ISBN 0-553-57543-0
BANTAM BOOKS
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LYNN FLEWELLING'S
DAZZLING FANTASY DEBUT
LUCK IN THE SHADOWS
"Memorable characters, an enthralling plot and truly
daunting evil...
Lynn Elewelling has
eschewed the easy shortcuts
of cliched minor characters
and cookie-cutter backdrops
to present a unique world....
I commend this one to
your attention."
-Robin Hobb, author of
SHIP OF MAGIC
Available form Bantam Spectra Books
Look for
TRAITOR'S MOON
Available now!
A QUESTION OF TRUST
"What is it? You look like you've just seen your own
ghost."
A desperate ache lanced through Seregil as he
looked down into Alec's dark blue eyes.
Damn you, Nysander!
"I can't tell you,
tali,
because I'd only have to lie," he said, suddenly
dejected. "I'm going to do something now, and you're
going to watch and say nothing."
Taking the final page of the manuscript, he
twisted it into a tight squib and tossed it into the
fire.
"But what about Nysander?" Alec asked. "What will
you tell him?"
"Nothing, and neither will you."
"But-was
"We're not betraying him. You have my oath. I
believe he already knows what we just learned, but he
can't know that you know. Not until I tell you it's
safe. Understand?"
"More secrets," Alec said, looking
solemn and unhappy.
"Yes, more secrets. I need your trust in this,
Alec. Can you give it?"
Also by Lynn Flewelling
Luck in the Shadows was Traitor's Moon
lynn fleweling
Bantam Books New York Toronto
London Sydney Auckland
STALKING DARKNESS
A Bantam Spectra Book/march 1997
All rights reserved.
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed s are
trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of
Random House, Inc.
Copyright [*copygg'1997 by Lynn Flewelling
Cover art copyright [*copygg'1997 by Gary
Ruddell
Maps 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:
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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 0-553-57543-0
Published simultaneously in the United States
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA
For my sons Matthew and Timothy, who laugh at
the same goofy things I do. You're the best, guys.
Special thanks to Doug Flewelling, Darby
Crouss, Laurie Mailman, Julie Friez,
Scott Burgess, Anne Groell and the
Bantam folks, and my agent Lucienne Diver
for all their support, input, and wonderfully
ruthless editing.
Barbarian Lands
The lean ship smashed through foaming crests, pounding
southwest out of Keston toward Skala. By night she
ran without lanterns; her crew, accomplished
smugglers all, sailed with eyes lifted skyward
to the stars. By day they kept constant watch, though there
was little chance of meeting another ship. Only a
Plenimaran captain would chance deep- water sailing
so late in the year and this winter there would be none so far
north. Not with a war brewing.
Ice sheathed the rigging. The sailors pulled the
halyards with bleeding hands, chipped frozen water from
the drinking casks, and huddled together off watch,
muttering among themselves about the two gentlemen
passengers and the grim pack of cutthroats who'd
come aboard.
The second day out, the captain came above slobbering
drunk. Gold was no use to dead men, he howled
over the wind; foul weather was coming, they were turning
back. Smiling, the dark nobleman led him below and that
was the last anyone heard of the matter. The captain
fell overboard sometime that same night. That
was the story, at least; the fact was that he was nowhere
to be found the next morning and their course remained
unchanged.
lynn Flewelling
The mate took over, tying himself to the wheel as they
wallowed along. Blown off course, they missed
Gull Island and sailed on without respite through
lashing sleet and exhaustion. On the fourth day two
more men were swept away as waves nearly swamped the
ship. A mast snapped, dragging its sail like a
broken wing. Miraculously, the ship held true
while the remaining crew fought to cut away the
tangled ropes.
Clinging among the frozen shrouds that night, the men
muttered again, but cautiously. Their finely dressed
passengers had brought ill fortune with them; no one
wanted to chance attracting their eye. The ship
plunged on as if helpful demons guided her
keel.
Two days out from Cima the gale lifted. A pale
sun burst through the shredding clouds to guide the
battered vessel westward, but foul luck still dogged
her. A sudden fever struck among the crew. One
by one, they sickened, throats swelling shut as
black sores blossomed in the warmth of
groins and armpits. Those untouched by the illness
watched in horror as the gentlemen's men-at-arms
laughingly tossed the bloated corpses overboard.
None of the passengers sickened, but by the time they
sighted the towering cliffs of the Skalan Isthmus the
last of the crew could feel the weakness overtaking them.
They reached the mouth of Cirna harbor in darkness,
guided by the leaping signal fires that flanked the
mouth of the Canal. Still sagging at the wheel, the dying
mate watched the passengers" men strike the
sails, lower anchor, and heave the longboat over the
side.
One of the gentlemen, the dark-haired one with a long
scar under his eye, suddenly appeared at the mate's
elbow. He was smiling, always smiling, though it never
seemed to reach his eyes. Half-delirious, the
mate staggered back, fearful of being devoured by those
soulless eyes.
"You did well," the dark man said, reaching to tuck
a heavy purse into the mate's pocket. "We'll
see ourselves ashore."
"There's some of us still alive, sir!" croaked the
mate, looking anxiously toward the signal
fires, the warm lights of the town glimmering so
close across the water. "We've got to get
ashore for a healer!"
"A healer, you say?" The dark gentleman raised
an eyebrow in concern. "Why, my companion here is
a healer of sorts. You had only to ask."

Looking past him, the mate saw the other man, the
weedy one with the face like a rat's, at work chalking
something on the deck. As he straightened from his task
the mate recognized the warning symbol for plague.
"Come, Vargul Ashnazai, isn't there something you can
do for this poor fellow?" the dark man called.
The mate shuddered as the other man glided toward him.
Not once during the voyage had he heard this man
speak. When he did now the words were unintelligible
and seemed to collect in the mate's throat like
stones. Gagging, he slumped to the deck. The one
called Ashnazai laid a cold hand against his cheek
and the world collapsed in a blaze of black light.
Mardus stepped clear of the bile spreading out from the
dead sailor's mouth. "What about the others?"
The necromancer smiled, his fingers still tingling
pleasantly from the mate's death. "Dying as we
speak, my lord."
"Very good. Are the men ready?"
"Yes, my lord."
Mardus took a last satisfied look around the
deck of the ravaged vessel, then climbed down to the
waiting boat.
Cloaked in Ashnazai's magic, they passed the
quay and custom house without challenge. Climbing a
steep, icy street, they found rooms ready for them
at the Half Moon tavern.
Mardus and Ashnazai were just settling down over a
hot supper in Mardus' chamber when someone
scratched softly at the door.
Captain Tildus entered with a grizzled man named
Urvay, Mardus' chief spy in Rhiminee for the
past three years. The man was invaluable, both for his
skill and his discretion. Tonight he was dressed as a
gentleman merchant and looked distinguished in velvet
and silver.
Urvay saluted him gravely. "I'm glad
to see you safe, my lord. It's nasty sailing this time
of year."
Mardus dismissed Tildus, then waved the spy to a
nearby chair. "What have you to report, my friend?"
"Bad news and good, my lord. Lady Kassarie
is dead."
"That Leran woman?" asked Ashnazai.
"Yes. The Queen's spies attacked her
keep about a week ago.
She died in the battle. Vicegerent Barien
committed suicide over the matter and there are
rumors that the Princess Royal was implicated
somehow, though the Queen's taken no action against her.
The rest of the faction has gone to ground or fled."
"A pity. They might have proved useful. But what
about our business?"
"That's the good news, my lord. I have new people in
place with several influential nobles."
"Which ones?"
"Lord General Zymanis, for one-word is. he's
about to be commissioned with overseeing the lower city
fortifications. And one of my men just got himself
betrothed to Lady Kora's second daughter and
has the run of the villa. But of particular interest,
my lord-was Urvay paused, leaning forward a little.
"I'm in the process of establishing a contact
inside the Oreska House."
Mardus raised an eyebrow. "Excellent! But
how? We haven't been able to get a spy in there for
years."
"Not a spy, my lord, but a turncoat. His name is
Pelion i Eirsin. He's an actor, and
highly thought of at the moment."
"What's he got to do with the Oreska?" demanded
Vargul Ashnazai.
"He's got a lover there," Urvay explained
quickly, "a young sorceress said to be the mistress of
one or two of the older wizards as well. Her
name's Ylinestra, and she's got a bit of a
reputation around the city; a fiery little catamount with
an eye for handsome young men and powerful old ones. This
man Pelion is evidently part of her
collection. Through him we may be able to get to her and
perhaps others. She's not a member of the Oreska
herself, but she lives mere and has rooms of her
own."
"I hardly think we need the services of some slut
to get into the place," the necromancer scoffed.
"Maybe not," Urvay interrupted, "but this slut
numbers the wizard Nysander among her lovers."
"Nysander i Azusthra?" Mardus nodded
approvingly. "Urvay, you've outdone yourself! But
what have you told mis actor of yours?"
"To him, I am Master Gorodin, a great admirer
of his work. I also understand how important
patronage is to a young actor on the rise, and to a
certain playwright who's willing to create roles
especially for him. In return, my new
friend Pelion passes on whatever bit of gossip
he picks up around town. He likes the deal,

and knows better than to ask too many questions. As long
as the gold flows, he's ours."
"Well done, Urvay. Spare no expense with
him. We must infiltrate the Oreska before spring.
You understand? It is imperative."
"I do, my lord. Shall I make arrangements for you in
Rhiminee?"
"No. Nothing's to be arranged in advance. I'll
contact you when I need you. For now, keep an eye
on Pelion and his sorceress."
Urvay rose and bowed. "I will, my lord.
Farewell."
When he was gone Mardus returned to his
interrupted meal, but Vargul Ashnazai found his
appetite had fled.
The Oreska,
he thought bitterly, fingering the ivory vial that hung
from a chain around his thin neck. That's where
they'd
gone, the thieves who'd stolen the Eye from under his very
nose.
Mardus had nearly killed him that night in
Wolde. Worse yet, he'd threatened to banish
him from their quest. If Mardus had entrusted
him
with the disks in the first place, of course, it would never
have happened, but that was a point not worth arguing. Not
if he cared to live longer than his next word.
His standing with Mardus had eroded steadily ever since.
Even with the power of the Eye itself to aid him, he'd been
unable to exercise sufficient power over the
fugitives to stop them. The Aurenfaie had proven
infuriatingly resistant to his magicks and when
he'd finally succumbed to the
dra "gorgos
attack at the inn, the boy, that wretched
boy,
had outmaneuvered them, spiriting his partner away before
Mardus and his men could reach the place.
Still holding the vial between his fingers, Vargul
Ashnazai pictured the precious blood-soaked
slivers of wood inside, slivers he'd gouged from
the floor of the Mycenian inn where his
dra "com gorgos
had overtaken them.
The talisman he'd made with their blood was a
powerful guide, so powerful that he'd almost
caught them at Keston. But then they'd slipped on
ahead by sea and another's power was growing around them,
occluding his own. He'd recognized the resonance
of the magic at once. Oreska magic.
And so Mardus and his men had tracked them by methods
thoroughly mundane, while he, a necromancer of the
Sanctum, rode along like so much useless baggage.
Mardus had been sanguine. They already knew where the
thieves were headed, result once again of Mardus'
cold-blooded methods rather than his own. One of the
river sailors captured after the destruction of the
Darter-
this, at least, was Vargul's work-had screamed out with his
last breath what they'd needed to know.
To be sitting here now, no more than two days ride
from the stronghold of his enemies, was maddening.
So close!
he thought, closing his fist around the vial.
Mardus saw, and guessed his thoughts. "Why not scry
for them again?"
Vargul Ashnazai shifted uncomfortably. "It's
been the same for weeks now."
Mardus glanced over at him, much the way any man
might look at another who's said something mildly
surprising. But Mardus was not just any man.
As his gaze met Ashnazai's, the necromancer
felt a stab of fear. It was not madness he saw in
his companion's eyes-never that-but something worse, an
obdurate purposefulness steeped with the shadow of their
god. Mardus might not have magic, but he had power.
He was touched, chosen.
Held in that remorseless gaze, Ashnazai felt
the blood slow in his veins. Clasping the vial more
tightly, he placed his other hand over his eyes and
summoned the image of the thieves.
For a moment he felt the reassuring pulse of his own
considerable power. The inner blackness flowed through him
to the vial and beyond, using the essence of the blood to seek
its source. Ever since the thieves had reached
Rhiminee, however, a veil had dropped over them.
Someone had placed a protective spell over
them, and the resistance to his magic was fierce and
decisive.
This time was no different. The moment he focused his
concentration on their location, he was blinded by a searing
vision of fire and huge, leathery wings. The
message was clear enough:
These people are under the protection of the Oreska. You cannot
touch them.
Gasping, Ashnazai let go of the vial and
pressed both hands to his face.
"No change?"
Ashnazai could tell without looking up that the bastard
was smiling.""
"Then Urvay's actor is truly a blessing
placed in our path. If

these two are still under the protection of the Oreska
wizards, where better to seek them?"
"I hope you're right, my lord. When I find them,
I'll crush their beating hearts in my hands!"
"Vengeance is a dangerous emotion."
Looking up, Vargul Ashnazai saw a familiar
blankness pass across his companion's face, the touch
of the god.
"You should be grateful to them for leading us to the completion
of our quest," Mardus continued softly, staring into the
depths of his cup. "This actor and his sorceress are
the seal on that. Patience is the key now. Be
patient. Our moment will come."
Sleet-laden winds lashed in off the winter sea,
racketing through the dark streets of Rhiminee like a
huge, angry child. Loose shingles and roof tiles
tore free and clattered down into streets and
gardens. Bare trees swayed and clashed their
branches like dead bones in the night. In the harbor
below the citadel, vessels were tossed from their
moorings to founder against the moles. In upper and lower
city alike, even the brothel keepers put up their
shutters early.
Two cloak-wrapped figures slipped from a
shadowed courtyard in Blue Fish Street and
hurried east to Sheaf Street.
"I can't believe we're out in this to deliver a
damn love token," Alec groused, shaking his
wet, fair hair from his eyes.
"We've got the Rhiminee Cat's reputation
to maintain," Seregil said, shivering beside the boy. The
slender Aurenfaie envied Alec his northern-bred
tolerance for the cold. "Lord Phyrien paid for the thing
to be on the girl's pillow tonight. I've been
wanting a peek into her father's dispatch box anyway.
Word is he's maneuvering for the Vicegerent's
post."
Seregil grinned to himself. For years, the mysterious
thief known only as the Rhiminee Cat had
assisted the city's upper class in their
endless intrigues; all it took to summon him was
gold and a discreet note left in the right hands.
None had ever guessed that this faceless spy was
virtually one of their own, or that the arrangement was as
much to his benefit as theirs.
The wind buffeted at them from all sides as they
pressed on toward the Noble Quarter. Reaching the
fountain colonnade at the head of Golden Helm
Street, Seregil ducked inside for a moment's
shelter.
"Are you sure you're up to this? How's your back?"
he asked as he stooped to drink from the spring at the
center of the colonnade.
Less than two weeks had passed since Alec
had pulled Princess KJ-IA from the fiery room
below the traitor Kassarie's keep. Valerius"
malodorous drysian salves had worked their healing
magic, but as they'd dressed tonight he'd noticed that
the skin across the boy's shoulders was still tender-looking
in places. Not that Alec would admit it and risk
being sent back, of course.
"I'm fine," Alec insisted as expected. "It's
your teeth I hear chattering, not mine." Shaking out his
sodden cloak, he tossed one long end over his
shoulder. "Come on. We'll be warmer if we keep
moving."
Seregil looked with sudden longing toward the entrance
to the Street of Lights across the way.
"We'd be a hell of a lot warmer in there!"
It had been months since he'd visited any of the
elegant pleasure houses. The thought of so many
warm, perfumed beds and warm, perfumed bodies
made him feel even colder.
Invisible in the shadows, Alec made no reply,
but Seregil heard him shifting uncomfortably. The
boy's solitary upbringing had left him
uncommonly backward in certain matters, even
for a Dalnan. Such reticence was unfathomable
to Seregil, though out of respect for their friendship he
did his best not to tease the boy.
The fashionable avenues of the Noble Quarter were
deserted, the great houses and villas dark behind their
high garden walls. Ornate street lanterns
creaked unlit on their hooks, extinguished by the
storm.
The house in Three Maidens Street was a large,
sprawling villa surrounded by a high courtyard
wall. Alec kept an eye out for bluecoat
patrols while Seregil tossed the grapple up
and secured the rope. The roar of the storm covered
any noise as they scrambled up and over. Leaving the
rope in a clump of bushes, Seregil led the way
through the gardens.
lyim Flewelling
After a brief search, Alec found a small
shuttered window set high in a wall at the back
of the house. Climbing onto a water butt, he
pried back the shutter with a knife and peered inside.
"Smells like a storeroom," he whispered.
"Go on then. I'm right behind you."
Alec went in feet first and disappeared soundlessly
inside.
Climbing up, Seregil sniffed the earthy scents of
potatoes and apples. Squeezing through, he lowered
himself in onto what felt like sacks of onions.
He reached out, finding Alec's shoulder in the
darkness, and together they felt their way to a door.
Seregil eased the latch up and peeked out into the
cavernous kitchen beyond.
The coals in the hearth gave off enough of a glow to make
out two servants asleep on pallets there.
Deep snores sounded from the shadows of a nearby
corner. To the right was an open archway. Tapping
Alec on the arm, Seregil headed for it on
tiptoe.
The arch let onto a servant's passage.
Climbing a narrow staircase, they crept down a
succession of hallways in search of Lord
Decian's private study. Not finding it, they
moved up to the next floor and chanced shielded
lightstones.
By this dim light they saw that these nobles left their
shoes outside their bedroom door for a servant
to collect and clean. Seregil nudged Alec and
flipped him the sign for "lucky." The lord of the
house had only one daughter; it was a simple
matter to find the footgear appropriate for a
maiden of fifteen.
A pair of dainty boots stood before a door at
the far end of the corridor. A stout pair of shoes
next to them warned that the young woman did not sleep
alone.
Seregil stifled a grin. Alec was in for more than
he'd bargained for, in more ways than one.
Alec lightly fingered the latch, found the door
unbarred. The delivery was his task tonight, more training
in the ways of the Cat. This sort of job, though
hardly as significant as their recent work for
Nysander, required a high level of finesse and he
was anxious to prove himself.
Sliding his lightstone back into his tool roll,
Alec took a deep breath and lifted the latch.
A night lamp burned on a stand beside the
bed. The hangings were open and inside he could see a
young girl with heavy braids

