps it
would
be to the Lerans' advantage to embarrass me through
him. Sakor knows, I can't afford
division among my own people with the threat of war hanging
over us. Still, you realize that by giving me

this second letter, you have doubly damned him unless you can
produce proof that they're not genuine?"
"I do," replied Nysander. "And I give it to you
as a pledge of my good faith, knowing I must prove
him innocent or watch a man I love as my own
son executed in the most horrible fashion. You have
him in custody. Word will spread, just as the Lerans
intend. All I ask of you is time to produce
proof of his innocence."
Pressing her palms together, Idrilain rested her
forehead against her fingertips. "I can afford no show of
leniency. Barien is planning to pursue the matter
personally."
"And his loyalty to you is unclouded by any regard for
Seregil?"
"Precisely."
Nysander hesitated an instant, then reached across the
table and clasped her hands in his. "Grant me
two days, Idrilain, I beseech you. Tell
Barien whatever you wish, but give me time to save a
man more loyal and valuable than you know."
Astonishment dawned on Idrilain's
face as the implication struck home. "Seregil,
a Watcher? Sakor's Flame, can I be that blind?"
"He is a master of his craft, my dear,"
Nysander said rather sadly. "Regardless of what I would
have wished for him, Illior has set him a path
all his own. With your permission, I would prefer
to say no more, except that I gladly stake my own
honor on his loyalty to Skala and to you."
Idrilain shook her head doubtfully. "I hope
you never have cause to regret those words, my friend. He
was a traitor once; we both know that. What you've
just told me-that could be a double-edged thing."
"I stand by him, nonetheless."
"Very well, then. Two days. But I can't give you
any longer, and your evidence must be irrefutable! I
don't suppose I need to warn you that any
interference in the due process of the law would be most
unwise?"
Nysander rose and bowed deeply. "I understand
perfectly, my lady."
Riding at once to the Cockerel, Nysander made
no effort to
ni
de his concern from the others waiting there.
"It is as we feared," he told them.
"A second forged letter has
Lyim Flewelltng
been delivered to the Vicegerent, this one dated the
sixth of Erasin. Ironically, the original was one
that Seregil handed over to Ghemella as part of his
scheme to entrap the forger."
"The sixth of Erasin?" Alec counted back.
"That's just after we met. We were still out on the Downs
then."
"Bloody hell!" growled Micurn. "Either the
bastards know about Seregil's work or they struck
lucky in the dark. Either way, they've fixed it so
he either has to rig up some lie or reveal himself.
And
that
could prove a death sentence in itself."
"I could say he was at Ivywell," Alec
offered. "We've already set up the story that he
brought me down from there. He was telling everyone at the
party about it."
"I fear not," said Nysander. "That tale serves
well enough in some circles, but would not bear up under the
scrutiny of the Queen's inquisitors. At the very
least, witnesses would be sent for from Mycena. When
none appeared, you would find yourself as deeply
implicated as Seregil. Besides, there is no time.
Idrilain has given us just two days' grace. I
fear our best recourse is to pursue Seregil's
original plan regarding Hind Street."
"I've been thinking about that," mused Micum. "It
took Seregil a week to find Alben, and he's not
even certain he's the right one. Assuming that we do
find a cache-that there is one- what if he's not our
man after all? It could take us weeks to run down
information that Seregil could come up with in a few days'
time."
Nysander spread his hands resignedly. "True.
Yet at the moment I can think of no other option."
"If only he'd had another day," Alec
exclaimed bitterly. "He was all smiles about it
tonight, as if he had all the time in the world."
"It occurs to me," said There, who'd been quiet for
some time, "that Alec's absence at Wheel Street
this evening will surely have been remarked upon. Perhaps an
appearance at the prison would not be out of
place-expressions of outrage, bewilderment, and the
like? While it would not be politic for Nysander to be
seen there, who would question Lord Seregil's young ward
bringing his protector a few necessities for the
night? A blanket, perhaps, and some clean
linen-was
"A lock pick!"
There spared Alec a withering glance. "Only if you
want to guarantee your place on the gibbet beside
him. My thought was
fed
luck in the Shadows

that if they allowed you to see him, he might be able
to pass along some helpful information. If not, what have
we lost?"
"You've a bit of the spy in you after all," said
Micum.
Thero looked slightly offended. "It's simple
logic. My thinking is unclouded by emotion in this
matter."
"Nonetheless, it is a fine idea," said Nysander,
giving the young wizard an approving look. "Well
done, Thero."
Alec rose and reached for his cloak. "I'll go right
now! Are you coming, Micum?"
Nysander raised a warning hand. "A moment first, both
of you. It is imperative that you recognize the
magnitude of our actions. Should anything go awry,
we will have forfeited any credibility we have
left with the Queen. We could all find ourselves in the
Red Tower, or worse."
Having said what was necessary, he was proud to see no
signs of wavering in the others. "Very good. I must
add that any misstep will reflect most disastrously
on the Queen; that must be the final consideration in any
decision. If this does stem back to the Lerans,
any cock-up on our part would play right into their
hands. Nothing would please them more, I am certain,
than the appearance of a widespread conspiracy that
includes myself. With that in mind, I pray for
Illior's favor to grant us all luck in the
shadows."
"I'll second that," said Micum. "Come on,
Sir Alec. We've got work to do."
A dank wind whipped up from the harbor as Alec and
Micum rode up to the prison near the southern
wall of the city. The main tower was a squat, ugly
structure ringed by a bailey wall. Dismounting in the
outer yard, Alec wrinkled his nose at the dismal
stench of urine and burning tallow that hung over the
place.
"It's hard to believe I woke up at Watermead
this morning," he whispered, clutching the little bundle
he'd thrown together.
caret More like yesterday morning now," sighed
Micum.
"What if they don't let us in?"
"Just be as persuasive as possible and have some gold
ready, rhrow back your cloak so they can see you're
a gentleman."
Following Micum's advice, Alec pounded at the
gate.
A bearded face appeared at the door grille.
"What's your business at this hour?"
Lynn Flewelling
"A man was brought in tonight," said Alec. "His name
is Lord Seregil. He's my protector and
I've brought some clothing and blankets for him.
May I see him, please, just for a moment?"
"That dark-haired blade?"
"Yes, that's him."
"It's damned late, you know."
"Inconvenience has its price." Alec held up
a gold half sester. "We'd be very grateful."
Micum stepped closer behind him. "They haven't
given an order against visitors, have they?"
The guard eyed Alec's coin, then turned to confer with
someone else. The gate soon swung open.
"I suppose there's no harm in the lad
going up," the guard said, taking the coin and leading them
into the warder's room. "But just him and only for a
minute. You can wait here by the fire if you like, sir,
while he goes. And I'll have a look through that
bundle first."
Satisfied with the contents of the parcel and a second
coin, the chief warder turned Alec over to another
guard, who led him into the depths of the chilly
edifice.
The walls seemed to press in around Alec as he
followed the warder up flight after drafty flight of
stone stairs. His time in Asengai's dungeon had
left him with an indelible hatred of such places.
Stopping at one of the low cell doors, the guard
peered through the tiny grille. "Visitor, your
lordship!"
A muffled reply came from within.
"You'll have to speak to him through here," the warder told
Alec. "Don't pass nothing through, not even your
hand. I'll see to it that he gets this package."
Taking Alec's bundle, he moved off far enough
to give them a modicum of privacy.
The grille was set deep in the thick wooden
door. Light from the nearest lantern in the
corridor slanted through the bars,
illuminating a crescent of profile and one
glittering eye.
"Are you all right?" Alec whispered anxiously.
"So far," Seregil replied. "It's damn
cold, though."
"I brought a blanket, and some fresh clothes."
"Thanks. Any news?"
Leaning as close as he dared, Alec quickly told
him the details of their conference at the Cockerel.
"Nysander thinks

finding evidence against your forger may be our only
chance. Micum and I'll have to do it, I guess, but
we're not certain how. God, I wish all this
hadn't happened!"
"I know how you feel. Is' the guard still well
away?"
"Yes."
"Then pay attention." Seregil cautiously reached
the fingers of one hand through the bars, signing something about
Micum.
It was too quick. Alec shook his head. "I can
hardly hear you. What did you say?"
"I said it's a dead end. Nothing to be gained,"
Seregil said, raising his voice for the
guard's benefit as he signed again, more slowly this
time.
His fingers were somewhat hampered by the bars, but Alec
got
Tell Micum silver fish.
"I don't understand!" Alec whispered, convinced he
must have gotten the nonsensical message wrong.
"I won't leave you here to rot!"
"Don't fret," Seregil replied, locking
eyes with him. "There's a lucky moon tomorrow night.
Fortify yourself with prayers to the Lightbearer and all will
be well. In the meantime, I entrust you to the care of
Micum Cavish. Heed his wisdom; he's a man
of many parts."
"Sorry, young sir, that's all the time I can give
you," the guard called.
"Damn!" muttered Alec, still convinced he'd
misinterpreted a crucial message. Pretending
to brush back a stray strand of hair, he signed
Silver fish?
To his surprise, Seregil nodded emphatically.
"Come along, sir!"
Alec held Seregil's gaze a moment longer,
heart pounding painfully in his chest. What he could
see of Seregil's mouth tilted up
suddenly in the old reassuring grin.
"Why the long face?" Seregil whispered. "You're
not alone in this, you know. Everything's going to be fine!"
But Alec felt anything but fine as he followed the
guard back down the stairs. Much as he wanted
to believe Seregil's brave assurances, he thought
he'd heard a hollow note in his friend's voice.
They were in a bad spot, and a good deal of it was up
to him to solve. The consequences of failure were too
awful to bear thinking about.
His face must have given something of this away, for the
Lynn Flewelling
guard said kindly, "There now, sir, perhaps it'll
all come right in the end. He seems a good enough
fellow."
Sensing a potential ally, Alec managed to work
up a few tears by the time they reached the bottom of the
stairs. In fact, they came with surprising ease.
As soon as they were out of sight of the prison Alec
passed on Seregil's strange message. For a
moment Micum looked disconcertingly blank.
"Silver fish?" Stroking the corners of his
mustache, he shook his head. Then suddenly he
broke into a broad grin. "By the Flame, he must
have meant
silverfish,
like the insect!"
"That means something to you?" Alec asked, still doubtful.
"Oh, yes! In fact, our sneaky friend has given
us our whole plan of attack. I'll explain when
we get home-home being Wheel Street tonight."
Runcer met them at the door. "The guests have
departed, Sir Alec, and I have laid a fire in
your chamber. Will you be requiring anything else tonight?"
"No, thank you," Alec replied, feeling a bit
confused. The elderly servant's manner conveyed the
impression that he had served Alec all his life.
He was hovering in a manner that suggested he
expected further orders. "Well, I think I can
manage. You should go to bed, ah-was
"Runcer," Micum whispered behind him.
"Runcer, yes. Go to bed. It's late. Thank
you."
Runcer's wrinkled face betrayed nothing but
respectful attention as he bowed good night.
Retreating hastily upstairs, Alec found his new
bedchamber brightly illuminated.
"He's refurbished it," Micum remarked
dryly, looking the place over. "It's
very-Mycenian."
"Is that what you'd call it?"
The cabinets, chests, chairs, and tall, carved
bedstead were all brightly painted with garish fruit and
game motifs. The bed hangings, though faded, were
richly embroidered with a pattern of pomegranates
and wheat. The overall effect was rather overwhelming, even
to Alec's untutored eye. The only familiar
oh

jects in the room were his sword and bow, which lay across
the bed.
"I supposed I'll get used to it," he sighed,
drawing a chair up to the fire. "Now tell me about
the silverfish."
"Old Silverfish was a name we gave to a
slippery customer Nysander had us track down a
few years back," explained Micum. "He was
another blackmailer and, like his namesake, he had a
talent for disappearing into the woodwork. Seregil had a
hell of a time finding his cache. He finally did,
though, and I never saw a prettier bit of
coggery."
"How did he do it?"
"We'll get to that. What else did he tell
you?"
"To depend on you, and that there'd be a lucky moon
tomorrow night when I should pray to Illior. I think
he means we do the burglary then."
"Right. We'll pay a daylight visit to Master
Alben's shop, look the place over, then do the
real work after dark."
"And if he's right? The bailiff who arrested
Seregil had my name, too. Ifirst show up with
evidence they'll never believe us!"
"Probably not. Which means we have to make certain it
gets to the Queen some other way. The City Watch,
for instance. I daresay they'd welcome the
opportunity to arrest a traitor."
"Sure, but why would the Watch believe us any more
than the Queen's Bailiff?"
"They wouldn't," Micum said with a sly smile. "But
Myrhini will."
"Who?" Alec was too tired to place the name
immediately.
"Princess Klia's friend. She's a captain of the
Horse Guard."
Alec, rubbed his eyelids with the heels of his
palms. "Oh, yes, the one who took me to the
barracks for a pass that day Seregil had me
robbed."
"The day he what?"
"Never mind. You think Myrhini will help us?"
"For Klia's sake, if not for Seregil's.
I'll send a message, but I don't expect
we'll see her before dawn. You try out this new bed
of yours in the meantime. I have an idea tomorrow will be
another long day."
Alec gave a humorless laugh. "I don't think
I've seen a short one since I met
Seregil!"
Opening his eyes the next morning, Alec was startled
to find Runcer bending over him. "Forgive me for the
intrusion, Sir Alec, but Sir Micum sent me
to wake you." Moving with fossilized dignity, the
old man set a steaming pitcher on the washstand.
The promise of a watery grey dawn filtered in
at the window. He couldn't have been asleep more than
a few hours. Sitting up, Alec watched the old
servant moving about the room at what were apparently
his morning duties. After laying out the bath items,
he fetched clean linen and a fresh shirt from a clothes
chest and laid them out on the foot of the bed.
Unaccustomed to such ministrations, Alec watched with
growing unease. His experiences at the Oreska
baths had left him wary of servants.
What if the man wanted to help him dress? It was
unnatural, having another person doing things for him
as if he were a child or an invalid. The man's
respectful silence only made matters worse.
"You manage the household, don't you?" Alec
asked as Runcer proceeded to brush his cloak. How
much, he wondered, did this wrinkled old man know of
his real background-or Seregil's, for that matter?

"Of course, sir," Runcer replied with no
discernible change of expression. "Lord Seregil
has left instructions that you be made comfortable.
Breakfast has been laid in the dining room and
Captain Myrhini is expected shortly. Shall I
lay out your clothes, sir?"
"I suppose so."
Runcer went to another chest for breeches, then
creaked to a halt at the wardrobe. "And which coat
would you prefer today, sir?"
Having absolutely no clue as to the contents of the
wardrobe, Alec hazarded a guess. "The blue,
please."
"The blue, sir." The old servant took out an
outrageously ornate coat stitched with gold
beading.
"Well, maybe not the blue," Alec countered
hastily. "I'll decide later."
"Very good, sir."
To Alec's dismay, Runcer did not leave but instead
gave him another of those expectant looks. After
a long, chagrined moment Alec realized he was
waiting to be dismissed.
"Thank you, Runcer, I don't need you."
"Very good, sir." The old man bowed and left the
room.
"Bilairy's Balls!" Jumping out of bed,
Alec stalked to the wardrobe and inspected the
surcoats hanging there. The blue was by far the
gaudiest. Pawing through the others, he found a plain
russet and hurried into his clothes. Not
surprisingly, they all fit as if he'd been
measured for them, even down to the boots.
Seregil did this while I was in Watermead,
Alec thought with a pang.
And none of it will be worth a damn if we don't
get him out of the Tower.
He headed downstairs and followed the smell of
sausage to a pleasant room overlooking the garden.
Micum was seated already, with Seregil's two
Zengati hounds lying to either side of his
chair. Apparently they held no grudge over his
recent burglary. At his approach they merely
raised their gleaming white heads, heavy tails
brushing the floor in welcome.
Micum pushed a plate of sausage his way.
"You'd better eat something. Myrhini will be here any
minute."
They'd barely finished their hasty meal when Runcer
ushered in the tall captain.
"This had better be fast. I've got inspection in
an hour," she
Lyim Flewelling
warned, mud-spattered cloak billowing about her
legs as she joined them at the table.
"How's Klia taking the news of the arrest?" asked
Micum.
"Oh, she's livid, but worried, too. Queen's
Kin or no, Vicegerent Barien's out for blood,
and pissed as hell that Idrilain granted a grace
period before the questioning starts."
"Nysander expected that," said Alec. "Does
Barien have a grudge against Seregil?"
Myrhini held up her hands. "Who knows? According
to Klia, he thinks Seregil's a bad influence and
has never liked his being friends with her and the
twins."
Elesthera and Tymore,
thought Alec. Seregil had drilled him mercilessly
on the royal family. The twins were Klia's
older brother and sister, Idrilain's other children by her
second consort.
"Did you tell Klia you were meeting us?" asked
Micum.
"No and she'll ream me for it when she finds out. But
I agree with you that it's best not to involve her
until we know which way die wind's going to blow.
So, how can I help?"
Micum poured more tea and settled back in his
chair. "There's a man in Hind Street, a forger,
who probably fabricated the false documents that
put Seregil in the Tower. Seregil had planned
to go after him himself tonight; he wants us to go ahead without
him."
"But the evidence can't come from us," added Alec.
"Barien could say we made it up just to clear
Seregil's name."
Myrhini looked out at the grey sky brightening above
the muddy garden. "What you need is someone to tip off
the bluecoats. Someone who won't ask too many
questions."
"That's about the size of it," said Micum. "Of
course, there's a certain amount of risk involved.
I'd understand if you wanted no part of it."
Myrhini waved the warning aside with a disgusted look.
"As it happens, there
is
a certain captain of the Watch who'd be happy enough
to do me a favor. And Hind Street just happens
to be in his ward-to catch a forger squeezing nobles
would be a proper feather in his cap."
Micum grinned knowingly. "Enough said. We'll send
word as soon as we're certain of our man. When we
do, you speak to your bluecoat captain. Alec and
I will play the flushing hounds and he can have the kill.
We'll need you there, though. Your captain can't see
us or know we're involved."

"I'll be there." Myrhini rose to go. "Having one
of the Queen's daughters as best friend and commander does
have its occasional advantages, you know."
Alec made his way through a cold winter drizzle
to Hind Street an hour later. It was a
neighborhood of plain, respectable tenements:
five-story wood and stone buildings constructed around
small interior courtyards.
Dressed as a country lad of good family, he
made a show of great agitation as he asked
directions along the street. He was directed to a
whitewashed building in the third block. Hurrying
into the courtyard, he spotted a brass mortar
hung over a door on the ground level. The
shutters were open. With a silent prayer to Illior
of the Thieves, he lifted the latch and burst into the
little shop.
The low room reeked of herbs and oils. A young
boy stood heating something over a lamp at a table
near the back of the shop.
"Is this the apothecary's?" Alec asked
breathlessly.
"Aye, but Master Alben's still at his breakfast,"
the boy replied without looking up from his work.
"Call him, please!" cried Alec. "I've
been sent for medicine. My poor mother's had an
issue of blood since last night, and nothing
seems to stop it!"
This galvanized the apprentice. Setting his pan
aside, he disappeared through a curtain at the back
of the room, returning a moment later with a balding
man with a long grey beard.
"Master Alben?" asked Alec.
"That's me," the man answered brusquely, brushing
crumbs from the front of his robe. "What's all this
fuss about, first thing in the day?"
"It's my mother, sir. She's bleeding terribly!"
"Durnik told me that much, boy. We've no time
to waste on hysterics," snapped Alben. "Does
the blood come from her mouth, nose, ears, or
womb?"
"From the womb. We're in from the country and didn't
know where to find a midwife. They said at the inn that you
might have herbs-was
"Yes, yes, Durnik, you know which jars."
The apprentice fetched three jars from one of the
crowded
Lynn Flewelling
t less-than i
shelves and the apothecary set to work measuring the herbs
and powders into a mortar. Alec wandered to the window,
wringing his hands with simulated impatience.
In the courtyard outside he saw other tenants of the
place setting out for their day's business. Micum was
just across the way, strolling around the court as if
looking for a particular address. Seeing Alec at
the window, he sauntered over in the direction of a
refuse pile in a corner of the yard.
Alec paced back to the worktable. "Can't you
hurry?" he implored.
"A moment!" snapped Alben, still grinding. "It's
of no use at all if it isn't correctly
mixed- By the Four! Is that
smoke?"
At that moment a cry of "Fire!." went up in the
courtyard, followed by a scream and the sound of running
feet. Dropping his pestle, the apothecary rushed to the
door. The rubbish heap was in flames.
"Fire! Arson!" he shrieked, going white.
"Durnik, fetch water at once! Fire, fire
in the courtyard!"
By now the shout had been taken up through the building and
doors flew open as people hurried out to douse the
blaze.
Young Durnik ran for the well, but his master
disappeared back through the curtain. Following him,
Alec discovered a comfortable sitting room behind the
shop. Alben was hovering at the hearth, gripping one
of the carved pillars supporting the mantel with one
hand, and pulling nervously at his beard with the other.
Seeing Alec in the doorway, he snarled, "What
are you doing in here? Get out!"
"The medicine, sir," Alec ventured
meekly. "For my mother?"
"What? Oh, the medicine! Take it, take it!"
"But the price?"
"Bugger the price, you idiot! Can't you see there's
a fire?" Alben gasped furiously, making no
move to abandon the hearth. "Get out, damn you!"
Backing out through the curtain, Alec dumped the
contents of the mortar into a parchment cone and hurried out
past the crowd that had gathered in the street. A few
blocks from the tenement Micum stepped from an alley
to meet him.
"Well?"
"I think it worked," Alec told him. "As soon
as it started he went right to the room behind the shop and
wouldn't be moved from the hearth."

"We've got him, then! It's just as Seregil said
the first time we pulled that trick on Old
Silverfish: "Shout "Fire" and a mother will race
to save her child, a craftsman for his tools, a
courtesan for her jewel box, and a blackmailer for
his hoard of papers." his
"So now we tell Myrhini?"
"Yes, and pray to Illior this is the
right
forger!"
That night, Seregil found himself with nothing to do but
worry. The cell's tiny slit of a window was too
high to look out of; he gauged the passage of time
by listening to the prison go quiet around him. Hunched
miserably on the hard stone sleeping shelf with his
blankets pulled tight around his shoulders, he
worried.
Have they gone out yet?
In truth, he had no way of knowing if Alec and
Micum had understood the import of his message.
Surely Micum would have found some way to get word in
to you if he hadn "t?
Unless the Lerans found some way to gather Alec and
Micum up in their web, too.
The two of them were certainly tempting targets: both
foreign born, both known friends of an accused
traitor. Even Nysander could be implicated on the
basis of their long relationship. Seregil's
imagination, not always a kind companion at such times,
was soon busy painting alarming scenes of forged letters,
sudden arrests, and worse.
Throwing aside the blankets, he stretched his stiff
muscles and paced the" now familiar confines of the
cell-three strides and turn, three
strides and turn again. It was doubtful that word would come
before dawn even if things went as planned.
He paused at the door, rising on his toes to peer
out the grille. Was it midnight yet? An hour
before? Two hours past? The "lank, silent
corridor told him nothing.
Damnation!
he raged silently, resuming his restless vigil.
By now I'd have done the job and be back home in
front of the fire!
Unless, of course, he'd been wrong about the
apothecary's involvement in the first place.
lyim Flewelling
Alec and Micum met Myrhini in a darkened
square near Hind Street. She'd wisely put
aside her uniform in favor of a plain tunic and
breeches under a dark cloak, though she'd kept her
sword. Unrolling an awkward bundle, she handed
them two pot- brimmed helmets like those worn by the
City Watch.
"Where did you come by these?" asked Micum, trying his
on.
"Don't ask. If things do go wrong, you can pass
for some of Tyrin's men in the dark."
"This Tyrin of yours, he's up to this?"
Myrhini nodded. "He has ten men in an alley
across from your man's tenement and two lookouts in the
courtyard. They've been told to move at the first
sign of disturbance inside. 1 just hope Alec can
manage it without getting caught."
"If I can get in, then I can get out again,"
Alec said quietly, tucking his helmet under his
arm.
Leaving their horses tethered in the square, the three
set off together for Hind Street. Slipping into a
narrow alley beside Alben's building, they took
stock of the situation.
The lower floor showed no light between the shutters,
nor was any apparent on the upper level, where
Alben's chamber would be. A small window
overlooking the alley appeared to be the best point of
entry.
Pulling off his boots, Alec climbed onto
Micum's shoulders and peered through a crack in the
shutters. The room beyond was quite dark and no telltale
sounds of breathing or snoring warned of anyone within.
Jiggering the latch inside as quietly as he could,
Alec opened the shutter and climbed through.
He smelled candle smoke in the darkness, felt
bare floor beneath his feet. Faint
candlelight showed at the top of a stairway across the
room. As his eyes adjusted, Alec realized with
relief that he was in the very room he'd come
to burgle. But someone, presumably Alben, was still
awake upstairs after all. A creak of
floorboards came from overhead, followed by a
muffled cough. The sitting room fire had been
banked, however, meaning the master of the house was not coming
down again before morning- Alec took a lightstone on
a handle from his tool roll and shielded it with one hand
as he crept to the door leading to the shop. It had
been closed and bolted for the night.
Alec fumbled a leather cone out of his pouch and fitted
it over the stone to shield the light.
It didn't take long to find what he was looking
for. Running

his fingers over the carved moldings that framed the
fireplace, he soon struck a loose edge on
the thick square base of one of the decorative
posts. Working the tip of his dagger under it, he
uncovered a deep, narrow cavity in the stonework of the
fireplace. Inside lay a long iron box
secured with a heavy lock. Hunkering down, he
picked the lock and opened the box. Inside
were several bundles of documents. His skill at
reading was by no means great but he knew Seregil's
large, flowing script and signature well enough
to recognize them among the others. One entire
packet was made up of letters in SeregiFs hand,
some complete, some half finished. There were eleven in
all, and several were clearly duplicates of others.
Got you, by the Maker!
Replacing the documents, he returned the casket
to its hiding place, carefully leaving the concealing bit
of stonework slightly askew.
This accomplished, he picked up a small
footstool and went back to the window. With one leg
hooked over the sill, he tossed the stool into the
center of the room with a loud thump and dropped down
into the alley. Poised for flight, he and the others
listened for an outcry to be raised.
Nothing happened.
"How could they not have heard that? 7 heard it!"
whispered Myrhini.
Micum shrugged. "You'd better give it another
try."
With another boost from Micum, Alec peeked over
the sill. The faint glow of candlelight still showed in the
stairwell but there was no sign of life.
Climbing in, he briefly considered setting
another fire but dismissed the thought; at this time of
night the whole place might go up before enough water
carriers could be roused. Casting around, he spotted a
glazed jar on the mantelpiece. That would do
nicely. He smashed it against the fire irons.
This produced an admirable crash and drew startled
shouts from upstairs and down. Satisfied, he
lunged for the window, caught his foot on the
overturned footstool, and went sprawling.
"Is that you, Master Alben?" a quavering voice
called from beyond the shop door.
"Damn and blast you, Durnik!" an outraged
voice screeched somewhere above. "What in the name of
Bilairy's Bitch are you
d
dging down there?"
Scrambling to his feet, Alec glimpsed a
pair of bony ankles at
lynn Flewelling
the head of the stairs. He threw himself out the window and
tumbled into Micum's waiting arms.
"That did the trick!" Micum chuckled, clapping
the helmet on Alec's head as the boy hastily
pulled on his boots. Together, they hustled
off down the alley, while Myrhini disappeared in the
opposite direction to make sure of Tyrin's
support.
Stopping at the far end of the alley, Micum and
Alec heard Alben cursing his befuddled servant.
The shuttered window banged open, then slammed shut
again. A moment later they could hear soldiers
hammering at the front door of the shop.
The alley window opened again and this time an ungainly
figure in a long nightshirt clambered out.
"Bloody hell!" Micum exclaimed in disgust.
"Don't tell me every damn bluecoat is going in
the front door?"
The street running behind the building did appear to be
unguarded.
"Quick, draw your sword!" Alec whispered, doing
the same. His left hand found the lightstone he'd
jammed in his pouch and he held it over their heads,
hoping the helmet brims would shade their faces.
"You there, stop where you are!" he shouted in the deepest
voice he could muster.
Alben clutched the damning strongbox to his chest as
he blinked wildly at the sudden light. Panicked
by the sight of swords and helmets, he turned
tail, rushing down the alley and into the arms
of several of Captain Tyrin's more enterprising men.
Alec quickly covered his light again as Micum
called out. "We caught him shinnying out the back
window!"
In the ensuing confusion, they slipped away with no
trouble at all.
IE
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Thero answered the summoner's knock just before
midnight. Accepting the rolled message, he
carried it downstairs to Nysander, who was dozing in the
sitting room armchair.
Thero shook his master gently by the shoulder. "The
Queen's sent for you."
Nysander's eyes blinked open, instantly alert.
"Was there a message?"
Thero handed him the little scroll.
Nysander read through it quickly, then rose and brushed the
wrinkles from his blue robe. "Nothing of use here,
only that I should come at once. Well then, we must
simply hope for the best."
"Shall I come with you?"
"Thank you, dear boy, but I think it best for you
to remain here for the moment. If something has gone
awry, I shall need you available to Micum and
Alec."
At the Palace Nysander made his way alone through
the familiar corridors. Despite its rich
tapestries and murals, the place had none of the
Oreska's spacious ambience. Part royal
residence, part fortress, the walls were thick, the
corridors labyrinthine, the doors heavily
strapped with ornate metalwork.
Lynn Flewelling
The judgment chamber was more forbidding still, and intentionally
so. The long room was empty of furnishings except
for a black and silver throne on a raised platform
at the far end. To approach it, one crossed a
chill expanse of polished black floor under the
marble gaze of the royal effigies lining the walls.
Iron cressets cast a grim, shifting light
over the small group already gathered around the throne.
Idrilain acknowledged Nysander's bow tersely.
She wore the crown and breastplate of office tonight,
and her great sword lay unsheathed across her knees.
The Vicegerent and General Phoria stood on either
side of her, looking equally dour.
"We have come into possession of certain documents which
may clear Lord Seregil's name," Idrilain
informed Nysander, laying her hand on a long iron
box that lay open on a small table at her elbow.
"I thought you should be present at the proceedings."
"Many thanks, my lady," Nysander replied,
taking his place at the foot of the dais.
Looking up at her eldest daughter, Idrilain
motioned for her to proceed.
"Bring the first prisoner!"
At Phoria's shout, a side door swung open
and two guards dragged in a querulous old man in
a stained nightshirt. Nysander allowed himself a
brief brush across the surface of the accused man's
mind and read a panicked craftiness, a fury
to survive.
They were followed by three others: an officer of the
Watch. a woman in the robes of the Queen's High
Bailiff, and a young wizard of the Second Degree
named Imaneus. Nysander knew this last one well,
a talented mind adept frequently called in as
verifier at such trials.
The Vicegerent stepped forward and turned a bleak
eye on the prisoner.
"Alben, apothecary of Hind Street, you
stand accused of forgery and possession of personal
papers belonging to a member of the Royal Kin. How
plead you?"
Cowering on his knees, Alben mumbled a whining
plea.
"Repeat yourself," the bailiff ordered, leaning
closer to listen "My Lord Barien, the accused
maintains that there has been some mistake."
"A mistake," Barien repeated tonelessly.
"Alben the Apothecary, were you not apprehended
by Captain Tyrin of the City Watch while fleeing
through a back window in the dead of nigh'

with this box in your arms? A box found to contain letters,
documents, and missives penned by members of the
nobility."
"A mistake," Alben whispered again, trembling.
Lifting a sheaf of papers from the box, Barien
continued, "Among the documents in this box found upon
your person at the time of your arrest are letters and
copies of letters. In short, forgeries. Specific
charges against you are as follows: first, that you were
instrumental in the slander and wrongful condemnation of an
innocent and loyal servant of Her Majesty,
Queen Idrilain the Second." Barien
paused to select two letters. "Found in your
possession is the duplicate of a letter purportedly
written by Lord Vardarus i Boruntas Lud
Mirin of Rhiminee, the very letter which sent Lord
Vardarus to the block. With it, secured with a wax
seal identified as your own, was found another, nearly
identical letter entirely lacking in the details which
damned him."
Barien lifted another bundle of papers from the
box. "Secondly, you are charged with collusion
to perpetrate the same heinous crime against Lord
Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil
Bokthersa. I myself received a letter identical to the
one which I hold here, a letter bearing Lord Seregil's
signature and sealed with Lord Seregil's mark. In
this letter are statements which suggest he was plotting
sedition and treason against Skala. Yet here, in
addition to the duplicate, I find another letter bearing
the identical salutation, signature, and seals, which
is in every way innocent in content."
Honed by years of practice, the Vicegerent's
voice echoed around the cold chamber. "I caution you
to speak the truth, Alben the Apothecary. How plead
you in the face of this evidence?"
"I-I heard a noise. Last night I
heard a noise!" stammered the wretched man. "I
went down and found that box. Someone must have thrown it in
my window! When I heard the soldiers I
Panicked, great lord, most honored Queen!"
Standing behind the accused man, Imaneus shook his
head.
Impassive as the marble statues of her ancestors,
Idrilain signaled to the bailiff, who strode to a
side door and knocked. Two warders escorted in
an immensely fat woman in a garish brocade
n
"ght robe.
'Ghemella, gem cutter of Dog Street,"
announced the bailiff.
Catching sight of Alben, Ghemella screeched out,
"You tell
lyim Flewelling
'em, Alben, you tell how I only did the seal
work! You miserable bastard, you tell 'em I
didn't know no more of it than that!"
The accused man buried his face in his hands with a loud
moan.
"Bailiff, speak the sentence for forging the documents
or seals of a noble," the Queen ordered, looking
sternly at the miserable pair trembling before
her.
"The sentence is death by torture," announced the
woman.
Alben groaned again, rocking miserably on his
knees.
"My Queen, I am here at your own summons.
Might I speak?" asked Nysander.
"I always value your council, Nysander i
Azusthra."
"My Queen, I suggest that it is unlikely that
these two acted on their own, but at the behest of
another," said Nysander, choosing his words carefully.
"It is certain that Lord Seregil was not approached
for the purpose of blackmail, nor was there any such
evidence in the case of the late Lord Vardarus. Had
these two been acting on their own, surely that would have
been their motive."
Phoria bristled visibly. "Surely you're not
suggesting that it would in any way mitigate the
severity of their offense?"
"Certainly not, Your Highness," Nysander replied
gravely. "I only wish to point out that the person
who would orchestrate such a deception represents a
far greater threat. Should it be determined, as I
suspect it will, that the same person is behind
the slandering of both Lord Vardarus and Lord Seregil,
then we must learn what motivated them to so
desperate a course of action."
"We shall have that information out of these two soon enough!"
Barien said, glowering.
"With all respect, my Lord Vicegerent, information
gained under torture is not always reliable, even with a
wizard in attendance. Pain and fear cloud the mind,
making it difficult to read with any certainty."
"I am quite aware of your theories regarding
torture," Barien returned stiffly. "What is
your point?"
"My point, Lord Barien, is that this whole matter
is far too grave to trust to such methods.
Reprehensible as I find the actions of these
creatures, they are inconsequential pawns in a
greater game. It is their master whom we must run
to ground at all costs."
As he'd expected, Barien and Phoria still looked
dubious but Idrilain nodded approvingly.

"And what is your alternative?" she asked.
"Your Majesty, I humbly suggest that should you, in
your great mercy, commute the sentence of the condemned
to banishment in exchange for a full and free
confession, then we may be a good deal better off in
the end. Imaneus can validate whatever information they
give."
Idrilain looked to the younger wizard.
"I have always concurred with Nysander's opinions
regarding confession under torture, my Queen," said
Imaneus.
With a humorless smile, Idrilain turned back
to the accused, speaking directly to them for the first time.
"What will it be, you two? Full confession for the
loss of your right hand and exile-or a red-hot pike
up your miserable backsides?"
"Confession, great Queen, confession!" croaked
Alben. "I don't know the man's name and I never
asked. He had the look of a noble but I'd never
seen him before and he hadn't a Rhiminee accent. But
it was the same one both times, for the letters-forgeries, that
is-against Vardarus and Lord Seregil."
"The truth so far, my Queen," announced
Imaneus.
"What other forgeries did you execute for this man?"
demanded the Queen.
"Shipping manifests, mostly," quavered Alben,
staring miserably at the floor. "And-was He
faltered to a halt, trembling more
violently than ever.
"Out with it, man. What else?" barked Barien.
"Two-two Queen's Warrants," whispered
Alben, naming the document that allowed the bearer
access anywhere in the land, including the Palace itself.
"You admit to forging the signature of the Queen
herself]"
Phoria burst out furiously. "When was this?"
Alben quailed miserably. "Three years ago,
it must be now. They weren't any good, though, when I
delivered them."
"Why not?" Barien's voice betrayed nothing, but
Nysander was surprised to note that the Vicegerent had
gone quite pale. Phoria also seemed shaken.
"They hadn't any seals yet," whined the wretched
man. "I don't know where he meant to get them. I
never kept any copies of the warrants, Your
Highness, I swear! Let this wizard be my
witness, I knew better than to mess with those!"
"And they never got no Queen's Seal from me, I
swear by the
II"!"

Lynn Flewelltng
Four!" Ghemella chimed in. Again,
Imaneus indicated that the truth had been spoken.
"When did this occur?" Barien asked again.
"Three years ago last Rhythin, my lord."
"Are you certain? Surely you've done hundreds of
forgeries. How is it that you recall this particular one
so clearly?"
"It's partly the warrants, my lord. It's not every day
you get a chance at something like that," Alben quavered.
"But there was the manifest business, too. One of them
was for a ship called the
White Hart,
registered out of Cirna. I recall it because I
did a favor for my neighbor, putting his lad's
name on the crew list. Only, you see, the ship
went down with all hands in the first of the autumn storms
less than a month later. The boy was lost."
"You're certain of the name? The
White Harfi"
asked Phoria.
"Yes, Highness. I don't recall the other
vessels, but I know that one. I watched the port
lists for months, hoping she'd turn up and the boy with
her. My neighbor's never spoken to me since over
it. Anyway, this man who came to me? He wanted
a few other things over the years,
manifests mostly, until last spring. Late one
night in Nythin he came saying he had a letter he
wanted altered and could I do it? The very letter you have there,
Majesty, belonging to Lord Vardarus. For one
hundred gold sesters I made him two copies
with the changes. Ghemella did the seals, like always."
"And you made copies for yourself," interjected
Nysander. "In case you might use them yourself for
future gain?"
Alben nodded silent admission.
"And did this man provide you with the letters of Lord
Seregil?"
Alben hesitated. "Only the first one my lord. The
rest came to me from Ghemella just recently and I
sold them to that same man."
"I bought them off chars," the gem cutter put in
hastily.
"What's she saying?" asked Phoria.
was 'Char" is the street parlance for a dealer in stolen
papers," explained Nysander.
"That's so, your lordship," Ghemella said, determined
not to leave out any detail. "I got them from an
old cripple named Dakus."
Ah, Seregil, you outfoxed yourself that time!
Nysander thought

resignedly, knowing well enough who this "Dakus" was and
where the second damning letter had originated.
"This fellow doing all the buying, he was pleased with the
work I did," Alben continued. "He said he'd
pay well for any letters from nobles whose lineage went
outside Skala."
"Lord Vardarus' great-grandfather was a Plenimaran
baron." Idrilain frowned, tapping the hilt of her
sword. "And Seregil- well, that was certainly no
secret!"
"And so you made the forgeries for him and once again
kept copies for yourself," Barien said. "What was his
purpose in securing these documents?"
"He never said, my lord, and I never asked,"
Alben replied with a hint of skewed dignity.
"You'll pardon me for putting it so, but a forger
doesn't last long without discretion."
"That is all you can tell us, then?" Barien looked
to the wizard still standing over the accused pair.
"It's as much as I know of the matter, my lord,"
Alben assured him.
Imaneus nodded again but Nysander forestalled him.
"A few salient points remain to be established,
the first being when the latest forgery was to be
delivered and to whom. The second is whether or not the
prisoners know of any Leran connection with this whole
affair."
"Lerans!" Barien grasped angrily at his heavy
chain of office. "What have the Lerans to do with this?"
"I don't know anything about Lerans," Alben
cried out, looking imploringly up at Idrilain.
"I'm loyal to the throne no matter what your
blood is, great lady! I wouldn't have anything to do
with that sort of thing."
"Nor I, your ladyship, nor I!" Ghemella
sobbed.
"They speak the truth," said Imaneus.
"Their loyalty is so noted," Idrilain observed
sarcastically. "But what of Nysander's first question? When
are these new forgeries to be delivered, and to whom?"
"Tomorrow night, my Queen," said Alben. "There were
three this time, those you have there done up in the yellow
ribbon. There's a letter of Lord Seregil's, one from
a Lady Bisma, and another from Lord Derian."
"All with foreign connections," noted Phoria.
"I wouldn't know about that," Alben maintained. "The
gentleman only said I was to give them to no one but
himself, just as
Lynn Flewelling
before. He always comes alone at night. That's the end
of it, my Queen, and by the Hand of Dalna, I can't
think of a thing I've left out now!"
Idrilain turned her icy gaze on the jeweler.
"Have you anything to add?"
"I bought the papers and made the seals," Ghemella
whined, tears dripping down over her quivering jowls.
"I swear by the Four, my Queen, I knew nothing
more than that of the whole business!"
When the prisoners and officials had been dismissed,
Barien rounded on Nysander.
"What's all this about Lerans?" he demanded. "If
you have any evidence of such activity in the city you must
share it with me at once!"
"I should certainly have done so," Nysander replied.
"At this point it is simply a theory which makes a
great deal of sense."
"Poor old Vardarus," Idrilain said sadly,
pulling a letter from the box. "If only he'd spoken
up-was
"You had no choice, given the evidence," Phoria
insisted staunchly. "It all seemed irrefutable.
At least Lord Seregil's come to no harm."
"Ah yes, Seregil. And what of him, Nysander?
By rights I can't hold him. Yet if I
release him the traitorous bastards who've
concocted all this will surely bolt."
"That is certain," the wizard agreed. "He must
remain where he is for now and we must hasten to allay
suspicion at the apothecary's house. The
neighbors will be gossiping of the night's events, and
word travels all too quickly to evil ears. Our
only hope lies in tracking this buyer of forged
papers when he comes for the next packet. Alben could
be put back in place- with all suitable
restraints, of course-for the time it takes
to apprehend our man."
"It must be done quietly," cautioned Barien.
"If word of this business should get out to the people,
especially about Vardarus, I shudder to think of the
reaction."
Idrilain waved a hand impatiently. "It's the
tracking I'm concerned with. There's no room for
failure. Barien, Phoria, leave us."
Accustomed to such peremptory dismissals, the
Princess Royal and Vicegerent withdrew at
once. Nysander watched them go, troubled by something in
Barien's manner.

"He's been terribly upset by this whole
business," said Idrilain. "I wish you'd mentioned
your concerns about the Lerans to him before. He's always
found the whole idea so upsetting."
"My apologies," Nysander replied. "It was
simply a stab in the dark."
"But a good one, the more evidence I see. Damn it,
Nysander, if those traitors have grown strong enough for
something like this, then I want them destroyed! This
delivery has to be handled perfectly, and anyone
who can get their hands on a Queen's Warrant may
well know the faces of my spies. Your people are
another matter; even I don't know who most of them
are."
Nysander bowed deeply, relieved that she'd reached the
desired conclusion on her own. "The Watchers are
at your command, as always. Have I your permission
to pursue the matter in my own fashion?"
Idrilain clenched a fist around the hilt of her
sword. "Use whatever means you see fit. Whoever
this traitor is, I want his head on a pike
by week's end!"
"As do I, my Queen," replied Nysander, "though
I will be surprised if there is only one."
P. Ml
i
m
Caught in midpace, Seregil ran headlong
into something in the darkness. Backing up hastily, he
could just make out two tall forms that had somehow
materialized in the cell. For a chilling instant, his
mind skipped back to the lonely Mycenian inn and the
dark presence he'd grappled with there; then he
caught the familiar smell of parchment and candle
smoke.
"Nysander?"
"Yes, dear boy, and Thero." Drawing Seregil
to the back of the cell, he spoke close to his ear.
"Thero has come to take your place."
"How?"
"No time for explanations. Join hands with him."
Biting back a flood of questions, Seregil did as
Nysander asked. There's hands were cold but steady in his
as Nysander took them firmly by the shoulders and began
a silent incantation.
The transformation happened with dizzying swiftness. For
an instant the shadows of the cell seemed to brighten,
swirl, engulf them all-and when Seregil's vision
cleared, he found himself on the wrong side of the room
facing a slim, all-too-familiar figure.
361
Raising a hand to his face, he felt a coarse
mat of beard covering a gaunt cheek.
"Bilairy's Balls and Kidneys-was
"Quiet!" hissed Nysander.
"Take care with my body," There warned, touching his
own new face.
"I'm more anxious to trade back than you, believe
me!" Seregil shuddered, swaying a little in his new,
taller frame. He could guess what was next and
dreaded it.
Nysander slipped a firm hand beneath his arm and led him
to the back wall of the cell. Reluctantly,
Seregil took a deep breath, squared his
shoulders, and stepped forward into the aperture that
yawned, blacker than darkness-
comand staggered out again, blinking and gagging, into the sudden
brightness of Nysander's casting room.
"Steady now, I've got you," Micum said,
catching him as his knees gave way. "Alec, the
brandy. And the basin, too, by the looks of him,"
Seregil crouched over the brass basin for a moment,
fighting down the intense nausea brought on by the
spell; translocation spells had by far the worst
aftereffect. Settling back on his heels, he
gratefully accepted a cup of brandy.
Alec stared at him, goggle-eyed. "Seregil, is
that really you in there?"
Seregil examined the pale, bony fingers wrapped
around the cup, then knocked back the fiery liquor
in a single gulp. "Gruesome, isn't it?"
"Thero was no more pleased than you by the prospect,"
sighed Nysander. "He
was,
however, a good deal more gracious."
"Forgive me," Seregil retorted. "I'm just not
myself tonight."
Alec was still staring. "You've got Thero's voice,
but somehow-I don't know, it still
sounds
more like you. Is it different than when you changed into an
otter?"
"Decidedly." Seregil looked down at his new
body warily. "It's like wearing an ill-fitting
suit of clothes you can't take off. He wears his
linen rather tight, too. I didn't know you could do this,
@sander!"
"It is not a practice of which the Oreska
particularly approves," replied the wizard with a
meaningful wink. "As it was successful, however, I
should like to undertake a brief experiment. Do
you recall the spell for lighting a candle?"
lynn Flewelling
"You want me to try it while I'm in this body?"
"If you would."
Nysander placed a candlestick on the casting table.
Getting to his feet, Seregil held his hand over
the candle.
Micum gave Alec's sleeve a
surreptitious tug, whispering, "You might want
to stand back a bit, just in case."
"I heard that," Seregil muttered. Centering his
concentration on the blackened wick, he spoke the
command word.
The results were instantaneous. With a rending groan,
the polished table split down the middle and fell
apart in two neat halves. The candle, still unlit,
clattered to the floor.
They all regarded the wreckage in silence for a
moment, then Nysander bent to finger the splintered wood.
Seregil sighed. "Well, I hope that answered
your question."
"It has answered several, the most significant
being that the transformation of magical power was complete.
Thero should be fairly safe, providing we proceed
with all possible haste. There is a great
deal to discuss before Alec returns to Wheel
Street."
"I have to go back tonight?" Alec asked, clearly
crestfallen at the prospect. "But Seregil
only just got-was
Seregil gave him a playful cuff.
"Appearances, Alec, appearances! You're the
master of the house in my absence, as well as a
possible suspect by the sound of things. We can't have you
dropping out of sight with no explanation."
"Quite right," Nysander agreed. "But we shall lay our
plans before you go. Come down to the sitting room, all
of you. I expect Seregil would like a decent
supper. Thero ate almost nothing tonight."
"I can feel that!" Seregil patted his lean belly
wryly. Following the others downstairs, he touched
his face again. An unruly hair on his upper lip
tickled a nostril and he smoothed i
f
impatiently.
"Amazing," he muttered. "I've never cared much for
all this hair you people have sprouting out of your faces
anyway, but now that I've got it myself-it's
absolutely revolting!"
Micum proudly stroked his heavy red
mustache. "For your information, we consider it a sign
of virility."
"Oh?" Seregil snorted. "And how many times have
I sat waiting in the middle of nowhere while you
scraped away at your chin with a knife and cold
water?"

"It's my fashion," Micum said, giving Alec
a wink. "Kari likes it this way-smooth cheeks
with a bit of tickle thrown in."
"It itches," Seregil complained, scratching under his
nose again. "Teach me to shave, will you?"
"You most certainly will not!" Nysander said sternly.
During supper the others outlined their recent
activities for Seregil. He chuckled
appreciatively over their adventures in Hind
Street but grew serious at Nysander's report.
"Forging a Queen's Warrant? No wonder Barien
was upset. Except for the Queen and Phoria,
he's the only person with access to the necessary seals."
"Rightful access," Micum amended. "What do you
suppose this ship, the
White Hart,
ended up with in her hold?"
Seregil looked to Nysander. "I could
probably find out. Three years is a long time,
but records would be kept in the shipping master's
offices at her port of call. It won't show us
her real cargo, I'm certain, but it would be a
start."
"It will probably prove unrelated to the business
at hand, yet I should prefer to leave no avenue
untried," mused Nysander. "And now let us lay
our plans for tomorrow."
Dawn was only a few hours away when they'd
finished, and Alec suddenly gave in to a cavernous
yawn.
"Sorry," he said, yawning again.
Seregil grinned. "No wonder you're tired.
You've been busy!"
Them would be a lot better-looking if he "d
smile more,
Alec thought, surprised at the difference it made.
What must Seregil's face look like now, with
Thero's mind behind it?
"I'm done in myself," Micum said. "If we're
all in agreement on tomorrow's work, Alec and I had
better go find our beds before the sun comes up."
"You're getting
old,"
Seregil scoffed, following them upstairs. "Used
to be we'd be up for two or three days before you'd
begin to flag."
"By the Flame, you've got that right! Another few
years and I'll be happy to spend my days in a
sunny corner of Kari's garden spinning lies for the
servants" children."
At the workroom door, Alec turned for a last
look at Seregil in There's body. He couldn't
imagine a more unlikely combination. Shaking his head,
he said, "It's good to have you back- sort of."
Lynn Flewelling
"Sort of good or sort of back?" Seregil
countered, managing a semblance of his familiar
lopsided grin in spite of the beard.
"Sort of both," said Alec.
"And I sort of thank you, all of you, for your good
work tonight on my behalf," Seregil said, clasping
hands with them. "Things were beginning to look a bit grim
in that cell. Between the four of us, we should be able
to sort things out soon enough."
A crushing weariness settled over Seregil as he
went back downstairs. Collapsing gratefully
on There's clean, narrow bed, he hadn't the strength
left to pull off his shoes.
It's the magic,
he thought, drifting off to sleep.
Damn stuff always wears me out.
Exhausted as he was, the night was not a peaceful
one. Tossing restlessly, he fought his way through a
parade of uneasy dreams. At first they were only
fragmented glimpses of the past few days-a distorted
event, repetitious snippets of conversation,
faces of no consequence looming again and again.
Gradually, however, the images began to coalesce.
He was still in Them's body, riding on horseback
through the city. It was dark and he was lost. The street
markers were gone, the lamps unlit on their hooks.
Frustrated and a little frightened, he pushed on at a
gallop.
His horse had no head; the reins passed over a
smooth, glossy hump and disappeared somewhere underneath
the animal's chest.
I can't stop it anyway,
he thought. Letting go of the reins, he clung to the
saddlebow.
Flecked with sweat, the strange creature thundered for
hours, carrying him down one unfamiliar street after
another until an owl flew up beneath its feet.
Startled, the horse reared and threw him,
then disappeared into the surrounding darkness".
Looking up, he found himself at the gate of Red
Tower Prison.
Enough! I'm getting my own body back right now!
he thought angrily, floating up from the ground and
soaring to the roof of the prison.
It felt wonderful to fly, and he circled the Tower
a few times,

savoring it. The ships in the harbor were all on
fire, however, and this disturbed him greatly. Diving like
a swallow, he darted in through a hole in the prison
roof.
It was dark here, too. Stumbling through the blackness,
he spied a glimmer of light ahead. It came through
the grille of a cell door. The door was locked but
the wood turned to red butterflies at his touch.
Passing through their gentle resistance, he stepped into a
fiery brightness and threw his arm up to shield his eyes.
His true body stood in the center of the room, naked
except for the crawling mass of tiny, spider-shaped
flames that encased it from the neck down.
They should be gone!
he thought, repulsed by the sight.
His body raised a hand to its chest, saying
with Them s voice, "They're coming from here." I'll
stop them."
Approaching cautiously, Seregil brushed at the
flame creatures on the chest. They fell away
at his touch, revealing a bright blue eye glaring
hatefully from a bloody hole in the chest just over the
breastbone. Recoiling, Seregil watched in mounting
horror as the skin around the eye began to twitch and
stretch. The flame creatures crumpled and fell
away and he could see the writhing motions beneath the skin
of his body s chest and belly, as if something
hideous was clawing its way out from inside.
Tears of blood streamed down from the unnatural
eye but his face-Them's now-smiled calmly. Still
smiling, Them leapt at him, arms outstretched as if
to embrace him. With a strangled cry, Seregil
fell backward through the red butterflies-
He sat up with a gasp. Pulling free of the
tangled sheets, he went to the hearth and poked up a
fire bright enough to light the room. His clothes were
soaked through with cold, sour sweat. Stripping them
off, he looked down at the pale, angular body
he inhabited. Little wonder he was dreaming of his own!
The details of the nightmare were already skittering
away, but he recalled the mage of the eye
with a shudder.
Tossing a few more logs on the fire, he climbed
back into bed and pulled the covers up to his nose.
As he drifted back to sleep it occurred to him that
this was the first time in weeks that he'd dreamed at all.
Lynn Flewelling
Late-morning light was streaming in at the open window
when he opened his eyes again. Lying quietly for a
moment, he discovered that he'd forgotten most of the
nightmare. His second sleep had been filled with
dreams of a lascivious nature quite unlike his
usual fare and he'd awakened to find There's body
in an uncomfortable state of arousal. Cold water
soon put a stop to that. He pulled on a clean
robe and went up the tower stairs two at a time.
"Good morning!" Nysander smiled at him over a
cup of morning tea, a familiar, reassuring
sight. "Are you feeling more at-dear me, you appear
to have slept badly."
"I did," Seregil admitted. "I had some
nightmare about going after my body. It had that eye in
the chest, where the scar is. It was all sort of
familiar, in a way, like I'd dreamed it before."
"How unpleasant. Do you recall any more of it
than that?"
"Not really. Something about flying, I think, and
fire-his I don't know. Later on there were other,
different images. Is it possible for me to have
There's dreams?"
"A mental link through his body? I should not think so.
Why?"
Seregil rubbed his eyelids and yawned. "Oh,
nothing. First night in a new body and all that. Just
between you and me, though, a few days in the Street of
Lights wouldn't do There any harm."
"He seems to be celibate by nature."
Seregil chuckled cryptically. "By practice,
perhaps, but
not by
nature!"
They kept to Nysander's tower all day, avoiding
anyone perceptive enough to detect a change in
"There"-not an easy task in a house full of
wizards.
Wethis appeared to notice nothing amiss, and
Seregil noted with amusement the guarded dislike that
lurked behind the young servant's deferential mask as
he went about his daily duties in There's room.
At midday Nysander went out to attend to some business
elsewhere in the House. Seregil was poking
restlessly around the workroom when a sharp rap sounded
at the tower door. It was
A
Luck in the Shadows

House etiquette to open the door to all callers,
so Seregil had no choice but to answer. Peering out,
he found Ylinestra waiting impatiently in the
corridor.
Her green silk gown was gathered tightly beneath the
breasts, setting off her ravishing loveliness in a
fashion that Seregil could not help but note.
He did not know her well, and her behavior toward
him had always been civil to the point of coolness. It
was quickly apparent now, however, that this reserve did not
extend to Nysander's assistant.
"Ah, Thero! Is Nysander in?" She flashed a
radiant, violet- eyed smile.
"Not just now, my lady," Seregil replied,
wondering how Thero comported himself around such beautiful
women. He soon had an inkling.
"So formal today!" Ylinestra chided playfully,
sweeping past him. The crowded confines of the entrance
might have explained the generous brush of silk-clad
breast and thigh against his side; something in the
lilt of her voice warned otherwise. Following her
back to the workroom, Seregil felt a pleasant
tug of anticipation. Both of them, he suspected,
were about to put on excellent performances.
"Out chasing around on behalf of his pretty
Aurenfaie friend, is he?" she sighed, turning
back to him with a conspiratorial pout.
"Not at the moment." Seregil gave a credible
rendering of There's customary disdain at any mention of
himself. "He's gone to see Mosrin i Argavan.
Something about the library."
"And left you here to solitary toil, eh? How
lonely for you. And me, as it turns out." Ylinestra
drifted closer, and Seregil was suddenly aware of the
light, spicy scent she wore. With it came a
sudden mental image of the perfume rising invisibly
from the warm cleft between her breasts. That put him on
his guard. It wasn't his usual sort of thought at
all, and smacked of magical machination.
"I hardly see Nysander anymore," she sulked,
just inches away now. "You tell him for me that if he
doesn't mend his ways, I'll look elsewhere for
inspiration. I daresay he neglects you as well
when that Seregil fellow is around. It makes one
wonder-was
Arching a perfect eyebrow, she let the thought hang
unfinished between them, then surprised him with a brisk,
almost
Lyrai Flewelling
maternal pat on the arm. "If you find yourself at
loose ends, my offer still stands."
"Offer?"
"Oh, shame on you!" she twinkled, coy again.
"Those Ylani levitation chants I promised you?
You still haven't come to learn them and you seemed so eager
when we spoke last. I've a few other bits of
magic that I think you'll enjoy, too, things
Nysander can't teach you. I'd show you one now, only
I need my own things. You must come to my rooms. You
wouldn't want me to lose patience with you, would you?"
"No, not at all," Seregil assured her.
"I'll come as soon as I can. I promise."
"There's a good boy." Brushing his cheek chastely with
her own, she swept out leaving a light drift of
scent in her wake.
Illior's Fingers!
Seregil thought, impressed. What she hoped to gain
by seducing There was beyond comprehension, but the sooner
Nysander knew what was going on, the better.
To his disappointment, Nysander was more amused
than outraged.
"What are you so upset about?" he asked. "Only
this morning you were advocating just such a course of action
yourself."
"Well, yes, but not with his master's lover!"
sputtered Seregil.
"It is not like you to be such a prig," countered
Nysander. "I appreciate your concern, but it is quite
unwarranted. The lovely Ylinestra and I claim
no more hold on one another than we do on the wind.
Though I flatter myself that she does take some
genuine pleasure in my company, it is my magic
that interests her most. She has shown me a few
interesting aspects of her own art, too, but it must be
apparent to you of all people where my real interest in her
lies."
"A good lay?"
"Beyond
description,
dear boy! And as neither she nor I have asked more than
the other is prepared to give, we are quite satisfied
with the arrangement. At heart, Ylinestra is a vain
creature whose sexual tastes run more commonly to the
conquest of virginal young men."
"She's a man-eater, all right. She's
always very cool with me though."

Nysander let out a dry chuckle "I would hardly
describe
you
as virginal. I suspect she also prefers her
lovers to be more singular in their tastes than your
reputation suggests. It is Alec I would keep
an eye on, if I were you. She would have him-what is
that colorful phrase of Micum's?"
was "On a platter with boiled leeks"?"
Seregil snorted. "Thanks for the warning."
s caret AT-SSJAL
r caret caret so-caret SfMore
ixg caret "greater-than gg less-than go
Kch"abbcaret "2
gg
*caret A
By nightfall, suitable explanations regarding the
previous night's disturbances had been carefully
spread among Alben's Hind Street neighbors.
The
forger, chastened and anxious to be of service, was
temporarily reinstalled in his shop under strict but
indiscernible supervision.
An icy drizzle misted down, making for a clammy
vigil. Seregil stationed Micum on watch in the
alley beneath Alben's window, while Alec
monitored the street fronting the building.
Seregil took up his own position in the shadows of the
courtyard.
As the hours dragged by, he noted grudgingly that
he seemed to mind the cold less in There's body.
The man's night vision was rather poor, however, and his
sense of taste was hopeless. Overall, Seregil
reflected, the habitation of another person's body
was nothing to be taken lightly. In fact, there was
something rather obscene about it; he couldn't scratch without
feeling like he was taking liberties, and trips to the
privy were decidedly disquieting. It was, he
concluded, rather like being forced into bed with a lover you didn't
fancy. And it was certainly closer contact with There
than he ever hoped to experience again. What There
might be experiencing in his body he didn't care
to speculate.