asleep on the side nearest the door, her face
turned to the light. Beside her, a larger form, her mother
or nurse perhaps, stirred restlessly beneath the thick
comforter.
Creeping to the side of the bed, he took out the token,
a tiny scroll pushed through a man's golden ring.
Left to his own devices, he'd simply have put
it on the lamp stand and been done with it, but Lord
Phyrien had been very exact in his instructions. The
ring must be left on his sweetheart's pillow.
Bending over the girl, Alec placed the ring as
specified. Too late he heard Seregil's
sharp intake of breath. The heavy ring immediately rolled
down the curve of the pillow and struck the girl on the
cheek just beside her mouth.
Startled brown eyes flashed wide. Fortunately
for Alec, she saw the ring before she could cry out. Her
look of fear changed instantly to one of mute joy
as she mistook his muffled form for that of her lover.
"Oh, Phyrien, you
are
bold!" she breathed, stealing a quick look at
the sleeping woman beside her. Grasping Alec's
hand, she drew it gently but insistently under the
bedclothes.
Alec blushed furiously in the depths of his hood.
Like most Skalans, she slept nude. He
didn't dare resist, however. Any kind of
struggle would not only seem suspicious, but
probably shake the bed enough to awaken its other
occupant.
"You're so cold!" she said with a hushed giggle,
pulling his hand still lower. "Kiss me, my brave
lover. I'll warm you."
Holding his hood in place with his free hand, Alec
pressed his lips hastily to hers, then motioned
warningly at the other woman. Pouting prettily, the
girl released him and tucked the token away beneath her
pillow.
With his heart hammering in his ears, Alec extinguished
the lamp and hurried back out into the corridor.
"Seregil, I-was he began in a whisper, but his
companion cut the apology short, grabbing him by the
arm and hustling him off the way they'd come.
Damn, damn, damn!
Alec berated himself.
A simple little delivery job and I cock
it up.
Braced every moment for an outcry, they hurried down
to the kitchen and weaseled back out the storeroom
window. Outside, Seregil was still implacably
silent. Climbing over the wall, he set off at
a run. Alec followed, grimly convinced he was in
disgrace.
Three streets from the villa, Seregil suddenly
stopped and
Lyim Rewelling
hauled him into an alleyway, then bent over, hands
on knees, as if to catch his breath.
Braced for a scathing lecture, it took Alec a
moment to realize that Seregil was laughing.
"Bilairy's Balls, Alec!" he burst out.
"I'd give a hundred sesters to have seen the look
on your face when that ring rolled away. And when she
tried to pull you into bed-was He sagged against the aley
wall, shaking with laughter.
"But it was so stupid," Alec groaned. "I should have
seen it would slide off."
Seregil wiped his eyes, grinning. "Maybe so, but
these things happen. I don't know how many times
I've pulled a blunder like that. It's the recovery that
counts and you did just fine. "Learn and
live," I always say."
Relieved, Alec fell into step beside him as they
headed for home. Before they'd gone another block,
however, Seregil let out another snort of
laughter. Leaning heavily on Alec's shoulder,
he moaned in a lilting falsetto, "Kiss me,
my brave lover. I'll warm you up!" then staggered
away, cackling into the wind.
Perhaps, Alec thought in exasperation, he hadn't
heard the last of the matter after all.
Back at Cockerel Inn, they nicked a late
snack from Thryis' pantry and crept up the hidden
staircase on the second floor. Warding glyphs
glowed briefly as Seregil whispered the passwords.
At the top of the stairs, they crossed the chilly
attic storeroom to their own door.
The cluttered sitting room was still warm from the evening
fire. Tossing his wet cloak over the mermaid
statue by the door, Alec shucked off soaked
clothing as he crossed to his bed in the corner by the
hearth.
Seregil watched with a faint smile. The boy's
considerable and, to his way of thinking, unnatural
degree of modesty had lessened somewhat over the
months of their acquaintance, but Alec still
turned away as he stripped off his leather breeches
and pulled on a long shirt. At sixteen he was very
like Seregil in build: slim, lean, and
fair-skinned. Seregil quickly busied himself sorting
a pile of correspondence on the table as the boy
turned around again.
"We don't have anything in particular planned for
tomorrow,
discaret caret sti
Stalking Darkness

do we?" Alec asked, taking a bite from one of the
meat pies they'd purloined.
"Nothing pressing," said Seregil, yawning hugely
as he went to his chamber door. "And I don't
intend to be up before noon. Good night."
With the aid of a lightstone, he navigated past the
stacks of books and boxes and other oddments to the
broad, velvet-hung bed that dominated the back
of the tiny room. Peeling off his wet garments, he
slipped between the immaculate sheets with a groan of
contentment. Ruetha appeared from some cluttered corner
and leapt up with a throaty trill, demanding to be let
under the covers.
It had been a busy year overall, he
thought, stroking the cat absently. Especially the
past few months. Just realizing how long it had been
since he'd visited the Street of Lights
underscored the general disruption of his life.
Oh well. Winter's here. There'll always be work enough
to keep us occupied, but plenty of leisure too for the
pleasures of the town. All in all, I'd say we
"we earned a bit of a respite.
Imagining quiet, snowy months stretching out before
them, Seregil drifted contentedly off to sleep-
comonly to lurch up sometime soon after from a nightmare
of plummeting into darkness, Alec's terrified cry
ringing in his ears as they fell down, down, past the
walls of Kassarie's keep into the gorge below.
Opening his eyes with a gasp, Seregil was at once
relieved and annoyed to find himself slumped naked in
one of Nysander's sitting-room armchairs.
There was no need to ask how he'd gotten there; the
green nausea of a translocation spell cramped his
belly. Pushing his long, dark hair back from his
face, he scowled wretchedly up at the wizard.
"Forgive me for bringing you here so abruptly, dear
boy," said Ny sander, handing him a robe and a steaming
mug of tea.
"I assume there's a good reason for this,"
Seregil muttered, knowing very well that there must be for
Nysander to subject him to magic so soon after the
shape-changing incident.
"But of course. I tried to bring you earlier, but you
two were busy burgling someone." Pouring himself a mug
of tea, Nysander settled into his usual chair on
the other side of the hearth. "I just looked in for a
moment. were you successful?"
"More or less." Nysander appeared in no hurry
to elucidate, but
Lynn Flewelling
it was obvious he'd been working on something. His short
grey beard was smudged with ink near his mouth, and he
wore one of the threadbare old robes he favored for
his frequent all-night work sessions. Surrounded
by the room's magnificent collection of books and
oddities, he looked like some down-at-the-heels
scholar who'd wandered in by mistake.
"Alec is looking better, I noticed,"
Nysander remarked.
"He's healing. It's his hair I'm concerned about.
I've got to get him presentable in time for the
Festival of Sakor."
"Be thankful he came away no worse off then
he did. From what Klia and Micum told
me, he's lucky to be alive at all. Ah, and
before I forget, I have something for the two of you from Klia
and the Queen." He handed Seregil two velvet
pouches. "A public acknowledgment is impossible,
of course, but they wished to express their gratitude
nonetheless. That green one there is yours."
Seregil had received such rewards before. Expecting
another trinket or bit of jewelry, he opened the
little bag. What he found inside reduced him
to stunned silence.
It was a ring, a very familiar ring. The great, smooth
ruby glowed like wine in its heavy setting of
Aurenfaie silver when he held it closer to the
fire.
"Illior's Light, Nysander, this is one of the rings
I took from Corruth i Glamien's corpse,"
he gasped, finding his voice at last.
Nysander leaned forward and clasped his hand. "He was
your kinsman and Idrilain's, Seregil. She thought
it a fitting reward for solving the mystery of his
disappearance. She hopes you shall wear it with honor
among your own people one day."
"Give her my thanks." Seregil tucked it
reverently away in its bag. "But you didn't
magick me out of bed just for this?"
Nysander sat back with a chuckle. "No. I have a
task which may be of interest to you. However, there are
conditions to be set forth before I explain. Agree
to abide by them or I shall send you back now with all
memory of this meeting expunged."
Seregil blinked in surprise. "It must be some
job. Why didn't you bring Alec?"
"I shall come to that presently. I can say nothing
until you agree to the conditions."
"Fine. I agree. What are they?"
"First, you may ask no question unbidden."
"Why not?"
"Starting now."

"Oh, all right. What else?"
"Second, you must work in absolute secrecy.
No one is to know of this, particularly not Alec or
Micum. Will you give me your oath on it?"
Seregil regarded him in silence for a moment; keeping
secrets from Alec was no easy business these days.
Still, how could something so shrouded in mystery fail to be
interesting?
"All right. You have my word."
"Your oath," Nysander insisted somberly.
Shaking his head, Seregil held out his left
hand, palm up, before him.
"Asurit betweenuth dos Aura Elustri kamar
sosui Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil
Bokthersa.
And by my honor as a Watcher, I swear also. Is
that sufficient?"
"You know I would never impose such conditions on you
without good reason," the wizard chided.
"Still, it seems to be happening quite a lot these days,"
Seregil retorted sourly. 'Wow can I ask
questions?"
"I will answer what I can."
"Why is it so crucial for Alec and Micum not
to know?"
"Because if you let slip the slightest detail of
what I am about to tell you, I shall have to kill all of
you."
Though spoken calmly, Nysander's words jolted him
like a kick in the throat; he'd known the wizard too
long to mistake his absolute sincerity. For an
instant, Seregil felt as if he were looking into the
face of a stranger. Then suddenly, everything fell
into place as neatly as a three-tumbler lock. He
sat forward, slopping hot tea over his knees in his
excitement.
"It's to do with this, isn't it?" he exclaimed,
tapping his chest. There, beneath Nysander's obscuring
magic, lay the branded imprint of the wooden disk
he'd stolen from Duke Mardus at Wolde-the
same strange, deceptively crude disk that had
nearly taken his life. "You went white the night
I told you about showing a drawing of it to the
Illioran Oracle. I thought you were going to fall
over."
"Perhaps now you understand my distress," Nysander
replied grimly.
They'd never spoken of that conversation, but the dread
Seregil had felt then returned now in full
force. "Bilairy's
Ballsl
You'd have done it, too."
Nysander sighed heavily. "I would never have forgiven
myself, I assure you, but I would also have been
furious with you for
Lynn Flewelling
forcing me into such an act. Do you recall what I
said to you then?"
"To pray I never found out what that disk really
is?"
"Precisely. And to undertake this task, you
must continue to accept that as my answer on the
subject."
Seregil slouched glumly in his chair. "Same
old answer, eh? And what if I say no to all
this? That if you don't tell me the whole story I
want no part of it?"
Nysander shrugged. "Then as I said before, I shall
remove all memory of this conversation from your mind and
send you home. There are certainly others who could
aid me."
"Like There, I suppose?" Seregil snapped before
he could stop himself.
"Oh, for-was
"Does
he
know the Great Secret?" The old jealousy gripped
Seregil's heart. The last thing he wanted to hear
was that the young assistant wizard knew more of this than
he did.
"He knows less than you," Nysander replied,
exasperated. "Now do you want the task or not?"
Seregil let out a frustrated growl. "All right,
then. What's this all about?"
Nysander pulled a sheet of vellum from his sleeve
and handed it to him. "To begin with, tell me what
you make of this."
"Looks like a page from a book." The vellum was
darkened with age or weather. Seregil rubbed a
corner of it between his fingers and sniffed it, then examined
the writing itself. "It's old, four or five
centuries at least. Poorly kept at first, though
later carefully preserved. And the vellum is
human or Aurenfaie skin, rather than kid." He
paused again, examining the stitching holes on the left
edge. "These are still intact, showing that it was carefully
removed from a book, rather than torn. It was already
damaged by dampness, though. Judging by the color
I'd say the page was steeped in poison after that, but
that's obviously been neutralized or we wouldn't
be handling it."
"Quite so."
Oblivious now to everything but the task at hand,
Seregil tugged absently at a strand of hair.
"Let's see. The writing is Asuit Old
Style and it's written in that language, which
originated with the hill people north of Pleni- mar. From
that we can infer that our author was either from that region or
a scholar of languages."

"As you are, dear boy. I assume you can
read it?"
"Hmm-yes. Looks like the ravings of a mad
prophet. Very poetic, though. 'Watch with me,
beloved, as demons strip the fruit from the vine."
Then something about horses-and "The golden flame is
married with darkness. The Beautiful One steps forth
to caress the bones of the house ..." No, that's not
right. It's "the bones of the world.""
Moving to the table, he pulled a lamp closer.
"Yes. I thought it was just a few errors with the accent
marks, but it isn't. There's a cipher here."
Nysander passed him a wax writing tablet and a
stylus. "Care to try it?"
Scanning back through the document, Seregil found
sixteen words with misplaced accents. Listing only
the wrongly accented letters, he came up with
twenty-nine.
Frowning, he tapped the stylus against his chin, "This
is a bitch of a thing."
"More difficult than you know," said Nysander. "It
took my master Arkoniel and myself over a year
to discover the key. Mind you, we were working on other
things at the time."
Seregil tossed aside the stylus with a groan.
"You mean to tell me you've broken this
already?"
"Oh, yes. That is not the task, you see. But I
knew that you would prefer to work with the original and draw
your own conclusions."
"So how does it work?"
Joining him at the table, Nysander turned the wax
tablet over and began to write rapidly. "To begin
with, the accented letters come out to nonsense, a fact it
took a discouragingly long time to discover. The key
is a combination of syllabification and case. As you
know, Old Asuit is an inflected language with
five cases. However, only three-the
nominative, dative, and genitive-are used for the
cipher. For instance, look at the words making up the
phrase'of the world." his
Seregil nodded thoughtfully, muttering to himself,
"Yes, it was that misplaced accent that threw me. It
should be over the second vowel of the last syllable, not
the first."
"Correct. As 'world" is in the genitive case
and the misplaced accent appears in the
antepenultimate syllable, you use the last letter of
that word. If it occurs in the same case but on the
second, or penultimate, syllable, then you use
the first."
lynn Rewelling
Seregil looked up and grinned. "I didn't know
you were such an accomplished grammarian."
Nysander allowed himself a pleased wink. "One learns
a thing or two over the centuries. It is truly
an exquisite system, and one fairly secure from
inadvertent detection. In the nominative case,
an erroneous accent over the antepenult indicates
that you take the last letter of the word immediately following the
one wrongly accented, and so forth. In the dative
case only the accents over the penult have any
significance. The upshot of it all is that you come out
with just fifteen letters. Properly arranged-keep your
eyes on the writing now-properly arranged they
spell out
"argucth chthon hrig."
his
"Sounds like you're getting ready to spit-was Seregil
began, but the words died in his throat as the writing on
the page swirled into motion. After a few seconds
it disappeared entirely, leaving in its place a
circular design resembling an eight-pointed star
that covered most of the page.
"A magical palimpsest!" he gasped.
"Precisely. But look more closely."
Tilting the vellum closer to the lamp, Seregil
let out a low whistle; the entire design was made
up of the finest calligraphic writing. "Our mad
prophet must have written this with a hummingbird's
quill."
"Can you read it?"
"I don't know. It's so cramped. The script
is Konic, used by the court scribes in the time of the
early Hierophants, but the language is
different, as if the writer wanted to approximate
the sounds of one language with the alphabet of
another. Yes, that's exactly what he was doing, the
clever old bastard. So, attacking it
phonetically-was
Muttering under his breath, Seregil slowly worked his
way through the tangled writing. Half an hour later
he looked up with a triumphant grin. "Pure
Dravnian! Nysander, it's got to be
Dravnian."
"Dravnian?"
"The Dravnians are a tribal people scattered through
the glacial valleys of the Ashek Range, north
of Aurenen. I haven't been up there since I was
a boy, but I've studied the language. Great
ones for sagas and legends, those
Dravnians. They have no writing themselves, but this
captures the sound of it. This fellow was certainly a
student of obscure tongues. Once you untangle
all this

mess, it's just the same few words written over and
over again to form the design. Written in blood,
too, by the way and probably his own if he was
loony enough to create something like this."
"Perhaps," Nysander broke in. "But can you make out
what it says?"
Seregil glanced up at him, then let out a crow of
triumph. "Ah ha! So that's what this is all
about.
You
can't read it!"
Nysander affected a pained look. "I would remind
you of the oaths you have given-was
Seregil held up a hand, grinning smugly. "I
know, I know. But after all your restrictions and
secrecy, I think I've earned the right to gloat a
little. All it says is, "Stone within ice within stone
within ice. Horns of crystal beneath horns of
stone." Or vice versa. There's no way of
telling which is meant to be the first line. Why
he would go to such extremes to hide anything as
obscure as this is beyond me, though."
"Not at all, not at all!" Nysander clapped
Seregil on the shoulder, then began pacing
excitedly. "The palimpsest begins in Asuit
Old Style, an archaic language of Plenimar,
which predates the Hierophantic settlements. The
seemingly meaningless hidden phrase
"argucth chthon hrig"
operates as the key word to the hidden writing. This, in
turn, is composed in the alphabet of the
Hierophantic court, based at that period on the
island of Kouros, yet in the language of an
obscure tribe of the southern mountains across the
Osiat Sea near Aurenen. I had reason
to suspect as much but you, dear boy, have provided the
final clues. What an amazing document!"
Seregil, meanwhile, had been doing some further
pondering of his own. "The Dravnian tribes keep
to the highest valleys of the Ashek Range, building
their villages along the edges of the ice fields.
"Stone within ice within stone within ice." And the horns
of stone part reminds me of a story the mountain
traders used to tell, something about a place up there
where demons dance across the snow to drink the
blood of the living. It was called the Horned
Valley."
Nysander halted in front of Seregil, grinning
broadly. "You have a mind like a magpie's nest,
dear boy! I never know what odd bit of treasure
will tumble from it next."
"If the Homed Valley really exists, then all
this"-Seregil tapped the stained vellum-"it's not just
some convoluted riddle. It's a map."
lynn Rewelling
"And perhaps not the only one," said Nysander. "According
to recent intelligence from Plenimar, several
expeditionary forces have been dispatched west toward the
Strait of Bal. We could not imagine what they were
up to, but the Ashek peninsula lies in that
direction."
"At this time of year?" Seregil shook his head.
Crossing the Bal meant making for the southern rim of the
Osiat Sea, a place of dangerous shoals and
forbidding coastlines in the best of weather. In the winter
it would be worse than treacherous. "So whatever this
"stone within ice" thing-is, the Plenimarans want
it pretty badly. And I take it you don't mean
for them to get it?"
"I hope that you will assist me in forestalling
that event."
"Well, it would certainly help to know what I'm
looking for. If it wouldn't mean revealing too many
sacred mysteries, that is."
"It is rumored to be a crown or circlet of some
sort," Nysander told him. "More importantly,
it possesses powers similar to those of the coin, which you
have already experienced."
Seregil grimaced at the memory. "Then I'll
be certain not to wear it this time. But if your information is
correct, haven't the Plenimarans stolen a march
on us?"
"Perhaps not. The fact that they sent several expeditions
suggests that they do not know the object's precise
location. We, on the other hand, may have just determined
that. And I am able to transport you there in a much
swifter fashion."
Seregil blanched. "Oh, no! You can't-A
translocation from here to the Asheks? Nysander, I'll
be puking for hours."
"I am sorry, but this matter is too important
to chance anything else. Which brings us to the matter of
Alec. Will he be difficult about being left behind?"
Seregil raked a hand through his hair. "I'll
manage something. When do I leave?"
"By midday if you can manage it."
"I think so. What will I need, besides the obvious?"
"How would you fancy playing an Aurenfaie
wizard?"
Seregil gave him a wry look. "Sounds fun,
so long as we aren's relying on my magical
abilities."
"Oh my, no," Nysander said with a laugh. "I shall
provide you with items necessary to give credence to the
role, and those for the task itself." He paused and
clasped the younger man by the shoulders. "I knew you
would not fail me, Seregil."