He was just wondering if he dared risk a stretch when
he caught the sound of rapid footsteps from the
street. Striding into the courtyard, a cloaked
figure rapped softly at Alben's
door. The apothecary answered at once, lighting the
visitor into the darkened shop with a candle. In the
instant both men were framed in the doorway,
Seregil got a clear look at the newcomer-a
well- dressed man of middle years. In spite
of his clothing, however, the unconscious bob of the head
he gave Alben in greeting betrayed him; this was a
servant out of livery for the purpose of the evening's
assignment.
Alben hung back for an instant, giving the candle
a slight sideways jerk before he closed the door.
This was the signal. Creeping silently to the
courtyard gate, Seregil passed it on to Alec.
He was about to resume his hidden position when he
heard the rattle of Alben's latch. Caught in the
open, Seregil made a show of heading up one of the
tenement stairways. The emissary seemed
unconcerned at being observed, even nodding to him as
they passed in the yard.
Seregil waited a slow count of five after the man
left the courtyard, then slipped out to see which way
he'd gone. Alec motioned to the left. Micum had
already been signaled, and together the three set off in
pursuit.
Their man sauntered along at his ease for a
few streets, then went into a tavern.
"You'd better go in. He's already had a glimpse
of me," Seregil whispered to Micum. Nodding,
Micum sized the place up, then sauntered in.
Micum Cavish had a particular aptitude for
blending into tavern crowds. Settling near the door,
he ordered a pint and kept a surreptitious eye
on their quarry.
The fellow sat alone near the hearth, slowly
nursing a mug of ale as if waiting for someone.
Presently a young servant woman joined him.
Sitting down with her back to Micum, she greeted
her companion with a heartfelt kiss. Though Micum
saw nothing amiss, it was certainly the perfect
opportunity for a parcel of some sort to change
hands. A moment later the pair left together.
Strolling out behind them, Micum loitered a moment under
a street lantern and made a show of adjusting his
cloak as he noted
lyim Flewelling
the direction the couple took. Alec and Seregil
ghosted off in silent pursuit, and he followed.
The couple walked along arm in arm, heads together,
to a small fountain circle where they suddenly
disappeared down a dark side way.
Hurrying to catch up, Micum nearly fell over
his friends crouched at the mouth of an alley. From beyond
came the muffled but unmistakable sounds of a hasty
coupling in progress.
Leaving Alec on guard, Seregil and Micum
went back to the fountain for a whispered conference.
"What do you think? Did he pass anything to her?"
asked Seregil.
"He could have, but I didn't see it happen."
Micum jerked a thumb in the direction of the alley.
"Given this business, we can't be sure the girl's
in on anything, or if they're just lovers."
"Damn! We'd better watch both of them.
They're certain to part ways sooner or later."
"You take her," said Micum. "Alec and I will
stay on him. I'll meet you back at
Nysander's."
A few moments later the sighing lovers reappeared
and continued on in the direction of the Noble Quarter.
There were more lanterns as they went on, and a good deal more
traffic; Seregil and the others spread out so as to be
less conspicuous.
They nearly came to grief at the Astellus
Circle. The Street of Lights was alive with
activity, and the Circle was crowded with
patrons coming and going from the various establishments.
Slipping through the crowd, Seregil suddenly lost
sight of the lovers. A few yards away, he saw
Alec casting around in alarm. A sharp whistle brought
them both around. Standing on steps of the colonnade,
Micum gestured in two directions at once.
Seregil caught a quick glimpse of the girl heading
off down Eagle Street by herself. Trusting the man
to Alec and Micum, Seregil hurried after her.
He had no problem keeping her in sight. There was enough
activity in the street to cover his pursuit and she
seemed to have no qualms about her own safety as she
strode past the walled gardens of the villas.
Eagle Street ended in Silvermoon and she
turned left toward the Palace. As he reached the
Queen's Park, Seregil began formulating a
plan for following her onto the grounds. Instead,
however, she ducked down a side lane to the

servants" entrance of a grand house across the broad
avenue from the Park.
Seregil waited until he was certain she wasn't
coming out again, then returned to the street. With a growing
sense of foreboding, he scowled up at the gilded
bulls rearing protectively over the
gates of the eminent and all-too-familiar
residence.
Alec and Micum dogged their man through a succession
of fashionable avenues to a house in the Street of
Three Fountains, which was not far from Wheel Street.
Unlocking a side gate, he disappeared into a
fashionable villa.
"One of us should go in," Alec whispered. "The other
can stand watch in case anything goes wrong."
"I guess we both know who's better at that sort
of thing. Go on."
Scaling the wall, Alec dropped down into the
garden. The layout of the place was similar
to Seregil's house, but on a larger scale. The
garden surrounded the house on three sides, and there
were an encouraging number of windows overlooking it.
Keeping an eye out for dogs and watchmen, he
crept forward.
Starting at the right side of the building, he worked his
way from window to window, pulling himself up by the sills
to peek in. Most of the rooms were dark or
unoccupied, except for a salon toward the front
where two pretty young women sat before a blazing
hearth. One was working at an embroidery frame
while her companion plucked listlessly at
a lyre.
Leaving off, he gave the kitchen door a wide
berth and set to work on the left side of the house,
though with no more success than before. He was about to give
up when he noticed a faint glow of light from a
balcony just overhead. The ornate stonework
surrounding a first-floor window afforded ample
fingerholds. Climbing up, he eased himself over the
balustrade. There was a small table on the
balcony. Two wine cups stood there, and a warm
pipe.
The balcony door had been left ajar; peering
in, Alec discovered an elegantly appointed
bedchamber lit by a single lamp. Another door
stood open across the room, and through it came the sounds
of a heated argument. There were two male voices
involved, one strident with anger, the other shrill in
its protestations of innocence.
Lynn Flewelling
"How can you accuse me of such a thing?" the higher
voice demanded.
"How can you look me in the face and deny it?"
boomed the other. "You greedy, bungling idiot.
You've destroyed me! You have destroyed this
family!"
"Uncle, please."
"Never let me hear that word in your throat again, you
viper!" shouted the other. "From this day forth you are no
kin of mine."
A door slammed forcibly, and Alec shrank
back as a young man entered the bedchamber and
collapsed into a chair. His elaborate surcoat
showed him to be the master of the house. He was
fair-skinned, with a small blond chin tuft that he
fingered nervously as he sat.
A nagging tingle of recognition stirred in the back
of Alec's mind as he studied the haggard
profile. He couldn't immediately place the man, but
he felt certain he'd seen him before.
The man was clearly agitated. Gnawing at a
thumbnail, he lurched to his feet again, then beat
a fist against one thigh as he paced up and down the
room.
The significance of the balcony table occurred
to Alec almost too late. The man swerved
suddenly, heading out to settle his nerves with wine and
tobacco. Clambering back over the railing, Alec
caught hold of two carved balusters and hung
by his fingers. The evening drizzle had thickened
to sleet and the polished marble felt slick as
lard in his hands as he clung doggedly on, feet
dangling twenty feet above the ground. Glancing
sideways, he saw that he could probably reach the
cornice of the downstairs window with his left foot but
he didn't dare chance the noise. To make matters
worse, his side of the balcony overlooked the
street; it would be the most natural thing in the world for the
man to lean on the railing just there, glance down-
Looking up, Alec could see the side of the man's
silken slipper less than a foot from his rapidly
whitening knuckles. Cold fire ached down through his
wrists and arms, weakening his grip, numbing his fingers.
Melting sleet trickled down over his face and
ran down his sleeves into his armpits. Biting his
lip, he gripped the posts harder, scarcely daring
to breathe.
Just when it seemed he'd have to chance dropping and
running, a knock came at the chamber door.
Tappng his pipe out on the railing above Alec, the
man disappeared back into the room.
Alec shook the hot ashes from his hair and found a
foothold

on the window cornice. Bracing his shoulder in the
angle of the balcony, he flexed his
stiffened fingers. The balcony door had been left
open again and he could hear the conversation inside quite
clearly.
"Any difficulty with Alben?" This was the nobleman,
calmer now and speaking with authority.
"Not exactly, my lord," replied the newcomer.
"Though he didn't seem quite himself, somehow. But I
did get the documents and these, as well, while I
was out."
"Well done, Marsin, well done!"
Alec heard the metallic clink of coins changing
hands.
"Thank you, sir. Shall I deliver it now?"
"No, I'll go. My horse is already saddled.
See to it that the house is locked up for the night and
inform Lady Althia that I'll be returning tomorrow."
"I will, sir, and a good evening to you."
Alec heard the servant leave, and a moment later the
light was extinguished. Climbing down, he hurried
back to the street in time to see a man galloping out
the front gate on a white horse.
"We're losing him!" he exclaimed as Micum
appeared out of the shadows beside him. "I think he's off
to deliver the forged letters!"
"Deliver them where?" Micum asked,
scanning the neighborhood for quickly obtainable
horses. There were none.
"I don't know," Alec replied in an agony of
impatience. The rider had already disappeared around a
corner and the sound of hooves was fading rapidly.
"Damn it, now we've lost him!"
"Can't be helped. At least we've got a
connection to work withand that's a start. And you'll never
guess who else came riding out of that gate a
short while ago."
"Who?"
"Only the Lord Vicegerent himself. You should have seen
him! I didn't know the old fellow could ride like
that."
"Barien?" Alec's eyes widened as a memory
snapped into place. "Maker's Mercy, that's it!
This is Lord Teukros' house. The Vicegerent's
nephewl
I knew I'd seen him before, that day I rode around
the Ring."
"The nephew, eh? By the Flame, that looks
bad-though I
ca
n't imagine Barien mixed up in anything disloyal
to the Queen!"
Lynn Flewelling
"He was cursing Teukros when I first got there,"
Alec told him. "He called him a viper and
disowned him."
"Well, that's a strike in the old man's favor.
Come on, we'd better go let the others know."
Still smarting over the loss of Teukros, Alec was
in a dour mood by the time he and Micum reached
Nysander's door.
"Good hunting?" the wizard inquired, letting them
into the workroom.
"In a manner of speaking," Micum replied.
"Is Seregil back?"
"No, he was up to something in the vicinity of the
Palace when I last checked. Come downstairs..and
warm yourselves. You both look quite damp."
Standing before the sitting room fire, Alec carefully
recounted their evening's work. Nysander made no effort
to hide his dismay over what they'd learned and sat
silently for some moments after he'd finished.
"What do you think?" Alec ventured. "Could Barien
be mixed up in something like this?"
"It is difficult to imagine. Young Teukros is
another matter, however. In spite of his obvious
wealth, Teukros i Kallas is not
known for his perspicacity. Whatever his involvement in
this, I would wager that he is acting at the direction
of another."
"We'd have found out if we could have followed him tonight,"
grumbled Alec.
"Patience, dear boy. It should not be difficult
to obtain that information. You said Lord Teukros'
pretty wife is at home tonight?"
"Yes, but we can't just knock on the door and ask
her."
"Of course we can! What do you say, Micum?
An urgent message carried by a servant of the
Oreska House, one which must be delivered into Lord
Teukros' hands at all costs this very night?"
Micum grinned wolfishly. "That should do the
trick."
Going to his desk, Nysander quickly penned a
cordial dinner invitation for the following evening.
"What happens when he shows up for dinner?" asked
Alec, peering over the wizard's shoulder.
Nysander chuckled darkly. "Assuming that he does,
I shall be afforded an opportunity to give closer
attention to this enterpris-
fcL..
Luck in the Shadows

ing young spy." Sealing the missive with an
impressive array of ribbons and wax seals,
Nysander sent Wethis off to deliver it.
Seregil arrived soon after. He was smeared with
mud, and sported torn breeches and a ragged
scrape across the back of one hand.
"Illior's Eyes, Seregil, what have you been
doing with poor There's body?" asked Nysander, handing
him a clean robe.
"You'd think he could at least climb a garden
wall!" Seregil said in disgust, shucking the filthy
breeches off to show them an angry bruise on one
of There's pale, hairy knees. "Never mind that,
though. Micum, Alec, you'll never guess where our
little serving maid led me! Straight to the house of the
Vicegerent."
He paused. "What? What is it? Neither of you
look very surprised."
"That's because our man led us to Teukros' villa,"
Micum informed him. "Alec overheard him and his
uncle having quite an argument."
"The man we followed tonight was Teukros' servant,
by the name of Marsin. He brought the forged documents
to Teukros," said Alec. "Then
Teukros took off on horseback to deliver
them, but we don't know where. Nysander's sent
Wethis off to find out."
"I hope he does," said Seregil. "That prat
Teukros certainly can't be at the bottom of
anything like this! Incidentally, Barien came home after
you saw him. I hung around to make certain the girl
wasn't coming out again and saw him arrive. Anyway,
a few minutes later a messenger goes across to the
Queen's Park gate and tells the guards there he
has a message for the Princess Royal. This
same messenger is out again a few minutes later with
someone wrapped up in a dark cloak and hood. I
couldn't see her face, but it was Phoria; I know
that stiff-legged stride of hers. I went over the
wall to see what was up-that's when I fell-but I
couldn't get a look at them."
He was interrupted by Wethis, who'd returned from his
errand.
"Lord Teukros wasn't home to receive the
message," the young servant reported. "Lady
Althia says he's gone out to Lady Kassarie's
estate and isn't expected home until tomorrow after-
fcoon. Shall I ride out?"
"That is not necessary, Wethis, thank you. I
shall not be needing you again tonight."
Lynn Flewelling
Micum raised a skeptical eyebrow as Wethis
went out. "Kassarie? What would she want with a
strutting cowbird like Teukros?"
"They have some common shipping interests, I believe,"
said Nysander.
"How interesting if Kassarie
was
mixed up in all this," Seregil speculated,
looking pensive. "She's rich, powerful, and
fairly influential among the more conservative
nobles. To my knowledge she's not part of the Queen's inner
circle, but-was
"Who's Kassarie?" asked Alec.
Seregil steepled his fingers before him in a manner that
generally presaged one of his encyclopedic
recitations. "Lady Kassarie a Moirian is
the head of another of Skala's oldest families.
Like Barien, she can trace her lineage back to the
Hierophantic migration. And, I should add, without
a drop of foreign blood sullying her august
veins. Her ancestors made their fortunes in
stonework at Ero, and prospered again providing Queen
Tamir with stone and masons to build her
new capital. Her estate lies up in the
mountains about ten miles or so southeast of the city."
Nysander rose to pace the small room. "Be that as
it may, I find it inconceivable that Barien should be
involved with such a plan. Illior's Eyes, I
have known that man for fifty years! And Phoria? That
makes no sense whatsoever."
"I can't imagine what she and the Lerans would have
to gain from each other," Micum concurred. "In their
eyes, her blood is as tainted as her mother's."
"She wouldn't be the first noble to be duped into a
betrayal of some sort without realizing it," warned
Seregil. "And if her dear close friend Lord
Barien was in with the Lerans, he'd be just the man to do
it."
"But why would he betray her?" snorted Nysander.
"Who knows? Alec and I could probably slip in
and-was
"Absolutely not!" Nysander paused, rubbing his
eyes. "I agree, dear boy, that we must examine
this matter closely, but you must leave Barien and the
Princess Royal to me. For the time being, you three
are to confine your investigation to Teukros and
Kassarie. It is not yet midnight; could you begin
tonight?"
"Oh, I suppose we could drag ourselves out again,
if we have to," Seregil drawled, exchanging a
wink with the others.
"Excellent. I shall arrange a pass and see that
your horses are

saddled. Take whatever else you need from here. You
must excuse me now, for I have work of my own to begin.
Illior's Luck to you all!"
Alec let out a sigh of relief. "At least I
don't have to go back to Wheel Street tonight. Runcer
treats me like the master of the house, and I don't have
a clue what I'm supposed to do."
"I know how you feel," said Seregil, stretching
restlessly. "I'll go mad myself if I have to be
cooped up in here much longer."
Watching his friend scratch irritably at There's
bearded cheek, Alec wasn't certain if "in
here" meant Nysander's tower or the assistant
wizard's body.
Hi
Sch"caret 58caret caret *caret
backslash
I
h
ed Oreska livery for Alec and Micum, together with a
pass presented by "Thero,"
t
got the three of them through the Sea iate without
challenge. Once outside the walls, they followed
the highroad south along the cliffs below the city. A
few miles farther on, they turned aside onto
another route that climbed into the hills.
Just like old times. Everybody knows the way but me,
Alec thought resignedly.
This road climbed into forest to twist along the top of a
broad river gorge. The ice-laden boughs of fir
trees gradually closed in on their left; the rush
of the river followed them on the right.
After several miles, Micum motioned for them
to halt. Climbing down, he cast back and forth with a
lightstone.
"See anything?" inquired Seregil.
"Not much. The mud must have stayed frozen all day up
here."
Riding on, they caught a glimpse of watch
fires ahead. Lady Kassarie's keep stood
on a high cliff overlooking a bend in the river.
Sheer cliffs rose behind it, and a high bailey
guarded the front. Working their way
stealthily around the periphery of the wall, the three
spies climbed a wooded slope and climbed into the
branches of a tall fir overlooking the place.

There seemed to be nothing amiss: an unremarkable
collection of small outbuildings-sheds, wood
stacks, and stables- cluttered the yard.
The keep itself was an imposing structure. Tall,
square-built, and smooth-walled, it had no
windows except for arrow slits below the third
level. Square, flat-topped towers stood at
each of the four corners, and watch fires burned on
all but the one overhanging the gorge.
"Tight as a soaked barrel," Seregil muttered,
craning his neck for a better look.
"Appears so," Micum agreed, shifting restlessly
on his branch. "Looks like we'll do better
tricking our way in."
"Too late for that now," said Alec. "It can't be
more than a couple of hours to morning."
"True." Frowning, Seregil climbed down again.
"Looks like we're spending a cozy night right
here."
Nysander made his way to Silvermoon Street
immediately upon leaving Seregil and the others. The
streets were quiet at this hour and he met only one
other person as he neared Barien's house, a hasty
rider whose passing tore at the stillness of the night
with a clatter of harness and hooves. The sound passed
away with the rider, and he could hear the annoyed
grumbling of the guards at the palace gates ahead.
He was surprised to find Barien's gate locked
for the night and the lantern over the door extinguished.
The Vicegerent shared Nysander's preference for the
late hours and seldom retired so soon after
midnight. Dismounting, Nysander rapped at the gate
until the watchman appeared at the postern.
"Good evening to you, Lord Nysander," the man greeted
him, accustomed to the wizard's odd hours.
"Good evening, Quil. I wish to speak with the
Vicegerent."
"Sorry, my lord, but Lord Barien's abed already.
He left instructions not to be disturbed by anyone but
the Queen herself. He was quite firm about it, too. And
just between you and me, sir, the chamberlain said the master
didn't look well when he retired. He'd been
out to dinner but come back early looking right Peaked."
"I see," said Nysander. "Poor fellow, I
hope it was nothing he ate. Where did he dine?"
lyim Flewelling
"Chamberlain didn't say, my lord, only that Lord
Barien wasn't to be disturbed on any account."
"Then I suppose I must call again tomorrow. Please
give your master my respects."
Continuing along Silvermoon to a nearby fountain,
Nysander sat on its rim and sent a sighting back
to Barien's villa.
The Vicegerent was indeed in bed, thumbing listlessly
through a small book lying open on the counterpane.
Nysander recognized the book with a pang of sadness;
it was a volume of bardic poetry he himself had
given to Barien some years before. He seemed
to settle at last on a page and Nysander shifted
his sighting to read it.
"Break, Noble Heart. Dissolve to ashes if thy
Honor impugned be,"
Nysander quoted silently, recognizing a line.
A swift, tactful brush across the surface of
Barien's mind revealed a deep, weary
melancholy, nothing more.
It would have been simple enough to translocate himself the
short distance to Barien's chamber, but a moment's
deliberation left Nysander disinclined to do so. Neither
Barien's mood nor current activity warranted
such an impertinent intrusion. Tomorrow would be
soon enough.
Seregil and the others spent a cheerless night beneath the
trees, awakening at dawn to find one of Nysander's
blue spheres hovering in the air just over
Seregil's head. Passing his hand through it, he
released the message.
"Learn whatever you can there, but return to the city as
quickly as possible. Come directly to me."
Despite the muted affect inherent in the spell,
there was an unmistakable hint of distress in the
wizard's disembodied voice.
"What do you suppose that's all about?" yawned
Micum, brushing damp leaves from his cloak.
"He must have gotten something out of Barien," said
Seregil "Let's see what there is to uncover here
and get back."
A quick reconnaissance up the fir tree showed little
change in the keep yard, though by daylight they learned
the reason for the one dark tower.
The tower overlooking the gorge was in ruins. One
side of its flat top had been struck by lightning
and stood open to the sky. Judging by the weathered look
of the broken stone, together with

an overgrowth of branching, winter-browned
tendrils of some creeping vine, it must have been in this
condition for some years. It stood out against the solid
symmetry of the surrounding structure like a rotten
tooth in a sound mouth.
Waiting for a plausible hour of the morning, they
proceeded with their first plan. Changing his Ore'ska
tunic for a workman's smock, Alec set off with
another fictitious summons for Teukros.
Leading his horse back through the trees, he
reappeared far enough down the road to give the appearance
of having just ridden up the hill.
"I've a message for Lord Teukros," he
told the gatekeeper, holding up the letter Seregil
had prepared.
"You've wasted a long ride, lad," the man informed
him. "Lord Teukros ain't here."
"But I was told he was spending the night here,"
Alec pressed, trying to act like a servant who'd
just learned he'd ridden a long, hard way for nothing.
"Don't know about that," the man grunted, starting
to swing the gate closed again.
"Wait," called Alec, dismounting before the heavy
door could slam in his face. "I've got to take
some answer back."
"That's nothing to me," said the gatekeeper,
eyeing Alec's purse meaningfully.
A discreet coin rendered the man instantly more
agreeable.
"Perhaps you'd be wanting to speak with our lady?" he
suggested.
"I probably should."
Alec followed the man across the yard, taking in as
many details as he could along the way. Three fine
horses stood saddled and ready near the front
door. Two of them had panniers tied behind the
saddles. The third was caparisoned for a lady's
hunting.
At the keep door, an elderly house servant
eyed Alec disdainfully, asked his business, and
left him standing in the middle of the hall with a look that
said as clearly as words,
Don't steal anything while I'm gone.
The furnishings of the vaulted hall were costly and in
excellent condition. Silver urns and bowls gleamed
on the mantelpiece without a hint of tarnish, and the
rushes strewn over the floor were crisp and
fragrant.
Splendid old tapestries covered the stone walls
and these, too, had been lovingly maintained. Alec
turned slowly, admiring as he
Lynn Flewelltng
always did the Skalans" taste for fantastic
landscapes and creatures. One in particular caught
his eye; it was designed to look like a window
casement, out of which one could see a pride of griffins
prowling an orchard against a mountainous backdrop.
The piece was over twenty feet wide and bordered
with elaborate designs. Scanning it with
admiration, Alec was surprised to find one
discordant element embroidered in the lower right-hand
corner, the stylized figure of a curled lizard.
Looking around, he saw that many of the other hangings had
some sort of device in one corner, like a maker's
mark-a rose, a crown, an eagle, a tiny
unicorn, the curled lizard-a number of the larger
ones had several marks together in a row. He was just
bending down to study these more closely when he sensed
movement behind him and turned, steeling himself to face the
old manservant's renewed disapproval.
There was no one there.
It might have been a draft, Alec reasoned,
taking a second glance around. Then again, any of the
larger tapestries could easily conceal a
passageway. Whatever the case, he suddenly had
an uncomfortable sense of being observed.
Unsure if it was instinct or fancy, he nonetheless
did his best to appear as innocuous as possible, just in
case.
The old man soon shuffled back in to announce his
mistress, the Lady Kassarie a Moirian.
Kassarie swept in behind him, pulling on a hawking
gauntlet as she entered. She was somewhere over forty
years of age, with a broad, stern face and a manner
to match. Alec stooped forward at once in a
halting bow.
"What's all this about Lord Teukros?" she demanded
impatiently.
"I've a message for him, my lady-was Alec
began, showing the packet again.
"Yes, yes," she snapped. "But what possessed
you to seek him here?"
"Well, my lady, I called at his house first
thing this mornin' and was told by Lady Althia that
he'd meant to ride out here last night. That's as much
as I know of it."
"Dear me, that doesn't bode well," she said with
evident concern. "He certainly never arrived, nor
did I receive any word from him that he meant to come.
Did you see anyone on the road this morning?"
"No, my lady."

"How very puzzling. I must send word to Althia at
once. You can carry it back for me, boy. Who
sent you, by the way?"
"Master Verik of Canvass Lane," Alec
replied. Seregil had given him the name; Verik,
a merchant of genteel but common birth, was a
business associate of Teukros'.
"Very good, then. I'll just dash off that note."
Having settled the matter to her own satisfaction,
Kassarie turned briskly to the old retainer still
hovering at her elbow. "Illester, take the lad
to the kitchen while I prepare the letter. He ought to at
least have a bit of hot food for his troubles."
Illester turned Alec over to a younger servant and
sent them both outside again to come in at the back
door.
"He's a sour old stick," Alec remarked when
they were out of earshot.
"That's not for the likes of you to comment on," the servant
returned stiffly.
Passing several small herb beds and a great black
kettle hung steaming over an open fire, they
came round to the kitchen door. Inside, two women
were hard at work over wooden bread bowls.
"Kora, her ladyship wants this messenger boy
fed," snapped the manservant. "See to it he
stays put until he's called for."
"As if we don't have enough to occupy us this morning, and
us up to the tits in flour," huffed the taller of the
two women, pushing a lank strand of hair back with
her forearm. "Stamie, Stamie girl! Where the
blasted hell are you?"
A thin, pockmarked girl of seventeen or so
staggered out of a pantry room with an immense ham in
her arms. "What is it now, Auntie? I's just out
to boil the ham as you told me."
"Put that aside for a moment and set this lad up in the
chimney nook with a bite of tucker. There's some
rabbit pie at the back of the larder needs eating.
That'll do well enough for him."
Retreating meekly to his corner, Alec was quickly
ignored dgity all but plain Stamie, who seemed
to be the only friendly inhabitant of the place.
"You just let me heat this up for you," she said, setting
the pot dgf leftovers in the coals. "Do you
fancy a pint of beer with your food?"
"Yes, please. It's a long ride all the way
up here from Rhiminee."
. "Rhiminee, you say?" she exclaimed
softly, stealing a glance in her aunt's direction.
"Gods, what I wouldn't give to find ser-
Lynn Flewelling
II;
vice in the city! But you've a country accent yourself.
How'd you manage it?"
"My position, you mean? Well now, there's not a
lot to tell," Alec stammered; he'd been sent in
as a simple messenger, for the Maker's sake! It
hadn't occurred to any of them that he'd need some
detailed history. "Master Verik knew my father,
that's all."
"Lucky you. I was born into this lot, stuck out here
in the williwags, same old faces day after day."
Her callused hand brushed across his as she reached
to stir the coals, and hectic patches of color
fleeted across her sallow cheeks. "What's your
name, stranger?"
"Elrid. Elrid of Market Lane," Alec
replied, noting both her blush and the striped bead
she. wore on a bit of red yarn around her neck.
It was a common country charm to attract a lover.
"Well, Elrid of Market Lane, it's a
fair pleasure to see someone new for a change. At
least someone I don't have to wait on hand and
foot!" she added, rolling her eyes.
"Lady Kassarie's got guests, then?"
"Oh, yes, but even they're the same old lot.
I spent half last night trying to keep old Lord
Galwain's footman out of my skirts, as
usual. Why is it never the one you want that takes
the liberties, eh?"
This observation, together with the warm look that accompanied
it, left no doubt where Alec stood in her
estimation.
"You'd best be seeing after that ham now, Stamie,"
her aunt interrupted gruffly. "I'm sure this
great big lad don't need you spooning his food
into him. Off with you, now! And no mooning about."
With a resentful roll of her eyes, Stamie hefted
the ham again and disappeared into the yard. Bolting down his
pot of tepid scraps under Kora's watchful
eye, Alec greeted Illester's reappearance with
considerable relief.
The old man dourly handed him a sealed scroll and a
silver coin. "See that you put that letter into Lady
Althia's hands yourself, boy. Your horse has been
watered. Off with you now!"
Message in hand, Alec galloped half a mile
down the road before doubling back through the
trees to where Seregil and Micurn were waiting.
"Well?" Seregil demanded.
"I spoke to Lady Kassarie. She claims he
never came and that

she wasn't expecting him. The watchman said the
same when he let me in."
"She didn't pretend not to know him, though?" asked
Micum.
"No, she just seemed surprised and a bit worried
over the whole business. She gave me this note
to carry back."
Lifting the seals with his knife, Seregil read the
letter. "Nothing unusual here. She sends her
regards and hopes that Lady Althia's husband
turns up soon. There's no sign of a hidden
message or cipher."
"She did ask me if I'd noticed anyone on
the road this morning," Alec told him.
"Nothing suspicious in that," said Micum. "What
was the household like?"
"I only saw the hall, kitchen, and part of the yard.
She has some other guests, though. I saw two
horses saddled for traveling and the scullery maid
mentioned a Lord Galwain."
"Well done," Seregil said, clapping him on the
back. "What about Kassarie and her people?"
"She's civil enough, I guess. She sent me
to the kitchen for something to eat while she wrote out the
note. The servants, though! They all treated me
like something they'd scraped off the bottom of their
boots. Illester, the head manservant, seemed
to think I was there to steal the silver and muddy up the
carpets. The cooks were the same. The only one who
was friendly at all was the scullery maid."
"Took a shine to you, did she?" asked Micum with a
knowing look.
"I think she's just lonesome, and no small wonder.
She asked how I got service in the city. I had
to make up a bit, but-was
"Hold on," Seregil interrupted. "This girl
who made eyes at you, did you get her name?"
"Stamie. She's the head cook's niece."
"Good work. She could be our key to the back door if
we ever need one."
"So what do we do now?" Micum asked restlessly.
"Alec can't show up to romance the girl when he's
supposed to be on the road back to Rhiminee."
"I know." Running a hand back through his hair,
Seregil encountered There's cropped curls
and dropped his hand with a grimace. "So far we only
have Alec's guess that the papers came
Lynn Flewelling
here at all. Barien's serving maid could just as well
have taken them when she met up with Teukros' man in
the tavern."
"That's not what it all sounded like to me," Alec
maintained stubbornly, nettled at this sudden doubt.
"Yes, but you only caught a few words. It's
unwise to base assumptions on scant evidence.
You end up leading yourself into all kinds of blind
alleys."
"But what about the horses I saw in the yard?"
"Were any of them white?"
"Well, no. But Teukros could have changed mounts
there."
"And ridden home on a different one?" Seregil
cocked a skeptical eye at him. "To what end
if he's already made no secret of his destination?"
"But the fact remains that we
did
see Teukros ride out last night," Alec
insisted. "And he
did
tell his wife he was coming here."
"A lie to cover his tracks perhaps," suggested
Seregil. "There's no reason to assume that he'd
tell her the truth."
"Maybe we should head back to the city and see what
Nysander's turned up," suggested Micum.
"You mean we're just going to leave?" asked Alec.
Nysander or not, he'd been inside the place and
didn't like the feel of it.
"For now," Seregil said, heading for the horses. "You
did a fine job. If nothing else, it was good
practice for you."
Thoroughly let down, Alec stole a last
resentful look at the keep looming over the
gorge, then hurried away after the others.
sga
ft
K greater-than caret 3'8greater-than *S
As they reached the Sea Gate that afternoon, Seregil was
the first to notice that the guard had been doubled.
"Something's happened," he murmured as they rode
into the crowded square.
"You got that right," said Micum, looking around.
"Let's see what it is."
Tight knots of people stood everywhere among the booths,
heads together, faces serious. Ignored
by their elders, gangs of children ran about wildly,
teasing each other and daring their fellows to nick
sweets from the unattended stalls.
Riding up to a small group of gossips, Micum
threw back his cloak to show his red Oreska
tunic.
"I've been away from the city. What's the news?"
he asked.
"It's the Vicegerent," a woman told him
tearfully. "Poor Lord Barien's dead!"
Alec let out a gasp of surprise.
"Illior's Light! How did it happen?"
"No one's certain," she replied, wiping her
eyes with a corner of her apron.
"He was murdered!" exclaimed a rough- looking character
beside her. "Them Plenimaran bastards will be behind it, just
you wait and see!"
"Oh, shut your hole, Farkus. Don't be
lynn Flewelling
spreading rumors," growled another man, nervously
eyeing Micum's livery. "He don't know nothing,
sir. All anyone's heard for certain is the
Vicegerent was found dead this morning."
"Many thanks," Micum said.
Kicking their horses into a gallop, they
rode for the Oreska House. Nysander looked pale
but composed when he let them in at the tower door.
"We heard Barien's dead. What happened?"
asked Seregil.
Nysander walked across to his desk and sat down,
hands folded on its stained surface. "It appears
to have been suicide."
"Appears?" Seregil sensed some strong emotion behind
his friend's carefully controlled manner, but could not
guess what it might be.
"He was found lying peacefully in his bed with his wrists
cut," Nysander continued. "The blood had soaked
down into the mattress. Nothing appeared amiss
until the bedclothes were thrown back."
"Did you talk to him last night?" asked Alec.
Nysander shook his head bitterly. "No. He had
gone to bed before I arrived. It was so late and there
seemed to be no danger of him bolting. I
actually-was
Breaking off, he handed Micum a parchment. "I
suppose he was composing this when I looked in on
him. Read it out, if you would."
Barien's last, brief missive was as formal as
any of the thousands of state documents he'd drawn
up over the course of his long career. The
handwriting flowed in dark, perfect lines across the
page without a blot or waver, devoid of the
slightest hint of hesitation.
was "My Queen," was read Micum, was "Know that
I, Barien i Zhal Mordecan Thorlin
Uliel, have in these last years of my service to you
committed high treason. My actions were
deliberate, considered, and inexcusable. I offer no
justification but pray you to believe that in the end I
died the Queen's man." He's signed it
"Barien, Traitor." his
"Illior's Eyes, how could I have been such a
fool?" groaned Nysander, pressing a hand to his
brow.
"But this proves nothing," Seregil exclaimed in
exasperation. "There are no details, no names, no
specifics of any kind."
"Idrilain is aware of our investigations. I
believe she understands the import of this letter," replied
the wizard.

"Oh, that's fine then," Seregil snapped, pacing
to the far end of the room. "Unless she suddenly begins
to wonder why he died
immediately
after you began looking into his activities.
Suppose she begins to question whether your loyalty to me
is greater than to her? That's still
my
body there in the Tower, you know. I want it back in
one piece!"
Micum looked the letter over again. "Couldn't this be a
forgery? Sakor's Flames, we've just been dealing
with some of the best forgers in Rhiminee."
"And what about Teukros?" added Alec. "It's his
word against Kassarie's that he intended to go there at
all. He could have gone to Barien's instead. He could
have gotten into the house easily enough, being family.
Once in, he kills his uncle, drops the
note, and slips out again. I told you before, Barien
was angry with him over something."
Nysander shook his head. "There were no signs of
violence or magic on Barien's person or in the
room."
"Doors?" interjected Seregil.
"Locked from within. And as for the matter of Teukros'
disappearance, if a man of Barien's stamp believed
his nephew had betrayed the family's honor, he
himself may have taken steps to remove the young man, a
last act of family duty. There is
ample precedent for such practices among that
class. But the fact remains that whatever Alec
heard them arguing about last night, it must surely have
contributed to Barien's death."
"What about Phoria?" asked Micum. "It
appears she was one of the last people to see him alive, and
at his summons, too. Has anyone talked
to her?"
"By all reports, the Princess Royal is in
deep mourning and is seeing no one," answered
Nysander.
"That's vague enough," mused Seregil. "Do you
think she's involved?"
"Before Barien's death I should not have thought so. Now I
fear we must admit the possibility. If that does
somehow prove to be the case, you may be certain it will
be dealt with by higher authorities than you or I."
Seregil continued his uneasy perambulation around the
room. "Which still leaves us with one man dead and one
missing. Have their houses been tossed?"
Nysander nodded. "A small cache of forged shipping
manifests was uncovered at Teukros' villa.
With them were found
Lynn Flewelling
III 1! iii,-"
copies of several seals, including yours and those of
Lord Vardarus, Birutus i Tolomon, and
Lady Royan a Zhirini."
"My seal and that of Vardarus; that's clear enough."
Seregil picked up a sextant from one of the tables
and fidgeted absently with it. "What about these others?
I've never heard of them."
"Minor nobility with minor commissions. Lady
Royan oversees the port of Cadumir on the
Inner Sea just north of Wyvern Dug. The
commission is an hereditary one appended to her
holding. Young Sir Birutus was recently
appointed to a post with the sutler corps-something to do with
meat, I believe."
"They don't sound like the sort to bring the government
toppling down," Micum said, perplexed.
"And just where was all this damning evidence found?" asked
Seregil, coming to a momentary halt by the desk.
"An interesting point, that," Nysander said with a
mirthless smile. "Everything had been concealed beneath the
floorboards of Teukros" bedchamber."
"The floorboards," Seregil exclaimed in
disgust. "Bilairy's Codpiece, even a green
thief knows better than that. You might as well
nail it to the front door! This snarl of
events just isn't making sense. Barien certainly
had access to the royal seal, but to have handed it over
to such a dolt as that? It's absurd."
"You said he had a blind spot for his nephew,"
Alec reminded him.
Seregil stabbed a finger at Barien's letter. "A
man who composes as cold-blooded a suicide letter
as that would
never
be so careless. Mark my words, there's more to this than
we're seeing."
The four fell silent for a moment, mulling the
seemingly contradictory evidence.
"What about those servants we followed?" Alec
asked at last.
"What about them?" Seregil muttered, still scowling
down at the letter.
"Well, I don't know about the girl, but that man of
Teukros' seemed to know where to deliver the papers.
He offered to go, remember? But Teukros said
he'd do it himself."
The others stared at him a moment, then exchanged
chagrined glances.
"By the Light, how did we ever overlook such an
obvious point?" cried Nysander. "The
members of both households have been taken
into custody. They are all being held in Red Tower
Prison. Come along, all of you!"

"Bless the day I dragged you out of that dungeon,"
laughed Seregil, throwing an arm around Alec's
neck as they dashed for the door.
Nysander had the Queen's authority to question the
prisoners and, as Seregil was still in There's form, no
one challenged his right to accompany his master. Leaving
them to their task, Alec and Micum went off to see
how the real Thero was faring.
As luck would have it, the warder was the same one whom
Alec had met on his first visit to the Tower.
"Poor fellow!" The warder shook his head
regretfully. "Prison's been damned hard on
"im, Sir Alec. First day he was gracious as
you please, a real gentleman. But he's gone
sort of sour since. We've hardly had a word out
of him in a couple of days, and what he has said
ain't been hardly civil."
Reaching the cell, he took up his post at the end
of the corridor. "Visiting rules same as before,
young sir. Keep your hands away."
Alec peered through the grille.
"Seregil?"
"Alec?"
"Yes, and Micum."
A pale face appeared at the bars and Alec
experienced a familiar sense of incongruity. The
features and voice were Seregil's; the expressions
and intonation were not. The overall effect was
reminiscent of Seregil's Aren Windover
persona.
"How are you holding up?" asked Micum, standing with
his back to the guard.
"It's been a most unusual experience," Thero
replied grimly. "They've left me alone for the
most part, though, and Nysander sent some books."
"Have you heard about Barien?" whispered Alec.
"Yes. Frankly, I'm not certain-was
"Good news! Good news, Lord Seregil!" the
warder interrupted, heading their way with a bailiff in
tow.
Thero pressed his face to the bars. "Is that my
release?"
"It is indeed, my lord." The warder rattled the
lock open with a flourish.
Standing by the cell door, the bailiff unrolled a
scroll and droned out, was 'Lord Seregil
i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa, now of
Rhiminee, the charge of treason laid against you has
been
Lynn Flewelling
rescinded. Your name is cleared of calumny. By the
Queen's grace, step forth and be free." his
"I can't tell you how happy I am, sir," the
warder said as Thero stepped blinking into the relative
brightness of the corridor. "It would've been damned
hard to give you over to the inquisitors, like they was
talking at first. Damned hard, sir."
"Harder for me than you, I'm sure," Thero
snapped, striding off without a backward glance.
Cocking an eye at Alec, the warder spread his
hands. "You see what I mean, sir?"
Alec and Micum caught up with Thero on the
stairs.
"You might have handled that a bit more smoothly,"
Micum whispered angrily. "You're supposed
to be Lord Seregil, after all."
Thero shot him a sidelong glare. "After two
solid days of rats and platitudes, I doubt
he'd have been a great deal more gracious."
For appearance's sake they went directly to Wheel
Street. Runcer met them at the door with
his usual lack of surprise.
"We had word, my lord," he said gravely. "Your
bath has been prepared, if you'd care to go up?"
"Thank you, Runcer, I will," Thero replied,
attempting Seregil's easy manner. "Let me
know the minute Nysander arrives."
Runcer's wrinkled face betrayed little as he
watched Thero march off up the stairs, but Alec
thought he caught the hint of a cryptic frown before the
old servant doddered off toward the kitchen.
Upon their return from the Tower, Seregil and Nysander
found the others just starting on a hot supper at
Seregil's bedroom table.
Face-to-face for the first time since the exchange of
bodies, Seregil and Thero inspected each other in
silence.
Seregil slowly circled his counterpart, amazed by the
sight of his own familiar face settled into There's
guarded expression.
"Say something," he prompted at last. "I want
to hear what I sound like with someone else doing the
talking."
"This throat's been doing a great deal less talking
since
395
you've been gone," Thero retorted. "I suppose
I'll be quite hoarse when I get my body back from
you."
Seregil turned to Alec. "You were right. The
timbre of the voice is the same, but the speech
patterns make all the difference. What an
interesting phenomenon!"
"But one which we have no time to explore," Nysander
interjected. "You must both be restored to your proper
forms."
Joining hands with the greatest eagerness either of them was ever
likely to exhibit, Seregil and Thero stood
motionless while Nysander performed the spell.
The magic was indiscernible, the effect
instantaneous. Restored to his own body,
Seregil went a clammy greenish-white.
Releasing Thero, he staggered to the fireside
armchair and sank down, head between his knees. Alec
grabbed up a bowl and hurried to his side.
Thero doubled over, too, grimacing as he grasped
his leg.
"What have you been up to?" he demanded, pulling up
his robe to examine the swollen knee.
"Up to?" Seregil managed a faint laugh between
gasps. "It was-more the down part we had
trouble with."
Flexing his long fingers, he rubbed his hands over his
smooth cheeks and hair. "By the Four, it's good
to get back into my true form! And I've had a
bath and clean clothes, too. I'm in your debt,
Thero. I just hope you didn't enjoy the soaping up
too much."
"You've little enough to be vain of," Thero shot back
tartly, returning to his supper.
Still grinning, Seregil tugged at the lacings of his
shirt. "I don't know why you have to wear everything so
tight, though-was
Alec was the only one who noticed the momentary
faltering of his friend's smile. Before the boy could ask
what was wrong, however, Seregil locked eyes with
him, discreetly motioning silence.
"What did the two servants have to say?" Micum
was asking, impatient for details.
"They weren't there," Seregil replied, pulling the
lacings shut again. Again his fingers brushed the rough
tissue of the scar, which had somehow reappeared. The
feel of it made his skin crawl.
"Now there's a surprise," Micum said glumly.
"Did you learn
m
uch from the others?"
Lynn Flewelling
"We had the same story from both households," said
Nysander. "The footman Marsin and Barien's maid
Callia had been lovers for some time. Their fellow
servants assume they have run off together."
Micum raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Bit
too coincidental for my taste. What about the
wife?"
"Even less helpful," said Seregil. "Lady
Althia's a silly, harmless girl, still content after
a year's marriage to be her husband's poppet.
All she knows of his business is that it keeps her in
jewels, gowns, and horses."
"Then we're right back where we started!" groaned
Alec. "Marsin, Teukros, and that girl were our
only connection, and now we can't find any of them."
"We should check the charnel houses next," said
Seregil. "If any of them were murdered in the city,
the Scavengers may have found them by now. Alec,
Micum, and I will have to handle that since we're the
only ones who know what they look like. And speaking of
corpses, what's going to happen to Barien?"
Nysander gave a troubled sigh. "According to the law, he
will be flayed, disemboweled, and hung on
Traitor's Hill, then cast into the city pit."
Micum shook his head. "To end up like that after all the
good he's done over the years. It's him I have
to thank for Watermead; he suggested it to the Queen."
"At least he's already dead," Seregil said with a
shudder, all too aware that he'd faced a similar
fate only a few days ago without such benefit.
At the moment, however, he had a more pressing concern.
"Before we all go our separate ways, Nysander,
I'd like a private word."
Leading the way to the library across the corridor,
Seregil closed the door carefully, then tugged
open his shirt to show Nysander his chest. The circular
brand left by Mardus' wooden disk stood out a
sinister reddish-pink against his fair skin.
"The transference magicks must have disrupted the
obscuration," said Nysander. "Though I have never known
such a thing to happen before."
"There's more to it than that and you know it," Seregil said
going to a small mirror on the wall for a better
look. The patterns in the scar tissue were more
distinct than ever.
"Could Thero have something to do with this?" he demanded. "That
dream I had-was
397
"Certainly not!" Nysander retorted, reaching to touch
the tiny ridges of stiffened flesh. "He would
certainly have noticed it when he bathed, and told me
of it. It must have happened as I performed the
restoration. I shall have to cover it again."
Seregil caught Nysander's wrist and held it.
"What is this mark?" he said, searching the old
wizard's face. "What does it mean that you want
so badly to keep it hidden?"
Nysander made no move to free himself. "Have you
recalled anything else of that nightmare? The one with the
headless horse?"
"Not really. Only being in There's body and seeing the
eye in my chest. And flying. For the love of
Illior, Nysander, are you going to tell me what this
really is or not?"
Nysander looked away, saying nothing.
Releasing him, Seregil strode angrily toward the
door. "So, I'm going to go the rest of my life with
this burned into my skin and you're not going to tell me a
damn thing!"
"Dear boy, you would do better to pray that you never
find out."
"That's never been any prayer of mine and you know it!"
Seregil spat back. For an instant
anger made him reckless. "As it happens, I know
more about it than you might think. I'd have told you already
if it wasn't for-was
The words died on his lips. Nysander had gone ashen,
his face a mask of anger. At his swift
incantation, the room went dim and Seregil knew from
past experience that Nysander had sealed the room against
intrusions of any kind.
"By your honor as a Watcher, you will tell me
everything,"
Nysander ordered and the barely suppressed fury in his
voice struck like a blow.
"It was the night Alec and I left the
Ore'ska," Seregil told him, his mouth suddenly
dry. "Later that night I went to the Temple of
Illior."
"Alone?"
"Of course."
"What did you do there?"
Seregil's skin prickled coldly; he could almost
see the black Waves of anger radiating out from
Nysander. The room went darker still, as if the lamps
were dying. Steeling himself, he
w
ent on.
"I'd made a drawing of this." Seregil pointed
to the scar.
Lynn Flewelling
"Before you obscured it that first time I used a mirror
and sketched as much detail of the design as I could
make out. At the temple I showed it
to Orphyria-Nysander, what's wrong?"
Nysander had gone greyer still. Staggering to a chair,
he sank his head in his hands. "By the Light," he
groaned, "I should have guessed. After all I said--
was
"You told me nothing!" Seregil shot back, still
angry in spite of his fear. "Even after I almost
died, after Micum brought word of the massacre in the
Fens village, you told us
nothing]
What else was I to do?"
"You headstrong fool!" Nysander glared up at him.
"I suppose you might have heeded my order. My
warning! Tell me the rest. What did Orphyria
say?"
"She couldn't make anything of it, so she sent me
down to the Oracle. During the ritual, he handled
the drawing I'd made. He spoke of an eater of
death."
Nysander suddenly grasped Seregil's wrist,
pulling the younger man to his knees in front of him
and staring intently into his eyes. "He said
that
to you? What else? Do you remember his exact
words?"
"He said "death," and repeated it. Then "Death,
and life in death. The eater of death gives birth
to monsters. Guard well the Guardian. Guard
well the Vanguard and the Shaft." his
"Those were his exact words?" cried Nysander,
squeezing Seregil's arm painfully in his
excitement. The anger was gone now, replaced
by something that looked very much like hope.
"I'd stake my life on it."
"Did he explain what he meant by these words? The
Guardian? The Shaft? The Vanguard?"
"No, but I remember thinking that he must be referring
to specific people-especially the Guardian."
Releasing Seregil, Nysander sat back with a harsh
laugh. "Indeed he was. Is there anything else,
anything at all? Think carefully, Seregil.
Omit nothing!"
Seregil rubbed his bruised wrist as he
concentrated. "In the course of the divination
he picked up a harp peg and sang a tune I'd
composed as a child. He kept that. Then there was a bit
of Alec's fletching-he spoke of Alec as being a
child of earth and light and said that he was my child now, that I
was to be father, brother, friend, and lover to him."

He paused, but the wizard simply motioned for him
to continue.
"Then came the eater of death business, and finally he
looked me right in the eye, handed me back the
scroll, and said, "Obey Nysander. Burn this and
make no more." his
"Sound advice indeed. And did you heed it?"
"Yes."
"That is a wonder." Have you spoken of this to anyone
else? Alec? Micum? You must tell me the
truth, Seregil!"
"No one. I told no one. I'll swear an
oath on it if you like."
"No, dear boy, I believe you." A little color
had returned to the old wizard's cheeks. "Listen
to me, I implore you. This is not a game. You have
no idea the precipice you have danced along, and I
am still bound not to tell you- No, no interruptions!
I want no oaths from you now, but a
promise made on your honor-on your love for me
if nothing else-that you will be patient and allow me
to proceed as I must. I swear the wizard's oath
to you, by my Hands, Heart, and Voice, there is no
doubt now that I shall reveal everything to you one day. You
have my word. Can you abide by that for now?"
"I will." Still shaken, Seregil clasped Nysander's
cold hands between his own. "By my love, I will.
Cover the damned thing up!"
"Thank you, my impatient one." Nysander
embraced him tightly for a moment, then placed his hand
on Seregil's chest. The scar melted from sight beneath
his fingers.
"You must tell me at once if it reappears,"
he cautioned. "And now you had best be about the business
at hand."
"The others must be wondering what happened to us."
"Go on. I shall sit here quietly a moment longer.
You gave me quite a turn!"
"I suppose I'll understand that, too, at some
later date. Well, we're off to tour the charnel
houses now. We'll be back before dawn, but I
doubt any of us will be wanting breakfast."
"Probably not. And Seregil?"
"Yes?"
"Watch your back, my boy, and Alec's, too.
Now, more than
e
ver, I pray that you will live by your natural
caution."
"I generally do, but thanks for the warning." Seregil
paused, his hand on the latch. "You're the
Guardian, aren't you? Whatever that
Lynn Flewelling
means-and I'm not asking-but it
was
you the Oracle meant, wasn't it?"
To his great surprise, Nysander nodded. "Yes,
I am the Guardian."
"Thank you." With a last thoughtful look, Seregil
went out, unaware that his dearest friend had, for a fleeting
instant, been his sworn executioner.
II
UZ-JUST

caret
2z*u
i caret so caret stggaag
ltffcaret gch"is'So backslash
By virtue of its function, the Scavenger
Guild was the caretaker of Rhiminee's unwanted
dead. Combing the streets and sewers for refuse, the
Scavenger crews were often the first to find the murdered
and destitute, the cast-off, cast-out, and abandoned
ones.
There were three charnel houses in the city: two in the
upper city, one in the lower. Seregil and Micum
had often visited them as a final recourse. For
Alec, however, they proved to be a harsh new
experience.
They began with the closest, which stood near the north
wall of the city. Alec had hardly set foot
inside the place before he staggered out again, hand
clamped over his mouth. Retching, he grasped the
top of a street marker to steady himself. He'd gotten
a good look at the interior of the plain building,
seen the corpses lying face up on the stone floor
in rows like bundles of used clothing in the
marketplace. Even on such a cold winter night,
the smell was appalling, and all the more so to a
Dalnan nose.
After a moment, he was aware of Seregil beside him.
"They ought-they should have been burned before now!" he
gagged.
"The Scavengers have to keep them for a
lyim Flewelling
few days after they find them, in case they're
claimed," Seregil explained. "The ones dragged
up out of the sewers are the worst. Perhaps you'd better
stay with the horses."
Torn between shame and relief, Alec watched through the
open doorway as Seregil returned to his
unpleasant task. He and Micum paced up and
down the rows, looking into bloated faces and examining
clothing until they were satisfied that none of the three
people they sought were there. Scrubbing their hands in a basin of
vinegar provided by the keeper of the place, they
rejoined Alec outside.
"Looks like we get to keep hunting," Micum
told him grimly.
The second charnel house was situated a few
streets away from the Sea Market. Alec kept
silent during the ride, listening to the even rhythm of
Patch's hooves as they galloped through the lamp
shadows of the Street of the Sheaf. By the time they reached
their destination, he'd made up his mind. He dismounted
with the others.
"Wait just a second," Seregil said. Ducking in
through the low doorway, he came back with a rag
soaked with vinegar. "This helps," he
told Alec, showing him how to drape it loosely
over his nose and mouth.
Clasping the acrid rag to his face, Alec
moved among the dozen or so bodies laid out for
inspection. The air was uncomfortably damp, and a
fetid stench rose from the glistening drainage
channels cut into the floor.
"Here's a familiar face," Micum remarked from
across the room. "Not one of ours, though."
Seregil came over for a look. "Gormus the
Beggar. Poor old bastard-he must have been
ninety. His daughter begs over by Tyburn
Circle most days. I'll send word to her."
Again, they found no sign of Teukros or the
others. Returning gratefully to the fresh night
air, they rode down the echoing Harbor Way to the
maze of wharves and tenements that clung to the eastern
curve of the harbor.
Leading the way into the poorest section, Seregil
reined in at a sagging warehouse. It was the largest
of the city charnel houses and the stench of the place hit
them before they opened the door.
"Sakor's Flame!" Micum croaked, clapping
a vinegar rag over his nose.
Alec hastily did the same. None of the
evening's activities had prepared him for this
place; even Seregil looked a bit queasy.

More than fifty bodies were laid out on the stained
wooden floor, some fresh, some with the flesh already
slumping from the bones. The cresset lamps set
around the room to consume the evil humours burned with a
foul, bluish light.
A hunched little woman wearing the grey tabard of the
Scavenger Guild limped up to them with a basket of
wilted nosegays.
"Posies for you gentlemen? Makes the bitter
search so much sweeter!"
Seregil tossed a few coins into her basket.
"Good evening, old mother. Perhaps you can make our search
a shorter one. I'm looking for three people who'd have
come to you within the past day. A young, dark-haired
servant girl; a manservant of middling years,
also dark; and a young nobleman with a blond mustache."
"You may be in luck, sir," the old woman
cackled, hobbling off toward a corner of the room.
"I've got the fresh ones over here. Is this your
girl?"
Callia lay naked between a drowned fisherman and a
young tough whose throat had been cut. Her
eyes were open, and she looked vaguely worried.
"That's her, all right," said Seregil.
"Now that's a damned shame," Micum sighed,
holding up the hem of his cloak as he squatted
down beside the girl. "She can't be more than twenty.
Do you see her wrists?"
Seregil fingered the brown bruises circling the
pale wrists. "She was bound, and gagged, too.
See here, how the corners of her mouth are raw?"
Shivering with nausea, Alec forced himself to watch the
examination. The past few hours rolled over him like
an oppressive nightmare, leaving him sickened to the
core.
The front of the body was unmarked except for the
bruises. When they rolled her over, however, they
found a single small wound between her ribs just to the
left of the spine.
"A professional job," Seregil muttered.
"Through the great vessel and straight up into the heart.
At least it was quick. Where was she found, old mother?"
"Poor lamb! They pulled her from under the docks,
end of Eel Street," the Scavenger woman
replied. "I took her for a doxy. Is there
family to collect her?"
Seregil laid the body gently back
into place and stood up. "I'll look into it. See
that she's kept a day or two longer, won't you?"
Outside again, all three sucked in lungfuls of the
tar-scented
V;
pHfationsj
were t -- be!

Lynn Flewelling
air, but the stink of vinegar on their hands and faces
seemed to keep the stench of death about them.
"I want to jump into the sea with all my clothes
on!" said Alec, casting a longing look toward the
glimmering of water visible at the end of the street.
"Me, too, if we wouldn't come out of that water
dirtier than we are now," said Seregil. "A good
hot tub will put us right."
"That's your answer to just about everything," Micum
observed wryly. "In this case, however, I have
to agree."
"At least we know for certain that we're on the right
track," Alec said hopefully. "I wonder where
Teukros and Marsin will turn up?"
"If they ever do," answered Seregil. "For all
we know, it could have been them who did away
with the girl, in which case they could be halfway to anywhere
by now. Then again, they could both be floating dead in the
sewers. Between this and Barien's sudden death, though, I
think it's safe to assume that we've got more
enemies out there somewhere and, whoever they are, they've
got the wind up their tails now. Teukros
spilled something to someone!"
isSgandliSS-SSJ caret eandP
k8and8'fS@lS
jjEH caret aIt
Two days had passed since the Vicegerent's
suicide. At noon Barien's body was to be
publicly dismembered, a symbolic execution of the
self-confessed traitor.
Micum flatly refused to attend. While
Seregil finished dressing, he wandered out onto the
bedroom balcony to watch Alec at his morning
shooting in the garden. Patiently gauging each shot,
the boy sent shaft after shaft unerringly into his
current target, a sack of straw wedged in the
crotch of a tree.
The previous night Alec had halfheartedly
offered to accompany Seregil, but they'd managed
to dissuade him.
"There's nothing there you need to see,"
Seregil had told him, kindly leaving unsaid the
fact that Alec had shouted himself awake every night
since their charnel house tour.
The boy's relief had been obvious, but this morning
he'd moped through breakfast in guilty, hangdog
silence, then retreated to the garden with his bow.
As Micum watched now, a sudden gust of wind
blew a lock of hair across Alec's eyes,
spoiling his last shot. Without the slightest show of
impatience, he merely brushed it back and went
to collect his arrows for another round.
It's a pity you don't have as much patience
lyim Flewelling
with yourself as you do with your shooting,
Micum thought, stepping back into the warmth of the
bedroom.
Seregil was trying on a broad-brimmed black
hat in front of the mirror. Tugging it to a more
rakish angle over one eye, he stepped back
to judge the effect. "What do you think?" he asked.
Micum ran a critical eye over the plain
grey velvet coat Seregil wore under a cloak
of darker grey. "No one's going to mistake you for a
wedding guest."
Seregil tipped his hat with a humorless
smile. "Well turned out but austere, eh? Good.
Never let it be said that Lord Seregil doesn't know
how to dress for any occasion. Is Alec still
shooting?"
"Yes. You know, maybe you shouldn't have talked him out
of going. I think he feels like he's let you
down."
Seregil shrugged. "Probably, but it was his
decision in the end. You saw him the other night; he
forced himself into the chamels because he knew it mattered.
Today it doesn't and he knows that, too. He's just
kicking himself for being squeamish. Hell, still wouldn't be
going if I didn't have to. The way word has
spread around Rhiminee, they're writing ballads
about me already; the poor exile unjustly
imprisoned and all that sort of horse shit. So it
matters and I'm going. At least the poor bastard
did us all the favor of killing himself. When the
condemned is alive, I have nightmares myself."
The execution site lay a few miles north of the
city. Known as "Traitor's Hill," the barren
rise was distinguished by a broad stone platform on the
crest of the hill. Overlooking a lonely stretch of the
Cirna highroad, its gibbet arch and deeply
scarred block presented bleak but potent
testimony to the Queen's implacable justice.
Riding out under a lowering sky, Seregil clapped his
hat on more tightly and silently cursed the duty that
forced him out on such a morning. The northern
territories had been winter-locked for a month now,
but the cold weather was only now settling in solidly
here on the coast. A light dusting of snow had
streaked the fields just after dawn; in the distance to his
right, he could see mountain peaks glistening whitely.