Seregil raised an eyebrow wryly at the
wizard. "Bet now you're glad you didn't kill
me, eh? What's the hour?"
"Nearly sunup, I should think. Regrettably,
I must send you back the same way you came."
"Twice in one night? Just be sure you drop me
handy to a basin!"
Alec woke to the sound of sleet lashing across the
roof. Ruetha had burrowed under the covers sometime in
the night. He stroked the thick white ruff under her
chin and the cat broke into a loud purr.
"What are you doing here?" he asked
sleepily.
Sitting up, he saw Seregil's battered old
pack sitting ready outside the bedroom door.
Seregil's sword belt was draped over it, the
newly mended quillon shining in the milky morning
light.
Alec eyed the tidy pile with rising suspicion;
Seregil had obviously been up for some time, making
preparations for a journey. And he hadn't bothered
to wake him.
"Seregil?" Poking his head around his friend's door,
Alec found the normally cluttered little room
utterly impassable.
"Morning!" Seregil called cheerily from somewhere beyond
an overturned chest.
"What's going on? Have you been up all night?"
"Not all night." Seregil waded free of the mess
with an armload of heavy sheepskin clothing and dumped
it by the pack. "I found this," he said, handing Alec
a dusty sack con

taining half a dozen complex locks. Some were still
attached to splintered fragments of wood.
"Thought you might like to have a go at these, since you've
mastered most of the others on the workbench. Be
careful, though. Some of them bite."
Alec set the bag aside without comment and leaned against
the door frame. Seregil was dressed for traveling
and still hadn't told him to start packing.
"What's going on?" he asked, watching as
Seregil wrestled a pair of long snowshoes out of a
wardrobe. "Where are you going to find snow in this
weather?"
"Give me a minute, will you?" said Seregil,
checking the rawhide webbing. "I've got a few more
things to find, then I'll explain what I can."
Alec let out a sigh and went to the window over the
workbench. The panes rattled as a fresh gust of
wind buffeted the inn. Outside he could see
Thryis' son Diomis hurrying across the back
court. Curtains of icy rain rippled past,
obscuring all but the closest buildings. Behind him,
he could hear Seregil still rummaging about.
Fighting down his rising impatience, he pulled on
a pair of breeches and set about lighting the fire.
The coals had died in the night. He heaped tinder
and kindling on the ashes and shook out a firechip from the
jar by the hearth. Flames leapt up and he stared
into them, trying to marshal his racing thoughts.
"You know, from the back your head looks like a
disheveled hedgehog," Seregil remarked, emerging
at last. Ruffling Alec's ragged hair, he
dropped into his favorite chair by the fire.
Alec was not amused. "You're going off alone,
aren't you?"
"Just for a few days."
There was a guardedness in Seregil's tone that Alec
didn't like. "On a job, you mean?"
"I can't say, actually."
Alec studied his friend's face. On closer
inspection, he noticed that Seregil looked rather
pale. "Is this because of last night? You said-was
"No, of course not. This is something I can't speak
of to anyone."
"Why not?" the boy demanded, stubborn curiosity
mingling with disappointment.
Lynn Flewelltag
Seregil spread his hands apologetically. "It's
nothing to do with you, believe me. And don't bother
pressing."
"This is something for Nysander, isn't it?"
Seregil regarded him impassively. "I need
your word you won't track me when I go."
Alec considered further objections, then nodded
glumly. "When will you be back?"
"In a few days, I hope. You'll have to do that
papers job for Baron Orante, and anything else
coming in that looks like a one- man job. There's
Mourning Night to think about, too, if I'm not
back in time."
"Not back in time?" Alec sputtered. "That's
only a week away, and you're holding a party at
Wheel Street that night!"
"We
are holding a party," Seregil corrected.
"Don't worry. Runcer sees to all the
arrangements, and Micum and his family will be here
by then, too. You'll just have to play host. Remember
Lady Kylith, the woman you danced with our first
night there?"
"We're sitting with her at the Mourning Night
ceremony."
"Right. She'll see to your etiquette."
"People are bound to ask about you, though."
"As far as anyone knows, Lord Seregil is still
away recovering from the shock of his arrest. Tell
anyone who asks that I was delayed. Cheer up,
Alec. Chances are I'll be back in plenty of
time."
"This secret job of yours-is it
dangerous?"
Seregil shrugged. "What do we do that isn't? The
truth is, I won't know much myself until I'm in
the middle of it."
"When are you leaving?"
"As soon as I've had something to eat. Get
dressed now and we'll have our breakfast
downstairs."
Alec smelled freshly baked bread as they
crossed the lading room to the kitchen.
The breakfast uproar was over. A scullery boy was
scrubbing down the scarred worktables while Cilia
bathed Luthas in a pan. Old Thryis sat
peeling turnips by the hearth, a shawl draped over
her shoulders against the damp.
"Well, there you are at last," the old woman
greeted them, though she seldom saw Seregil before
noon. "There's tea on the

hob and new current buns under that cloth there.
Cilia made them fresh this morning."
"And how's this lad today?" Seregil smiled, holding
a forefinger out to the baby. Luthas immediately grabbed it
and pulled it into his mouth.
"Oh, he's feisty," replied Cilia,
looking rather dark under the eyes. "He's got a tooth
coming and it wakes us all night."
Alec shook his head. One minute Seregil was
speaking of mysterious journeys, the next here he was
playing uncle to the baby like he hadn't a care in the
world.
Not that his affection for Luthas wasn't genuine.
He'd told Alec how Cilia had offered him the
honor of fathering her child when she'd made up her mind
to avoid conscription. Seregil had politely
declined. While his interest in women seemed
marginal at best, Alec suspected the real
reason for SeregiFs reticence was that it would have cost
him his friendship with her grandmother. Thryis had been a
sergeant in the Queen's Archers in her youth and
despaired that neither her son nor granddaughter had
followed a military career before settling down.
Cilia had never revealed who the child's father was, but
the man must have been dark. She was fair, while her
son's eyes and hair were as brown as a mink's.
Going to the hearth, Alec leaned down next
to Thryis and reached for the teapot warming by the fire.
"You're looking down in the mouth today," Thryis
observed shrewdly. "Going off without you, is he?"
"He told you?"
The old woman gave a derisive snort "He
didn't have to," she scoffed, deftly quartering a
turnip and pitching it into a kettle beside her. "There
he is in his old rambling boots, chipper as a
sparrow. And you here with the long face and still in your
shirtsleeves? Don't take no wizard
to figure that one."
Alec shrugged. Thryis had run the Cockerel
since Seregil secretly bought it twenty years
before. She-togelher with her family and Rhiri, the
mute ostler-was among the select few who knew
anything of SeregiFs double life.
"Now, don't go fretting yourself over it," she
whispered. "Master Seregil thinks the world of you, and
no mistake. There's none he speaks so well of
"cept Micum Cavish, and those two have been friends
for years and years. Besides, it'll give you and me a
chance to talk shooting again, eh? There's still a trick
or two
Lynn Flewelling
I haven't shared and that fine black bow of yours
shouldn't be gathering dust."
"I guess not." Alec gave her a quick peck on
the cheek and went to sit across from Seregil at the
breakfast table.
Studying his friend's face as Seregil joked with
Cilia over breakfast, Alec felt certain he
saw small lines of tension around his eyes. Whatever
this secret job was, there was more to it than he was
letting on.
There was no use asking further about it, though.
Upstairs in their room again, Seregil finished with his
scant collection of gear and clapped a battered
hat on his head.
"Well, take care of yourself," he said,
"especially on that job for the baron. I don't
want to find you in the Red Tower when I return."
"You won't. Want help getting all that down?"
"No need." Shouldering his pack, Seregil
clasped hands with him. "Luck in the shadows,
Alec."
Andwiththe flash of a crooked grin, he was gone.
Alec listened to his footsteps fading rapidly
away. "And to you."
Seregil paused in the kitchen on his way out.
Pulling up a stool beside Thryis, he slipped her
a flat, sealed packet.
"I'm leaving this with you. I've got to go off for a few
days. If I don't come back, this should take care
of Alec and the rest of you."
Frowning, Thryis fingered the wax seals. "A will,
is it? No wonder young Alec was looking so dark."
"He doesn't know, and I'd like to keep it that
way."
"You've never left a will before."
"It's just in case I meet with an accident or
something." Shouldering his pack, he headed for the door.
"Or something!" The old woman's mouth pursed into a
skeptical line. "Mind that a 'something" don't
jump up and bite you on the arse when you're not
looking."
"I'll do my best to avoid it."
Outside, the sleet had turned to rain. Pulling the
hood of his patched cloak up over his hat, he
dashed across the slick cobbles to the stable where Rhiri
had his new mare saddled and ready. Tossing the
fellow a gold half sester, Seregil swung up
into the saddle and set off at a gallop for the
Oreska House.
It was midafternoon before Nysander completed his preparations
for the translocation. "Are you ready, Seregil?" he
asked at last, looking up from the elaborate
pattern chalked on the casting-room floor.
"As ready as I'm likely to be," Seregil said,
sweating in his heavy sheepskins. He carried
his pack, snowshoes, and pole to the center of the
design and piled them on the floor.
"These should establish your reputation as a wizard."
Nysander held up a half-dozen short willow
rods covered with painted symbols. "When broken,
each will produce a different gift for your hosts.
But you must be certain to keep this long one with the red band
separate from the rest. It contains the translocation
spell that will carry you back."
Seregil tucked the red wand carefully away in a
belt pouch, then slipped the others inside the white
Aurenfaie tunic he wore beneath his heavy coat.
"These are the most crucial items, however," the
wizard continued, stepping to a nearby table. On it
sat a wooden box two feet square and fitted
with a leather shoulder strap and a strong catch. It was
lined with sheets of silver engraved with magical
symbols and contained two flasks wrapped in
fleece.
Lynn Flewellfag
H
Seregil frowned. "What if this crown or whatever
it is that I'm after is too big to fit inside?"
"Do the best you can and return to me at once."
Seregil lifted the flasks. They were
heavy, and the wax seals covering the corks were also
inscribed with more symbols. "And these?"
"Pour the contents around the crown and inscribe the
signs of the Four within the circle. It should weaken
any wards protecting it."
A nasty twinge of uncertainty shot through
SeregiFs innards. "Should?"
Nysander wrapped the flasks carefully in the
fleece and shut them in the box. "You survived the
magic of the disk with no assistance. This should be
sufficient."
"Ah, I see." Seregil glanced doubtfully at
his old friend. "You believe the same inner flaw that
kept me from becoming a wizard protects me from
magic as well."
"It seems to be the case. I only wish it did
not cause you such distress with translocations.
Considering the distance involved in-was
"Let's just get it over with." Seregil gathered his
gear in his arms as best he could. "The Asheks are
far enough west that I should have a few hours of light
left, but I'd rather not press my luck."
"Very well. I have done a sighting and should be able
to send you to within a few miles of a village. It will
be safest to drop you on the glacier itself, rather
than risk hitting the rocky outcroppings along the
edge."
"That's
very comforting. Thanks so much!"
Ignoring the sarcasm, Nysander placed his fingertips
together in front of his face and began the incantation.
After a moment a particle of darkness winked into being within
the cage of his fingers. Spreading his hands slowly, he
coaxed it larger until it spun like a dark mirror
in front of them.
Seregil stared into it for a moment, already queasy.
Tightening his grip on his snowshoes, he took a
resolute breath, closed his eyes, and stepped
forward.
The whirling blast of vertigo was worse than he'd
feared. For most people, a translocation was as simple
as stepping from one room to another. To Seregil,
however, it was like being sucked down in some vile black
whirlpool.
i:
Stalking Darkness

It seemed to go on endlessly this time, buffeting him with
darkness. Then, just as suddenly, he tumbled out
into frigid brightness and sank up to his hips
in drifted snow.
Stuck fast, he bent forward and spewed out his scant
breakfast. When the spasms were over, he struggled
free and crawled away from the steaming mess.
Collapsing on his back, one arm over his eyes,
he lay very still as the world spun sickeningly. The wind
sighed over him, blowing fine ice crystals across his
lips. Rolling onto his belly, he retched again,
then cleaned his mouth with a handful of snow.
At least Nysander can aim,
he thought, looking around.
The glacier hung in a steep valley. At its
head a few miles away a pair of high peaks
towered above the rest, marking a narrow pass and giving
the valley the name Seregil had remembered.
Slanting sunlight reflected back from the white
expanse before him, bright enough to make his eyes water.
Frozen waves, wind scoured out of the hardpack,
thrust glistening up through the fresh powder to cast shadows
as blue as the sky overhead.
Seregil's heavy outer garments kept the worst of the
biting cold at bay, but his nose and cheekbones were
already numb. His breath condensed with every exhalation,
freezing in a glistening rime on the fur edging of his
cap. Untangling the snowshoes, he checked
them for damage and quickly strapped them to his boots.
His thick gloves were cumbersome, but it would be courting
frostbite to remove them even briefly.
With firmer footing on the snow now, he set out for a
nearby rise to get his bearings. Anyone
backtracking his trail would discover that he had more or
less fallen from the sky, but that couldn't be helped;
he was, after all, supposed to be a wizard.
From the top of the rise he spotted thin columns of
smoke marking a village a few miles away on
the western slope. Farther down the valley he could
just make out a second village. The first was closer
to the "horns of stone," so he headed west.
He was still nauseated and the thin, frigid air cut at
his lungs, making dark spots dance in front of his
eyes. Setting himself a steady pace, he marched
along until he struck a trail leading toward the
village. He was within half a mile of it when a
pack of children and dogs appeared, running out to meet
him.
Seregil paused, leaning on his snow pole with a grin
of relief. Dravnian hospitality was legendary
among those few who knew of it. Members of a
neighboring village were greeted as family,
lynn Flewelling
which they often were. Anyone from beyond the limiting peaks
was regarded as a veritable marvel. Goats were
probably already being slaughtered in his honor.
"May I visit your village?" he asked in
Dravnian as the children crowded excitedly around him.
Laughing, they shouldered his baggage and led him in.
Dogs barked, goats and sheep bleated from their stone
enclosures. Villagers hailed him like some
returning hero.
The little settlement was made up of a collection of
squat towers, round two-story affairs of piled
stone topped with conical felt roofs. The main
doors were set high in the upper level and reached by a
ramp when the snow was not piled up to the doorsill.
At the center of the village stood a tower broader
than the rest. A sizable crowd had already collected
outside, hoping for a look at the newcomer.
The Dravnians were a short, broad-set people with
black, almond-shaped eyes and coarse, dark
hair that they wore slicked back with liberal
applications of oil. A few among mem, however,
had lighter hair or finer features that spoke of
mixed blood- probably Aurenfaie, since few
others found their way to these remote valleys.
The headman of the village was one of these
half castes. As he stepped forward, smiling
broadly, Seregil saw that the man's eyes were the
same clear grey as his own.
"Welcome in this place, Fair One," the fellow
greeted him in a patois of broken Aurenfaie and
Dravnian. "I am Retak, son of Wigris
and Akra, leader of this village."
"I am Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi,"
Seregil answered in Dravnian.
Grinning, Retak lapsed back into his native
tongue. "We've not seen one of your tribe since
my grandfather's time. You honor our village with your
presence. Will you feast with us in the council house?"
"You honor me," Seregil replied, bowing as
gracefully as his thick clothing allowed.
The upper level of the council house, used as a
communal storehouse, was floored over except for the
large central smoke hole. Rough stone steps led
down to the lower chamber, where a huge fire of dried
dung chips had already been kindled in a fire pit
surrounded by thick carpets and bolsters. Women
bustled

excitedly around a cooking fire across the room,
preparing the ritual meal.
Seated at the central fire with Retak and the other
principal men of the village, Seregil closed his
eyes for a moment as his belly did a slow, uneasy
roll. The smell of slaughtered animals, mingled
with the more immediate aromas of unwashed bodies and greased
hair, was overpowering after the clear mountain wind.
Every available inch seemed to have been filled by curious
villagers. People talked excitedly on all
sides, leaning across their neighbors to shout to someone
else or calling down from above for details. Children
ringed the smoke hole overhead, chattering like
swallows. The women labored with noisy cheer,
wielding cleavers and clattering skewers and bowls.
Seregil felt all eyes on him as he stripped
off his heavy outer garments. Posing as a traveler from
his native Aurenen, Seregil had worn
traditional garb. His long white tunic and
close-fitting trousers were comfortable and unadorned
except for thin bands of patterned weaving at the hem
and neck. To complete the effect, he pulled a
loosely woven head cloth from inside his tunic and
wrapped its many folds about his head with practiced
skill, leaving long ends hanging down his back. A
small, ornate dagger hung at his belt, but he
laid it and his sword aside as a gesture
of good faith.
An excited hum went around the room as he
reclined at last and accepted a bowl of
llaki
from Seune, the headman's wife. He sipped the
fermented milk as sparingly as good manners allowed.
His duty as guest was to repay hospitality with
news and he slowly related such events from the south
as might be of interest to them. Most of it was thirty
years out-of-date, mixed in with snippets
he'd'picked up since his banishment, but it was all
fresh to the Dravnians and very well received.
When he'd finished, the traditional storytelling
commenced. Great lovers of tales that they were, the
Dravnians had no system of writing. Each
family had its own special stock of stories that
only members of that clan could relate. Other
tales were general property and were demanded of those who
told them best. The children frequently chimed in with
familiar lines and the women were called upon for the proper
songs.
Seregil joined in with tales of his own and was quickly
hailed as a
biruk,
"one who remembers many stories"-highest
praise in
Lynn Flewelling
such company. By the time a gigantic platter of
roasted goat was set before them, he'd begun to enjoy
himself.
Roasted shanks, haunches, and ribs lay arranged
on the communal platter in a great ring surrounding
cooked entrails, sweetbreads, and boiled
goat's heads. When the guest and council had eaten
their fill, the platter would pass on to the secondary
guests, and after them the children and dogs. Seregil was
served by Seune and her eldest daughters.
The two girls knelt on his right, holding out
slabs of dark bread that their mother loaded with choice
bits-of meat. Nodding polite acceptance,
Seregil picked up a chunk of meat and bit into it,
signaling his hosts to begin.
The tough, savory meat settled the last of his
queasiness and when the meal was over he made a great
show of presenting gifts to Retak and his village.
Motioning for the others to clear a space in front of
him, Seregil secretly palmed one of Nysander's
painted wands from his sleeve and snapped it between his
fingers while making elaborate motions with his other
hand. Several bushels of fruit appeared
instantly out of thin air before his delighted audience.
The baskets passed from hand to hand and up to the crowd
overhead as the people exclaimed over their good fortune.
Smiling, Seregil drew another wand, which produced
a casket of silver coins. The Dravnians had
no use for currency, but were pleased by the glint of the
metal and the fineness of the designs. Subsequent
conjurings brought bolts of bright silk and linen,
bronze needles, coils of rope, and bundles of
healing herbs.
"You are a Fair One of great magic and
generosity, Meringil, son of Solun and
Nycanthi, and a true
biruk,"
Retak proclaimed, clapping Seregil on the
shoulder. "You shall be known as a member of my clan from
this day. What can we offer you in return?"
"It is I who am honored by your excellent
hospitality. My gifts are given in thanks for
that alone," Seregil replied graciously. "Though
there is a matter in which you may be able to assist me."
Retak motioned for the others to pay attention. "What
has brought you so far to our valley?"
"I've come seeking a place of magic spoken of
in certain legends. Do you know of such a
place?"
The reaction was instantaneous. The elders exchanged
hesitant looks. A woman dropped a spit
with a clatter. Overhead the chil-