A sizable crowd had already gathered at the execution
site. The nobles sat their horses in a tight
knot, slightly but definitively separate from the
surrounding mob of idlers, ne'erdo-wells, and
seekers of morbid thrills.
The latter formed a loose ring around the platform,
laughing and jesting as if it were a Fair Day, they
took their humble midday meal within the shadow of the
gibbet and dared one another to stand close enough to get
spattered by the blood.
Ignoring the sudden ripple of excited shouts and
pointing his arrival elicited, Seregil rode
to join Nysander and Thero on the fringe of the noble
ranks.
Thero raised an eyebrow. "Alec's not
with you?"
Seregil tensed immediate, forever on guard against some
thinly veiled barb from the younger wizard.
"Perhaps it is just as well," Nysander observed
quietly. "This is not an aspect of Skalan
society of which I am particularly proud. The great
pity is that it is so effective a deterrent."
Nysander was looking more careworn than ever this morning.
In spite of the irrefutable evidence, the
wizard'was still finding it difficult to accept
Barien's disloyalty. Seregil knew him well enough
to understand that it went deeper than mere disillusionment; as
an intimate of both the Queen and the Vicegerent,
Nysander was reproaching himself for having been blind to a
plot of such magnitude. Unfortunately, this was not
the time or place to discuss the matter.
Maintaining a somber demeanor, Seregil
politely rebuffed efforts by several curious nobles
to draw him into conversation. Instead, he listened with a
certain sardonic pleasure to the speculations being
bantered about nearby.
Lords and ladies who'd feasted at the Vicegerent's
own table within the last fortnight now spoke darkly of
suspicious circumstances suddenly recalled, or
turns of conversation now construed as
suspicious or telling.
The crowd grew increasingly restless as the dull sky
gradually brightened toward noon. In response,
blue-uniformed riders of the City Watch began
to make their presence more visible.
Chilled and disgruntled, Seregil shifted in the
saddle. 'The procession should be in sight by now."
"He's right. Shall I cry for them, Nysander? was
Offered Thero.
"Perhaps we -" The older wizard paused, shading his
eyes as
*"

Lynn Flewelling
he gazed back up the road toward the city. "No,
I doubt it will be necessary."
A lone rider had come into view, galloping hard in
their direction. As he came closer, they could see
that he wore the colors of a Queen's Herald.
"Bloody hell, here comes someone to spoil the fun
for sure!" someone shouted.
The assessment seemed a likely one and the crowd
parted with a collective grumble to let the rider through.
Dismounting, the herald climbed onto the gibbet
platform, unrolled a scroll, and in a
loud, clear voice proclaimed, "By order of
Queen Idrilain the Second, the ritual
execution of Barien
i
Zhal is postponed. There will be no dismemberment
today. All hail the Queen's mercy!"
Jeers and catcalls went up from the thrill
seekers, but most of the nobles turned their mounts for
town with expressions of relief.
"What's this?" muttered Seregil.
"I cannot imagine," replied Nysander. "I
suspect, however, that a summons from the Queen may
await me upon my return."
Nysander was correct. Hastening to the Palace, he
found Idrilain and Phoria waiting for him in the
private audience chamber. Idrilain was seated, with
Phoria at stiff attention at her left side.
Both women looked very grim.
"Sit down, Nysander. There is something I wish you
to hear," Idrilain said curtly, motioning him to the
only other chair in the small chamber. "Phoria,
repeat to Nysander what you have told me."
"Lord Barien was not a Leran," Phoria began,
her voice flat as a sergeant's at daily
report. "He died believing that he had
unwittingly aided them, however, through commerce he and
Lord Teukros had with the forger Alben."
"Then he recognized Alben, that night at the
inquisition?" Nysander asked, recalling Barien's
strange expression.
Phoria shook her head. "No, he'd never met
the man or heard his name. The connection was all through
Teukros, who'd handled all the dealings with him.
"It all started three years ago. Lord Teukros
was involved in

that massive land speculation in the western
territories which failed so miserably."
"I recall the scandal," said Nysander. "I had
no idea Teukros had any part in it."
"He was ruined," Phoria told him. "In the end
he owed several millions to the man who'd backed the
whole scheme, a Lord Herleus."
"Herleus?" Nysander searched his memory for a face
to go with the name.
"Killed during a boar hunt later that same
year," Idrilain informed him. "After his death, some
evidence was found suggesting he'd been a Leran
sympathizer, though nothing could be proven at the time."
"Ah, I begin to see."
"Teukros was ruined," Phoria continued. "Even
Barien hadn't the ready funds to save him, and
Herleus would not be reasoned with. Barien told me
he'd advised Teukros to accept his shame and
flee the country, and at first Teukros agreed. A
day later, however, he came back to his uncle
with a plan to save the family name."
"And this plan involved the forging of certain documents
which, after the Queen herself, only Barien had access
to?"
Phoria nodded. "Apparently Teukros had gone
to plead with Herleus one last time. It was then that
Herleus suggested that Barien's position would allow
him to divert treasury gold from the Gold Road
shipments. Herleus introduced Teukros
to Alben, who could forge the necessary papers. The long and the
short of it is, poor Barien couldn't bear to see his
spineless scoundrel of a nephew disgraced and agreed
to it all. They needed my help in rerouting the gold
and, for Barien's sake, I agreed. We both
regretted it after, but we thought the whole affair was
over and done until Alben turned up in this
business with Lord Seregil."
Nysander stroked his short beard thoughtfully. "I must
hear the details of the plan, of course, but
I am still uncertain as to how Barien, whom you say
knew nothing of Alben, made the connection between this
creature and his nephew during the confession."
Phoria sighed heavily. "Alben spoke of the
White Hart.
That was the name of the vessel the stolen gold was put
onto at Cirna."
Lynn Flewelling
Ah, and as high commander of the cavalry detachments
assigned to guard such shipments, your approval was
needed to reroute the gold. As was Barien's to alter
the treasury manifest. Both of you needed to know the
name of the vessel, if little else."
Phoria met his eye stonily. "I should have
refused. I should have stopped him. I offer no
excuse for my actions."
Idrilain took a rolled document from the side
table and passed it to Nysander. "This is Barien's will,
dated three years ago. You'll find he left his
entire fortune and holdings to the Skalan treasury.
It's more than adequate repayment."
Slapping a hand down on the table, she rose to pace
the room. "As if I wouldn't have forgiven him or
tried to help! That wonderful, damnable
old-fashioned honor of his destroyed him
and cost me the most valuable councilor I had, not
to mention the trust of my heir apparent. And all on
account of a young idiot not worth the price of the rocks
to crush him!"
Phoria flinched visibly. "I shall relinquish
all claim to the throne, of course."
"You will do nothing of the sort!" shouted Idrilain,
rounding on her. "With "a war brewing and Lerans in
the back pantry, the
last
thing this country needs is the uproar of an abdication.
You made a mistake-a stupid, prideful
mistake-and now you've seen the consequences. As the
future queen of this land, you will accept
responsibility for your actions and put the needs of
Skala before your own. As the high commander of my
cavalry forces, you will remain at your post and carry
out your duties.
Is that clear?"
White-faced, Phoria dropped to one knee and
raised a fist to her chest in salute. "I will, my
Queen!"
"Oh, get up and finish your report." Turning
away in disgust, Idrilain dropped back into her
chair.
Rising, Phoria resumed her rigid stance. "As
far as I know, the gold was delivered to the
Hart
as planned. Barien never mentioned the matter to me again
until the night of his death."
For an instant a small tremor disturbed the
masklike composure of her face. It was the first time
in years Nysander had seen her show the hint of any
strong emotion other than anger. It passed as quickly
as it had come, however.
"Barien went to Teukros and confronted him, wanting
to

know why he'd continued an association with the forger," she
went on. "Apparently Teukros denied everything
having to do with the Leran plot and Seregil, but did
admit to using Alben's talents to facilitate some
shady shipping deals."
"The secret of his fortune, I suspect," said
Nysander. "I should hardly have given him credit for
such ability, yet it seems we may have
underestimated the wretch after all. General
Phoria, do you think Barien arranged to have
Teukros killed the night of his own death?"
"He said nothing of the kind to me."
"Did you arrange to have Teukros killed?"
"No." For the first time in some minutes Phoria
locked eyes with him and Nysander found no reason
to doubt her words.
"Is there anything else you can tell me of this
business with the
HartThat
"Nothing beyond the fact that Barien could never ascertain
exactly what happened to the gold. Herleus ceased
his demands for money, and a few months later he was
dead. Nothing was mentioned of it during the disposition of
his estate, but that's hardly surprising. I
suppose his heirs have lived rather well off their
secret reserve."
"Perhaps," said Nysander, unconvinced that the answer
would be that simple.
Armed with Nysander's report from the Palace,
Seregil and Alec disappeared for the rest of the day.
They returned to the tower before dark, however, still
dressed in the hooded robes of professional
scholars and smudged with fine bookish dust.
Micum, who'd spent the afternoon with Nysander,
exchanged a grin with the old wizard; Seregil and the
boy both had the happy look of hounds on a warm
scent. It was the most cheerful either of them had
looked in days.
"Herleus
had
no heirs!" Seregil cackled happily, warming
his hands at the workroom fire.
"None at all?" Nysander raised a shaggy
eyebrow in surprise.
"Not only that," the boy added excitedly, "but his
entire estate was impounded for debt right after he
died. There was no sign of any gold."
"You have been to the city archives, then?"
Lynn Flewelling
"And down to the lower city again," said Seregil.
"Oh, we've had a busy afternoon, Alec and I.
We're off to Cirna tomorrow."
"Hold on now, you've lost me," Micum broke
in. "What were you looking for in the lower city?"
"Shipping records," Seregil replied. "The
White Hart
is listed as belonging to a shipping line owned by the
Tyremian family of Rhiminee, but it turns out
she was based out of Cirna, so that's where all her
manifests would be kept, "they've been kept."
Micum nodded slowly. "Then you believe there's some
connection between that stolen gold and the plot against
you?"
"It appears that the same people were involved in both
plots, and that they're probably Lerans. If
I'm wrong, then we've damn-all to go on."
Micum narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "This is
another one of your 'instinct" things, isn't it?"
"Even so, I believe he may be correct,"
Nysander said. "Teukros' falling into debt with a
suspected Leran smacks of a conspiracy. What
greater coup for them than to ensnare Barien's compliance
through his beloved nephew? We must, at all costs,
try to determine the ultimate destination of that gold.
Assuming, as Seregil has noted, that the evidence
still exists."
"There's always a chance," said Seregil. "You coming
north with us, Micum?"
He shook his head. "Doesn't sound like you need
me, and 1 imagine Kari's eager to get me
back. I'll ride as far as Watermead with you,
though. You can break your journey with us, if you like."
"I'd rather push on, thanks all the same.
Depending on what we learn, I may stop by for you
on the way back, though."
"I'd better not mention that to Kari." Micum gave
a comic grimace. "If you just come calling
for me out of the blue, I can lay the blame off on
you. How long do you think you'll be gone?"
"Depends on what we find. The
Hart
was a coastal trader working both sides of the
isthmus. If we have to go off to some distant port, it
could be weeks."
Pausing, he turned to Nysander. "There was one other
thing- How many Queen's Warrants would it have taken
to reroute that gold?"
"Only one, I suppose. Is there some
significance in that?"

"Perhaps," mused Seregil. "As I recall, you
said that Alben confessed to forging
two
Queen's Warrants, but nothing of the sort was
recovered from Teukros' house. That leaves one very
power- fill document, probably complete with
seals, unaccounted for."
Nysander frowned as he considered the myriad
implications of this revelation. "Oh dear!"
Alec fought his way out of yet another nightmare, the
stench of the charnel house strong in his nostrils.
Throwing back the bed curtains, he found the
first light of dawn brightening his window. What he'd
smelled was nothing more than the scent of sausages
flying downstairs.
"Thank the Maker!" he whispered, running a hand
over his sweaty face.
He'd slept badly again that night, tossing
fitfully through frantic dreams in which a threatening
black figure stalked him through the charnel houses.
The oppressive feel of the dream dogged him as he
dressed and headed downstairs.
Seregil and Runcer were in the main salon discussing
the disposal of a collection of traveling cases.
"Lord Seregil" was leaving the city on a journey
to recover from the shock of his ordeal, taking Sir
Alec with him. Luggage sufficient for a lengthy
undertaking had to be seen leaving with them.
"We'll leave all this off at Watermead,"
Seregil was saying as Alec joined them.
"And how shall I respond to those inquiring after you and
Sir Alec, my lord?" asked Runcer.
"Tell them that I was too shaken to predict

my return. Oh, good morning, Alec. We'll
leave as soon as you get some breakfast. Eat
fast."
"And Sir Micum is returning home?" asked
Runcer.
"Yes, I am." Micum appeared at the
dining-room doorway in his shirtsleeves. "You can
tell any callers that I've gone home to the
loveliest woman in Skala, and that I'll set the
dogs on anyone who disturbs us for the next week!"
Runcer bowed gravely. "I shall convey the sentiment,
sir."
Seregil paced restlessly around the dining room as
Alec wolfed down his sausage and tea. "We'll
set up back at the Cockerel when we come
back."
"Suits me," Alec said happily. He'd had
quite enough of fussy manners and overly attentive
servants. Finishing hastily, he followed
Seregil and Micum out to the street where their mounts and
small baggage train stood ready under Runcer's
watchful eye.
They'd dressed as gentlemen to be seen leaving the
city, and the groom had saddled Cynril and
Windrunner, but Patch and Scrub were ready among
the pack horses.
It was a brisk, fine day for riding, and they arrived
at the byway leading up to Watermead just after
midday.
Crossing the bridge, Alec and Seregil dismounted
and ducked into a thicket to change clothes. From here
they would travel as merchants.
"You're heading for the Pony tonight?" asked Micum as
they emerged again.
Seregil glanced up at the sun. "We should be able
to make it if we push on."
"Say hello to Kari and the girls for me," said
Alec. Looking up the valley, he saw a pale
ribbon of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney at
Watermead and imagined the warm scents of hot
bread, roasting meats, and drying herbs there.
Changing mounts, Seregil roped the Aurenen
horses in with the pack animals.
"Expect us when you see us," he told Micum,
handing him the lead rein.
"Good hunting to you," said Micum, clasping hands with
them both. "And take care on those damned goat
paths they call
Lynn Flewelling
streets up there in Cirna. One wrong step and
it's ass over tippet into the bay before you know what
happened!"
Riding back across the little bridge, they
turned their horses north and set off along the
highroad again at a gallop.
The rolling hills soon gave way to steeper
country. Jagged cliffs fell away to the sea on
their left, and they could see the dark expanse of the
Osiat stretching out past the coastal islands to the
horizon.
They reined in at last to rest the horses. Pushing
back the hood of his cloak, Seregil let out a
happy whoop. "By the Four, it's good to be free of
Wheel Street again!"
"You, too?" Alec turned to him in surprise.
"I can scarcely breathe there anymore!" exclaimed
Seregil, shaking his head. "I hate to admit it,
but I've felt pretty trapped there these past few
years. It's a disguise that's taken on a life of
its own. Once you've seen how far it all goes,
you'll understand."
"Is that why you never told me about it?" Alec
asked. The residual mood left by the nightmare,
together with some lingering irritation over his first introduction
to the place, lent an unexpectedly sharp edge to the
words.
Seregil glanced over at him in surprise.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean all those weeks we were in the city and you
never once mentioned it. Not until you could spring it
on me as another of your little tests."
"Don't tell me you're still mad about that?"
"I guess I am," muttered Alec. "You do it
all the time, you know-not telling me things."
"Illior's Fingers, Alec, all I've done
for the last two months is tell you things. I don't
think I've ever talked so much in my life! What
haven't I been telling you?"
"About Wheel Street, to begin with," Alec shot
back. "Having me break in like a thief and then
throwing me into the middle of that party-was
"But I explained all that! You're not going to tell
me now you weren't proud of yourself once the shock
wore off?"
"It's not that." Alec struggled to put his warring
emotions into words. At last he blurted out, "I'd
just like to have had some say in the matter. Now that I think
of it, I haven't had much of a say in anything since
we met. After all we've been through? Bilairy's
Guts, Seregil, I saved your life!"

Seregil opened his mouth as if to answer, then
silently nudged Scrub into a walk.
Alec followed, still angry but aghast at his
outburst. Why was it that strong emotions always seemed
to take him by surprise?
"I suppose you're justified in thinking that,"
Seregil said at last.
"Seregil, I-was
"No, it's all right. Don't apologize for
speaking the truth." Staring down at Scrub's
neck, Seregil let out an exasperated sigh.
"It was different when we first met. You were just someone
who needed help and might prove momentarily
useful. It wasn't until after Wolde that I was
sure about bringing you south with me."
"After
Wolde!" Alec turned to face him, anger rising
again. "You lied to me? All that talk out there on the
Downs of Skala, and me being a bard?"
Seregil shrugged, still not looking up. "I don't
know, I guess so. I mean, it sounded good to me at
the time, too. But I didn't really know how
suitable you were until that burglary in Wolde."
"What would you have done if I wasn't
"suitable"?"
"Left you somewhere safe with money in your pocket, and
then disappeared. I've done that often enough,
with people I've helped. But you were different, and so I
didn't do that."
Alec was surprised by an eerie sense of connection
as their eyes met; heat like a gulp of brandy
sprang up in his belly and spread out from there.
"So yes, I lied to you a little at first," Seregil
was saying. "Think of how many strangers you've lied
to since you hooked
U
P with me. It's the nature of our work. Since
Wolde, though, I swear I've been as honest with
you as I could be. I wanted to tell you more, prepare
you, but then the sickness came on." He Paused.
"In your place, I doubt I'd have been as
faithful. Anyway, after Wolde and the ambush in the
Folcwine Forest I began to think of you as a friend, the
first I'd made in a long time. I'd assumed you
understood that, and for that assumption I beg your kind
forgiveness."
"There's no need," muttered Alec, embarrassed.
"Oh, I think there is. Damn it, Alec, you're
as much of a mystery to me as I probably am to you.
I keep forgetting how young you are, how different we
are. Micum and I were almost of an

ch"e when we met. We saw the world with the same
eyes. And @sander! He always seemed to know my thoughts
before I did
lynn Flewelling
myself. It's so-so different with you! Blundering around the
way I do, I seem to end up hurting you without even
realizing it."
"Not so much," Alec mumbled, overcome by this
unexpected openness. "It's just that sometimes it seems
as if-as if you don't trust me."
Seregil gave a rueful laugh. "Ah, Alec!
Rei phoril tos tokun meh brithir, vri
sh'ruit'ya."
"What's that?"
Seregil held out his poniard hilt first to Alec.
was 'Though you thrust a knife at my eyes, I will
not flinch," was he translated. "It's a solemn
pledge of trust and I give it to you with all my
heart. You can take a stab at me if you want."
"Do you just make those things up?"
"No, it's genuine, and I'll swear ten others just
as dire if it will convince you I'm sorry."
"Maker's Mercy, Seregil, just tell me about
Wheel Street!"
"All right, Wheel Street." Seregil
slipped the knife back into his boot. "It all
started after I'd failed with Nysander. I ran off and
lived rough for a few years. That's when I learned
thieving and all that. When I came back, I saw
at once how I could keep myself nicely employed
with the intrigues of the Skalan nobility. I had
to establish myself somehow, but that didn't prove too
difficult. My checkered past, together with my status
as Queen's Kin, the novelty of being Aurenfaie,
and my new skills as a thief and general
busybody-was He spread his hands comically. "That
all pretty much guaranteed success in Rhiminee
society. Posing as the reformed exile, Lord
Seregil soon established a reputation as a
sympathetic listener, a reliable buyer of drinks,
a willing roisterer, and a holder of no strong
opinions on any subject. Altogether, a person of
little consequence and therefore the man everyone talks to.
"I got to be quite a favorite among the younger
nobles, and through them I managed to pick up valuable
information. After that it wasn't hard to spread the rumor
that Lord Seregil, charming as he was, didn't always
keep the best company. Word soon trickled out into the
right circles that I could sometimes aid in the hiring of a
certain discreet but shady character who would carry
out any sort of silly undertaking for the right price."
"The Rhiminee Cat?"
"Exactly. Nysander was the only one who knew my
secret. I've been more use to him as a spy than
I ever was as an appren-

tice. Even back then, though, I liked my
freedom too much to play the noble role all the
time. So I bought the Cockerel and fixed up some
rooms there. Nysander found Thryis for me. Cilia
couldn't have been much older than Illia-was
"Yes, but
Wheel Streetl"
insisted Alec, wanting to hear the end of the tale before
dark. Once Seregil made up his mind to explain
something, he tended not to leave out any details.
"Sidetracked again, am I? Well, as time went
on the young nobles I'd rooked around with settled down
and had young nobles of their own. Aurenfaie or not, I
was expected to do the same. To maintain the confidence of
those I depended on, I had to give some outward
sign that I was of their ilk. I began by investing in
shipping concerns and managed to do fairly well.
Small wonder, really, considering the sort of
information I was privy to. Aside from the
money, my supposed business concerns give me
ample excuse to be away for the better part of the
year.
"Unfortunately, the charade has grown rather
cumbersome. If I didn't love Rhiminee so
much, I might just kill off Lord Seregil and start
over again somewhere else. What it all boils down
to for you, though, is that Sir Alec of Ivywell
has a lot of educating ahead of him."
"I'll be an old man with a beard to my knees before
I've learned half what you expect me to know!"
Seregil gazed out over the sea a quizzed look
on his face. "Oh, I doubt that. I doubt that very
much indeed."
t
They spent that night at the Pony, a respectable
wayfarers' inn, then set out again at dawn under a
clear sky. By late morning they reached the southern
end of the isthmus that linked the Skalan peninsula to the
mainland to the north.
Jutting up from the sea like a blanched backbone, the
land bridge was scarcely five miles wide at
any point. The road ran along the crest of it and
Alec could see water on either side: the Osiat
steely dark, the shallow Inner Sea a
paler blue.
Just after midday they came to the small outpost guarding
a fork in the highway. From here the roads diverged to the
two bridges, east and west, which led down to the
opposing Canal ports of Cirna and Talos.
Taking the right fork, they soon came within sight of the
east bridge, arching smoothly across the black
Lynn Flewelling

chasm of the Canal. It was a broad, sturdy
structure, wide enough for the heaviest drays to pass
without crowding.
"It's an amazing sight from up here, don't you
think?" said Seregil, reining in. At the moment
several wagons were coming across from the far side,
followed by a turma of cavalry.
Alec felt cold sweat break out down his spine as
he looked at the precipice beneath it. He'd been
at the bottom of that chasm, seen its depth. To him,
the great bridge looked as tenuous as a spider's
web by comparison.
"Illior's Fingers, you've gone white!"
Seregil observed, looking over at him. "Maybe
you'd better walk your horse. Lots of people are a
bit nervous their first time across."
Alec gave a quick, tense shake of his head.
"No. No, I'm fine, I-I've just never
crossed anything that deep."
Embarrassed by his sudden weakness, he gripped the
reins resolutely and nudged Patch into a walk.
Keeping to the center of the road as much as traffic
allowed, he fixed his attention on a string of
donkeys plodding along ahead of him and did his best
not to think about what lay below.
"See, it's perfectly safe," Seregil
assured him, riding close beside him. "Solid as the
highroad itself."
Alec managed another tight nod. From far below
came the faint creak of oars and ropes; sailor's
voices rose like the whispering of ghosts.
"There's a good view of the west bridge from here,"
Seregil said, directing Alec's attention out over
the left side of the bridge.
Alec looked and felt his belly lurch. From here,
the western bridge looked like a child's construction of
dry branches across a ditch, a fragile toy
poised over the dizzying gorge. Closing his eyes,
he fought off a sudden mental image of the stonework beneath
him giving way.
"How did they build these?" he gasped.
"Those ancient wizards and engineers understood the
value of forethought. They built the bridges first,
then dug the Canal out beneath them."
At the far end of the bridge, Alec unclenched his
aching fingers and drew a breath of relief.
A switchback road led down the cliffs to the
harbor town below. Cirna was a confusing city of
square, closely packed buildings lining a maze
of narrow streets so sharply inclined in places that it
was difficult for riders going down not to pitch forward

over their horses' necks. The local
inhabitants apparently favored foot traffic,
for many parts of the town were accessible only by narrow
stairways.
Clinging to the back of his saddle, Alec looked across
the bay and located the shining columns of Astellus
and Sakor, his first landmarks in Skala. There were far
fewer vessels anchored in the harbor now.
Seasonal storms were already whipping all but the most
hardy coasters into port for the winter.
By the time they'd wended their way down to the customs
house by the harbor, both of them were grateful to set
foot on level ground again. Entering the whitewashed
building, they found a ruddy woman in
salt-stained boots at work over a table cluttered
with documents.
"Good day to you," she greeted them, as she finished with a
wax seal. "I'm Katya, the harbor mistress.
You gentlemen need some assistance?"
"Good day to you," Seregil replied. "I'm
Myrus, merchant of Rhiminee and this is my
brother Alsander. We've come to track down a
shipment that went astray some three years back."
The woman shook her head with a dubious frown.
"You've got a job ahead of you, then. Do you know
how many ships go through here in a season?"
"We have the name of the ship, and the month she came through,
if that's any help," Alec offered. "It was the
White Hart,
a square-rigged trader of the Tyremian Line,
Cirna registry. She'd have docked here sometime in
early Erasin."
"Ah, well that's a start, anyway." Opening a
side door, she led them into a room filled from
floor to ceiling with ranks of scroll racks.
"If we've still got the manifest it'll be in the
back there somewhere. They'd generally have been chucked out
by now, but the old harbor master died in the middle of the
job and I've never gotten around to finishing
it."
At the back of the room she scanned the racks, then
extracted a document at random. The movement
disturbed a thick layer of dust that set both her and
Seregil sneezing.
"Push open that window just beside you, young sir, before we
all suffocate," gasped Katya, brushing at her
nose.
Alec threw back the shutters. Shaking the scroll
out again, she held it up to the light.
"You see how it's laid out, sirs. Here's the
ship's name and the
Lynn Flewelling
rather.
to r
i
captain's at the top, followed by the date she put
in and a detailed listing of cargoes delivered and
taken on. These seals at the bottom belong to the
captain of the vessel and the various merchants
involved. This big one here in the lower right corner is
the harbor master's. I'll leave you to it. Mind you
close the shutters when you leave and tuck things back
where you found them."
There was no system to the storage of
documents except a rough chronological layering.
Pulling scrolls and checking dates, they narrowed
their search down to a few likely shelves. Powdery
clouds of dust roiled about them as they sorted and
sneezed their way through pile after pile of musty,
yellow parchments.
The writing, done aboard ships rolling at anchor,
was a challenge to decipher-especially for.alec,
whose skill at reading was still far from accomplished.
Gnawing absently at his lip, he puzzled his way
through a confusing succession of scrawled names:
The Dog, Wyvern s Wing, Two Brothers,
Lady Rygel, Silver Plume, Coriola,
Sea Mist, The Wren-
Engrossed as he was in mastering the differing hands, he
nearly lay aside one with the smudged entry:
White Hart.
"Here, I found it!" he exclaimed
triumphantly.
Seregil sneezed again and wiped his nose
inelegantly on his sleeve. "I've got one,
too. The
Hart
was a short hauler, working the northern coasts on either
side of the Canal. That means there are
likely to be a number of manifests around that
date. Keep looking until we're well past the
time she was lost. We don't want to miss any."
They found eight in all, and spread them out side
by side according to date.
"That's what I was afraid of," muttered
Seregil, reading them over. "For the most part the
Hart
had a series of regular runs. Let's
see-miscellaneous provisions to these three little
towns to the west, with trade cargo back-leather goods,
horn, some silver work. The eastern runs seem to have
been mostly to mines on the north coast of the Inner
Sea: tools and supplies, oil, cloth,
medicines. Same here, and here."
"What about odd runs?" asked Alec, hunkered
down beside him.
"Good point. There are a few. Poultry to Myl,
wine to Nakros, silk, and a load of scented wax.
Three large tapestries to a Lady Vera at
Areus, one hundred bales of woolen yarn-was

"It would be hard to mistake any of that for a couple
hundred weight of gold baps."
"Quite right, and I suspect our Leran friends
were wise enough to stick their gold in where something heavy
wouldn't attract any attention. Here are iron
goods, tools, lumber-was
"That's not much help," said Alec. "After three
years, how can we guess which one it was? It's
impossible!"
"Probably." Walking to the window, Seregil
gazed out over the darkening harbor, then sneezed again.
"Bilairy's Balls! No wonder we can't think
straight! Pocket those papers, Alec. It's
fresh air we need. We'll take a walk
to clear our heads, then rinse our dusty gullets
with a good deep mug of Cirna ale!"
Night fell quickly in the shadow of the cliffs, but a
three- quarter moon lit their way as they meandered
through the streets behind the docks. Lost in thought,
Seregil was for once disinclined to talk, so they wandered
on for nearly an hour in silence. At last they
found themselves in an open square with a fine view of the
harbor below.
The great signal fires atop the Canal pillars
were blazing, and their reflections mixed glints of
ruddy light with the pure sparkle of the moonlight like a
giant's handful of silver and red gold cast across the
dark face of the sea.
"That's the place we want," Seregil announced,
steering Alec into a nearby alehouse.
The place was comfortably dim and crowded. Working their
way across the smoky room, they settled in a
corner with their mugs. Seregil read through the
manifests again, then sat back with a frustrated
sigh.
"This one has me flummoxed, Alec." Taking a
long sip from his mug, he rolled it pensively between
his palms. "Of course, we didn't really
expect to turn up anything. But to have the damn things
right in our hands and not be able to wring the truth out of them-
It's worse than finding nothing at all!"
Alec leaned over the sheets. "You really think
there's a clue in here, don't you?"
"I hate the thought of missing something if it is there."
Seregil took another disgruntled gulp, then sat
staring into the mug's depleted depths as if waiting for
some oracular answer to float to
Lynn Flewelling
I
the surface. "Let's have one more look. No,
better yet-you read them out to me."
"That'll take forever," Alec protested. "You know
I'm terrible at it."
"That's all right, I think differently when I listen
and it's better if you go slowly. Just read the
"Outgoing" columns."
Tilting the parchments to catch the scant light of the
nearby hearth, Alec bent dubiously to his
task.
Seregil leaned back against the wall, eyes half
closed. Aside from helping with a few troublesome words,
he showed little sign of interest until Alec was in the
midst of the fourth manifest.
was "Three cases parchment, ten crates tallow
candles," was he read, ticking off each entry with a
finger. was "Sixty-five sacks barely, forty
casks cider, thirty coils two-inch rope,
fifty iron chisels, two hundred wedges,
three score mallets, two crates statuary
marble, twenty rolls of leather-was
Seregil's eyes flickered open. "That can't be
right. You've wandered into the 'Goods Received"
column."
"No I haven't." Alec pushed the manifest
across to him. "Says right here, "Goods Out of
Port" and below it "parchment, candles, barley-"
his
Seregil sat forward, squinting where he
pointed. was "Two-inch rope, chisels-" You're
right, it does say marble. But this shipment is
docketed for a mine on the Osiat coast." His
voice sank to a low whisper. "No, a quarry!
It's listed here as bound for the Ilendri pits."
"So?"
Laying a hand heavily on the boy's shoulder,
Seregil raised a meaningful eyebrow. "So why would
anyone pay to ship two heavy blocks of fine
carving stone to a stone quarry?"
"Bilairy's Codpiece! That's it!"
"Perhaps, unless it really was marble in those crates,
shipped back for some reason we have no way of
determining. Still, it is suspicious."
"So where does that leave us?"
"At the moment?" Grinning, Seregil gathered up the
manifests and rose to leave. "It leaves us in a
cheap alehouse with six- to-a-bed accommodations
upstairs. I believe we've earned a tidier
hostel and a good supper. Tomorrow we'll see what we
can turn up at the docks."

"What about the quarry, that Ilendri pit? Shouldn't
we go there?"
"As a last recourse, maybe, but it's a
week's journey there and back, and it's certain they
won't have the gold there now. I doubt they ever knew
they had it. No, I suspect we can find our
answers a good deal closer to home."
j@l@lcaret caret ch"caret Just caret 3
backslash caret rather
u*
They spent the next few days on the windswept
quays, tracking down ships running the
White Hart's
old routes. Though they located several vessels,
none of their inquiries resulted in much useful
information. On their fourth day there, however, a stout little
coaster with the unlikely name of
Dragonfly
wallowed into port with a load of stone.
Alec and Seregil lounged against a stack of
crates as they watched the deckhands hoisting blocks
of various sorts onto the quayside. Rough
slabs of building stone were encased in heavy rope
nets to prevent them from grinding against one another
during the voyage. Finer, more fragile blocks were
protected by wood and canvas framing.
"She must have stopped at several quarries on her
run," murmured Seregil.
"Let's hope Ilendri was one of them," Alec
whispered back.
Strolling up to the quay, they began looking over the
various pieces as if considering a purchase. They
were still dressed as gentlemen merchants and their
respectable coats soon drew the interest of the
Dragonfly's
captain.
"Are you in the market for stone, sirs? I've got
some lovely blocks today," he called from the rail.
"So I see," Seregil replied, smoothing his

palm over a slab of glittering black granite.
"I'm looking for marble, statuary grade."
"You're in luck there, sir!" The man clumped
down the gangway and led them over to a group of
crates. "I've got a good selection today: pink,
black, grey, and a lovely white pure as a
dove's breast. Let's see now, where was that
Corvinar piece? That's an especially good one."
Consulting various emblems branded into the sides of the
crates, he pried up lids here and there. "Here's
a fine black, sir, and some of the white. Did you have
something special in mind?"
"Well," Seregil drawled, peering down
into a crate, "I don't know a lot about it,
to tell you the truth, but I've heard that Ilendri
marble is particularly fine."
"That may have been true in your father's day, sir, but
precious little comes out of there now," the captain told
him with a hint of condescension. "The Ilendri's
mostly played out, though they do still cut some smaller
blocks. I've a few pieces back here, as it
happens, but I think you'd be better pleased with this
other."
"Perhaps," said Seregil, cupping his chin in one hand,
"but I'd like to see the Ilendri-if it's not too much
trouble."
"Suit yourself." The captain hunted through the crates
until he found a small box half hidden behind
several others. Opening it, he showed them a small
block of greyish marble shot through with rusty streaks.
"As you can see, the grade's inferior."
"The quarry's owned by Lord Tomas, isn't it?"
Seregil asked ingenuously, inspecting the stone with
apparent interest.
"No, sir, an old fellow by the name of Emmer.
He and his nephews make a small living out of it,
cutting blocks like this. It goes mostly for road
markers and such like."
It was a small crate and Alec had to step around the
captain to get a look inside. Doing so, he saw
for the first time the emblems burned into the side of it; one
of them was very familiar-a small, curled lizard.
"What do these stand for?" he asked, trying to mask his
sudden excitement.
"Those are shipping marks, sir. We use them
to keep track of the cargo. The dragonfly mark is
mine, put on when I took the box aboard. The
next is from the quarry foreman-was
"And that little lizard?"
Lyim Flewelling
II
Seregil stole a quick glance at Alec, sensing more
than casual curiosity.
"That's the quarry's mark, sir. The Ilendri
newt, we call it."
"It's an interesting design-stone, I mean." He
had to get Seregil away from the captain without
attracting undue attention. "I think it would do
nicely, don't you, brother?"
"In the garden, perhaps," Seregil said, playing
along. Chin in hand, he narrowed his eyes
appraisingly. "Though I know Mother had something larger
in mind for the niche in the great hall. And you
know how she favors the white these days. Suppose
we take this piece and the white one the captain
recommends?"
Alec hovered impatiently as Seregil paid for the
stone and arranged for delivery, then drew him off
down the quay.
"What was that all about?" Seregil whispered.
"Ilendri or not, that rock isn't worth-was
"I didn't mean for you to buy it!" Alec said,
cutting him short. "It was the mark-that Ilendri
newt-I've seen it before!"
Seregil slowed to a halt. "Where?"
"At Kassarie's keep. It was on some of the old
tapestries in the main hall, like a maker's mark.
I don't know why it caught my eye particularly,
except that I liked the look of it."
"And you're certain the tapestries were old? Perhaps
several generations back?"
"The tapestries?" Alec asked in disbelief, this
was no time for one of Seregil's artistic tangents.
"Well, I think so. They were like the old ones you
showed me at the Oreska, with the fancy patterns
around the edges. I remembered you saying you liked that
style better than the new ones."
Seregil threw an arm around Alec's
shoulders with a delighted chuckle. "Illior's
Fingers, you've got the same rat's nest of a
memory I do! You're certain this lizard thing was just
the same?"
"Yes, but why do the tapestries have to be old?"
Alec asked, still puzzled.
"Because new tapestries might have been purchased and the
mark would be pure coincidence. Very old ones are more
likely to have been made by someone in Kassarie's
family, someone who lived in the keep and wove them
there and used the newt as her signature. Care
to place a wager on who owned this Ilendri quarry
before it was clapped out?"
"I'll bet you a block of ugly marble it was
Lady Kassarie a Moirian!"

A quick word with the
Dragonfly's
captain proved Alec right. According to him, Lady
Kassarie had awarded the failing enterprise to an
aging retainer five years ago in appreciation of his
long service. The old fellow still used the "newt"
out of respect for his former mistress.
"Looks like we're headed south again," Seregil
said, rubbing his gloved hands together with a
satisfied air as they went back to the inn
to collect their horses.
"We don't need to go to the quarry?"
"No. Thanks to your everlasting curiosity, I think
we've found the key to our little problem. We can make
Watermead before midnight, then it's Rhiminee tomorrow,
and on to Kassarie's. Looks like that warmhearted little
kitchen maid of yours is going to prove useful after
all."
"You're looking forward to this, aren't you?" Alec
asked with a grin.
Seregil tilted him a dark smile. "Clearing my
name was a relief; giving the Lerans a good kick in
the slats is going to be a pleasure!"
In their haste and elation, neither noticed the pair of
laborers who detached themselves from a work gang
to trail after them through the midday crowd.
Crossing the isthmus again, they retraced their route
along the coast. There was little trade on the highroad
that afternoon, and in several hours" riding they met nothing
but a few wagons and a garrison patrol.
Shortly before sunset they came around a sharp bend
in the road to find their way blocked by fallen
rocks. It was passable, but it meant riding
precariously close to the edge of the cliffs.
The way was especially narrow here, with sheer rock
face to the landward side and a nasty drop to the sea
on the other.
"This slide must have just happened." Frowning,
Seregil reined in to inspect the rubble. "That
patrol we met would have cleared it, or warned us."
Alec eyed the few yards of open ground between the
tumbled rocks and the cliff edge. "We'd better
walk the horses."
Lynn Flewelling
"Good idea. Throw your cloak over Patch's
eyes so she doesn't shy. You take the lead."
Wrapping the reins more securely around his fist,
Alec coaxed the nervous mare along with soothing words
as her hooves struck loose stones. From behind he
could hear Seregil doing the same in Aurenfaie.
He was within ten feet of safety when he heard the
first telltale rattle of stone against stone overhead.
"Look out!" he shouted, but it was already too late.
Rocks came crashing down all around them. Patch
let out a frantic whinny, pulling back against the
reins.
"Come on!" he cried, wincing as a shard of rock
cut his cheek. He could hear Scrub, rearing behind
him, and Seregil shouting some unintelligible
warning.
With a sudden toss of her head, Patch threw off the
cloak and bolted. Unable to free his hand from the
reins, Alec was jerked off balance and swung out
over the cliff edge.
For a sickening instant he hung in space, looking
down at the waves crashing against the cliffs a thousand
feet below; at the same moment he glimpsed
movement out of the corner of his eye as something-man,
beast, or boulder-plunged down into the abyss.
Before he had time to do more than register the movement,
Patch reared again, snapping him against her neck like a
hooked fish against the side of a boat. He grabbed
wildly for purchase, found her mane with his free
hand, and clung on in numbed terror as she plunged
away down the road, miraculously dragging him
to safety. He managed to get astride her at
last and reined her in.
They'd ridden out of sight of the slide. Heart
hammering in his throat, Alec turned Patch and
galloped back to find Seregil.
The road was completely blocked now; this last
slide had left a great heap of broken rock that
slanted down to the very edge of the cliff. Neither
Seregil nor his horse were anywhere in
sight.
"Seregil! Seregil, are you there?" yelled
Alec, praying for some answer from beyond the crest of the
heap. He couldn't yet bring himself to look in the more
probable direction.
As he cast around in rising desperation, a bit of
color caught his eye in the slide where the jumbled
rock pile met the cliff face. It appeared
to be a scrap of cloth, red cloth, the same as the
coat Seregil had been wearing.

Scrambling up, he found Seregil curled on his
side, half buried in skree and dust. Blood
seeped slowly down over his forehead from a scalp
cut; another trickle oozed at the corner of his
mouth.
"Maker's Mercy!" Alec gasped, pushing at the
rocks on Seregil's chest. "Don't be dead!
Don't you be dead!"
Seregil's right hand twitched and one grey eye
flickered open.
"Thank the Four!" cried Alec, nearly weeping
with relief. "How bad are you hurt?"
"Don't know yet," Seregil rasped, closing his
eyes again. "I thought you went over-was
"I thought you did!"
Seregil let out a shaky breath. "Scrub, poor
Scrub-was
With a queasy shudder Alec recalled the falling
object he'd glimpsed as he swung out over the
edge of the cliff.
"Had that horse eight years," Seregil groaned
softly, a hint of moisture darkening the dust beneath his
eyes. "Bastards! Ambushers killed my best
horse."
"Ambushers?" Alec asked, wondering if
Seregil was fully conscious after all.
But the grey eyes were open now, and alert. "When the
rocks started falling, I looked up and saw a
man silhouetted against the sky."
Alec risked an uneasy glance of his own but saw
nothing. "When I rode back just now, I noticed
a little switchback trail leading up the rocks.
It's just around that next bend. He could have gotten up
that way, I bet."
"That would explain a lot."
"But if they're still up there they'll have seen me come
back! We've got to get out of here."
"No, wait." Seregil lay quiet a moment,
thinking. "Whoever they are, they seem to know
their business. If we run they'll just track us and
finish the job."
"What about the highroad garrisons? We must be within
five miles of one by now."
"More than that, I think. With only one horse and
night corn
in
g on, I doubt we'd make it."
"Then we're trapped!"
"Quiet, Alec, quiet. With a little luck, we can
lay a trap of our own right here. It's going to take
a bit of acting on your part, though." He shifted
slightly, feeling under his left thigh, then
Lynn Flewelling
gave a soft, anguished groan. "Oh, hell.
I've lost my sword. It must've torn loose
as I scrambled up here."
"I've still got mine," Alec assured him,
fearful that Seregil was in serious pain after all.
"I had it strapped behind my saddle."
"Fetch it, but cover your actions. Make it look
like I'm dying and you're starting to panic."
"Lure him down to finish us off, you mean?"
"Exactly, though there'll be more than one of them, I
suspect. Let them believe they're up
against a distraught boy and a dying man. Reach in my
boot. Is my poniard still there?"
"It's there."
"Then I'm not completely fangless, anyway. Go
on now, we may not have much time."
Alec slid back down to the road, expecting every
moment to feel an arrow strike him between the shoulder
blades. Doing his best to act panicked, he kept
his sword concealed beneath his blanket roll as he
carried it and a water skin back to Seregil.
Badly battered as Seregil was, he seemed to have
escaped with no broken bones. With the sun sinking into the
sea in front of them, they settled down to wait.
Alec hunkered down with his back to the cliff, his
sword unsheathed and hidden against his outstretched leg.
Seregil lay propped up slightly, dagger in hand
beneath the blanket.
They hadn't long to wait. As the last ospreys
winged off to their nests, they heard the sound of hooves
against stone. Riders were approaching from the expected
direction, beyond the curve of the road to their left.
A moment later two men rode into sight, coming on
at a steady walk. Studying them in the red sunset
light, Alec could see that they were hard-faced characters in
rough traveling garb. One was lean, with
ragged, greying hair and a long, somber face. His
companion was round and red-faced, his shiny bald pate
fringed with curly brown hair.
"This will be them," Seregil murmured beside him.
"Play your role well, my friend. I doubt
we'll have more than one chance."
The riders made no pretense as to their intentions.
Reaching the edge of the slide, they dismounted and drew
swords.
"How's your friend, boy?" The bald one asked,
leering up at him.

"He's dying, you rotten son of bitch! Can't you
leave him in peace?" Alec spat back, letting
some genuine fear show in his voice.
"Wouldn't be kind to let him linger, now would it,
lad?" the other replied placidly. He had the
same air of dispassionate assurance Alec had
seen in Micum Cavish; this was a killer who knew
his business. "And then there's the matter of you, isn't
there?"
"What do you want with us?" Alec quavered,
tightening his grip on his sword hilt.
"I've nothing against you or your friend," the greying man
replied, taking a step up the pile. "But
there are those who don't like having their business nosed
into. Now be a good lad and I'll make a quick
job of it. You'll be dead before you know it."
"I don't want to be dead!" Alec rose and
threw a rock at the men with his left hand. They
ducked it easily and Alec backed away as if
to bolt.
"Get the other one, Trake," the grey man
ordered, pointing to Seregil who still lay as if dying.
"I'll take the whelp here."
Alec moved back a few steps, then froze like a
frightened hare. Waiting until his assailant was within
sword's reach, he grabbed up the blade and struck
at. him.
At the critical instant, the loose skree
underfoot spoiled his lunge for a killing thrust, but
he still managed to hit the fellow hard enough across the
ribs to knock him off balance. Scrambling
awkwardly, he tried to strike at Alec, but
instead fell and tumbled heavily almost to the cliff's
edge.
Just then a strangled cry rang out behind Alec, but
he didn't dare look back. His opponent had
already regained his footing and was starting back up after
him.
"Full of tricks, are you?" he glowered. "I'll
tie you with your own guts, boy, and ram that-was
Alec was overmatched and he knew it. Hardly
pausing to think, he snatched up another fist-sized
stone and threw it. It struck the assassin in the
forehead. Stunned, the man pitched backward and
slid down to the cliff's edge again. He might have
stopped there if his fall hadn't dislodged more rocks.
With a grinding rumble, an entire section of the pile
gave way just below where Alec stood, sweeping the
swordsman over the edge.
Flailing desperately, Alec came down hard
on his back and slid feet first toward death. Too
terrified to cry out, he stared
lynn Flewelling
helplessly up at the fiery sky, knowing it was the last
thing he'd ever see.
Suddenly a strong hand grasped his left shoulder.
Clutching at it, Alec slid a few yards farther
before coming to a stop with his feet jutting out into empty
air. Scarcely daring to breathe, he looked up and
saw Seregil stretched spread-eagle on his
belly above him, face white with dust or fear.
Don't move!
Seregil mouthed. Then, in the faintest
whisper, "Roll sideways, toward the horses.
We're only a few feet from level ground.
Mind your sword. Try not to lose it if you can
help it."
Loose stone shifted treacherously beneath them as they
clung together and slowly rolled toward the narrow strip
of bare roadway cleared by the last slide'. They
reached it just as another layer of the pile let go.
Hauling each other to their feet, they scrambled forward
to safety as another great jumble of stone careened off
over the cliff, carrying with it the body of the other
assassin, whom Seregil had taken by surprise
at the beginning of the attack.
Still clutching each other by the arm, they turned to watch
the last stones plummet over the edge.
"I don't know how many times a day I can stand
to watch you almost die," Seregil gasped.
"Twice is my limit," croaked Alec, sinking
to his knees. As he glanced back at what had
nearly been the scene of his death, however, he caught
the glint of metal near the top of the remaining rubble.
"Seregil, look there. Do you see it?"
"Well, I'll be damned." Seregil limped
back to the rocks and gently worked his battered sword
free. The hilt was scarred and missing a
quillon, but the scabbard had protected the blade
from serious damage.
"Aura elthe!"
he cried, not bothering to conceal his relief. "My
grandfather gave me this sword when I was younger than you.
That last slide must have uncovered it. Two fresh
horses and now this! It seems our two recently
departed visitors did us almost as much good as harm."
disstisjjsi caret caret So
vafsSG-CARET ztrm
u
LS-SSV caret issSo
Seregil led the way as they rode into the yard at
Watermead early the next morning. Micum was there
among his hounds. "Back already?" the big man said,
looking up. His grin faded, however, as he got a
closer look at them. "What the hell happened to you
two?"
"We attracted some attention up in Cirna,"
answered Seregil, dismounting stiffly and limping
inside.
"We got ambushed on the way back," Alec
explained. "I think they were assassins."
"You think?"
Seregil raised a wry eyebrow. "We
didn't have much time for conversation, but I suspect
he's right. Chances are I've been watched ever
since Thero came out of the Tower with my body."
"I thought I heard familiar voices!" called
Kari, looking noticeably wan as she came out of
her chamber into the main hall. "Seregil, you're
hurt! Let me get my herbs."
"I'm fine," he assured her, easing down on a
bench by the fire. "We slept at a garrison station
last night. Their surgeon patched me up. I could
do with a hot soak, though."
"I'll have Arna put some birch catkins and arnica
leaves in the water to draw out
Lynn Flewelling
the hurt. Some willow bark tea wouldn't do you any
harm, either."
"She looks peaked," observed Seregil. "Been
sick, has she?"
"Not sick, exactly," Micum replied,
avoiding his friend's eye. "More like-unwell."
Seregil studied Micum's expression for an
instant, then broke into a knowing grin. "I know that
look. She's pregnant again, isn't she?"
"Well-was
"Oh, go on and tell them," she said,
returning with a pair of mugs. "It's no use you
trying to keep anything from him!"
"You are, then?" exclaimed Seregil.
"Bilairy's Balls, Micum, how long have you
known?"
"She told me when I came home the other day.
Baby's due at late summer, Maker willing."
"Maker willing," Kari repeated, pressing her
palms to her apron front. "It doesn't always go
well with me at the best of times, and I'm old now
for bearing. I hadn't thought to be with child again, but
Dalna must have seen we'd have room for one more." She
smiled pensively. "Perhaps this time we've made a
son. They say a boy makes you sicker in the first
months."
"Poor thing's been vomiting morning and night,"
Micum explained, rising to slip a supportive
arm around her waist.
"And I'm not feeling too pert just now," Kari
sighed. "I'd better lie down again. The girls
won't be troubling you. They're away for the day."
Micum helped Kari into her chamber and closed the
door. When he returned, Seregil made a show
of figuring back.
"My, my. Late summer, is it? That
must have been quite a homecoming, back in Erasin."
"Better than you got, I'll warrant. If
only she can hang on to this one, I wouldn't mind
having another little one underfoot."
"Hang on to?" asked Alec.
"Oh, yes." Micum nodded sadly. "She's
miscarried as many babies as she's brought to birth.
The last time was a year or so after Illia was born.
It always happens in the first few months, and leaves
her sick for weeks afterward. We're not out of the danger
season yet, you see, and it's a great worry to her.
But let's get back to you two. What did they
use on you, fuller's bats?"
"Rock slide," Seregil replied, serious again.
"Two men caught us at a narrow place on the
cliffs. We got out, but I lost Scrub."

"That's a damned shame! He was a good old thing.
But who were they?"
"We never had a chance to find out. We killed them
both defending ourselves and lost the bodies over the
cliff. But before that, one of them told Alec that
they'd been sent by someone who didn't like us poking
around in their business. This was after we'd finished in
Cirna and found a link to Lady
Kassarie."
Showing Micum the manifest, they quickly outlined what
they'd discovered.
"That does seem to bring us right back to Kassarie,"
Micum agreed. "Do you think she tumbled to Alec
that day?"
"I doubt it. At that point, I was still officially in
prison and everything appeared to be going according to her
plan. I hate to admit it, but they must have kept
track of me after my "release" from the Tower."
"What's your next step?"
"We've got to go back to the keep," said Alec.
"We can't give her time to realize her hired
killers have disappeared."
"That's a fact," said Micum. "What do you think,
Seregil? Will the Queen give you a raiding party,
or will she just order Kassarie's arrest?"
"I've been thinking about that. The greatest danger
lies in forewarning her. You've seen how that keep is
placed; it's a fortress! She'd see an armed
force coming miles away and have plenty of time to escape
or do away with any incriminating evidence."
"That's true," Micum concurred, looking down at
the fire.
It suddenly occurred to Seregil that
Micum hadn't once offered to come.
He's needed here,
he thought with a pang of the old resentment. Still, he
knew Micum too well not to read the conflict in his
friend's face, and it hurt to see it.
"Quick and quiet's the best way," he went on,
giving no hint of his own feelings. "With any luck,
Alec and I can get in and out again before anyone's the
wiser. That servant girl is the key, if Alec
can romance her."
"Just the two of you?"
"You and Nysander will know where we are," said Seregil.
"I don't want it to go any further than that.
We've had enough trouble with spies as it is."
Lynn Flewelling
Stopping just long enough for a bath and a hasty meal,
Seregil and Alec were ready to move on by noon.
Micum disappeared while they were harrassing the
horses they'd left there on the way to Cirna.
He returned with a longsword.
"It's not so fine as yours, of course," he said,
handing it to Seregil, "but it will do until yours is
mended. I'll be easier in my mind, knowing you're
armed."
Seregil ran his hand down the flat of the
blade and smiled. "I remember this one. We
brought it back for Beka from the Oronto raid."
"The very one." Micum looked down at the sword,
his discomfort more evident than ever. "You know, I
suppose I could-was
Seregil cut him short with a farewell embrace.
"Stay put, my friend," he admonished, speaking
softly against Micum's shoulder. "It's just a bit
of fancy burglary. You know you're no use at
that."
"Take care of yourselves then," Micum said gruffly.
"And have Nysander send me word, you hear?"
"I hear!" Laughing, Seregil swung up in the
saddle. "Come on, Alec, before old Grandfather here
worries himself grey!"
As they rode into the Oreska gardens, a familiar
deep voice hailed them from the direction of the oak
grove. Reining in, Seregil saw Hwerlu
cantering out to meet them.
"Greetings, friends!" the centaur boomed. "It's
been many days since you've visited me. I trust
all is well with you?"
"Tolerably," replied Seregil, anxious to be
off again. "We're just here long enough to see Nysander,
actually."
"But you've missed him by a day."
"Missed him?" Alec asked. "You mean he's not
here?"
"No, he and young There accompanied Lady
Magyana to another city. Some place on the
southern coast, I think."
"Damn!" muttered Seregil. "Come on, Wethis
will know."
"They've gone to Port Ayrie with Lady
Magyana," the young servant told them. "They
shouldn't be gone more than a few days, though. You can
put up here until he returns, if you like."
"Thanks, but we can't wait." Seregil pulled out
the worn manifest and handed it to Wethis with a hastily
scrawled note. "See

that he gets this and tell him to contact Micum.
Tell him I don't expect to be gone more than a
few days myself."
Leaving their Aurenfaie horses at the Oreska,
they set off for the Cockerel.
"Shouldn't we wait for Nysander?" asked Alec
dubiously. "You told Micum we'd speak to him
first."
"The longer we wait, the more chance there is that
Kassarie will get suspicious and put up extra
defenses."
"I guess so, but it still leaves just you and me-was
"Illior's Fingers, Alec, it's just a simple
matter of housebreak- ing, even if it is a
keep. We'll probably get back before Nysander
does."
Slipping quietly up the back stairs at the inn,
they spent the
night in their old rooms and set off the next
morning in disguise.
Alec wore the same apprentice garb he'd used
on their first visit
to Kassarie's; Seregil was well muffled in the
guise of a one-eyed
caret traveling minstrel. Both carried daggers at
their belts, but their
I swords and Alec's dismantled bow were wrapped
out of sight
among the gear.
"This all hinges on you, you know," Seregil reminded
Alec as caret they rode along. "It could take a
couple of days of wooing before she agrees to let you
in."
"If she does at all," Alec
replied uneasily. "What do I say?"
Seregil gave him a knowing wink. "With a face like
yours, I ieaoundoubt conversation will be the central
issue. From what you saw iff.of her last time,
I'd say our Stamie is a restless little bird,
only child"'bbtoo ready to spread her wings. The offer
of freedom may be all f bar the charm we need.
It's
her fear I'm worried about. That's a sus-
"jpicious, tight-run household, and she may not
dare risk her own bar
be
skin on your behalf. If that's the case, then you'll
have to play the lover for all you're worth."
"Which may not be much," Alec muttered.
"Illior's Fingers, you're not so bloodless as all
that, are you?" Seregil teased. "Use a little
imagination and let things run their course. These
matters have a way of directing themselves, you know."
Reaching the road that led up the gorge, they kept to the
trees and climbed into the hills overlooking the
keep. They left their horses tethered well out of
earshot of the tower sentries and made their final
approach on foot. Climbing up the tall fir
tree they'd used on their first
reconnaissance, they surveyed the keep.
"less-than more
lyim Flewelling
There appeared to be the usual sort of bustle in the
courtyard. A groom was currying a fine horse
by the stables, and from somewhere below the walls came the sound
of a workman's chisel against stone. Presently the
kitchen door swung open and Stamie came out with a
bucket yoke across her narrow shoulders. Eyes to the
ground, she disappeared around the corner of the main
building.
"Look there!" whispered Seregil, spying a small
postern gate near the kitchen. From it, a
well-trodden path wound off into the forest; it would be as
simple as lying by a deer track, waiting for their
prey to come by.
"Look at what?" asked Alec.
"There, that small door in the wall, near the
cliffs. Lean this way and fix your eye on the ruined
tower, then bring your gaze down past-was
Seregil broke off, startled by a sudden realization.
Gripping Alec by the arm, he whispered excitedly,
"The tower! What's wrong with that tower?"
"Lightning, probably," Alec whispered back.
"Looks like it happened years ago and-was
He stopped, slowly mirroring his companion's
sharp, hungry grin.
"And what?" prompted Seregil.
"And they never
repaired
it."
"Which is pretty damned strange because-was
"Because they employ some of the best masons in
Skala," finished Alec. "I knew we'd
missed something before, but I just couldn't see it!"
Seregil gazed at the tower with a wry grin. "There it
is, right in front of us. Whatever we're here
to find, I bet my best horse it's around there
somewhere. All we have to do is get inside."
"Which we can't do until Stamie comes out. Maybe
we should've waited for Nysander after all."
"Patience, Alec. A good hunter like you knows how
to lie in wait for his quarry!"
"You're feeling guilty over not going with them, aren't
you?" Kari demanded, lying close to Micum in the
darkness of their bedchamber. She knew the signs; in
the two days since Seregil's departure, Micum
had grown increasingly restless and absent
minded. Today he'd wandered from one small
task to another without accomplishing anything.
"Perhaps you should have gone."
"Oh, they'll be all right." Micum shifted
to hold her closer. "It's just strange that Nysander
hasn't sent word."
"Then send a message down to him. One of the lads
could have it there before noon."
"I suppose."
"I don't know why you're so worried. It's not as
if Seregil hasn't done this sort of thing before. And
two days is no time at all."
Micum frowned up at the candle shadows overhead.
"All the same, Alec's so new at these things-was
"Then send word to Nysander. I don't need you moping
around like an old dog again tomorrow." Kari kissed him
roughly on the chin. "Better yet, go yourself. You'll
fidget me to distraction waiting about for it. You can
visit Beka while you're there."
"That's a thought. She must be missing home a bit
by now. But will you be all right without me?"
"Of course I will!" scoffed Kari. "You'll only
be a few hours away, and I've all my women
to look after me. Go to sleep, love. I expect
you'll want to get an early start."
Feeling a bit guilty, Micum
bypassed the Horse Guard barracks and went
straight to the Oreska House. Crossing the
atrium, he heard a familiar voice hailing him
and turned to find Nysander and Thero striding toward
him. Both were clad in stained riding clothes and
boots.
"Why, good morning to you!" Nysander called. "What
brings you into the city so early in the day?"
Micum's heart sank. "Didn't Seregil and
Alec tell you?"
"We've been away," Thero told him. "We're
just getting back now."
"Indeed," said Nysander, frowning. "I have not heard
from either of them since they left for Cirna."
"That little bastard!" growled Micum. "He
promised me he'd talk to you before they went. I'd
never have let them go off like that if I'd known."
"What has happened?"
"He and Alec came back a couple of days ago
with evidence
Lynn Flewelling
linking Kassatie to the stolen gold. They'd been
attacked on their way back from Cirna and they're
convinced that was her doing, too. Seregil was all in a
lather to go after her but he said he'd talk
to you first."
"Perhaps he left word. Thero, go find Wethis,
please. He would be the one Seregil would trust with a
message. Come up to my tower, Micum.
"I am not certain I understand your concern," the wizard
continued as they climbed the stairs. "Two days is
not long for such work and I am certain I should have sensed
if either of them had come to any great harm."
"Maybe so," Micum grudgingly agreed. "I
guess I'm mostly feeling guilty about not going
along with them, but Kari's pregnant again and I
hated to leave her."
Thero hurried in with a rolled parchment. "They were here,
and they left this for you."
Nysander unrolled the manifest and a terse scrawl
from Seregil, explaining its significance.
"Well, he was obviously in a hurry to follow this
lead," he said. "I will scry for them."
Seating himself at his desk, Nysander covered his eyes
with both hands, murmuring the complex spell. After a
moment he sat back. "It is difficult to get
an exact sighting on them, but all appears to be
well. Would you like to stay here for a few days, see if
they turn up?"
"I think maybe I will. You'd better
send a message out to Kari for me, though. And keep
a weather eye on her, too, while you're at it.
I'm off to see Beka now. Her mother's worried
she might be homesick."
the key to a poor girls heart
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For three days Alec and Seregil kept their cold
vigil and at last their patience was rewarded. On
watch in the fir tree early the third afternoon, Alec
saw Stamie emerge though the postern with a large
basket on her back and set
off
into the woods.
Seregil was napping at the base of the tree.
Climbing down, Alec woke him and together they
hurried off through the trees to strike the path ahead
of the girl.
Seregil remained out of sight among the trees
while Alec took up his position on a log near
a bend in the trail. In the distance they could hear the
girl singing to herself as she approached.
She caught sight of Alec ahead of her and halted
abruptly. "Who's that there, and what do you want?"
she called sharply.
"It's Elrid. Remember me?" Alec stood
up slowly, praying he didn't sound as awkward as
he suddenly felt. "I came looking for Lord
Teukros a few days back?"
"Oh, the messenger boy from the city." Curious but
still, on her guard, she stood where she was. "What
are you doing back here again? And why are you lurking out
here in the forest?"
"You said you wanted a position in the city," Alec
replied. "I heard of one-a good
lynn Flewelling
one-and come out to tell you. Your aunt didn't strike
me as the welcoming sort, though, so I've been
waiting out here for a chance alone with you."
Seeing that she softened considerably at this, he added,
"It was cold last night. I couldn't get a fire
started."
"You poor, simple thing!" Dropping her basket,
Stamie hurried forward to chaff his hands between her own.
"You're all ice! Don't they teach you nothin" in
that city of yours? Imagine being outside on such a
night and the stars as sharp as daggers! You'll
catch the frostbite."
A patchy flush colored her angular cheeks as
she looked up, still holding his hands firmly between her
own. "And you came all the way out here for me?"
"I got to thinking about" what you said and how lonesome it
mst.be for you out here, and well-was Alec shrugged,
feigning shyness to avoid her worshipful gaze.
Lying to innkeepers and fat nobles was one thing; deceiving
this plain, kind, desperate girl was quite another.
Side-stepping his conscience as best he could, he
pressed on, carefully doling out the tale he and
Seregil had concocted.
"There's a seamstress in the next street from ours
wanting a girl to apprentice. It's clean work, and
it would get you out of the kitchen." He paused
meaningfully. "And it's just in the next street over from
mine."
"Is it?" Stamie smiled knowingly. "I've no
complaint with that. Do you have a horse? Let's go before
I'm missed."
"We can't go now!"
So much for charming her away,
thought Alec. The trick was going to be holding her
back long enough to get into the keep.
"Why not?"
"Well-was Alec scrambled for a plausible
impediment. "You'll need to gather your things up and
give your notice."
"Notice? As if they'd let me go! I've been
a slave to them since I was old enough to carry a pan.
Just let me nip back and fill a kerchief, then
we can slip away tonight!"
Outflanked, Alec had to rethink his strategy again.
"Two servants traveling in the night?" he
scoffed. "The patrols would take us for thieves or
runaways before we ever reached the city. And that's if
the real outlaws and night riders didn't get to us
first. You don't want to end up dead in the ditch, do
you? Or worse?"