dren left off exclaiming over their new treasures
and leaned farther over the hole to listen.
Retak motioned with his staff and an ancient little man
wearing a coat decorated with sheep's teeth shuffled
forward. In the firelight he looked like an ancient
tortoise, with a tortoise's leathery, slow-blinking
gaze. Kneeling slowly before Seregil, he held
up a bone rattle in one tremulous hand and shook
it in a wide circle before speaking.
"I am Timan, son of Rogher and Borune,"
he said at last. "And I tell you that there is such a
place in this valley. It has been the duty of my
clan to watch over it since the time of the spirit's anger.
It is a spirit home, deep in the rock beneath the ice.
How it came there no man knows. Sometimes the door
is there and sometimes it is not there, according to the will of the spirit."
"And this spirit has grown angry?" asked Seregil.
Timan nodded, shaking the rattle softly in time
to his words. It was more of a chant than a story, as
if he'd told it many times before, and in
exactly the same words.
"The spirit made a chamber for men to dream in. Some
had visions. Some did not. Some heard the voice of the
spirit. Some did not. All was with the will of the spirit. When the
spirit chose to speak, those who heard were called blessed,
bringers of great luck to their clan. But many generations
ago the spirit grew angry. Men came out maddened.
They did deeds of terrible evil. Others never
returned and no trace of them could be found. A man
of my clan was the first to go mad, and so it has been the
burden of my clan to guard the spirit home since that
time."
He stopped, wrinkled mouth moving in silence, as if
he'd run out of sound.
"Why do you seek this place?" Retak asked.
Seregil stared into the fire for a moment, quickly weaving
this new information into a usable form. "I'd heard
legends of this place and was curious to see if they were
true. You know that the Aurenfaie are people of great
magic. I have shown you my powers already. If you will
show me this sacred place, I will speak with your spirit and
find out why it's so angry. Perhaps I can even make
peace between you again."
A murmur of approbation went around the cramped
room.
Old Timan laid his rattle at Seregil's
feet. "This would be a great feat indeed. Many times
I have tried to placate the spirit, but
lyim Flewelltag
it has been silent to me, or driven me out with
terrible noises in my head. Truly, can you do such
a thing?"
"I'll try," Seregil replied. "Bring me to the
spirit chamber at first light tomorrow and I'll speak to your
spirit."
The murmur changed to a roar of acclaim.
"The guest sleeps in my house this night,"
Retak announced proudly, ending the feast. "The
mountain nights are harsh for your kind, Meringil, but
I have many healthy daughters to keep you warm,"
Overhead the children shouted with delight as the older
girls craned for a better look at Seregil.
Seregil blinked, "What?"
"To get a round belly from a guest gives a young
woman highest status," Retak explained
happily. "New blood brings new strength to the
whole village. My own grandfather was a light- eyed
Aurenfaie, as you can see. But not a great
magician like you! Tomorrow Ekrid's clan will offer you
hospitality, and then Ilgrid's and-was
"Ah, of course." Seregil looked around to find
mothers reckoning on their fingers their place in the
hierarchy. Clearly, there were a few Dravnian
guesting customs he'd forgotten about.
Ah, Nysander,
he groaned inwardly, scanning the gaggle of
moonfaced maidens, reading clearly enough the greedy
gleam behind their modest smiles.
This had damn well better be the right valley!
Alec lowered himself from the villa window, then whirled
in alarm as a menacing snarl erupted on his right.
There'd been no sign of a dog when he'd first
climbed into the baron's courtyard, but there was sure as
hell one here now.
What he could see of it in the darkness was big, and the
rising timbre of the growl was enough for him to imagine the
beast closing in on him, ears laid back, teeth
bared.
It was too far to the courtyard wall for a dash.
Racking his memory for the thiefs charm Seregil had
shown him, he raised his left fist with index and little
fingers extended. Snapping his hand to point the little finger
down, he whispered hoarsely, "Peace, friend hound."
The growling ceased at once. A cold nose thrust
briefly against his palm, then he heard the
dog padding away.

It had never occurred to Alec to ask how long the
charm lasted. Taking no chances, he ran for the wall.
The top was studded with shards of glass and crockery
set in mortar; in his haste he reached carelessly and
caught his left hand on one of the jagged points,
gashing the palm just above the wrist. Pain bloomed through
his hand as a warm trickle oozed down into his
sleeve. Hissing softly through his teeth, he slid
down the far side and headed for home.
His route took him by Wheel Street and he halted
a moment at the corner, holding his torn hand to his
chest. It would only take a moment to duck in there,
and he knew where Seregil kept bandages and
salve-
The growing throb in his hand decided him.
Letting himself in the front door, he took out a
lightstone and whistled softly to the dogs, making himself
known. A huge white shape materialized at
once. Marag padded out of the dining room, wagging a
greeting as he sniffed Alec's hand. His mate would
be on patrol in the back court. Accompanied by the
hound, Alec walked through the main hall to the kitchen.
The supplies he wanted were on the shelf
by the door. Carrying the rags and salve pot to the
table, he set his lightstone by them and examined the
gash. It was jagged and sore, but no major veins
or tendons seemed to be damaged.
"This must be my unlucky hand," he muttered, rubbing
his thumb over the shiny circular scar left by the
cursed disk they'd stolen from Mardus. They'd both
been branded by it-Seregil on his chest where it had
hung, Alec on the palm of the hand as he'd
grasped it during their strange struggle at the inn.
He bandaged the cut as best he could one-handed, then
sat back and stroked Marag's silky head. The
thought of his own bedchamber upstairs was tempting. He
was cold and tired and suddenly Blue Fish Street
felt very far away. But there was always the complication of
appearances; Sir Alec and Lord Seregil were not
expected to arrive for several more days and it wouldn't do
to have untoward signs of occupation just yet. With a
resigned shrug, he cleared away the evidence of his
visit and set out through the dark, cold streets.
Within a block of Wheel Street he suddenly
sensed pursuit. Stealth was difficult on the icy
streets and whoever it was shadowing him was making a poor
job of concealing their movements. When Alec slowed,
they came on. When he increased his pace,
so did they. It was too dark to see, but he could hear
more than one
Lynn Flewelling
set of feet. One of them had metal nails on the
soles of his boots; in the silence of the street,
Alec could hear them scraping against the cobbles.
There was no question of returning to the house. Even if
he could get back past his pursuers, he couldn't
risk leading them there.
Ahead of him, a street lantern burned at the
intersection of Wheel and Golden Helm. A right
rum would bring him to the Astellus Circle and the
Street of the Sheaf. There was a chance of meeting with a
Watch patrol there, but he couldn't be sure of it.
A left turn would take him toward Silvermoon
Street and the Palace.
At the corner he deliberately walked through the
pool of light and swung sharply to the right. Once
beyond it, he doubled quickly back toward Silvermoon.
His pursuers caught the trick, however, and charged
after him, their boots clattering on the paving stones.
There was nothing left to do but run. Abandoning any
attempt at stealth, Alec pelted down the center
of the broad boulevard, cloak flapping behind him.
High garden walls presented an unbroken
barrier on either side, blocking any hope of a quick
sidestep. The pounding of his feet and those closing in
on him echoed like the clatter of dice in a cup.
Tearing his cloak strings loose, Alec let it
fall away behind him. A muffled curse rang out
an instant later, and the sound of a man falling
heavily.
Dashing past another lantern, he glanced back
to see two swordsmen no more than twenty yards
behind.
He veered into Silvermoon Street and saw the
wall surrounding the palace grounds looming on his
right. As he'd hoped, a watch fire burned in
front of one of the postern gates. He dashed toward
it, lungs bursting.
A cluster of soldiers of the Queen's household
guard were huddled around the brazier. At the sound of
Alec's approach, four came forward with swords
drawn.
"Help!" gasped Alec, praying they didn't
attack as he barreled into their midst.
"Footpads-chasing me-back there!"
Two men grasped him by the arms, half restraining,
half supporting him as he skidded to a halt.
"Steady, lad, steady there," said one.
"I don't see anyone," growled another,
squinting in the direction Alec had come from.

Looking back, Alec saw no sign of his
mysterious pursuers.
The first guard ran a skeptical eye over his fine
coat and sword. "Footpads, eh? More likely
an angry father or husband at this hour. Been up
to mischief, have you?"
"No, I swear," Alec panted. "I was coming
home late from- from the Street of Lights." The
others grinned knowingly at this.
"Just the place to get your purse lightened, one way
or another, eh?" the sergeant said with a chuckle.
"Well, it's late for the nighthawks to be out, but
they might just lurk around for you. Do you live close
by?"
"No, across the city."
"Then you're welcome to tuck up here with us round the
fire "till first light."
Alec gratefully accepted a spare cloak and a
pull from a water skin, then settled down with his
back to the wall, the warmth of the brazier warming his
face and chest. All in all, he thought as he
drifted off to sleep, it wasn't the worst
end to an evening's work.
ira caret (sgai
m caret zandcaret so
Retak's daughters
bid Seregil
a
fond farewell
as
he and their father left to meet Timan at the council
house early the next day. To Seregil's dismay, a
crowd had already assembled and many had snowshoes and
poles ready.
Timan presented a young man to him. "I am too
old now to make the journey, but my grandson,
Turik, knows the place. He can guide you. These
others will carry your belongings and gift offerings for the
spirit."
Seregil groaned inwardly. The last thing he
wanted was an audience, but he was too close to his
objective to risk offending the village. Amid
much cheering and singing, they set off for the head of the
valley.
The Dravnian youths marched along easily,
talking and joking as they broke trail. Seregil
toiled doggedly in their wake, struggling with the
thin air and a poor night's rest. One of
Retak's sons fell in beside him, grinning.
"You had good hospitality last night, eh? My
sisters were happy this morning."
"Oh, yes," wheezed Seregil. "I was kept very
warm, thank you."
They reached the base of the pass just after midday.
Turik called a halt while an older man named
Shradin went ahead to scout the snow.
Jjr dis**
Stalking Darkness

Turik pointed up the pass. "The spirit home is
there, but it's difficult going from here-fissures beneath
the snow and avalanches. Shradin can read the snow
better than anyone in the village."
Squatting on their snowshoes, the others watched as the
guide explored the pass.
"Well, what do you think?" asked Seregil when
Shradin returned.
The Dravnian shrugged. "It's only a little
dangerous today. Still, it would be better if just a few
go on from here. Turik knows the way and I know the
snow. The rest of them better go home."
After some disgruntled grumbling, the others
headed back to the village.
Shradin took the lead as they began their cautious
ascent. Seregil and Turik following in single
file. Seregil watched in silent admiration as the
man probed ahead with his pole, leading them safely
around deep fissures concealed just beneath the
deceptively unbroken snow. Glad as he was of
this, however, Seregil couldn't help glancing
nervously up at the tons of snow and ice clinging
precariously to the mountainsides above.
As they neared the top of the pass, Turik took the
lead.
"We are almost there," he said at last, pausing for
Seregil to catch his breath.
Struggling up a last, steep face, Turik
halted again and began casting around where the lip of the
glacier met the rock face. After frequent
sightings up at the peaks and much prodding with his pole,
the young Dravnian raised his hand and waved for the others
Hung with icicles and half drifted over with snow,
the opening of the passage resembled a fanged and
sullen mouth. Digging with hands and snowshoes, they
soon cleared the opening and peered down the steep
black tunnel that descended into the ice.
Seregil felt a strange tingling in his hands
and up his back as ht leaned over it; strong magic
lay below.
"The first part of the way is slick," Turik warned,
pulling a sack of ashes from his bag. "We'll need
to scatter these as we go, or it's nearly impossible
to climb back out again."
"I have to go alone from here," Seregil told him.
"My magic is strong, but I can't be distracted
worrying about the two of you. Wail for me here. If
I'm not back by the time the sun touches that peak, come
down for me, but not before. If your spirit kills me,
give all my things to Retak and say he is
to divide them as he sees fit."
Lynn Flewelling
Turik's eyes widened a bit at this, but neither he
nor Shradin argued.
Seregil took off his bulky hat and tied his long
hair back with a thong. Taking the small lightwand from
his tool roll, he grasped the handle in his teeth and
shouldered an ash bag and the cumbersome box.
"Aura's luck be with you," Shradin said
solemnly, using the Aurenfaie name for Illior.
Let's hope it is,
Seregil thought nervously as he began his descent.
The steep tunnel was narrow and slick as
glass in places. Scattering ash in front of
him, he crawled down, dragging the box behind. By the
time the ice gave way to a more level stone
passage, he was smeared black from head to foot.
The magic permeating the place grew stronger as he
went down. The uncanny tingle he'd first noticed
increased swiftly. There was a low buzzing in his ears
and he could feel an ache growing behind his eyes.
"Aura Elustri malrei, his
he whispered, speaking the invocation to Illior aloud
to test the effect. The silence absorbed his words without
an echo and the tingling in his limbs continued unabated.
The tunnel ended at a tiny natural chamber
scarcely larger than the passage itself. The shards
of a broken bowl lay against the far wall.
The ceaseless noise in his ears made concentration
difficult as Seregil began a careful search of the
place. It wasn't a steady tone, but rose and
fell erratically. At times he seemed to catch a
faint hint of voices beneath the rest, but put it down
to imagination.
Satisfied at last that no other passages were
concealed by any method he could detect, he tucked
his chilled hands into his coat and hunkered down
to review the few facts he possessed.
"Horns of crystal beneath horns of stone. Stone within
ice within stone within ice," the palimpsest had said.
Seregil looked around, frowning.
Well, I'm certainly beneath horns of stone. And
to get here I've gone through the ice first, and then stone.
That left stone within ice still to go, but where? Though
obscure in method, the palimpsest had been quite
specific in giving the necessary directions. If there was
some secret way beyond this point, then logic suggested
that the final clues leading to it were also concealed in that
same document.

Massaging his throbbing temples, he closed his
eyes and recalled the details of the palimpsest's
various inscriptions. Could he and Nysander have missed
something in the rambling prophecies? Or perhaps
Nysander had been wrong in his assertion that only one
side of the document concealed a palimpsest.
Now there was an uncomfortable thought.
He was startled from his reverie by a blast of cold
air. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying in the
snow outside the tunnel entrance with Turik and
Shradin kneeling over him with obvious concern. Over
Shradin's shoulder he saw that the sun was already low
behind the designated peak.
"What happened?" Seregil gasped, sitting up.
"We waited as long as we could," Turik
apologized. "The time came and went for you
to return. When we went down, we found you in a spirit
dream."
"There's a storm coming," added Shradin, frowning up
at the clouds. "They come on fast this time of year.
We need to get back to the village while there's still
light enough to go down safely. There's no shelter here,
and nothing for a fire."
Seregil looked around in sudden alarm. "My
sword! And the box-Where are they?"
"Here, beside you. We brought them out, too," Turik
assured him. "But tell us, did you speak to the spirit?
Do you know the reason for its anger?"
Still chagrined at having fallen so easily under the
spell of the place, Seregil nodded slowly, buying
time as he collected his thoughts.
"It's not your spirit who is angry, but another, an
evil one," he told them. "This evil one keeps
the other prisoner. It's a very strong spirit. I must
rest and prepare myself to banish it."
Shradin looked up at the sky again. "You'll have
time, I think."
Taking up their packs and poles, the
Dravnian guides led Seregil back to the
village for another night of exhausting
hospitality.
As Shradin had predicted, a savage blizzard
roared in through the teeth of the mountains during the night.
People fought their way through the howling wind to drive their
livestock up the ramps into their towers, then sealed
their doors and settled down to wait out the storm.
It raged steadily for two days. One house lost
its felt roof,
Lynn Flewelling
forcing the inhabitants to flee to a neighboring tower.
At another, a woman gave birth to twins.
Otherwise, the time was given over to eating,
storytelling, and general husbandry. The
Dravnians were philosophical about such conditions;
what was the use of complaining about something that happened every
winter? The blizzards were even beneficial. They
piled snow around the house and helped keep the
drafts out.
One family in particular regarded this storm as a
stroke of luck, for it kept the Aurenfaie guest
in their house for two nights.
Seregil was less complaisant about the-situation.
Ekrid had nine children, six of them
daughters. One girl was too young, another in the
midst of her menses, but that still left four to contend withand
he didn't much like the competitive gleam in their
eyes as they welcomed him.
To further complicate matters, the lower level had
been given over to Ekrid's herd of goats and
sheep, and their bleating and odor lent little to the general
atmosphere. For two days, Seregil had to choose
between evading the amorous advances of the girls or
trying to walk three feet without treading in shit. His
success was limited on both counts and his concentration
on the problem at hand suffered.
Stretched out with two of Ekrid's daughters still
twined around him the second night, Seregil stared
up at the rafters and decided he'd had enough of women
to last him for some time. Shifting restlessly in their
musky embrace, he caught a hint of answering
movement across the way where Ekrid's sons slept.
One of them
had
made long eyes at him the evening before- He gave
the possibility a moment's consideration, but resolved
dourly that there was little to be gained in that direction. The
young man smelled as strongly of goat tallow and
old hides as his sisters, and lacked a
front tooth besides.
Lying back, he allowed himself a moment's longing for
his own clean bed and a freshly bathed companion to share
it. To his surprise, the anonymous figure
swiftly transformed into Alec.
Father, brother, friend, and lover,
the Oracle of Illior had told him that night in
Rhiminee.
He supposed that, after a fashion, he had been father
and brother to Alec, having more or less adopted him
after their escape from Asengai's dungeon.
Seregil smiled wryly to himself in the darkness; it'd
been the least he could do, considering that Alec