Stamie's eyes widened in alarm. "No, but how do
we get away, then? They'll never let me go, not
Aunt or Illester or any of them."
"They won't know." Alec slipped an arm around
her waist and walked her deeper into the forest. "It's
simple enough to manage. You wait until everyone's
asleep, then gather your things up and wait until just
before dawn. That's the time to travel. Anyone we
meet on the road at first light will think we're off
to market. Do you see?"
"Oh, yes! I'll do it just as you say. And I'm
ever so grateful!"
Turning, she pulled him close with surprising
decisiveness and delivered a rough, tooth-knocking
kiss. Lips still locked against his, she drew his
hand up against her flat bosom with one hand and began
rucking up her homespun skirt with the other.
"Here now, there's no time for that," Alec gasped,
trying to pull away. She'd been chewing raw
garlic to keep away the winter ague.
"It don't take long." Stamie giggled, reaching
for the hem of his tunic.
Freeing himself with an effort, Alec held her at
arm's length. "Hold off, can't you?"
"What's the matter with you?" the girl demanded
indignantly. "One minute you're all sweetness,
and the next you act like you don't want me."
"Of course I do," Alec assured her. "But not
if it means you getting in trouble. If you don't
get back with the kindling or whatever it is you were sent
out for, they'll come looking for you, won't they? Or
maybe lock you up when you get back?"
"They would, too," Stamie said resentfully. "They
done it before."
"Course they would," Alec said, loosening
his grip to a caress. "And then where would we be, eh?
But if we're careful, we can be in Rhiminee tomorrow
night. Together."
"Together!" Stamie whispered, won over anew.
"That's right. Now come on and I'll help you."
Keeping out of sight of the tower sentries, they gathered
sticks to fill Stamie's basket. The excited
girl chattered readily, and Alec soon turned the
conversation to the broken tower.
The tower over the gorge had been in ruins for years,
it seemed, though she didn't know how long. No one
was allowed
Lyim Flewelling
r
there ever, and old Illester said there was even a ghost,
some lord who'd been in the tower when it was struck.
"They say he'll push you off to your death if you go
up there at night," she confided with a delicious
shiver. "And it's true, too. Lots of servants
have heard strange sounds from there, and seen lights
moving. Aunt says a servant she knew went in
once, just a little ways, and felt the touch of a dead
hand against his face. He didn't die of it then, but
within the week he fell into the gorge and was smashed
to bits! Aunt saw him after they carried
him up. Ghosts are unlucky things, you know, even just
to see one."
"I've heard that," Alec replied uneasily,
recalling the strange breeze he'd felt in the
main hall.
The basket was soon full. Giving Alec a
farewell kiss, she ran her hands down over his
hips and whispered, "I won't sleep a wink tonight,
I promise!"
"Nor will I." Ready to spring the final ruse,
Alec cast a yearning look toward the keep and
sighed deeply. "It'll be cold out here again tonight."
"Oh, you poor dear! And it looking like to snow,
too."
Alec held his breath, watching her waver.
Let her think of it first,
Seregil had warned.
"It'd be worth both our skins if we was caught."
She hesitated, frowning. "But I could creep down
and let you in after they're all asleep. If you
stayed in the back pantry and didn't make a
sound, it might be safe."
"What about the watchmen?"
"They mostly keep an eye on the road. And this
side of the yard is good and dark. Oh, but
we'll have to be quiet, though!""
"Quiet as ghosts." Alec smiled as he took
her hand in his. "Just a warm corner out of the wind,
that's all I need."
"I wish I could warm you tonight," she murmured.
"Soon," he promised. "In Rhiminee."
"In Rhiminee!" she sighed. Breathing garlic
against his cheek, she kissed him a last time and
hurried off.
Alec waited until she was well out of sight, then
turned to retrace his steps into the woods. Coming around
a fallen tree, he nearly stepped on Seregil.
"Lucky for us she's a lonesome country girl,"
Seregil said shaking his head. "A Helm Street
maid would've given you the air. 'Here now, there's
no time for that!" and "Hold off, can't you?"' A
fine, hot suitor you sounded!"

"I told you I'm no good at it," Alec
retorted, stung by the criticism. "Besides, it
felt rotten lying to her like that."
"This is no time for an attack of conscience.
Illior's Hands, haven't we lied to someone on
any job we've ever done?"
"I know," Alec grumbled. "But this was
different. She's not some footpad or randy ship's
captain, just a poor nobody like me. Here I am
offering her the one thing in the whole world she wants, and
tomorrow all her hopes will be dashed."
"Who says we have to dash her hopes? She wants
a position in town; I'll see she gets one."
"You'd do that?"
"Of course I'd do that. I forge a lovely
reference. She can have her pick of situations. Think
you can live with that?"
Alec nodded, abashed. "I guess I just
didn't-was
"Come to think of it, perhaps we could take her on at
Wheel Street," Seregil added ruthlessly.
"What with you taking such an interest in her welfare and
all."
"That's not exactly what I had in mind."
"No?" Grinning, Seregil threw an arm over the
boy's shoulders as they headed back up the slope.
"Now there's a surprise!"
caret caret
Alec crouched in the shadows near the postern gate,
watching the sky. The stars had wheeled to midnight.
It hadn't snowed after all. Instead, the skies had
cleared at sunset and the temperature had
dropped bitterly. Without a fire, or Seregil
to share warmth with, as they'd had to the past few days,
he was chilled to the bone. And worried.
The lights in the keep had gone out ages ago and he
was beginning to worry that she'd either been caught, or was
too scared to come for him. Or had gone to sleep in a
warm bed and forgotten her promise to come for him.
But he held his position and finally heard the soft
patter of footsteps somewhere beyond the wall. A moment
later Stamie inched the postern door open and waved
him in. Moving with exaggerated caution, she led him
in through the kitchen to a dark pantry.
"I'll come down again before the others wake," she
whispered ecstatically, pressing his hand to the bosom of
her shift. "Oh, I can't wait to be free of this
place!"
Alec felt ribs jutting beneath the coarse fabric,
and the rapid tripping of her heart. Determined
to play his role better, he took her in his arms.
Kissing her just below the

left ear, he whispered an endearment Seregil had
suggested. The girl 8
ave

na
PP-YOU shiver and pressed closer.
"Where's your room?" he whispered.
She giggled softly. "In the servant's attic,
you naughty pup! I sleep dg
n
a
P
a
"et
at
the foot of Aunt's bed."
"Have you a window to watch the sky?"
"There's a dormer just over me. I'll prop the
shutter open."
"Come to me when the stars begin to fade."
"When the stars fade," the girl breathed. Giving him
a last squeeze, she hurried off.
Alec stayed put for a time, fearing she'd find some
pretense to come back. The wait was hardly an
onerous one; after two days without a fire, even the
warmth of a banked hearth was something to be grateful for.
The pantry also smelled wonderfully of smoked
meats. It was too dark to see, but his groping hand
soon found a rope of hard sausage.
Creeping out at last, he spied a long shawl
hanging on a peg by the kitchen door. Throwing it on
for a bit of extra camouflage, he tiptoed out to the
postern and unbolted it. Seregil slipped in with their
swords and Alec bolted the door after him.
Safely in the kitchen, Seregil eyed Alec's
makeshift disguise and caret wrinkled his nose.
"You been eating garlic, gramma?"
"There's a nice bit of sausage, if you want
some." Alec of-
er
caret do greater-than returning the shawl to its peg.
"Take off your boots," whispered Seregil.
"Bare feet are qui
ete
still for this sort of work. Don't forget your dagger,
though. We caret need it."
Leaving their boots out of sight behind a row of cider
casks,
me
y padded off in the direction of the main hall.
f caret little the stairways of the keep were contained in
the towers, so
t
dgbe easily defensible in case of
attack. It was the southeast l caret "dis

was they wanted, and they soon found a narrow
passageway caret
n
g in that direction.
a
s
j caret
n
archway at the far end let into a small
antechamber. Using
O
from.
le
lded lightstone, they found a heavy oak door at the
back
j Seregil lifted the latch ring and eased it open.
ti
0n
'de, they found a small, windowless landing. The back
porwerdgf the tiny chamber and what must have been the
stairwell timb
Com
Pl
e
tely blocked by broken stone and dusty, shattered
le
c took a step in, then froze in terror as a
light, eerie caress
Lynn Flewelling
stroked along his cheek. The touch came again,
accompanied this time by a low moan and a chill draft
of air.
"The ghost!" Alec's voice came out a strangled
whisper.
"Ghost, eh?" Seregil waved his hand in the air
above his head, then held it to the lightstone for Alec
to see. Long black filaments, fine as spider
web, hung tangled from his fingers.
"There's your ghost-black silk combed fine and hung
in a draft. As soon as I heard Stamie's
tale of ghostly touches I suspected as much."
"But the cold draft?"
"We're in the stronghold of master masons,
Alec. There are tiny air channels somewhere in the
walls here. They let in drafts from outside and those
mysterious moans are the sound of it. We'll need
to be very careful here."
"What about magic?"
"That's one thing we probably don't have to worry
about. If Kassarie's really a Leran, then she'd
never stoop to using the unnatural methods of the hated
Aurenfaie. But there
will
be traps, killing traps, and we'd damn well
better not get cocky."
A careful search found no sign of any secret
openings or traps.
"Looks like we'll have to look elsewhere for our
entrance," muttered Seregil.
"But where?"
"Upstairs, I think."
Alec looked over at the pile of rubble. "How
could there be anything above us? Look at this! The whole
inside of the tower must have been destroyed."
"Yet from the outside it appears that just one side of the
top of the tower was broken; it shouldn't have done this kind
of damage."
"You mean this mess is just a trick, a fake?"
"Either that or I'm completely wrong." Seregil
grinned crookedly. "But why leave the tower broken
unless there was some reason?"
"So we go up?"
"We go up."
"Micum! Come here!"
Snapping awake, Micum groped for the lightstone
under his

pillow. The room-Seregil's old apprentice
chamber-was empty, but Nysander's anxious voice
seemed to hang on the air.
Pulling on his breeches, Micum hurried down the
corridor to the wizard's bedchamber. Nysander was
dressed already in his old traveling coat and
breeches; his face was dark with concern.
Micum felt a sudden coldness in his innards.
"What's happened?"
"We must go at once!" Nysander replied, throwing
on his cloak. "They are in some terrible danger, or
were-I pray Illior it was a premonition and not
a seeing vision."
"Of what?" demanded Micum. "What did you see,
Nysander?"
Nysander's hands shook as he yanked his cloak
strings closed. if'Falling. I felt them falling.
And I heard them scream."
E
Seregil and Alec crept up the northeast tower
stairs to the second floor of the keep and
found the door unbarred, though there were brackets set
on both sides of the jamb. Covering their lights,
they took a cautious peek at what lay beyond.
It was dark here, but there was the feel of open space
around them. From somewhere nearby came the buzz and rumble
of assorted snores, though it was difficult
to judge exactly where the sleepers might be. As
their eyes adjusted, they could make out a dim light
faintly illuminating a broad archway in a far
wall. The acrid smell of a forge, mingled with the
tang of metal and oil, suggested that the room was an
armory or smithy.
Seregil found Alec's wrist and squeezed it,
silently directing him to follow the wall to their
left.
This direction proved fruitless, however. There was a
door into the ruined tower, but a heavy forge had been
set up in front of it. Returning to the other tower,
they made their way up to the top floor.
At the top of the stairs they inched the door open and
saw a long corridor. Some distance away, a
night lamp hung at what appeared to be a
juncture with another corridor. By its light they
could see that the walls were richly frescoed in the
latest style, and that the floors were inset with
polished mosaics. Somewhere behind one of the many carved
doors that lined the corridor lay their enemy.
Stealing up to the night lamp, they found that this upper
story
Lynn Flewelling
was laid out in four quarters, divided by two
diagonal corridors that ran between opposing towers.
The corridors looked very much alike, including the
doors, frescoes, and patterned floor. Three,
including the one they'd come up, ended at tower
doors. At the end of the southeast, however, the wall
was covered from floor to ceiling with a large tapestry.
As hoped, the hanging concealed another door to the
ruined tower and this one had been fitted with a heavy
lock. Signing for Alec to hold back the
tapestry and keep watch, Seregil began a
careful inspection. The ornate mechanism was
tarnished, but it smelled of oil, as did the heavy
door hinges. Running a finger over the lower hinge,
Seregil sniffed at it, then held it under Alec's
nose. The boy grinned, understanding at once; why
maintain the door to a ruined tower so carefully?
The lock was swiftly dealt with, and cold night
air struck their faces as the door swung out onto
a moonlit rampart. The square, flat
surface they stood had been repaired, but the
southern and eastern parapets had been left in
ruins. The paving flags sent an aching chill up
through their bare feet and ankles.
The wind moaned through the broken stonework, whipping their
hair across their faces as they edged over to the remains
of the southern parapet. The keep backed directly
onto the cliffs; from where they stood, there was a sheer
drop into the shadowed river gorge below.
"Caught in a high place again," Alec whispered
nervously, hanging back.
"Not caught yet. Here's what we want," said
Seregil, poking around in the shadows under the north
wall, where the glow of his lightstone revealed another
door. Scarred and weathered as it was, it, too, had
a stout lock and hinges in excellent repair. Beyond
it, a curving staircase spiraled down into darkness.
Seregil felt a familiar tightness in his belly
as he peered down. "This place is dangerous-I can
feel it. Draw your dagger and watch your footing.
Keep count of the steps, too, in case we lose
our lights."
The steps here were smooth but narrow underfoot, reminding
Seregil of those leading down to the Oracle's chamber
beneath the Temple of Illior. The curve
of the smoothly dressed walls sliced away the
view fifteen feet below at any point. Rusty
iron sconces set into the stone at regular
intervals held thick tallow

candles, but these were dusty. The whole place had an
abandoned, disused smell.
Counting softly to himself, Seregil moved down the
steps with a wary eye out for trouble. Fifty-three
steps down, something caught his eye and he held up
a warning hand. A length of blackened bowstring had
been fixed tautly across the next step a little above
ankle height.
"That could give you a nasty fall," Alec
muttered, peering over his shoulder.
"Worse than that, maybe," replied Seregil,
squinting into the shadows below. Taking off his cloak,
he shook it wide and cast it out in front of him.
It floated down a few feet, then caught on
what appeared to be another string stretched at an
angle across the stairwell. Examining it, they found
it to be instead a thin, rigid blade.
Seregil tested the edge of it with a thumbnail.
"Fall just right and this could take your head off, or an
arm."
They found three more pitfalls of similar design
as they continued down. Then, rounding a final turn,
they came to the top of the rubble pile blocking the first
entrance.
"This doesn't make any sense!" Alec
exclaimed in frustration. "We must have missed
something."
"We found exactly what we were meant to find,"
Seregil muttered, heading back up the stairs.
"It's another diversion, too obvious and too
dangerous. It does prove one thing, though; this tower
is in perfect repair. They're hiding something here
for certain."
Toiling back up the stairs, they came out again on
the rampart.
"We have to work fast now," Seregil warned, glancing
up at the stars, which had wheeled noticeably to the
west already.
"What if the real way in isn't here?"
"That's a distinct possibility." Seregil ran a
hand back through his hair. "Still, everything we've found
so far tells me that this is the place. Look around,
check every stone. You start there, at that corner. I'll
begin here. Look for uneven stones, listen for hollow
spots, anything. We're running out of
time."
Shielding his light, Alec crossed back to the
ruined wall while Seregil remained in the shadows
near the door.
Lyim Flewelling
Despite Seregil's confidence, Alec renewed
his search with little expectation of success. The mortar
was sound, the stones solidly set together. Crossing
back and forth, he checked and double-checked his section
without finding anything new, and all the while the moon
sank lower.
He was crossing to the northern parapet when his bare
foot struck a slight declivity he hadn't
noticed before. If he'd had his boots on he'd have
missed it entirely, but the loose grittiness beneath his
chilled toes felt distinctly different from the
surrounding flagstones. Dropping to his knees, he
found what appeared to be a patch of sand slightly
larger than the palm of his hand.
"Seregil, come here, quick!"
With Seregil hunkered down beside him, Alec
scooped out the sand and uncovered a square niche
sunk into the stone. At the bottom lay a large
bronze ring fastened loosely to a staple. It was
large enough for him to get a good grip and he
pulled up hard, expecting the resistance of a heavy
slab. Instead, an irregular section of thin
flags lifted easily, revealing the square wooden
trap door fastened to their underside. Holding their
lights down, they found a square shaft, with a wooden
ladder leading down to yet another door.
"Well done!" Seregil whispered. Descending the
ladder, they pulled the door closed over them.
The door at the base of the ladder had no lock, just
a curved latch, green with age. In his excitement,
Alec reached for it but Seregil caught his hand before
he could touch it.
"Wait!" Seregil hissed. Pulling a bit of
twine from his pouch, he tied a noose in the end of it
and looped it over the handle, then stood back and
pulled. As the handle lifted, there was an audible
click.
Four long needles sprang out, spaced so that at
least one would be certain to pierce the hand of an unwary
trespasser. Their tips were darkened with a resinous
substance. As the door swung open Seregil
released the handle, and the needles retracted like the
claws of a cat.
"Never trust anything that looks easy," Seregil
warned, giving Alec a reproving look.
From here, a steep wooden staircase followed the
square shape of the tower walls down in a series of
landings and right- angle turns.
"Of course! A double staircase," muttered
Seregil, taking the

lead again with dagger drawn. "One would have been for the
servants, this one a secret escape route for the
nobles in case of attack."
"Then we can get out this way, without having to go back
through the keep again?"
"We'll see," Seregil replied doubtfully.
"It may have been blocked off to keep anyone from
wandering in from outside."
Unlike the other stairways, this one was wooden,
constructed of thick oak that probably dated from the
original construction of the keep. Seregil tested
each step as he put his weight on it, yet they
seemed sound enough.
There were no trip wires here, no blades. Knowing
better than to let their guard down, however, they
grew increasingly vigilant, anticipating something
more devious in the offing.
This stairway had been used recently and often. The
dust that had settled over everything was much
thinner at the center of each step and showed footprints
on the landings. The tallow candles in the wall
sconces smelled of recent burning. There were also
spots of finer wax on the stairs, which spoke of
someone carrying a taper with them as they descended. Some
of the spots were dull with dust, others still shiny and
fragrant of beeswax.
"How far down do you think we are?" asked Alec,
pausing for a moment to catch his breath. They'd been
going up and down stairs for hours, and his legs were
feeling the strain.
"We must be past the second floor by now, maybe
near the first," replied Seregil, coming to yet another
landing. "This is all taking a lot longer than
I'd-was
Suddenly the landing floor seemed to fly up in
Alec's face. Frozen on the stairs, he
watched in helpless amazement as the wooden platform
pivoted on diagonally opposing corners, its
underside now standing vertically in front of him
to reveal a sheer- sided pit of some kind below. A
loose board fell free, tumbling into the blackness
without a sound.
O Illior, Seregil!
The words hammered in Alec's throat as
he stared, horrorstruck, into the gaping shaft at his
feet. But no sound came out. It had all happened
too quickly. His whole body went numb and cold.
First the avalanche and now
-
"Alec!" The hoarse, panicky cry came from
somewhere beyond the uptilted floor.
"Seregil! You didn't fall!"
"But I'm about to. Do something, anything!
Hurry!"
lynn Flewelling
A sickening sense of futility engulfed Alec.
The upper corner of the platform was several feet beyond
his reach. If he jumped at it, it would tilt back
and crush him against the side of the shaft, probably
shaking Seregil loose from whatever precarious hold
he had managed on his side. If only he had a
rope- something long enough to snag the upper corner and
pull it down-
"Alec!"
Ripping off his cloak, Alec gathered the hem of it
in one hand and tossed the other end at the upthrust
corner, hoping to catch it with the hood. It fell mere
inches short of the mark.
"Damn it to hell!" Alec could hear
Seregil's labored breathing a few short,
impossible disyards away. Looking wildly around,
his eye fell on the rusty sconce set into the wall
above the lowermost step.
Without a second thought he grasped it with his right hand
and leaned as far out over the pit as his reach allowed,
cloak ready in his left for another cast.
He was already overbalanced beyond recovery when the
sconce gave beneath his hand. He heard the evil
grate of metal against stone as he lurched forward a
few inches more over the edge.
He hung a moment, breath dead in his throat,
waiting for the final pin or screw or brace to pull
free.
It didn't.
It might, if he moved.
Or it might not. He wouldn't know until he
tried.
His choices were pretty limited; make a move
now or wait to fall when his grip gave out.
"Alec-?"
With sweat pouring down his face and sides, he
willed himself to make one last, crucial try with the
cloak. Tossing it up with his left hand, he caught
the upper corner of the platform with the edge of the
hood and felt it hold. Miraculously, the iron
sconce held, too, at least for the moment.
Pulling down on the cloak, he dragged the corner
of the platform down with every ounce of strength he could
muster. Its weight, together with Seregil's-still clinging
somehow to its other side-was almost more than he could
manage, but slowly, slowly, it tilted back
toward level. As it came down he managed
to move his left hand up, gripping the fabric in his
teeth as he

transferred his hold. This process gave him enough
leverage to gradually pull himself backward and out of the
way of the descending edge. At last he was able
to grasp the platform and push.
As the upper side of it came into view, he found
Seregil huddled there, grasping the handle of his dagger
with both hands. Somehow, even as he'd felt the
floor go out from under him, he'd managed to drive the
tip of the blade in far enough between two of the floorboards
to hold his slight weight as he hung from it.
"Throw me the end of your cloak," he croaked,
white and shaken. "It's bound to tip down when I come
your way. Can you hang on to me if I drop again?"
"Wait a second." Holding the edge of the
platform with one hand, Alec undid his belt with the
other and worked the end of it back through the buckle.
Securing the loop around his wrist, he flapped the
loose end out to Seregil. "Get a good hold on
this. I can manage this better than the cloak."
Wedging the dagger more firmly, Seregil gripped the
end of the belt and began inching his way toward Alec.
The platform tilted down ominously as he shifted his
weight, but Alec hauled him quickly to safety on
the stairs.
"Bilairy's
Balls backslash was
Seregil gasped, collapsing at his feet.
"And Guts!" Alec leaned shakily against the
wall. "This candle thing I had hold of nearly
came loose! I can't believe it didn't."
Upon closer inspection, however, he found that it
hadn't come loose at all. It was still fixed
solidly to a rod that ran back into the wall. When
he pushed up, it slid smoothly back into place.
"Look at this," he exclaimed, perplexed.
Getting to his feet, Seregil examined the
mechanism. Pushing the sconce upright, he drew his
sword and pushed on the edge of the platform. It
tilted with precipitous ease. When the
sconce was pulled down, however, it remained
solidly level. They soon discovered two heavy
pins that slid in and out of the wall below the platform
to hold it steady when the sconce was down.
"Ingenious," Seregil said with genuine admiration.
"When Kassarie comes down she pulls this and leaves
it fixed. On the way back up she resets the
trap. That loose board that fell out must have been some
sort of brace that held it in place until I
got halfway across. It's more dangerous that way,
since there was no chance to jump back."
Lynn Flewelling
"How did you ever manage to get your knife set in
time?" Alec asked wonderingly.
Seregil shook his head. "I don't even
remember doing it."
Moving with redoubled care, they continued down. After a
few more turns, the walls of the stairwell changed from
masonry to solid stone and they knew they were below
ground level. Reaching the bottom at last, they
found a short, level corridor leading to a door.
Seregil bent to inspect the lock. "It looks
safe enough. You better do it, though. My hands are
still shaking!"
Alec knelt and took out his tools.
Selecting a hook, he grinned up at Seregil.
"After all this trouble, let's hope this isn't just the
wine cellar!"
The door swung open whine of hinges. Thrusting in his
lightstone, Alec tensed with a hiss of surprise.
"What is it?" whispered Seregil, grasping his
sword hilt as he moved to look in.
The light was not bright enough to fully illuminate the
room, but they could make out the figure of a person
seated in an ornate chair against the far wall. There
was no movement or outcry, and stepping closer, they
saw that it was the withered corpse of a man.
He was nobly dressed in clothing of antique
design. A heavy golden torque hung at his
shrunken throat, and several rings glinted on the
bony fingers resting on the arms of the chair. His
thick, dark hair had retained its living gloss and
hung in disconcerting contrast against the sunken cheeks.
"Uven an nobis!"
Seregil exclaimed softly, bending close with his
light.
Alec did not understand the words but recognized the
reverent tone with which they were spoken. Fighting down his
instinctive revulsion, he looked more closely at
the corpse's face, noting the fine bones
of the skull beneath their thin covering of desiccated skin,
the high, prominent cheekbones, the large, sunken
sockets where eyes had been.
Lynn Flewelling
"Illior's Light! Seregil, this can't be-was
"It is," Seregil replied grimly. "Or
was. Lord Corruth, the lost consort of Idrilain
the First. These rings prove it. See this?" He
indicated the one on the corpse's right hand; it was
set with a lozenge of banded carnelian deeply
incised with the Dragon of Skala. "It's a
Consort's Seal. And this other, the silver with the red
stone? Finest Aurenfaie work. This was Corruth i
Glamien Yanari Meringil Bokthersa."
"Your kinsman."
"I never knew him, though I'd often hoped-was
Seregil touched one of the hands. "The skin's hard and
hollow as the shell of a dried gourd. Someone took
great care to preserve him."
"But why?" shuddered Alec.
Seregil shook his head angrily. "I suppose
the bastards get some perverse pleasure out of having
their enemy looking on as they plot to overthrow his
descendants. Perhaps they swear oaths on him, I
don't know. Factions like the Lerans
don't persist for generations without a good leaven of
fanaticism."
The chamber was about the size of Nysander's workroom,
and the hand of a master mason was evident in every line;
dry, sound, and square, its walls showed no
moisture or moss. The ceiling overhead, though not
high, was vaulted and ribbed to give the room a less
oppressive feel. It was furnished with a round
table, several chests, and a few cabinets against the
walls. A low dais with a second thronelike
chair stood against the left-hand wall. A broad
shield hung on the wall behind it.
"Another sacred artifact," Seregil noted
grimly, examining the crowned dragon design
painted on the shield. "Queen Lera's, no
doubt. I wonder who they're grooming to carry it?"
"I thought she didn't have any heirs?"
"She had no daughters, but there are always plenty of
nieces and cousins in these Skalan families."
Riffling through the chests and cabinets, they found a
carefully organized collection of maps,
correspondence, and documents.
"I'll be damned!" Seregil spread a huge,
yellowed parchment on the table. "Plans of the
Rhiminee sewers. And see here, next
to the draftsman's mark?"
Alec recognized the tiny image of a coiled
lizard. "Kassarie's family must have built the
sewers."
"Parts of them, anyway. It was a huge undertaking.
Imagine what this would be worth to enemy sappers!"

Resuming their search, they soon turned up enough
damning correspondence to bring nobles of a dozen
houses to Traitor's Hill.
Opening a chest, Alec reached to push aside a
rumpled swath of wool. Beneath it his fingers encountered
cold, rounded metal.
"Seregil, look what I found!" At the bottom
of the chest gleamed eight gold baps still bearing the
Queen's Treasury mark.
"The
White Hart
gold! Our lady's been busy, though. These are
shipped in lots of twenty-four. I tell you,
Alec, if Kassarie isn't the head of the Lerans
herself, then she's in it up to her ears!"
The gold was too heavy to carry away, so Seregil
selected a few of the more incriminating letters and
divided them with Alec. Turning to the
corpse again, he gently removed the rings from the withered
fingers, murmuring something in Aurenfaie as he did
so.
He handed Alec the silver ring, and strung the seal
around his own neck on a bit of string.
"We're Watchers on this job, and this is Watcher
business," he said with uncommon earnestness. "If
anything happens to one of us, the other goes on, no
matter what. We've got to get at least one of
these to Nysander. Do you understand?"
Alec slipped the ring onto his thumb with a grudging
nod.
"Good. If we get separated, meet me at the
tree we camped under."
"The last time you carried something that way it got us
into an awful mess!" Alec noted wryly, touching
the seal ring where it hung against his friend's breast.
Seregil dropped the ring down the front of his
tunic with a grim smile.
"I'm
not the one this will harm."
Putting the room back in order, they hurried
back up to the open top of the tower. Seregil studied
the sky with relief; the job had taken far longer
than he'd anticipated, but it looked like
they still had a little time to spare. As they came out from behind
the tapestry into the corridor, however, some
instinctive alarm went off in the back of his mind.
Something was different.
He grasped the hilt of his sword, belly
tightening coldly again.
The light. Someone had turned up the wick on the
night lamp.
Alec had spotted it, too, and was reaching for his own
weapon.
They crept up to the intersection of the two
corridors, bare
lynn Flewelling
feet silent on the smooth floors. The
hallways appeared deserted. Bearing right, they
headed back toward the northeast tower. They'd
nearly reached it when the door swung open and two
men with swords stepped out.
There was no time to take cover. Not knowing how many more
men might be behind the others, Seregil and Alec
turned and bolted back the way they'd come.
"There he is!" a man yelled behind them. "And he's
got another with him! Here! He's up here!"
At the juncture of the corridors they cut to the right
and made a dash for the northwest tower. More
shouts rang out behind them as they flung open the door
and plunged inside.
"Go on, I'll follow!" Seregil ordered, and was
relieved when Alec didn't stop to argue.
A sizable pack of armed men was coming on at a run.
Grabbing the wooden bar from the corner by the door, he
slammed the door and rammed the bar into its
brackets. A heavy body hit the door from the
other side, then another. Muffled curses followed
him as he fled down after Alec.
He caught up with him just below the second-floor
entrance to the tower. Rounding a corner, however, they
saw torchlight coming from below.
"Second floor!" hissed Seregil, scrambling
back up the stairs.
Footsteps pounded toward them from above and below as they
reached the door. There was no time for caution.
Swords at the ready, they threw it open and dashed
out into the large chamber beyond
Its sole occupant was an old woman with a lamp.
At the sight of them, she dropped her light and ran
off through the workshop beyond, shrieking for help at the top
of her creaky voice. Ignoring the flames
spreading out from the broken lamp, Seregil barred the
door.
"This must be where all that snoring was coming from," said
Alec, looking around unhappily.
It was a barracks and there were more empty beds than
Seregil wanted to count.
"Everybody's awake now," he noted grimly,
heading for the southwest tower. "Come on, let's try this
one."
"Up or down?" Alec demanded as they ducked in and
barred the door.