was one of dozens of innocents captured and tortured
by Asengai's men during their hunt for Seregil
himself.
In the months since then they'd certainly become
friends, and perhaps something more than friends.
But lovers?
Seregil had kept this possibility resolutely
at bay, telling himself the boy was too young, too
Dalnan, and, above all, too valued a companion
to risk losing over something as inconsequential as
sex.
And yet, lying exhausted among Ekrid's
daughters, he suffered a guilty pang of arousal
as he thought of Alec's slender body, his dark
blue eyes and ready smile, the rough silken
texture of his hair.
Haven't you had enough hopeless infatuations in your
life?
he scowled to himself. Rolling onto his belly, he
turned his thoughts to the palimpsest, running through its
cryptic phrases once again.
Horns of crystal beneath horns of stone. Stone within
ice within stone within ice.
Damn, but there seemed little enough to be wrung out of it
at this point. Slowly he repeated the phrase in
its original Dravnian, then translated it
into Konic, Skalan, and Aurenfaie, just for good
measure.
Nothing.
Start again,
he thought.
You 're overlooking something. Think!
After this came the directions to the chamber. Before it were
the prophetic ramblings: first the dancing animals,
then the bones, and the strange words of the unscrambled
cipher that unlocked the secret-
"Illior 's Eyes!"
One of the girls stirred in her sleep, running a
hand down his back. He forced himself to lie still, heart
pounding excitedly.
The phrase! The phrase itself.
Those alien, throat-scraping words. If they were the
key to the palimpsest, then why not to the magic of the
chamber itself?
Assuming he was correct, however, this raised other
considerations. If the words were simply a password
spell, then he could probably use them without
danger to himself or anyone else. But if they worked a
deeper magic, what then?
He could go back to Nysander now with what he already
knew. Still, the Plenimarans might be beating a
trail up the valley at this very moment and Nysander
would be too drained from the first
Lynn Flewelling
translocation spell to send him or anyone else
back immediately. Unless, of course, he enlisted the
aid of someone more magically reliable rather than risk
mishap-Magyana perhaps, or Thero.
To hell with that! I haven't come this far for someone
else to see the mystery's end. First light tomorrow I'm
going up that pass again, avalanches be
damned.
As he drifted happily off to sleep, he
realized that the wind had dropped at last.
Someone pounded on Ekrid's door just before dawn,
waking the household.
"Come to the council house!" a voice shouted from
outside. "Something terrible has happened. Come
now!"
Extricating himself from a soft tangle of arms and
thighs, Seregil threw on his clothes and ran for the
council house with the others.
Faint, predawn light painted the snow blue, the
towers black against it. Snowshoeing through the icy
powder, Seregil found the village almost
unrecognizable. The storm had buried the towers up
to their doorsills, leaving the exposed upper story
looking like an ordinary cottage drifted up with
snow.
Shouldering his way through the crowd at the council
house, he hurried downstairs to the meeting chamber.
The central fire had been lit and beside it crouched a
woman he hadn't seen before. Surrounded by a
silent, wide-eyed crowd, she clutched a small
bundle against her breast, wailing hoarsely.
Retak's wife knelt beside her and gently
folded back the blanket. Inside lay a dead
infant. The stranger clutched the baby fiercely,
her hands mottled with frostbite.
"What happened?" Seregil asked, slipping in beside
Retak.
He shook his head sadly. "I don't know. She
staggered into the village a little while ago and no one
has been able to get any sense out of her."
"That is Vara, my husband's cousin from Torgud's
village," a woman cried, pushing her way through the
crowd. "Vara, Vara! What's happened to you?"
The woman looked up, then threw herself into her
kinswoman's arms. "Strangers!" she cried.
"They came out of the storm. They refused the feast,
killed the headman and his family. Others, many
others, my husband, my children-equals My children!"

Throwing back her head, she let out a scream of
anguish. People gasped and muttered, looking
to Retak.
"But why?" Retak asked gently, bending over her.
"Who were they? What did they want?"
Vara covered her eyes and cowered lower. Seregil
knelt and placed a hand on her trembling shoulder.
"Were they looking for the spirit home?"
The woman nodded mutely.
"But they refused the feast," he went on softly,
feeling a coldness growing in the pit of his stomach.
"They affronted the village, and you would not deal with
them."
"Yes," Vara whispered.
"And when the killing started, then did you tell them?"
Tears welled in Vara's eyes, rolling swiftly
down her cheeks. "Partis told them, after they
killed his wife," she sobbed weakly. "He told
them of Timan and his clan. He thought the killing would
stop. But it didn't. They laughed, some of them, as
they killed us. I could see their teeth through their
beards. They laughed, they laughed-was
Still clutching her dead child, she slumped over in a
faint and several women carried her to a pallet by the
wall.
"Who could do such things?" Retak asked in
bewilderment.
"Plenimaran marines," Seregil growled, and every
eye turned to him. "These men are enemies, both
to me and to you. They seek the evil that lurks in your
spirit home. When they find it, they'll worship it and
sacrifice living people to it."
"What can we do?" a woman cried out.
"They'll come here," a man yelled angrily.
"Partis as good as set them upon us!"
"Do you have any weapons?" Seregil asked over the
rising din.
"Nothing but wolf spears and skinning knives. How
can we fight such men with those?"
"You're a magician!" shouted Ekrid. "Can't you
kill them with your magic?"
Caught in a circle of expectant faces,
Seregil drew a deep breath. "You've all seen
the nature of my magic. I have no spells for
killing men."
He let disappointment ripple through the crowd for an
instant, then added, "But I may have something just as
effective."
"What is that?" the man demanded skeptically.
Seregil smiled slightly. "A plan."
Lynn Flewelling
Retak called a halt at the base of the pass as
the first lip of sun showed over the eastern peaks.
Shradin went ahead to assess the danger. The
others-every man, woman, and child of Retak's
village comwaited quietly for word to move on.
Mothers whispered again to their younger children why they must keep
silent in the pass. The infants had been
given
llaki
to make them sleep.
Seregil climbed an outcropping and shaded his eyes
as he looked back across the snowfield. Blue
shadow still lay-deep in the valley, but he could make
out a dark column of men closing in on the
village. It wouldn't take long for them to see that
their prey had fled, or what direction they'd gone.
"There they are," he whispered to Retak. "We have
to move on quickly!"
Hardly daring to breathe, they continued up the pass.
It was a fearsome journey. The villagers moved as
swiftly as they could, some bowed under loads of fuel
and food, others carrying children on their backs or aged
relatives on litters. Only the muffled creak
of snowshoes and pack straps broke the silence.
Old Timan trudged painfully along near the
rear, supported by Turik and his brothers.
Mercifully, Vara had died and she and her child were
hidden now in the drifts beyond the goat enclosures.
But her death was not in vain; she'd given Retak's
village time to prepare.
Shimmering veils of snow blew across the pass,
dislodging small falls down the slopes.
These gave out harmlessly in fine bits of crust,
rolling down to leave mouse trails across their path.
Ominous cracks and groans echoed between the cliffs
overhead, but Shradin gave no warning sign and
Retak silently motioned his people on.
Trudging along in their midst, Seregil was deeply
moved by the mix of fear, trust, and determination that
drove these people forward. They'd welcomed him-a
stranger-given him the best of all they had. When
Retak claimed him as a member of his clan, it was
meant literally, hi the eyes of the Dravnians he
was now a blood member of the community for as long as
he wished to claim kinship.
The Plenimaran marines pursuing them had been offered
the same welcome.
Looking back as they neared the cave, he saw that the
enemy had reached the village and was now turning toward
the pass.

You bastards!
he thought bitterly.
You 'd carve these P

caret
caret
like sheep for whatever lies hidden at the end of that
tunn
His
were'
wor
caret you slaughtered Vara "s village. But you
were sloppy in you my friends, and that makes all the
difference!
tioned
Up ahead Retak conferred briefly with Shradin,
then mdg
uu
for a halt. Seregil climbed up to join them.
(greater-than
m caret adm
"Do those men know how to read the snow? whispered..
her
an)
j
"Let's hope not. Retak, tell the others
to move a bit Wgn
cl
watch for your signal. Are the young men in place?",
his
,,
"They're ready. But what if this plan of yours
doesn t we .
"Then we'll need another plan." Feeling much
less a than he sounded, Seregil went to take his
own position.
h
The villagers nervously watched the Plenimarans
a
P
p
his
ints
The sun was higher now, and glinted back from spear p
less-than Just caret and helmets below. What first
appeared only as a long,
dar
toilmg
ment against the snow soon resolved into individual
men toward them.
greater-than
re

f
Whatever the Plenimarans think they're after here, they
caret taking any chances,
Seregil thought, counting over a n caret men. He
glanced briefly up the slope, trying to make
caret caret mouth of the spirit chamber tunnel and
wondering aga could be worth all this..
out
jjjg
The Plenimarans were close enough for Seregil to make
caret insignia on their breastplates before Shradin
finally
wa
caret
e
"j
s
and
Retak. The headman raised his staff overhead with
both "caret by caret let out a bloodcurdling
yell. Every villager joined in,
be
His
oment
and screaming at the top of their lungs. At the same
n Seregil, Shradin, and the young men of the village
shovea less-than * piles of loosened rock and
ice chunks, sending them ca down the steep
slope.
For an instant nothing happened.
tons
Then the first rumblings sounded along the western caret
just
c
caret
imaran
of snow and ice sloughed off, plunging down on the
P"
e
column.
the
so
j.
Seregil could see the pale ovals of upturned
faces
aSo
This
neat
diers realized too late the trap they'd been
drawn into. *
ing
column wavered and broke. Men foundered in the snow,
"r caret
m
e aside their arms as they sought some direction of
escape it implacable wave bearing down on them.jj
caret go
The avalanche overtook them in seconds,
carrying
m
Lynn Flewelltng
dead leaves in a flood, blotting them from sight.
A great cheer went up from the Dravnians and the sound
brought down a second deafening avalanche from the east
wall. It crashed down the valley to lap over the
first with a roar of finality that echoed for minutes between the
stark, sun-gilded peaks.
Shradin pounded Seregil joyfully on the back.
"Didn't I say it would fall just so?" he shouted.
"No one could have survived that!"
Seregil took a last wondering look down at the
massive slide, then waved for Turik. "It's
time I completed rny work. This evil must be removed
from your valley so no others will come seeking it."
Amazingly, the tunnel opening was still clear, though
drifts were piled thickly around the spot. With the
women singing victory songs behind him, Seregil
once again made his way down the slick,
cramped passage. The noises in his head and the
tingling in his skin were as bad as before, but this time he
ignored them, knowing what he had to do.
"Here we are again," he whispered, reaching the chamber.
Refusing to consider the various ramifications of being
wrong about the nature of the magic, he hugged the box
against his side and said loudly,
"Argucth chthon hrig. his
An eerie silence fell over the chamber. Then he
heard a soft tinkling sound that reminded him of embers
cooling on a hearth. Tiny flashes like miniature
lightning flickered across the rock face at the far
end of the chamber.
Seregil took a step back, then dove for the mouth
of the tunnel as the stone exploded.
Jagged shards flew up the tunnel, hissing like
arrows as they scored the back of his thick coat and
trousers. Others ricocheted and spattered in a
brief, deadly storm around the tiny chamber.
It was over in an instant. Seregil lay with his arms
over his head a moment longer, then cautiously held
up the lightstone and looked back.
An opening had been blasted in the far wall,
revealing a dark space beyond.
Drawing his sword, Seregil approached
and looked into the second chamber. It was roughly the
size of his sitting room at the Cockerel, and at
the back of it a glistening slab of ice caught

the glow of his lightstone, reflecting it across a
tangle of withered corpses that covered the floor.
The constant cold beneath the glacial ice had drawn
the moisture from the bodies over uncounted years,
leaving them dark and shrunken, lips withered
into grimaces, eyes dried away like raisins, hands
gnarled to talons.
Seregil sank to his knees, cold sweat running
down his chest beneath his coat. Even in their mummified
state, he could see that their chests had been split
open, the ribs pulled wide. Only a few
months earlier his friend and partner, Micum Cavish,
had come upon a similar scene nearly a thousand
miles away, in the Fens below Blackwater
Lake. But there some of the bodies had been newly
killed. These had been here for decades, perhaps
centuries. Putting this together with Nysander's veiled
threats and secrecy, Seregil felt a twinge of
genuine fear.
The singing whine in his ears was much worse here.
Kneeling there at the mouth of the chamber,
Seregil suddenly envisioned what the victims' last
moments must have been.
Waiting to be dragged into the killing chamber.
Listening to the screams.
The steam rising from torn bodies-
He could almost catch the sound of those tortured
voices echoing back faintly over the years.
Shaking such fancies off uneasily, he climbed
in to examine the mysterious slab.
The rough-hewn block of ice was half as long as
he was tall, and nearly four feet thick. The
aura of the place was worse here; a nasty prickling
sensation played over his skin, like ants beneath his
clothes. His head pounded. The ringing in his ears
swelled like a chorus of voices wailing an
octave beyond the scope of pain.
More disturbing still was the sudden flair of pain around the
scar on his chest. It burned like a fresh wound,
driving a deep spike of pain at his heart.
Working swiftly, Seregil took the two flasks
from the box, unwrapped them, and poured out the dark
contents of the first in a circle on top of the ice. With
his dagger, he scratched the symbols of the Four
inside the circle: a lemniscate for Dalna;
Illior's simple crescent; the
stylized ripple of a wave for Astellus; the
flame triangle of Sakor. They formed the four
points of a square when he had finished.
Unnatural flames licked up as the liquid
ate into the ice and a
caret
Lynn Flewelllng
caret
L
soft, answering glow sprang up in the center of the
slab, revealing the outline of a circular object
embedded there.
A fresh blast of pain tightened Seregil's breath
in his throat. He reached into his coat and felt
wetness there. Tearing open the neck of his coat and
shirt with bloodied fingers, he found that his skin had
opened around the edges of the scar.
There were voices all around him now, whispering,
sighing, keening. His hands shook as he quickly emptied
the second vial onto the ice. More flames
licked up, guttering in the faint, unnatural
breeze rising around him. Invisible fingers brushed his
face, plucked at his clothing, stroked his hair.
A first translucent point of crystal protruded
from the shrinking ice, quickly followed by seven
more in a slanting ring.
The singing, at once tortured and exultant, rose
to fill the cramped chamber. Seregil pressed his
hands to his ears as he crouched, waiting.
The magical liquid burned and boiled away
until eight blade- like crystal spikes were
revealed, set in a circlet of some sort.
Seregil bent to pull it free and a drop of blood
fell from his chest onto the ice within the circlet.
He paused, strangely fascinated, as another
followed, and another. A stone shard had grazed the
back of his hand and this, too, was oozing blood. A
rivulet of it ran down between his fingers onto the
point he was grasping, streaking it like ruby as it
trickled to the little pool gathering in the center of the
crown.
The singing was clearer now, suddenly sweet and soothing
and somehow familiar. Seregil's throat strained
to capture the impossible notes as the blood
dripped down from his chest.
Not yet,
the voices crooned. Unseen hands stroked him,
supporting him as he stooped over the crown.
Watch! See the loveliness being wrought.
The gathering blood sank into the ice as an
answering rubescent blush spread slowly up through
each crystal point.
Oh, yes!
he thought.
How beautiful!
Their sides were sharp. They cut into his palms as
he gripped them. More blood trickled down and the
crystal blushed a darker red.
But a new voice was intruding from a distance, rough and
discordant.
Nothing,
sang the voices.
It is nothing. There is only our music here.
Join us, lovely one, join our song, the only
song. For the Beautiful One, the Eater of Death-

It was distracting, this ugly new tone. But as he
bowed his head, straining against this raw new voice he
found that it, too, was familiar.
He'd almost succeeded in blocking it out when all at
once he recognized it-the sound of his own hoarse
screams.
The beautiful illusions shattered as searing bolts of
pain slammed up his arms, seeking his heart.
"Aura!"
he cried out, wrenching the crown free with the last of his
strength.
"Aura Elustri mdlrei!"
Staggering through a haze of agony, he thrust the crown
into the silver-lined box and drove the latch
into place.
Silence fell like a blow. Collapsing among the
corpses, he pressed his bloody hands to the front
of his coat.
"Mards Aura Elustri chyptir, his
he murmured thankfully as he slipped into a half
faint.
"Chyptir marosl"
The Beautiful One,
the voices had said.
The Eater of Death.
Gradually he became aware of another presence in
the chamber, and with it a pervasive sense of peace
mingled with sadness.
This, he realized, must be the true spirit, the one that had
created this place and inhabited it until the crown was
hidden here. With an ironic grin, he recalled the
tale of warring spirits he'd concocted for Turik and
Shradin the first time he'd come out of the cave. It
seemed he'd spoken the truth in spite of
himself.
"Peace to you, spirit of this place," he rasped in
Dravnian. "Your sanctuary will be properly
cleansed."
The presence gathered around him for a moment, soothing
away his pain and weariness. Then it was gone.
Shouldering the box, Seregil crawled slowly back
up the tunnel. Turik and Timan were keeping
watch at the opening when he stumbled out into the
sunlight.
The old man clutched Seregil's arm wordlessly,
tears of gratitude glittering in his rheumy
eyes.
"He lives! The Aurenfaie's alive! Bring
bandages," Turik called to the others, examining
Seregil's hands with concern.
The cry passed from mouth to mouth and soon the whole
village had gathered solemnly around them.
"Terrible sounds came out of the ground, then all was
still," Retak told Seregil. "Timan said you had
driven out the bad spirit, but he didn't know if you'd
survived the ordeal. Tell us of your battle with the
evil spirit!"
Ivnn Flewelltng
Seregil groaned inwardly.
Bilairy's Balls, they want another story!
Climbing to his feet, he held up the box.
"I've captured the evil spirit that troubled you. It's
imprisoned here."
Round-eyed, the Dravnians regarded the battered
wooden chest. Even the children did not venture
to approach it. Filthy and exhausted, Seregil
did his best to look like a victorious wizard as he
mixed fact and fiction to best effect.
"In the time of Timan's ancestor, this evil thing
came to your valley and invaded the spirit home, holding
the true spirit prisoner and troubling those who entered the
chamber. I found its secret lair and battled it
there. It was a strong spirit and it fought mightily, as you
can see."
The villagers' eyes grew rounder as they pressed
around him to see what sort of marks a spirit left on
a man.
"By my magic, and by the powers of sacred Aura and the
true spirit of this place, I vanquished and captured
it. Your spirit came to me, easing my wounds and asking
that the sanctuary be cleansed so that your people may once
again come to it in peace. There are bodies there now,
victims of the evil one. You must not fear them.
Take them away and burn them as is
proper, so that their spirits can rest. This is no longer a
place of evil."
The Dravnians cheered wildly as he paused
to catch up with his own invention. By the time they'd
settled down again, he was ready.
"If any man comes seeking the evil one, bring them
to this place and tell them how Meringil, son of
Solun and Nycanthi, mage of Aurenen,
captured the evil spirit and took it away forever.
Remember this day and tell the story to your children so that
they will remember. Let no person among your
clans forget that evil was cast out from here. And now I
must go."
The villagers surged forward, imploring him to stay.
Unvisited maidens wept with disappointment and one of
Ekrid's daughters threw herself into his arms
sobbing. Putting her gently aside, he gathered his
gear and palmed the last of Nysander's painted wands from
the pouch at his belt. He snapped it behind his back
and the Dravnians shrank back in fear as the
translocation vortex opened behind him. Waving a
last farewell, he forced a smile as he stepped
backward into emptiness.
Thero was on his way upstairs when a
muffled crash halted him in his tracks. There was no
doubt where the sound had come from; every door along the
curved corridor-the bedchambers, the guest
room-stood open except one.
The sitting-room door, with its magical wards and
protections, was always kept shut unless Nysander was
inside. Nonetheless, putting his ear to the door, Thero
heard a low groan inside.
"Nysander!" he called, but his master was already
hurrying down the tower stairs, robes flapping beneath
his leather apron.
"There's someone in there," Thero exclaimed, gaunt
face flushed with excitement.
Nysander opened the door and snapped his fingers at the
nearest lamp. The wick flared up and by its light
they saw Seregil sprawled in the middle of the
room, his back arched awkwardly over the pack he
wore, the strap of the battered wooden chest tangled
around one leg. His eyes were closed, his face
colorless beneath streaks of grime and blood.
"Get water, a basin, and linen. Hurry!" said
Nysander, going to Seregil and pulling at the front
of his coat.
Thero hurried off to fetch the required articles.
When he returned a few moments later,
Nysander was examining a raw wound on Seregil's
chest. "How bad is it?" he asked.
"Not so bad as it looks," said Nysander, covering the
wound with a cloth. "Give me a hand with these filthy
clothes."
"What happened to him this time?" Thero asked, gingerly
pulling off the unconscious man's boots.
"He's got the same sort of preternatural
stench he had when he came back-was
"Very similar. Fetch the things for a minor
purification. And, Thero?"
Halfway out the door already, Thero paused,
expecting some explanation.
"We shall not speak of this again."
"As you wish," Thero replied quietly.
Focused on Seregil, Nysander did not see the
hot color that leapt into There's sallow cheeks beneath
his thin beard, or the sudden angry set of his jaw.
Later, with Seregil asleep under There's watchful
eye, Nysander paid his nightly visit to the lowest
vault beneath the Oreska House. He was not the only
one who wandered here late at
Lynn Rewelltng
night. Many of the older wizards preferred to pursue
their research when the scholars and
apprentices were out of the way. Proceeding on through the
long passages and down stairways, he nodded to those
he met, stopping now and then to chat. He'd never
made any secret of his evening constitutionals. Had
anyone over the years ever noticed that he seldom
followed the same route twice? That there was always one
point, one stretch of blank, innocent wall, which
he never failed to pass?
And how many of these others, Nysander wondered as he
went on, kept watch as he did over some secret
charge?
Reaching the lowest level, he wended his way with more
than even his usual caution through the maze of
corridors to the place, though his carefully woven
magicks kept all from perceiving the box he carried.
Satisfied that he was unobserved, he lowered his
head, summoned a surge of power, and silently
invoked the Spell of Passage. A sensation like a
mountain wind passed through him, chilling him to the bone.
Hugging the grimy box to his chest, he walked through
the thick stonework of the wall and into the tiny chamber beyond.
Alec squinted as sunlight flashed off the polished
festival gong under his arm. Shifting his grip, he
struggled the rest of the way up the ladder braced against
the front of the villa.
"Really, Sir Alec, this is not necessary. The
servants always take care of these details!"
Runcer dithered from the curb, clearly embarrassed
by this display of labor but powerless to countermand it.
"I like to keep busy," Alec replied,
undeterred.
He'd reluctantly resumed his public role
at Wheel Street the day before. The Festival of
Sakor began tonight and-Seregil or no
Seregil-Sir Alec had to make an appearance.
Runcer was stubbornly determined to defer to him as
master of the house in Seregil's absence, a role
he was acutely uncomfortable with. He detested being
waited on, but every servant in the house seemed
to take it as a personal affront every time he so much
as fetched his own wash water or saddled a horse.
Grasping the wooden brace set into the wall,
Alec slid the gong's leather hanging straps over
it. They held and it swung gently in the morning
breeze, a rectangular battle shield displaying
the elaborate sunburst design of Sakor.
Lynn Flewelling
Runcer handed up a swath of black cloth and
Alec draped it carefully over the shield face.
Similar gongs were being hung all across the
city. Mourning Night, the longest of the year, began
with solemn ceremonies at the Temple of
Sakor. The symbolic passing of the old god would
be enacted, and every fire in the city extinguished
except for a single firepot guarded by the Queen and
her family at the temple. At the first hint of
dawn the following morning, the gongs would be uncovered
and sounded to welcome the resurrected god as
runners carried the new year's fire to every hearth.
Similar versions of the ceremony would be carried out
all over Skala.
He was halfway down the ladder when a rider
clattered around a corner down the street.
Recognizing Seregil's glossy Aurenfaie
mare, Alec jumped down and ran to meet them.
Seregil reined Cynril to a walk and looked
Alec over with a disapproving frown as he continued up
the street. "Out in your shirtsleeves like a common
laborer? What will the neighbors say?"
"I did remark upon it, my lord," Runcer commented
blandly as they came up.
"I guess they'll say I'm more likely to do a
lick of honest work than my fop of a guardian,"
Alec said with a laugh, too relieved to see
Seregil safely home to care what
anyone thought.
Wherever Seregil had been, he'd costumed himself
carefully for the role of returning lord. His
mud-spattered boots and gauntlets were of the finest
chestnut-brown leather, his riding mantle lined with
dark fur. Beneath it he wore a velvet surcoat,
and tall pheasant feathers bobbed at a jaunty
angle from the jeweled cockade of his cap.
"Ah well, we must forgive him his rough ways,"
Seregil said, throwing an arm around Alec's
shoulders as they went inside. "These northern
squire's sons are badly raised-too much honest
labor in their youth. How's everything here?"
"Come see for yourself."
Inside, the main hall was still swarming with servants.
The carpets were being rolled back in preparation for the
night's dancing and fragrant garlands of plaited
wheat and winter greenery festooned the walls. Rich
aromas had been floating out from the kitchen since
dawn. The feast after the ceremony would be cold, but
well laid on.
"What about the lightwands?" asked Seregil as he
sat to tug off his boots.
"They arrived from the Oreska House
yesterday, my lord," Runcer informed him, hovering
close at hand. "Nysander i Azusthra and Lady
Magyana a Rhioni have confirmed that they will
contribute to the evening's entertainment again this year."
"Good. Any word from the Cavishes?"
"They are expected this afternoon, my lord. I prepared
the upstairs guest chambers myself."
"We'll leave you to it, then. Come on, Alec, you
can give me the news while I freshen up."
"Nysander's invited the Cavishes to sit with him,"
Alec told him as they went up the stairs
to Seregil's room, adding wistfully, "I wish we
could."
"I know, but Kylith's group is likely to be more
informative. Besides, you need practice playing
nobility."
Seregil's bedchamber overlooked the garden at the
back of the villa. Unlike the other rooms, it was
furnished in Aurenfaie style, with walls
whitewashed rather than frescoed, and the furnishings were
done in pale woods and simple lines. In
contrast, the cushions, carpets, and hangings around the
bed were vibrant with pattern and color.
The shutters had been opened and a fire crackled
invitingly in the marble fireplace.
"Runcer's right, you know," he went on, tossing his
cloak over a clothes chest and going to the fire.
"It's not good for you to be seen out there in your
shirtsleeves. When you're playing a role-was
Alec sighed. "You play it to the bone, I know,
but-was
"No excuses. It's part of the game." Seregil
leveled a gloved forefinger at him. "You know as
well as I do that it doesn't matter at the
Cockerel or half the time around here, but on a real
job something like that could get you killed! When you play
Sir Alec, you must
be
Sir Alec. Either live it from the heart, or stand
outside yourself like a puppet master and direct every
movement. You've seen me do it often enough."
Alec stared glumly out over the snow-dusted garden.
"Yes, but I doubt I'll ever be as good at it as
you."
Seregil let out an impatient snort.
"Horseshit. That's what you said about swordplay,
and look how you've come along. Besides, you're a
natural actor when the role doesn't go against your
stiff- necked, Dalnan yeoman's pride.
Relax! Flow with the moment."
Seregil suddenly grabbed him by the arm and whirled him
into
Lynn Flewelling
an eccentric jig around the room. Alec hadn't
even heard him approach. But he recovered
swiftly and took the lead.
"But Sir Alec is a stiff-necked Dalnan
yeoman," he said, laughing as he clomped through the
steps of a country dance Beka and Elsbet had
taught him.
"Wrong!" Grinning wickedly, Seregil yanked
him into a formal pavan. "Sir Alec is
stiff-necked Dalnan
gentry.
Besides, he should be picking up a few of Lord
Seregil's airs along the way."
Alec leaned back in mock horror. "Maker's
Mercy, anything but that!" Still gripping Seregil's
gloved handbb"his thumb found a ridge beneath the thin
leather. Frowning, he felt at it. "What's this?
A bandage?"
"It's nothing, just a few scrapes." Seregil
stripped off the gloves and showed him thin strips of
linen across each palm. "And what about you?" He
turned Alec's left palm up and
examined the scab there.
"I cut myself going over a wall the other night,"
Alec told him, letting Seregil's obvious
evasion go without argument, knowing it would be futile
to press him. "I got chased on the way home
afterward, too, but I got away all right."
"Any idea who it was?"
"Footpads, probably. I didn't get much
of a look at them."
"How many 'thems" were there?"
"Three, I think. I was too busy rabbiting
to take count."
"Let's hear it."
Dropping into a chair by the fire, Alec launched
into a well- rehearsed and somewhat embellished account
of his escape down Silvermoon Street.
"That was quick thinking, using the palace guard for
protection," said Seregil when he'd finished. "And
speaking of the Palace, I've got something for you-a
little thank you from the Queen and Klia, I think."
He took a small pouch from his coat and tossed it
to Alec. Opening it, the boy found a heavy silver
cloak brooch fashioned to look like a wreath of
leafy branches surrounding a deep blue stone.
"Silver leaves." Alec smiled
slightly as he admired it. "The first time I met
Klia up in Cirna I was calling myself Aren
Silverleaf."
"That's a good stone," Seregil remarked, looking
at it over his shoulder. "You could get a fine horse
for that, if you ever need to.

Just be sure not to let on where it came from, or why.
We've got reputations to hide."
Iliia Cavish burst into the hall like a small,
happy hurricane just after midday. "Uncle
Seregil! Alec! We're here!"
From the musicians' gallery, Seregil watched as
she tackled Alec, who'd just come out of the dining
room.
"I can stay up for the party mis year because I'm six
now," she announced, hugging Alec excitedly.
"And I got new shoes and a real gown with a long
skirt and two petticoats and- Where's Uncle
Seregil?"
"I'm on my way," Seregil called. Going
down the steep narrow stairs from the gallery, he
strode across the hall and claimed a hug of his own.
"Did you ride in from Watermead all by yourself,
madame?"
Illia pulled a long face. "Mother's still being
sick from the baby, so she had to ride in a cart with
Arna and Eulis. Father and Elsbet and me all had
to ride slow. But he let me come ahead when we
got to your street I'm the van soldier!"
"I think you mean vanguard," Alec corrected
with a smile.
"That's what I said, silly. Do Elsbet and I
get to sleep in the room next to yours, Uncle?
The one with the dragon-shaped bed and the ladies painted
on the walls?"
"Of course you do, so long as
you
don't pop out at the guests once you've been put
to bed the way you did last year."
"Oh, I'm much too old for that now," she assured
him, taking him and Alec by the hand and drawing them
toward the door. "Come on, now. Father and Mother must be
here by now."
Wheel Street was thick with traffic, but Seregil
quickly spotted Micum's coppery head bobbing
toward him through the press, followed by his second
daughter and a covered cart driven by a pair of
servant women. Old Arna spied him and waved.
"I see Illia found you," Micum said
with a grin as they dismounted in front of the house.
Seregil embraced his old friend, and then Elsbet,
dark and shy in her blue riding gown. "You're just in
time. Alec's done all the work."
"We'd have been here sooner if I could have ridden,"
Kari complained, struggling from a nest of cushions and
robes in the cart. Weeks of morning sickness had
thinned her face, but the
lynn Flewelng
journey had put the challenging glint back in her
dark eyes. Micum helped her down and she
embraced Alec and Seregil happily.
Seregil eyed her rounding belly. "Breeding
agrees with you, as usual."
"Don't tell her that before breakfast just yet,"
Micum warned.
Old Arna made a blessing sign in her mistress'
direction. was "The sicker the mother, the stronger the
son." his
Kari rolled her eyes behind the old woman's
back. "We've heard that at least three times a
day for the past month. Even if it's another girl,
I expect the child will be born with a sword in her
hand."
"Another Beka," Alec said, grinning.
"And what about you?" Seregil asked Elsbet.
"Last I heard, you were going to stay on at the
temple school."
"That's right. Thank you for recommending me. It's
what I've always wanted to do."
"First Beka's commission with the Queen's Horse
Guard, and now Elsbet a scholar." Kari
slipped an arm about Elsbet's waist and gave
Seregil a dark look. "Thanks to you, I'll be
lucky to get any of my girls married off before
they're old and grey."
"Scholars marry, Mama," Elsbet chided.
"I'll get married!" Illia chimed in, still
clinging to Alec's hand. "I'm going to marry you,
Alec, aren't I?"
The boy gave her a gallant bow. "If you still
want me when you're grown up a beauty like your mother
and sister."
Elsbet blushed noticeably at this. "How are
you, Alec? Father told us you were hurt saving
Klia."
"I'm pretty well healed, except for this," he
replied, running a hand ruefully over his ragged
hair. "Klia came out of it looking worse than
I did."
"It was very-brave of you. To run into the fire like that,
I mean," she stammered. Blushing more hotly than
ever, she hurried after Arna into the house.
Alec turned to Kari with a perplexed look. "Is
she all right?"
Kari slipped her arm through his with an enigmatic
smile. "Oh, she's just turned fifteen, and you're
a hero, that's all. Come along now, brave Sir
Alec, and let's see what can be done about your
hair. We don't want you looking like the tinker's
boy in front of Lord Seregil's fine lady friends
tonight."
-K
safa caret (sgJia caret
Lady Kylith's tapestry-draped box commanded an
excellent view into the Sakor Temple
portico. Seregil and Alec reached the Temple
Precinct an hour before sunset and found their
hostess and six other guests already chatting over
dainties and wine.
It was a frosty evening and everyone's breath puffed out
in little clouds as they talked. All were warmly
swathed in black cloaks or robes out of
respect for the occasion, but gold and jewels caught
the light on wrists and circlets.
"Ah, now our little party is complete!" Kylith
rose smiling to kiss Seregil.
He returned the kiss with genuine affection. They'd
been lovers for a time years ago, and friends ever since.
Kylith must be nearing fifty now, he realized, but
time had refined both her famous beauty and wit.
All of these were in full force as she turned
to Alec, still hanging shyly back. "And you and I
meet again under far more pleasant circumstances, Sir
Alec. I trust no one will be arresting Lord
Seregil tonight?"
Alec executed a perfect bow. "I believe
he's rescheduled all arrests until tomorrow, my
lady."
lynn Flewelling
Well done, Sir Alec,
Seregil thought to himself with a smile.
From the corner of his eye, he saw several of the others
exchange discreet glances. Most of Rhiminee
knew he'd been taken from his villa in chains only
a few weeks before. Kylith had deftly removed
any tension surrounding the incident by making light of
it.
"Seregil, you'll sit there by Lord Admiral
Nyreidian," she said, waving him to a
seat beside a portly, black-bearded noble. "He's
overseeing the outfitting of the Queen's privateer
fleet and I know you'll want to hear all about it.
Sir Alec, you sit here between us so that we may
renew our acquaintance. But first you must be properly
introduced-Lord Admiral Nyreidian i
Gorthos, Lady Tytiana e Reva and Lady
Breena e Ursil of the Queen's court, Sir
Arius i Rafael, and my very dear friend Lady
Youriel e Nikiria."
Pausing, she placed her hand over that of a uniformed
woman on her right. "And this is Captain Julena
e Isai of the White Hawk Infantry, the
newest addition to our little salon."
Seregil eyed the captain with discreet interest; she
was rumored to be Kylith's latest paramour.
"My friends, you all know Lord Seregil i
Korit," she continued. "And this charming young man is
Lord Seregil's protege, Sir Alec i
Gareth of Ivywell. His late father was a knight of
Mycena, I believe."
Alec's spurious pedigree elicited the hoped-for
lack of interest. Leaving him to stumble charmingly along
through Kylith's courtly flirtations, Seregil
turned his attention to the other guests, where more
interesting game was afoot.
"I expect war will be a relief for Phoria,"
Lady Tytiana was saying. As Mistress of the
Queen's Wardrobe, she was a valuable and generally
reliable gossip. "She's still under a bit of a
cloud, you know, after that horrible business with the
Vicegerent's suicide- Oh, Lord Seregil,
forgive me. I didn't mean to be indelicate."
"Not at all, dear lady." Seregil flicked a
crease from his black mantle. "My name
was
cleared, so my honor is no more blemished than
usual."
A ripple of laughter went round the little circle.
He'd cultivated his reputation as a charmingly
dissipated exile carefully over the years. While
his distant relation to the royal family granted him
access to most of the more fashionable salons, it was
generally supposed that his foreign birth and
dilettante ways kept him safely