But rounding the third turn, they ran headlong
into another gang of Kassarie's men.
Having the higher ground saved them. Alec and
Seregil struck out with their swords before their
attackers could get their weapons up. Two men
fell, their bodies blocking the stairs long enough for
them to retreat. Another man came at them from above,
swinging a short club. In the lead, Alec ducked
the blow and thrust his sword between the man's ankles.
Seregil got in a good jab as the unfortunate man
tumbled forward, then heaved the body on down the
stairs.
Someone was trying to batter down the second-floor
door as they passed. Dashing on, they found themselves
back on the third floor.
Alec set the bar across the door, then doubled over
panting. "Where now?"
"Let me think!" Seregil wiped his brow with one
tattered sleeve. They'd been up and down how many
towers? And how many doors had he blocked? No
matter, really; by now all of them would be guarded.
Just ahead of them a corridor door flew open and
they found themselves faced with four more men.
Falling on the newcomers, Seregil managed
to strike down one before the man could draw his sword.
The rest put up a savage fight but were no match
for their attackers. Seregil ran a second man
through, then turned in time to see another stab Alec in
the left arm. The boy recovered in an instant and
seized the advantage, cutting his attacker across the
thigh. The man fell back with a cry and Seregil
dispatched him. In the melee, the fourth man took
to his heels and escaped down the corridor.
"Let him go," Seregil ordered as Alec started
off in pursuit. "You're wounded. How bad is
it?"
Alec flexed his bloodied arm. "Just a nick."
Angry shouts interrupted them as a gang of men
dashed into view beneath the night lamp. "Here. They're
back here!"
"This way!" Seregil bolted through the open doorway
the four men had appeared from.
Beyond lay a small storage chamber, and on the far
side of it another door stood open. Charging on,
they raced up a narrow stairway, threw open the
trap door at the top, and came out on the flat
roof of the keep.
"We're cornered!" cried Alec, looking around.
Lynn Flewelling
A quick circuit of the ramparts proved him right. There
was no other way down; looking over the low
parapets, they found impossible drops on every
side. Behind them, Kassarie's men were already
clambering up through the trap door with torches,
swords, and clubs.
"We make our stand here," Seregil growled,
retreating to the southern rampart.
Back to back, swords at the ready, they stood
fast as the grinning mob advanced to form a menacing
half circle around them.
"We have them, my lady. The boy and a beggar man,"
someone called out.
More torches bobbed into view, and the men parted for Lady
Kassarie. Wrapped in a dark cloak, hair in
a loose braid over one shoulder, she
advanced to inspect the interlopers. Alec
recognized the old manservant, Illester, at
her side.
"Beggar man? Oh, hardly that." She frowned.
"Lord Seregil i Korit. And-Sir Alec
something, isn't it? Had I known of your interest in
my affairs, gentlemen, I would have extended you a
proper invitation."
Seregil threw back his tattered cloak and made
her a small, mocking bow. "My Lady
Kassarie a Moirian. Your recent interest in
my
affairs was invitation enough, I assure you."
Kassarie gave him an appraising look. "Your
reputation fails to do you justice. Your little jaunt
up to Cirna exhibited far more initiative than
you're given credit for, and now this! Who would have
suspected such enterprise? But then, that was foolish
of me. The dandified wastrel you're made out to be
could never have inveigled himself so skillfully into the
chambers of power."
"You flatter me, lady."
"You're too modest, my lord. After all, you've
captured the ear of wizards and princesses."
Kassarie's mouth twisted with a bitter
sneer. "But then, you're one of them, aren't you? Some
kin to our mongrel royalty? I trust you enjoyed
your reunion with Lord Corruth."
Seregil's jaw tightened. "For that abomination, my
lady, you have my family's curse."
"I shall do my best to be worthy of it. Now tell
me, on whose behalf have you invaded my home?"
"We're agents of Idrilain the Second, the
true and rightful queen of Skala," Seregil
replied.
"Bravely spoken!" laughed Kassarie. "And how
unfortunate

for me if that were so. Yet I have my own agents, you
see, very skillful and reliable ones. If you were working
for the Queen I would know. No, I think your
Aurenfaie ties go a bit deeper than is
generally supposed. Your people would be only too
happy, I'm certain, to discredit Skalans
loyal to the true line!"
A strange, hectic light came into her eyes as
she spoke these last words. Gripping his sword more
tightly, Seregil thought with disquieting certainty,
She's going to kill us.
"It's of small importance, I
suppose," she went on darkly. "Your disappearance
may cause a certain stir, but few, I think, will
mourn you."
"Others will come," Seregil retorted. "Others like
us, when you least expect them."
"And find me flown. That fool Teukros did more
harm than you could. But you know about Teukros, don't
you? This boy came asking for him." Her gaze
shifted to Alec. "And repaid my hospitality
by seducing my scullery maid."
"She didn't know anything," Alec told her,
suddenly fearful for the girl. "I tricked her
into letting me in."
"Ah, the gallant suitor speaks." Kassarie
gave him a mocking smile. "A position in the
great city, promises of passion to come-How
pathetically common, but so effective. But she proved
a poor choice for your dupe. Her aunt caught
her sneaking out with a traveling bundle a short while
ago."
"We soon beat the truth out of her," Illester
cackled. "The girl never was very reliable."
"Please, don't hurt her," Alec said weakly.
"Of course, I can't help feeling a bit sorry
for the poor, homely thing," Kassarie
continued. "She was heartbroken to learn of your
perfidy. But you'll have a little time to reflect on that.
Gentlemen, throw down your swords!"
Seregil felt Alec tense behind him, awaiting his
lead. Studying Kassarie's imperious face in the
torchlight, he weighed the chances of coming down off this
roof alive. It seemed doubtful.
"I've little faith in your hospitality," he
replied, stalling for time.
Think, man, think! Find a thin spot in the mob!
How far to the stairs, the tower door?
"You've given me quite enough trouble for one night,"
Kassarie snapped, losing patience. "Look
around! You can't fight your way out. Look behind you.
A thousand feet down. Teukros
Lynn Flewelling
screamed all the way to the bottom when they threw him
off. Will you?"
Beside him, Seregil heard Alec's tiny, choked
groan. If surrender offered even the sliver of a
chance-
Leap, dear boys!
NySander's shout jolted them both like a war cry,
though it was obvious that no one else had heard.
"My lady commands your surrender,"
Illester barked.
"Did you hear?" hissed Seregil.
"I can't!" Alec whispered back. He was white
with fear, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Enough of this," snarled Kassarie, eyeing them with
growing suspicion.
"You must!" Seregil pleaded, his own belly lurching
at the idea.
"No-was
Seregil, Alec, leap! It must be new!
"Seize them!" cried Kassarie. "Take them
alive!"
"Alec, go!"
"I can't-was
Now, Seregil, for the love of Illior!
"Now!" yelled Seregil. Flinging his sword
aside, he seized Alec around the waist and heaved
him over the parapet. Trying not to hear the scream that
fell away into the blackness, he vaulted after him and
launched himself into the abyss. Kassarie's sardonic
laugh lashed out after him.
For a horrifying instant Seregil simply fell,
eyes squeezed shut, the insubstantial wind beating
up into his face.
Then the magic struck.
A swift, wrenching sensation shot through him, as if his
soul were being pulled from his body. This was followed a
splendid lightness, though he was still falling, dragged
down by some entangling thing. Opening his eyes to, a
wondrous blaze of stars, he struggled free of his
tunic and flung out his ...
Wings".
Lovely, powerful, striped wings that sliced into the
air and found purchase there. Leveling out into a
glide, he looked down with his new eyes and saw
another bird floundering awkwardly up toward him,
hooting wildly all the way. He wouldn't have thought
it possible for an owl to look flabbergasted, but
Alec did. Their empty clothes tumbled into the
darkness as they winged up and over the keep.

Kassarie had moved to the parapet overlooking the
road and was gesturing at a body of riders thundering
up the road toward her gates. Torches streaked and
veered in the courtyard below as her people scattered to meet
the attack.
The wind sang deliciously through their feathers as
Seregil and Alec spiraled down to meet the
riders. Alec let out another excited hoot as his
sharp eyes made out the insignia of the
Queen's Horse Guard. Klia rode at the
head of the party, flanked by Myrhini and Micum.
Diving in low, Seregil flew in front of
Micum.
"Seregil, is that you?"
Seregil swooped down again and landed on Micum's
outstretched arm, feeling the roughness of chainmail
grating under his talons.
"Is it him?" Klia asked as the large horned owl
flapped for balance.
Seregil bobbed his head and winked one great yellow
eye.
"It's him!" cried Micum. "Is Alec with you?"
Seregil bobbed again as Alec winged by.
"Go to Nysander," said Micum. "He's back down
the road with There and Beka. Wait, what's this
you've got?"
Micum lifted the ring that hung against the owl's buff
breast. The loop of string had held, though Seregil
had not noticed the slight weight of it as he flew.
Micum pocketed it for him and Seregil spread his
broad wings and flapped off to join Alec.
Following the road, Alec soon spotted a
small fire below. Nysander and Thero sat
cross-"dissgged beside it, watched over
by several uniformed riders.
Landing was a far trickier business than flight, it
turned out. After several unsuccessful attempts
to copy Seregil's smooth descent, he finally
ended up in an ungainly heap at a soldier's
feet.
"Alec?" asked a familiar voice.
Beka knelt and set him upright, then smoothed his
feathers gently. Spreading his toes out for balance,
Alec blinked up at her and gave a soft hoot.
Something moved under his foot; it was the silver
Aurenfaie ring, still around one feathered toe. Raising
his foot, he hooted at Beka until she took
it.
Seregil, meanwhile, had settled gracefully on
Nysander's upraised arm.
Lynn Flewelling
"Thanks to the Lightbearer! We were not certain the
spells found you in time," Nysander told him,
looking utterly exhausted.
"We were lucky to locate you at all," added
Thero. "We nearly didn't, you know, with all your
dashing around. Shall I change them back now,
Nysander?"
"If you would. I- am quite depleted."
This transformation occurred as swiftly as the first,
andwiththe same momentary disorientation.
After an instant's dizziness, Alec found himself
standing naked in front of Beka.
"You might want this." Beka handed him her cloak,
doing her best not to laugh at the expression of shocked
realization spreading hotly over his face.
Mortified, Alec hastily flung it on. In the
excitement of the moment he had not anticipated such
complications. Taking the ring back from her, he turned
to Seregil, who was kneeling beside the older wizard.
"I lost the papers with my clothes, but I still have this."
"And another," Seregil gasped, cradling his head
in his hands as the usual wave of post-magic
nausea swept over him. "The Consort's seal.
Micum has it- Nysander, we found it There's a
room below the ruined tower. We have to- We- Tell
him, Alec!"
Retching, he staggered off into the shadows.
"Kassarie's a Leran for certain," Alec
continued excitedly. "She's still got some of the stolen
gold and the body of Lord Corruth!"
"Poor fellow. I always feared something of the sort
had happened to him," sighed Nysander. "But what is
this about rings and papers?"
"We took Corruth's rings and some papers
to prove what we found," Alec explained, handing the
wizard the heavy Aurenfaie ring. "Micum has the
Consort's seal, but we lost everything else when-was
Alec paused with a stricken gasp. "My sword!
Oh hell, that went, too, and my black dagger."
These, along with his bow, were chief among the very few
material possessions he felt any attachment
to; they had been the first things Seregil had
outfitted him with at Wolde.
"We shall do our best to recover them, dear boy, and
all the rest," Nysander assured him.
"We have to get back in there, and quickly," said
Seregil, returning to the fire looking haggard but
determined. One of the

riders held out a cloak and he wrapped himself in
it. "She'll destroy everything, Nysander; she may
have already. Even with the ring, our word won't be enough against
her!"
"He's right," There agreed.
"She's the head of the serpent, I'm certain of it,"
Seregil continued emphatically. "Get her and you
get them all! But Klia and the others will never find that
room on their own. I've got to go back
in!"
"Not without me, you're not!" declared Alec.
Nysander assented with a weary nod. "Sergeant
Talmir, please get these men clothing, horses,
and weapons."
Beka stepped forward. "Let me go with them."
The wizard shook his head firmly. "It is not for
me to countermand Commander Klia's orders. She stationed
you here."
"But-was
"You stay put," Seregil warned. "It's worth
your commission to leave your post. You haven't even
been invested yet!"
Alec stepped away with his usual modesty
to dress, while Seregil threw his cloak off with
no thought but haste. As he did so, Alec was
dismayed to see that the obscuration spell covering the
scar had failed again; the strange scar was clearly
visible. Nysander saw it, too, and shook his head
slightly at Alec. Fortunately, Seregil
pulled on his borrowed tabard before anyone else
noticed.
Beka, who'd kindly looked away until Alec
had gotten his breeches on, offered him her sword.
"Take it," she urged. "I'll feel
better, knowing you have a blade I trust."
Alec accepted the sword gratefully, hearing the
echo of her father's words to Seregil when they'd left
Watermead.
Clasping hands hastily with her, he said, "It's one
I trust, too." He hesitated, suddenly
awkward; he felt as if he ought to say something more,
but he couldn't think what.
"Take good care of Nysander and There," he said at
last, "in case they have to turn us into something else
to get us out again."
She gave him a playful cuff on the arm. "Good
thing he didn't make you into stags and otters that time,
eh?"
Outfitted again, Seregil and Alec leapt onto
fresh horses and galloped back to the keep.
The main gate stood open now. Looking around,
Seregil guessed
Lynn Flewelling
that their earlier capture had disrupted the usual
discipline of the place, and the garrison had been
caught off guard by Klia's attack.
In the courtyard a handful of Guards were standing watch
over a knot of captured servants. Stamie
huddled miserably among the prisoners and
refused to meet Alec's eye when he attempted
to speak to her.
The rest of the raiders had stormed inside.
Overhead, flames licked out of a second-floor
window.
"Looks like we can go in the front way this time,"
Seregil said with a dark grin, pointing to the shattered
doors.
Scattered sounds of fighting rang through the halls as
they ran for the northeast stairway. Bodies
littered the stairs, but the main battle had been
pressed back to the third floor.
Coming out in the upper passageway, they could hear
Kassarie's remaining men making a stand at the door
to the ruined tower. The halls were impossibly narrow
for a pitched battle, and the fighting had spread
into side rooms. Passing the open doorways, they
caught sight of bodies sagging across costly,
overturned furniture. The clash of swords
seemed to come from every direction at once. Fresh
blood spattered the elegant frescoes and the
floor was treacherous with it in places.
They found Micum in the thick of the fight in the
southeast corridor.
"Has Kassarie been taken yet?"
Seregil shouted, trying to make himself heard over the
din.
"Last I heard they were still looking for her," Micum
yelled back.
"There's a door behind that hanging." Seregil pointed
down the hall at the tapestry. "Pass the word
forward; we have to take it!"
A few moments later, Klia's war cry echoed
off the walls as the last of Kassarie's fighters
threw down their weapons and fell to their knees.
Thrusting his way through the confusion, Seregil reached the
princess. "Through here," he called, tearing down the
tapestry to expose the door. Trying the handle, he
found it locked.
"Braknil, Tomas, get this open!" barked
Klia.
Two sturdy Guards threw their shoulders against the
door, wrenching it off its hinges, and Seregil and
Alec led the way to the trap door. Klia
followed with Micum, Myrhini, and several
soldiers.
The trap door had been pulled shut again, and the sand
smoothed back into place. Seregil found the ring and
heaved the
471
door open, then led the way down to the wooden
stairs. Careful to avoid the tilting landing, they
reached the subterranean corridor to find the final
door standing open. The chamber beyond was brightly lit.
Kassarie was waiting for them. She stood by the table
at the center of the room, blocking the corpse of
Corruth from sight. She held a small lamp in
one hand, as if to light their way, and its glow threw
her harsh features into imperious relief. The room
smelled hotly of wax and oil. Beside him, Alec
sniffed the air, frowning.
A prickle of apprehension ran up Seregil's
spine; Kassarie looked like a great serpent poised
to strike. How long had she stood waiting there?
"So, you're back again, are you?" she observed with a
bitter smile as he and Alec stepped into view.
Klia moved up between them. Reckless and pretty as
she might be under other circumstances, at this moment
she was a commander and moved with her mother's austere
assurance.
"Kassarie a Moirian, I arrest you in the name of
Idrilain the Second," she announced with no
trace of emotion. "The charge against you is high
treason."
Kassarie bowed gravely. "Clearly you
have the advantage. I yield, Your Highness, with the
understanding that it is to your greater strength and not to your
misbegotten right."
"As you will," replied Klia, stepping toward her.
"You will find all that you seek here." Kassarie
gestured around her. "Perhaps, like Lord Seregil, you
would also be interested in meeting your mutual forebear."
She stepped aside and lifted her lamp with a
dramatic flourish. "Allow me to present Lord
Corruth i Glamien Yanari Meringil
Bokthersa. Your curs there have already pilfered the
body, but I think they will bear out that I speak the
truth."
Too late Seregil realized that he had failed
to tell Klia what they'd found. She gave a
soft, startled exclamation and stepped closer.
Micum and the others were equally taken aback; all
eyes
v caret Knowledge
fixed on the grisly sight as Klia bent to study
the ravaged face.
All, that is, except Alec's.
He'd seen more than enough of corpses over the past
few
w
eeks. Avoiding the dried husk in the chair, he
looked instead at
Lynn Flewelling
Kassarie, and so was the only one to notice the
gloating smile that spread across her face as she
lifted the lamp still higher.
That smell. It was too strong to be just lamps.
There was no time to warn Klia. Knocking Seregil
aside, he lunged forward into the room as Kassarie
dashed the lamp to the floor at Klia's feet. The
room was doused with oil and something else, something far more
flammbale.
Searing heat sucked the air from his lungs and scorched
his skin. Reaching wildly, he found Klia's arm and
hauled her backward with all his strength. Behind him
other hands reached out, yanking him roughly into the blessed
coolness of the corridor.
"Get them down!" shouted Micum.
Alec was shoved to the floor and half smothered with
cloaks and bodies. Hands pounded down across his
back. Somewhere above him, Seregil was cursing
frantically.
When they finally uncovered him, Alec saw that they'd
dragged him back to the base of the stairs. Heat
rolled down the little passage from the open
door of the chamber beyond. Inside, solid sheets of
flame obscured everything from view. There was no
sign of Kassarie.
Klia was lying next to him, her beautiful,
heart-shaped face streaked red and black and half
her braid singed away.
"You saved my life!" she croaked, reaching for his
hand; the back of her own was a welter of angry
blisters where oil had splashed.
"While the rest of us had our heads up our arses,"
Myrhini glowered, wiping a sleeve across her eyes
as she knelt by Klia.
Alec shook his head, half dazed. "That
smell-It was familiar but I couldn't remember
what it was."
Sulfur oil, I think" said Myhini.
The skin on Alec's back and neck suddenly
began to hurt and he grimaced.
"Give me this!" Seregil tugged Alec's
borrowed tabard off over his head. The back of the
garment was burned through in places. "You were on fire,
you know! And some of your hair is gone in the back."
Alec raised a hand to the back of his head; it felt
rough and his palm came away black.
"Just when we'd gotten you looking
presentable, too," Seregil complained, his voice
not quite steady. "Bilairy's Cods, you smell like a
scorched dog!"
andness caret a
iia caret gg caret a
L caret gg caret S*
and
The sun was just climbing above the eastern treetops as
Seregil, Alec, and Micum set off for the city with
Nysander. Thero had stayed behind to assist in the search
for the lost documents and weapons.
"I thought we'd finally run through our luck that time,"
Seregil admitted, riding along between Nysander and
Alec.
"You damn near did!" sputtered Micum.
"Nysander didn't even know you'd gone down here
until I showed up."
"And when I realized that you were in danger, I could do
nothing at such a distance," added Nysander. "I was not
certain if you were dead or alive until after we
arrived, and even then I could not fix my attention on
you with any accuracy until they had you cornered on
the roof. By that point it was too late for any but the
most desperate measures."
"It was a lovely bit of work, though,"
Seregil maintained, unabashed. "You haven't
turned me into a bird in years. And never an owl!"
Alec was equally excited. "It was wonderful, at
least once I got used to it. But I don't understand
why my mind stayed so clear. That time you turned me
into a stag I got all confused."
"This was a different sort of metamorpho-
Lynn Flewelling
sis," explained Nysander. "The intrinsic nature
spell summons an innate magic from the person it
is cast upon, and often affects the subject's mind,
as in your case. Changing you to an owl was a
metastatic spell. Though it demanded far more of my
powers, especially at such a distance, it altered
only your outward form, leaving your mind unaffected.
My greatest concern was whether you would master your wings in
time."
"He's a fast learner," said Seregil, resisting
the impulse to clap Alec on the shoulder. He could
tell from the way the boy sat his horse that his burns
were giving him more pain than he was admitting.
"What you didn't learn is who the Lerans were
planning to replace Idrilain with," Micum
pointed out. "With everything destroyed back there,
we'll never track down the others."
"That's not entirely true," said Seregil, tapping
his temple. "I got a look at some of those
papers before she burned everything. There're a few
nobles we can go to for answers. It'll be a start."
Nysander nodded. "I will set some Watchers to it as
soon as we get back. I think you three have had enough
excitement for now."
"I suppose so," Seregil agreed, stealing
another concerned look at Alec riding stiffly beside
him.
The day grew brighter as they rode on. They reached a
crossroads in sight of the city walls and, bidding
them all farewell, Micum turned his horse for
home.
"You know where to find me if you need me," he
called, kicking his stallion into a gallop.
"I assume you will be at the Cockerel now?"
Nysander asked, reining in while Seregil and Alec
pulled up their hoods.
Seregil nodded. "Lord Seregil and Sir Alec
will be back in town in time for the Sakor Festival.
You'll keep our names out of the inquest over this
business, won't you?"
"I believe I can. The Queen values the
Watchers enough to respect our methods. I
must ask you to stop at my tower before you return
home, however. There is one last matter to be seen
to."
Catching a questioning glance from Alec, Seregil raised
a gloved hand to his chest.
Alec flexed his left hand thoughtfully, looking down
at the smooth circle of healed flesh on his own
palm.

At the Oreska House, Nysander insisted on
breakfast before anything else. Having fortified himself,
he led them into the small casting room and closed the
door. Instructing Seregil to remove his shirt, the
wizard inspected the troublesome scar closely.
"This ought to have stayed covered," muttered Nysander.
"This isn't the first time it's reappeared," Seregil
reminded him, staring nervously up at the ceiling
while the wizard gently pressed and prodded. A
sudden thought occured to him and he reached for Nysander's
wrist. "But it didn't when you changed me into old
Dakus."
Nysander shook his head. "That was a lesser
transformation. I simply altered your existing
appearance."
"You mean I could end up looking like that
someday?"
"Do be quiet, Seregil! I must concentrate."
Pressing his hand over the scar, Nysander closed his
eyes and waited for any impressions to form. Little
came: the streak of a falling star; a flash of the
mysterious blue; the faint roar of ocean; the hint of
an unfamiliar profile. Then nothing.
"Well?" demanded Seregil.
"Just bits and pieces." Nysander massaged the
bridge of his nose wearily. "Fragments of
memories, perhaps, but nothing to suggest any
residual power in these marks. It is most
curious. How is your hand, Alec?"
"Nothing's changed," Alec replied, holding it
up for him to see.
"Most curious indeed," mused Nysander, unruly
eyebrows beetling. "The problem must lie in the
markings of Seregil's scar."
Seregil studied them in a hand mirror. "The side
of the wooden disk that burned Alec was smooth, no
carving at all. But these of mine are getting clearer
instead of fainter. Don't you sense any magic at
all around it?"
"None," Nysander answered. "So it must somehow be the
configuration of the characters themselves, whatever they
are."
Seregil looked up. "And you truly don't know
what they are?"
"I recognize the sigla, as I have said. What
lies beneath it is as much a mystery to me as to you. You have
my word on that."
"Then we're right back where we began," Alec
exclaimed in exasperation.
"Perhaps not," Nysander said softly, touching
Seregil's scar a last time, then casting another
obscuration over it. "It reappeared
Lynn Flewelling
after Seregil changed bodies with There, and again when
he changed back from the owl form. There must be some
significance to that, though I do not yet know what it
means."
"It means I'm going to spend the rest of my life
trotting back to you to get it covered up again,"
grumbled Seregil, pulling on his shirt. "I bet
Valerius could get it off."
"You must not do that. Not yet, at least. To destroy it
before we understand it could prove most unwise. Bear with
it awhile longer, dear boy. Perhaps we may yet
solve its riddle. In the meantime, it appears to be
doing you no harm."
"It's done enough of that already!" Seregil scowled.
"Take care, Nysander. We'll be close by if you
want us."
Nysander retired to his sitting room after they'd
gone. Sinking wearily into an armchair, he rested his
head against its back and summoned up the impressions
he'd gotten from the scar-the star, the sea sounds, the
flash of blue, the hint of a face-
His head ached. He'd had no rest since the raid
and he was exhausted-too exhausted to delve further
into the matter. A quick nap here in his chair was called
for, he decided. Later, after making the proper
preparations, he would meditate further on the
matter.
The quiet of the room enfolded him like a thick,
comfortable blanket. The warmth of the fire was like summer
sunshine on the side of his face-so pleasant, so
soft, like the touch of a woman's lips. As he sank
deeper into the welcome languor, he seemed
to feel Seregil's chest beneath his hand again, the tiny
ridges of the scar brushing his palm. But now
Seregil's skin was cold, cold as a marble
statue-
Nysander stirred uneasily in his chair.
A vision is coming,
he thought in vague dismay. still
am too weary for visions
-
But it came anyway.
He was standing in the Oreska s central atrium.
Bright sunshine streamed down through the great dome
overhead, warming him deliriously. Other wizards
passed by without looking at him. Apprentices and
servants hurried past at their daily tasks.
But then the Voice spoke and all the people around him
turned into marble statues.
The Voice came from somewhere beneath him, a faint,
sinister chuckle vibrating up from the depths below the
stone floor. He

could feel it in the soles of his feet. Looking
down, he noticed for the first time that the mortar of the
mosaic had crumbled. Large sections of the
design, the proud Dragon oflllior, had been
loosened and dislodged, the brilliant tiles
trampled to powder.
The Voice came again and he turned, striding through the
motionless throng to the museum. Across the shadowed
room, beyond the ranks of display cases, the door
of the antechamber leading to the vaults stood
slightly ajar.
As he approached it, he heard something scuttle
away into the darkness ahead. It was a scrabbling,
clicking noise utterly unlike rats. Something
crackled beneath his foot, a fragment of wood. The
case that had held the hands of Tikdrie Megraesh
was empty; a splintered, fist-sized hole had been
clawed through the bottom.
Summoning a gleaming sphere of light in his left
palm, he continued on. As he neared the door it
flew open with such force that it split from top
to bottom and hung shattered on its hinges.
"Come, old man," a sibilant whisper
beckoned. "Old man. Old man. Old, old
man."
Skin prickling with revulsion, he obeyed.
The antechamber was as it should be, but the plain stone
stairway beyond was gone. Instead, a terrible black
chasm yawned before him, devoid of bridge or
pathway. Summoning a second light in his right
hand, he spread his arms and launched himself into the
fathomless darkness, plummeting like an osprey.
He could not tell how long he fell; it seemed like
a very long time. There was no wind, no feeling of
passage, only the knowledge that he was descending
until at last, in the way of dreams, he came
to a gentle landing on uneven stone. In front of
him, an archway led into the familiar brick-paved
corridor of the Oreska's deepest vault.
The low passage branched out into a warren of
corridors and storage chambers. He'd made his
solitary way here countless times, passing this corner,
turning at the next to make certain that the Place,
the unmarked, unremarkable span of mortared wall and
all that lay behind it, was as it should be.
But this sojourn, he knew, was not to be a solitary
one. The Voice was ahead of him and louder now,
shouting to him from the Place.
"Come, old man! Come, Guardian!" The bellowed
challenge
Lynn Flewelling
echoed coldly through the damp stone corridors.
"Come and view the first fruits of your sacred
vigil!"
Rounding the final corner, he found himself
face-to-face with the dyrmagnos, Tikdrie
Megraesh. Bright eyes, moist and alive, looked
out from the desiccated black face. The hands that he
himself-then a young wizard new to his robes-had cut
off had found their way back to their owner's
arms, visible below the sleeves of the hideous
creature's festival robe.
"Pass, O most noble Guardian!" Tikdrie
bade him, stepping aside with a slight bow. "The
Beautiful One awaits. Pass and join the feast."
The voice of the dyrmagnos, like his eyes, had
retained a terrible humanity.
Passing his ancient enemy, he found the passage
blocked by a huge pile of naked corpses.
Creatures in colorful rags crawled and
scuttled over the dead and he could hear the greedy
sounds of their feeding.
Some were human, and among these he recognized many
long-vanquished foes, returned now to haunt his
dreams.
Others were twisted, monstrous creatures of
revolting form beneath their robes.
And all were feasting on the dead. Swarming across the
limp bodies, they hunched like jackals over their
victims, tearing chunks of flesh out with teeth and
talons, crunching through bone.
A tall figure emerged from the shadows, its dark
cloak revealing nothing of its form.
"Join the feast," it commanded in a voice like wind
groaning down the chimney of an abandoned
house. Stretching an impossibly long arm into the
heap, it tugged a body loose and cast it at his
feet.
It was Seregil.
Half of his face had been cruelly gnawed.
Both hands were gone and the skin had been flayed from his
chest.
A moan rose in Nysander's throat as grief
paralyzed him.
"Devour him," the specter invited, reaching again into the
pile-
Micum was next, chest torn open, both strong
arms gone at the shoulder.
Then Alec, robbed of hands and eyes. Blood
streaked his face like tears, and matted his soft yellow
hair.
Others followed, faster and faster. Friends, lords,
servants, strangers, thrown about like cord wood
until he was ringed in

with an ever heightening wall of bodies. Another
moment and he would be immured in a tower of dead
flesh.
Battling grief and horror, he summoned the twin
lights he still carried to increased brilliance
and hurled them before him, charging over the maimed
bodies of his companions. The obscene specter
swelled in his vision and was gone, taking the awful
pile of corpses with it.
Before him stood the possessor of the Voice, and
Nysander s grief crystallized into stony terror.
The huge figure was shrouded in shadow except where
light fell across one perfect, golden- skinned
shoulder.
He stared at it, trying to see his foe in spite of
his mounting dread. He could feel the cold power of its
eyes upon him; it burned his flesh numb like the water
of a winter stream.
Then it raised its hand in greeting and the shining skin of
shoulder and arm and hand split like rotten cloth,
hanging in dulled shreds from the putrid flesh
swelling beneath it.
"Welcome, O Guardian," it said. "You have been
most faithful."
Lurching out of the shadows, the thing smashed a fist through the
smooth stone wall as if it were a paper screen,
reaching into the cavity beyond-
Nysander leapt up from his chair, panting and drenched with
sweat. The fire was nearly dead and the room was full
of shadows.
"O Illior!" he groaned, pressing a hand over
his eyes. "Must I be the one who sees the end of
it?"
To Be Continued.
about the author
Lynn Flewelling grew up in Presque
Isle, Maine. Since receiving a degree in
English from the University of Maine in 1981, she
has studied veterinary medicine at Oregon
State, classical Greek at Georgetown
University, and worked as a personnel generalist,
landlord, teacher, necropsy" technician,
advertising copywriter, and freelance journalist,
more or less in that order. She currently lives in
Bangor with her husband, two sons, and other
assorted mammals.
And don't miss the riveting sequel
Luck in the Shadows
Stalking Darkness
by Lynn Flewelling
Vargul Ashnazai sat toying with the ivory vial
hanging around his neck. Inside were a few
blood-soaked slivers of wood, gouged from the
floor of the Mycenian inn where he had overtaken the
pair of thieves who'd stolen the Eye in
Wolde. His chest constricted with anger every time he
thought of them, the Aurenfaie bard and his scrawny
boy.
"To be so close-to " he hissed, closing his fist
around the vial.
Mardus stretched comfortably and refilled his wine
cup. "Impatience will be your undoing. Those two are
of no consequence. All that matters now is
recovering what they stole. Try again."
Clasping the vial grimly in one hand, Vargul
Ashnazai placed the other over his eyes and
summoned the image of the thieves. Power flowed through
him to the vial and beyond, using the essence of their blood
to seek them out.
It was a powerful talisman. With it he'd tracked
the pair to Nanta, and then on to Rhiminee, but there
the trail had abruptly ended. All attempts
at scrying for them had met with fierce resistance.
This time was no different. The moment he focused his
concentration on their location, he was blinded by a searing
storm of leathery wings and fire. The message was
clear enough:
These people are under the protection of the Oreska. You cannot
touch them.
Gasping, Ashnazai pressed both hands
to his face. "I'll crush their beating hearts in
my hands!" Looking up, he met Mardus"
sardonic sneer.
"Vengeance is a dangerous emotion," he cautioned.
"Patience is the key now. Our moment will come."
Yes, it will,
Ashnazai thought with grim anticipation.
And when it does, I will linger over their deaths,
savoring their pain like the finest of wines....
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