outside the complex intrigues of the city. As a
result, he was taken lightly but told a great
deal.
"As I was saying," Tytiana went on,
"I shouldn't wonder that she'd be relieved to go off
to war. Nothing like a few victories to improve
one's popularity. And just between ourselves, Phoria could
use some goodwill among the people, even without that other
unpleasantness. An heir apparent with no offspring
is always-awkward."
"She's a fine cavalry commander, though," said
Captain Julena.
Admiral Nyreidian leaned back and laced his
fingers over his considerable paunch, "True, but
she'll be at a disadvantage unless the
Plenimarans are foolish enough to attempt overrunning
Mycena. Plenimar is a naval power, always has
been. I've advised the Queen so and she agrees.
The lower city defenses are being built up as we
speak."
"Only yesterday I overheard Queen Idrilain
ordering two hundred wagonloads of fine red
clay from Piorus to slake the slopes below the
citadel," Lady Breena chimed in. "That's not
been done since her great-grandmother's day."
"Surely they wouldn't be so bold as to attack
Rhiminee directly?" Seregil ventured over his
wine.
Nyreidian cast a rather patronizing look
his way. "They've done it before."
"So you are preparing to meet them on their own terms.
It must be an enormous undertaking."
"I believe I've seen every sailor, fisherman,
and pirate that ever sailed between here and the Strait of
Bal!" the admiral replied. "The harbor's
alive with them. And investors, too. Privateering
is a lucrative venture. Have you considered backing
a vessel, Lord Seregil?"
"Sounds like an interesting mix of patriotism and
profit. Perhaps I should look into it."
"Vessels are getting scarce already, I must warn
you. Every shipbuilder in Skala has all the work he
can handle, refitting old ships and building new.
But the real trick is to find a decent captain."
"And yet war has not been officially declared. How can
the Queen send out privateers without giving
provocation? Surely she doesn't mean
to precipitate a conflict?"
Lynn Flewelling
Nyreidian stiffened perceptibly. "I'm sure
our Queen does nothing without the best interests of
Skala in mind."
"But of course," murmured Seregil. "The fact
that the Queen has entrusted you with this undertaking
is ample proof of the gravity of such measures."
Alec breathed a sigh of relief when Kylith
turned her attention to her other guests. His
repertoire of invented history was slim and he was out
of his depth for small talk. Luckily, no one
else seemed particularly interested in him.
Seregil was still busy with the fat admiral, so he
leaned his elbows on the rail to watch the spectacle
unfolding before him.
The tiers of viewing boxes where he sat stood at
an angle on the south side of the square, just in
front of the Dalnan temple grove. Across the
square another set of tiers partially obscured the
fountain courts and delicate, brightly colored
archways of the Temple of Astellus. The Temple
of Illior was hidden by the back wall of the box to the
east.
Cordoned-off pathways between the four temples
quartered the broad square. Black-robed
festival goers were already packing the open areas and
crowding into the courtyards and porticoes of the other
temples. Gulls wheeled overhead, mingling with
flights of brown doves from the Dalnan grove.
Before him, the black Temple of Sakor stood
massive and stark against a riotous
sunset. Broad bars of light spilled out between the
square pillars of the portico, silhouetting the
gongs that hung between them.
Inside stood an altar of polished black stone.
A great fire burned on it, illuminating the huge
golden shield that hung suspended just behind. This,
Seregil had explained earlier, was called the
Aegis of Sakor. It was twenty feet high and
its sunburst device was set with hundreds of
smooth-polished rubies that seemed to pulse with
life in the flickering firelight.
An honor guard was massed in formation on the broad
stairs in front of the temple; somewhere in those
faceless ranks Beka Cavish was standing watch with
her regiment. He envied her just a little. The
soldier's life seemed an uncomplicated one
to him; no pretending, no disguise-just honor,
duty, and the bravery to stand by your comrades in battle.
"I suppose they do not celebrate the Sakor
Festival with such

display in Mycena?" Lady Kylith remarked,
breaking in on his thoughts.
"No, my lady," Alec replied, raising his
voice for Seregil's benefit. "Even the
Harvest Home at the end of Rhythin isn't a
patch on this."
"Lord Seregil will have explained to you, I am sure,
about the extinguishing of the flames?"
"Yes. I imagine this will be an uncomfortable
night."
"The soldier's vigil is very weary." Kylith
cast a regretful glance in Julena's direction and
Alec guessed the captain would be going back on
duty soon. "But for the rest of us, it's a merry
time. Moonlit parties, blind games, and chases.
It's a fine night for lovers, as well. They say
half the people born in Rhiminee can count back from their
birth to this night."
Her perfume drifted over him as she leaned
closer. "And who will be keeping you warm in the darkness,
hm?"
A sudden fanfare from the temple spared him the
necessity of a reply.
A hush fell over the crowd as a long procession
of priests filed out from the interior of the temple.
Chanting and playing reed flutes, sistrums,
deep-throated horns, and timbrels, they formed
themselves into two ranks flanking the Aegis. The
skirling music had an ancient, mournful
sound.
"The Song of Passing, sung in the original
Konic tongue," Seregil whispered. "Most of this
ceremony dates back at least a thousand years."
At the end of the chant, an ornately robed
figure was carried forward on a litter, face
covered by a golden sun mask, an unsheathed
broadsword lying across his knees.
"That's the oldest of the Sakor priests, dressed
to represent the dying god," Seregil went on.
"He brings the great Sword of Gerilain."
"Was it really hers?" Alec whispered. Gerilain
was the first of Skala's hereditary queens instituted
by the prophecy of Illior six centuries before.
"Yes. The Queen's reinvested with it each year."
When Old Sakor had been positioned in front
of the altar, a priest stepped forward and addressed him
in the same ancient tongue.
"She's imploring Sakor not to abandon the people,"
Seregil interpreted. "This next part goes on and
on, but the gist of it is that
Lynn Flewelling
Sakor appoints the Queen as their guardian and
gives her the sacred firepot and sword,"
As predicted, Sakor's reply took
some time. The lower portion of the sun mask was
constructed to amplify his voice, which was rather thin and
creaky. When this dialogue was completed, horns
sounded and the grand procession began.
Contingents of priests emerged from the other temples,
each bearing a figure representing their patron
deity on a litter.
The Dalnans came first, with Valerius playing
Dalna. Seated beneath an arch of laurel and ivy, the
irascible drysian was uncharacteristically resplendent in
a green robe heavily embroidered with gold and
carried a ceremonial staff wrought in ivory and
gold. Someone had managed to tame his wild hair
into some semblance of order beneath his circlet, but his
beard bristled as aggressively as ever as he glared
out over the crowd.
"I'm no Dalnan, of course, but I don't
think Valerius presents a particularly comforting
figure as the Maker," Seregil murmured,
eliciting chuckles of assent from several of the other
guests, including Alec.
Astellus would serve as Sakor's guide on his
journey to the Isle of the Dawn. A plump blond
priestess dressed in a simple blue and white
tunic and broad-brimmed hat played this
role, complete with wayfarer's staff and wallet.
Grey-backed gulls, living emblems of the
Traveler, rose up from the fountain courts of the
temple and circled overhead as she was carried forth.
Illior was also being played by a woman. She sat
stiffly in her flowing white gown and serene golden
mask, right palm raised to display the elaborate
circular emblem that covered her palm.
The three groups met at the center of the square
to await the final contingent. Horns sounded again. A
squadron of cavalry in ceremonial scarlet and
black advanced from the entrance of the Temple
Precinct, followed by the royal family.
"Is that her? Is that the Queen?" Alec whispered,
craning for a better look.
"That's her."
Grey-haired and solemn, Idrilain sat her
charger like the warrior she was. Her golden
breastplate was emblazoned with an upraised sword
and the crescent of Illior; an empty scabbard
hung at her side.
With her rode the Consort Evenir, her second and
much younger husband. Behind the royal couple came her
sons and
67
daughters. Among these rode Klia, resplendent
in the dress uniform of the Queen's Horse.
Alec's hand rose to the silver brooch holding the
ornamental cloak at his shoulder as he watched her
in the distance. Until now he'd seen her only as
another cheerful, mud-spattered soldier, someone
who'd treated him like a comrade, never standing on
ceremony. Watching her now-among her true kind and
against the pageantry of the ceremony-was like seeing a
stranger.
The procession advanced at a stately pace to the
steps of the temple, where Idrilain dismounted and
strode up to stand opposite Old Sakor and the other
priests, her consort and children behind her. From this point,
the ritual proceeded in the modern tongue.
Idrilain's voice was clear and steady as she
spread her arms and performed a chant hailing Sakor
as Protector of the Hearth and the Sword of Peace.
"Let not the darkness come upon us!" she cried at its
conclusion.
The massed crowd took up the cry, repeating it in
a great voice until Valerius stepped forward and
raised his staff in both hands. When the crowd
quieted again, he sang the Song of Dalna, his
deep, resonant voice carrying well in
the open air.
Alec knew this song well. When the crowd repeated
the closing line, "The Maker has made all, and
nothing can be lost in the hand of the Maker," he joined in
gladly, ignoring the glances he attracted from
Kylith's other guests.
Astellus and Illior helped Old Sakor
to his feet and the assembled priests commenced a low
keen.
"Who shall keep watch?" the priests of Sakor
sang. "Who shall guard the Flame?"
Masked Illior answered, reciting the revelation
of the Afran Oracle. "So long as a daughter of
Thelatimos" line defends and rules, Skala shall
never be subjugated."
The Queen stepped forward and was exhorted by Old
Sakor to keep watch over her people through the long night
and the new year to follow. Bowing solemnly, she
pledged herself and her generations to the guardianship of
Skala and was given the Sword of Gerilain and a
large firepot. When she turned, holding both
aloft, the crowd erupted into cheers of assent.
The last of the day's light was fading from the western sky
as two priests led out a black bull. Handing the
firepot to Phoria, Idrilain raised
the sword in her right hand and placed her left on the
animal's brow, pressing gently as she spoke the
ritual greeting.
Lynn Flewelling
The bull snorted and twisted its neck, nicking the
edge of her mantle with the tip of one horn.
A restless murmur rippled through the crowd like wind
across a barley field; an unwilling victim was a
poor omen.
The animal showed no further sign of resistance,
however, as the priests pulled its head back and
Idrilain slashed its throat. Dark blood
spurted out, steaming in the cold air, and the animal
collapsed without a struggle. Idrilain extended the
blade to Old Sakor, who dipped a finger in the
blood and anointed his forehead and hers.
"Speak to your people, O Sakor!" she intoned. "You
who pass away from all living things and return
renewed. What is your prophecy?"
"Let's see what they've come up with this year,"
someone murmured.
"You mean it's not real?" Alec whispered
to Seregil, rather shocked.
Seregil gave him a hint of the crooked smile.
"Yes and no. Divinations are gathered for
months from all the major temples around Skala.
They vary in form from year to year, but they're generally quite
supportive of current policy."
Standing before the Aegis, Sakor faced the people and
raised his hands.
But before he could speak, a sudden wind gusted through the
square, billowing robes and snatching at cloaks and
scouring dust and dead leaves up in little whirlwinds.
Banners whipped loose from the fronts of boxes.
Shield gongs swung on their long chains, clashing
ominously against the pillars of the temple.
Startled from their evening roosts, gulls and doves
burst into the air again in a flurry of wings, only
to be met by scores of ravens. Swooping out of the
surrounding gloom as mysteriously as the wind that bore
them, the black birds attacked in a frenzy,
stabbing with thick beaks, tearing with taloned feet.
The spectators below watched helplessly as black
wings beat against white or brown; upturned faces
were spattered with blood and sticky scraps of
feathers. Then startled cries rang out as broken
bodies plummeted down around them.
In the temple, Idrilain stood with sword
drawn, fending off scores of ravens that dove at
the sacrificial bull. Phoria and her
brothers and sisters leapt to her aid, driving the
carrion birds off.

Beside them, Valerius laid about with his staff. Even
at this distance Seregil and Alec could see the
crackling white nimbus that glowed dangerously around
its ivory head. The Illioran priestess, still
inscrutable behind her mask, raised her hand again and a
brilliant, multihued flash blazed out, leaving
inert mounds of black feathers scattered in its
wake. Soldiers closest to the temple ran back
up the steps to assist the Queen, while others tried
to maintain order as thousands wailed and screamed and
sought to flee.
A thick cloud of ravens circled the square now,
diving and slashing like hawks. Others flocked
boldly on railings and temple pediments. One
large bird flapped down to perch on the edge of
Kylith's box and seemed to regard Alec
thoughtfully with one black, unblinking eye.
Seregil raised his hand in a warding sign and Alec
saw his lips move, although it was impossible to make
out the words over the chaos around them. The raven uttered
a mocking croak and flapped away.
Then, as quickly as they'd come, the baneful
black horde retreated, pursued by the surviving
gulls. The doves had been no match for their
attackers; soft brown bodies lay scattered
around the precinct by the dozens.
As the noise of the birds subsided, a new and
ominous sound boomed forth from the temple.
The Aegis of Sakor, untouched by any hand, rang
with a low, shivering roar. In front of it, the flames
of the alter fire flared from yellow to deep bloodred.
Four times the Aegis sounded, and then four times again.
"Hear me, my people!" cried Idrilain. "Sakor
speaks, sounding a call on the Aegis itself.
Attend to the prophecy!"
The multitude stood motionless as Old Sakor was
helped forward again, swaying visibly as he raised
a trembling hand.
"Hear, O people of Skala, the word of Sakor," he
called in his reedy old man's voice. "Make
strong your walls, and let every sword be whetted.
Guard well the harvest and build strong ships.
Look to the east, O people of Skala. From thence comes
thine enemy-was He paused, and the trembling seemed
to worsen. "From thence-was
He sagged heavily against Valerius for a moment, then
straightened and took a step forward
unaided. In a voice of star
Lynn Flewelling
fling clarity, he cried out, "Prepare you in the
light, and in the shadow. From thence comes the Eater of
Death!"
"The what-?" Alec looked to Seregil again, but
found him white-faced and grim, one gloved hand
clenching the side of the rail where the raven had perched.
"Seregil, what's wrong?"
His friend sat up abruptly, as if waking from an
evil dream, and warned him off with a discreet but
emphatic hand signal.
"We have heard your word, O Sakor!" said the
Queen, speaking into the silence that still gripped the
crowd. "We shall be prepared!"
Another roar of acclaim went up as Old Sakor
was carried down the stairs of the temple to begin the long
march to the waterfront in the lower city. There,
accompanied by Astellus, he would set sail
ostensibly for the Isle of the Dawn to be reborn and
return on the morrow in the guise of a much younger
priest.
The altar fire dwindled and went out and a hundred
deep- throated horns sounded from the roof of the
temple, signaling for every fire in the city
to be extinguished.
The remaining priests joined the procession while the
Queen took her place before the altar to begin the
sacred vigil.
"What a remarkable performance!" said Lady Youriel
with an uneasy laugh. "I think they rather overdid it
this year, don't you?"
"Most impressive," Kylith agreed lightly as
servants appeared at the door of the box with
lightstones on long wands to assist their departure.
"But I suspect Lord Seregil has something
equally impressive planned for us at his gathering.
Will you two share my coach?"
Seregil rose and bent over her hand. "Thank you,
but I think we'll wait here until the crowd thins
a bit, then ride back."
"Games in the dark, eh?" She brushed his cheek with
her lips, then Alec's. "I'll meet you at
Wheel Street."
Seregil sat motionless for some moments after the others
had departed, resting his elbows on the rail.
"What's the "Eater of Death"?" asked Alec
uneasily. "It sounded like a threat, or a warning."
"I'm sure it was," Seregil muttered, gazing
down into the square. It was full dark now,
and the moon and stars shed pale brilliance over the
city, casting the world into sharp contrasts of silvery
light and inky shadow. Lightwands bobbed here and there in
the hands of those wealthy enough to afford them, and faint

laughter and cries of "Praise the Flame!"
echoed up to them as people jostled each other in the darkness.
Something in his friend's face made Alec still more
uneasy. "Any idea what the priest meant by it?"
he asked.
Seregil pulled his hood up against the night's
chill as he rose to go. Alec couldn't see his
face as he replied, "I can't say that I do."
The Wheel Street house was already full of music
by the time they returned. Alec handed his dark cloak
to a servant at the entrance and followed Seregil
into the hall. A number of guests were already enjoying the
wine and food. Each had been presented with a brightly
ribboned lightwand upon arrival and these provided a
cool, shifting light as people danced or strolled about the
room.
A flurry of applause greeted them as Runcer
gravely announced their arrival from his station by the
door.
"Welcome to my home on this dark, cold
night!" Seregil called out. "For those of you who've
not yet met my companion, allow me to present
Sir Alec i Gareth of Ivywell."
Alec made a graceful bow and quickly scanned the
room for familiar faces. Kylith's party was there,
but there was no sign yet of Nysander or the
Cavishes. In a far corner, however, he spotted
a knot of officers in the green and white of the
Queen's Horse Guard. Klia's friend and fellow
officer, Captain Myrhini, saluted him with her
lightwand from their midst and Alec waved back,
wondering if Beka was with her.
He was just heading over to find out when

Seregil slipped a hand under his arm and steered him off
toward a group of nobles.
"Time to play the gracious hosts."
Together, they made a circuit of the room, moving
smoothly from one conversation to another, most of which
centered around the omens at the ceremony.
"I thought they rather overdid the thing this year," sniffed a
young nobleman introduced as Lord Melwhit. "What
doubt is there that war is coming? Preparations have been
going on since summer."
A grave, blond woman turned from a
conversation with Admiral Nyreidian and greeted
Seregil in Aurenfaie.
"Ysanti maril Elustri,
Melessandra a Marana," Seregil returned
warmly. "Allow me to present Sir Alec.
Lady Melessandra and her uncle, Lord Torsin,
are the Skalan envoys to Aurenen."
"Ysanti bek far,
my lady," Alec said with a bow.
"Ysanti maril Elustri,
Sir Alec," she returned. "Lord Seregil is
instructing you in his native language, I see.
There are so few nowadays who speak it well."
"And fewer still who speak it so well as you, dear
lady," added Seregil.
"It's a pretty language, if one can manage
it," Nyreidian rumbled. "I wouldn't dare
attempt it in front of you, Lord Seregil. I'm
told my pronunciation is grotesque."
"It is!" Melessandra agreed, laughing. "Forgive
our interruption, Lord Seregil, but we were just
debating whether the portents at the temple tonight were
genuine. Would you care to venture the Aurenfaie
view?"
Alec watched with interest as Seregil
struck a thoughtful pose.
"Well, to question the omens' veracity would be tantamount
to casting doubt on the Oracle itself, wouldn't you
say?"
She gave the admiral a pointed look. "Many would
not hesitate to do so."
Seregil tactfully changed the subject. "I
understand your uncle accompanied the remains of
Corruth i Glamien back to Viresse?"
"Yes, and allow me to offer my sympathies for the
loss of your kinsman," said Melessandra. "It must have
been a terrible shock in the midst of your own
difficulties."
"Thank you. The reports given by the Queen's
agents who found him were chilling, to say the least.
Yet some good may
Lyim Flewelling
come of it. Have you heard what the council's reaction
was in Aurenen?"
Melessandra rolled her eyes. "Complete uproar.
You know the old guard still contends that Skala is
accountable for the actions of the Lerans. Yet there are those
among the younger members who argue more and more for an end
to isolationism. Adzriel a Illia is one of the
chief proponents for reconciliation."
"Illia?" asked Alec, pricking up his ears at
the familiar name.
"Certainly," Seregil said, giving him a level
look that warned discreetly against questions. "What else
would it be? Unless you're confusing her with Adzriel
a Olien again?"
"Oh-yes. I suppose I must be," Alec
managed, wondering what blunder he'd committed this
time.
"Family names are so much simpler in Mycena,"
Seregil went on lightly. "Poor Alec is still
struggling with all our lengthy patronymics and
matronymics and lineages."
Melessandra appeared sympathetic. "It must be
overwhelming if you're not born to it. But there's Lord
Geron and I must speak with him at once.
Erismai."
She gave Alec a last, rather puzzled look, then
strolled away accompanied by Nyreidian and the
others.
"I said something wrong, didn't I?" Alec
whispered hurriedly, before some other guest descended
on them.
"My fault," Seregil replied with a slight
smile. "If I'd been here this last
week I'd have thought to prepare you better. Illia
was my mother's name. My eldest sister, Adzriel a
Illia, was recently made a member of the
lia'sidra."
"Sister? his
Never, in all the time Alec had known him, had
Seregil mentioned his family, or almost anything
else about his past in Aurenen. Alec had come
to assume that his friend was as much an orphan as himself.
"And
eldest]
How many do you have?"
"Four, actually. I was the only boy, and the
youngest," Seregil replied somewhat tersely.
"Little brother Seregil?" Alec smothered a grin as
his entire perception of his friend subtly shifted. He
could sense the old barriers going up again, however, and
prudently changed the subject. "It sounds like the
Skalans want Aurenen as allies again, like they were
in the Great War."
"They do, but bad blood over Corruth will get in
the way. Our

recent discovery may make things worse rather than
better, at least for now."
"But it's been almost three hundred years since
Corruth disappeared."
"Remember who we're talking about, Alec. Many
of the most powerful people on the lia'sidra were his friends and
contemporaries. They haven't forgotten the reception
he received from the Skalans when he married their
queen, or his suspicious disappearance after her death.
If Lera hadn't had the poor sense to leave her
half sister Corruthesthera alive, there might have
been war between the two nations then. As for a new
alliance, I'm afraid that may depend more on the
Plenimarans in the end. If they join with Zengat-was
"Oh, Lord Seregil! There you are!"
A gaggle of young nobles crowded noisily around them,
wreathed in expectant grins.
"We thought you'd never come home," chided a young
woman, wrapping her arm through Seregil's. "You
missed my autumn revel this year, you know."
Seregil pressed a hand dramatically to his
heart. "As I stood on a rolling deck under a
full red moon that night, my thoughts were all of you.
Can you forgive me?"
"It was a crescent moon; I recall it
perfectly. But I'll grant you a conditional
pardon if you'll introduce me to your new
friend," she fluttered, looking boldly across at
Alec, who'd been crowded to the edge of the circle.
Alec smiled his way through an onslaught of complex
introductions, noting as he did so that his polite
greetings were not always returned with the same grace.
A number of them, in fact, were decidedly cool.
Seregil hesitated as he came to a handsome,
auburn-haired dandy surrounded by an entourage of
admirers. "Forgive me, sir, I don't
believe I've had the pleasure?"
The man gave an elaborate bow. "Pelion i
Eirsin Heileus Quirion of Rhiminee, dear
sir."
"Not the acclaimed actor, who just played
"Ertis" at the Tirarie?" gasped Seregil.
The man puffed visibly. "The same, my lord. I
pray you'll forgive my intrusion, but my companions
insisted."
"On the contrary, I'm delighted! I hope you'll
let me know when you next perform. By all reports,
you're the next Kroseus."
Lynn Flewelling
"I've been fortunate, was Pelion demurred
modestly.
"And well patronized," a man beside him
announced. "Do you know that his current role was
written specifically for him?"
"We knew you wouldn't mind," a sallow youth
confided smugly to Seregil. "Poor Pelion is
in love, you see, and his lady friend may turn up
here tonight. It's all very tragic and impossible. But
we've got another treat for you. Donaeus has
composed the most cunningly subtle epos in
twenty-three parts. It's a marvelous piece of
art!"
Seregil turned to the poet in question, a
petulant-looking giant in worn velvets.
"Twenty-three parts? What a monumental
undertaking."
"It's glorious," a girl effused. "It's all
about the death of Arshelol and Boresthia, but done in
the most original fashion. And of course, he'll
need a patron. You really must hear it."
"Donaeus, read it for him at once!" cried the
sallow one. "No one appreciates the new verse
styles so well as Lord Seregil. I'm sure
Sir Alec could spare him for a bit."
The slight was not lost on Alec. There were a few
suppressed titters, but he maintained his
composure.
"Go on, by all means." He smiled, locking
gazes with his ostensible rival. "The significance of
poetry has always eluded me. Honest ballads and
sword fights are more to my taste."
"Well then, let's go up to the library," said
Seregil, giving Alec an amused wink as he
ushered them upstairs.
Turning, Alec nearly collided with Myrhini and
Beka Cavish, who'd drifted over with their
uniformed comrades.
"Arrogant little turds, aren't they?" Beka
muttered, glowering after the poet's entourage. "I
run into a bit of that myself now and then."
"What could they have against me?" Alec burst out, not
knowing whether to be more amused or insulted.
"Nothing, except that you had the poor taste to be
born north of the Cirna Canal."
"There are always a few like that." Myrhini shrugged,
then skillfully snagged a tray of wine cups from a
passing server. "Scattering a few teeth usually
quiets "em down. In your case though, it's more
likely just whey-blooded jealousy. There's more than
a few among that set who'd like to be in your boots."
She paused to run an eye over him. "You're
looking fitter than last time I saw you.
Klia's at the Vigil, and sends her regards.
I go

on duty in a few hours, but felt honor-bound
to assess the new recruit here, seeing as how she's
under my command. Rider Beka tells me you've
crossed blades a time or two- But here's someone
else we know!"
"Valerius of Colath, Drysian of the First
Order and High Priest of the Temple of Dalna
at Rhiminee," Runcer announced.
Valerius strode into the room still clad in his
ceremonial robe and circlet, though he'd
exchanged the ivory staff for his old wooden one.
"The blessing of Dalna be on this house and those within
it," he intoned, thumping the floor.
Alec hurried forward to greet him. "Welcome.
Seregil just went upstairs to hear a poet, but he
should be back soon."
The drysian let out an inelegant snort. "That
fool Donaeus, no doubt, spouting his doggerel in
twenty-three fatuous farts? He must still be
scratching around for a patron. He read bits of the
mess at Lady Arbella's banquet last
week. Fairly took away my
appetite. If he corners Seregil with the whole
of it, we're not likely to get him back before
dawn."
"Maybe Alec should go rescue him," suggested
Beka.
"No, leave him. Serves him right for encouraging that
pack of pedantic buffoons. What knavery have you
two been up to these days? Learning swordplay, I
hear, Alec?" The drysian lowered his voice to a
confidential rumble. "You'll need it, considering the
company you've fallen into."
"And look at you!" he exclaimed, glowering at
Beka. "Running off to join regiments instead of
getting married like a good Dalnan girl? This young
fellow here is about your age, isn't he?"
"Leave off, you," Myrhini cried, laughing as
Beka shifted uncomfortably. "She's the best
rider I've had this year and I don't want
to lose her to the hearth."
"Valerius!" Seregil called as he came down
the stairs, apparently having escaped from the poets
on his own. "Did you get Old Sakor safely
launched?"
Valerius chuckled. "There's considerable chop on the
harbor tonight. Poor old Morantiel was
as green as a squash before they left the mooring, but
I suspect he'll survive."
"I thought he sounded rather unsteady during the
prophecy," Seregil remarked casually,
signaling for a wine server.
"After all these years of shamming, I imagine it was
a bit of a shock when something mystical actually
occurred."
Lynn Hewelllng
i
in

His
"Then you believe it was genuine?"
Valerius raised a bristling eyebrow. "You know as
well as I do it was. I don't know what that
"Eater of Death" business was all about, but I
didn't like the feel of those ravens." At
the door, Runcer stepped forward again and announced,
"Nysander i Azusthra Hypirius Meksandor
Illandi, High Thaumaturgist of the Third
Oreska, with the Lady Magyana a Rhioni
Methistabel Tinuva Ylani, High
Thaumaturgist of the Third Oreska. And Sir
Micum Cavish of Watermead, with Dame
Kari and daughters Elsbet and Illia."
Nysander and Magyana, normally the least
ostentatious wizards of the Oreska, had put on the
rich ceremonial robes befitting their status in
honor of the occasion. Behind them, the Cavishes were as
splendidly rigged out as any lord in the room.
Illia clung to her mother's hand, squirming with
excitement in her new dress. Elsbet looked
poised and solemn in burgundy velvet.
"Didn't you invite Thero?" Alec whispered
teasingly to Seregil.
"I
always
invite Thero! But watch. We're in for a treat."
At his signal, the musicians stilled their
instruments. The other guests stepped back as
Nysander escorted Magyana to the center of the room.
With a slight nod to their host, he waved a hand about in
a swift, careless gesture and the painted walls
sprang to life.
The high chamber was frescoed from floor to ceiling
to imitate a forest glade. The branches of
life-size oaks hung with flowering vines extended
across the vaulted ceiling overhead. Between their grey
trunks distant vistas of mountain and sea
were visible. Even the stone gallery at the back of the
room, where the musicians softly played, was carved
and latticed to resemble a leafy bower.
At Nysander's command, golden light from some unseen
sun glowed across the scene. A soft breeze stirred
around the room, carrying with it the scent of flowers and
warm earth overlaid with a hint of the distant painted
sea. The painted trees stirred in the breeze,
dappling shadows across the floor. Painted birds
left their places and fluttered through the branches,
filling the air with song.
A murmur of delight greeted the display, but the
wizards were not finished. Magyana drew a crystal
wand from her sleeve and wove the tip of it in the air,
conjuring a perfect sphere of iridescent light the
size of a pomegranate.
"Come, my lord." She smiled, motioning to Seregil.
"As host, the honor belongs to you."

"An honor which I in turn bestow on Sir Alec
on this, his first Mourning Night with us."
Amid a flurry of applause, Alec followed
Magyana's whispered instructions and reached out a
finger as if to burst a child's soap bubble.
At his touch the sphere burst in a
brilliant scintilla of light. Seconds later
the thud of hooves against turf sounded near the
gallery as a herd of white deer materialized in the
painted forest and galloped once around the room before
settling to graze near the dining-room archway.
Rainbow-winged serpents swooped up from a painted
cavern, singing with beautiful voices. Winged
sprites and willow branch maidens peeped shyly
from tree trunks.
Laughing and clapping delightedly, the guests spun
around to take in the spectacle. Illia pulled
loose from Kari and ran to Beka, leaping into her
sister's arms.
"It's magic, Beka! Real wizard magic! And
you've got your uniform. You're a horse guard!"
Beka hugged her back, grinning. "That's just what
I am."
"We must have proper music!" cried Seregil.
"Fiddlers, give us "The Shepherd's Idyll'!"
The musicians set to with a will and couples paired for the
sprightly dance.
"Here you are!" Kari exclaimed, coming to embrace
her eldest daughter.
"She was afraid we wouldn't see you before tomorrow,"
Micum explained. "She's been fretting
about it all afternoon."
"Oh, I was not," snapped his wife. "Turn
around, girl. Let me see all of you!"
"Thero was otherwise engaged, I see," Seregil
remarked with a sly glance at Nysander.
"Ah, hello, Valerius," said Nysander,
escorting Magyana over to them again. "You
acquitted yourself bravely in the sanctuary this
evening. were the ravens saying anything intelligible?"
"We were just discussing that," the drysian replied.
"Heavy- handed as the Sakorans are with their
"oracles," they weren't responsible for the
birds, or that business with the Aegis, if I'm
any judge."
"It was unquestionably magic of some sort," mused
Magyana. "It may be a portent from Sakor, but
it bodes ill nonetheless."
"It certainly bears looking into," agreed
Nysander, "but just
Lynn Flewelling
now I cannot seem to resist the music. Do you think
we have a dance or two left in us, my dear?"
"I think they'll have to chain your feet together to keep
them still when they bury you," Magyana replied with a
twinkle.
Valerius watched with gruff fondness as the pair
danced away. "Ridiculous, that Oreskan
celibacy of hers. Those two should have married
centuries ago." Then something else appeared
to catch his eye and a wry grin spread in the depths of
his black beard. "Now
there's
someone I didn't expect to see here tonight. And just
look who he's with!"
"Ylinestra a Maranial Wisthra Ylinena
Erind, Sorceress of Erind," announced Runcer.
"And Thero i Procepios Bynardin Chylnir
Rhiminee, Wizard of the Second Order, of the
Third Oreska."
"Well, well!" murmured Seregil.
Thero did look uncharacteristically sanguine, standing at
the head of the chamber with Ylinestra on his arm. The
sorceress' silk gown glittered with jeweled beading
and the bodice, fashionable in the extreme, showed pink
half-crescent hints of nipple beneath the heavy
necklace of pearl and jet she wore over her bared
breasts. Her ebony hair was caught back in a
similar jeweled web, exposing a graceful white
neck.
Seregil propelled Alec forward with a
gentle nudge. "Come on, Sir Alec. Let's
greet our illustrious guests."
"Welcome to my home, lady," he said, stepping
up to kiss her hand.
"Thank you, Lord Seregil," she replied with a
cool nod. "And this must be your new companion
I've been hearing so much about?"
"Alec of Ivywell," Alec told her,
wondering with sudden discomfort whether she recalled their
first brief, tempestuous meeting soon after his
arrival at the Oreska House. If she did,
however, she gave no sign of it. Extending her
hand, she enveloped him with a heart-stopping smile.
"Ah, a Mycenian. How delightful."
She clearly meant for him to kiss her hand and he
bent dutifully over it. A faint perfume rose
in his nostrils, subtle yet strangely compelling.
Her hand, so warm and soft, lingered in his, and as he
raised his head, his eyes swept across her breasts
to her lovely violet eyes with a studied enjoyment
he wouldn't have imagined himself capable of. Still she
held him, and her low-pitched voice sent an
unfamiliar tingle through his body when she spoke.

"Nysander speaks so warmly of you. I
hope that we may know one another better."
"I'm honored, lady," Alec replied, his
voice sounding distant in his ears. She withdrew her
hand at last and the world returned to normal.
"Good evening," Thero said stiffly, looking somewhat
less than pleased to be there.
"Forgive There's bad grace," Ylinestra
murmured, once more wrapping Alec in the warm
embrace of her eyes. "He is here only as a
favor to me, I fear, and is being quite sulky. Come,
Thero, perhaps wine will improve your disposition."
As he escorted her into the throng, the actor
Pelion stepped into their path with an elaborate
bow, which Thero evaded with a curt and proprietary
nod. Pelion fell back a pace, then followed
Ylinestra with lovesick eyes.
"Ah, so that's the actor's hopeless love,"
Seregil noted with a smirk. "He's certainly
got some competition tonight. And if Thero gets any
stiffer, he's likely to fall over and break."
"She was kind of abrupt with you, I thought," observed
Alec.
"Well, I'm not exactly her type.
Evidently you are."
Alec colored warmly. Her perfume still
clung to his fingers. "I only greeted her."
The musicians struck up a reel and he turned
to watch the dancers. Micum swirled by with Kari,
laughing and smiling; Nysander and Magyana followed
close behind. One of the poets had somehow captured
Elsbet and she blushed happily as he swept her
along. Across the room, Ylinestra was chatting with the
actor while Thero hovered close at hand with
badly concealed impatience.
"What's she doing with Thero?" Alec wondered
aloud.
"Judging by the look of him, nothing he'd want
Nysander to know about," Valerius remarked.
"Nysander knows," said Seregil. "I think he was
getting bored with her, anyway, but I still say it was
bad manners for her to grab Thero next."
"I doubt if she was the only one doing the grabbing,"
scoffed Valerius. "If he wants to stick his
head in the dragon's mouth, let him. Just see that
young Alec here keeps a safe distance."
"I just
greeted
her, for-was Alec sputtered, but was interrupted
by Myrhini and Beka.
Lynn Flewelling
"I'm
off
for the Vigil," said Myrhini. "Hope to see you
all at the investiture tomorrow."
As soon as the captain was gone, Beka turned
to Alec with a knowing grin. "Ylinestra's very
beautiful, wouldn't you say?"
Alec groaned. "What was I supposed to do,
knock her down?"
"For a minute there I thought you were going to."
"Well, I'm sure I'm no danger to her, when
she can obviously have her pick of any man in
Rhiminee," he countered. "What about you, though? Can
you dance in uniform?"
Beka looked down at her tabard and boots. "I
think we can manage."
They made a passable business of the reel and went
on dancing when the next song began, hi truth,
Beka was in such high spirits over her commission that
Alec thought she could probably fly if the notion
struck her. They soon caught each other's rhythm
and went on dancing with scarcely a break until
Micum cut in to say that Kari and the younger girls were
retiring for the night.
"I didn't realize how late it had
gotten," Beka said, letting go of Alec's hand with
evident regret. "I'll go up and visit with Mother
a while before I head back to the barracks. I've
got to be up early for the ceremony."
Giving Alec a quick peck on the cheek, she added,
"You and Seregil are coming, aren't you? There'll be
hundreds of us, of course, so you probably won't
even see me."
"With mat hair?" Alec teased, tugging at the end
of her coppery braid. "You'll stick out like a
drunkard's nose!"
"I'll remember that remark the next time we work
on your swordplay," Beka warned with a dire
grin. "Until tomorrow, then."
Left to his own devices again, he looked for
Seregil and spotted him on the far side of the
crowded floor. No sooner had he worked his way
through the crowd, however, when Seregil was waylaid by a
noble complaining at length about some shipping venture he
and Seregil were involved with. Alec listened
politely for a time, but his attention soon wandered.
Looking around, he realized that the number of guests
was dwindling. Off for more "games in the dark," as
Kylith had teased. Nysander and Magyana were still
there, moving with stately grace through the
circle of a galliard. Thero was dancing as well,
but not with Ylinestra.

"Where's she gotten to?" Alec wondered, looking
around again.
In the garden.
The soft, caressing whisper came at his very ear, for
him alone to hear.
Come into the garden.
There was no question this time; it was Ylinestra's voice.
The mysterious summons came again, and with it a
delicious languor. A couple walked past,
lightwands in hand, and he marveled at the rainbow
corona surrounding each glowing stone. The whole
room, in fact, had taken on a warmer tone.
Perhaps Nysander and Magyana were tinkering with their
creation? Skirting the dancers, he slipped
unnoticed into the dining room and on out into the darkened
garden.
Here. Come to me.
The voice guided him to a far corner of the garden
screened by a small arbor.
He heard a faint sigh of silk and Ylinestra's
pale face resolved from the darkness. Her hands found
his and lifted them to rest just above her hips.
She was slender and supple between his hands and he spread
his fingers to better appreciate the sensation of her
warmth beneath the cold fabric.
"My lady, I don't understand," he whispered, some
small, distant part of him distinctly alarmed at his
own actions. He'd never felt like this in his life.
"What is there to understand, lovely boy?"
How small she seemed, here in the darkness. Her
lips brushed his chin as she spoke, her violet
eyes pools of night just below his own.
"But Nysander- Thero? I thought-was
She laughed softly, and the sound drowned his own
trepidation in another rush of voluptuous sensation.
"I do as I please, Alec, and I take what
I want. And just now, I want you."
Her hands found his again, holding his palms flat against
her as she slid them upward. The roughness of
embroidery met his touch, then the netted web of the
necklace over her breasts.
"You're trembling. Does my little magic frighten
you? Do still frighten you?"
Alec drew a ragged breath. "I-I don't
know."
Part of him sensed a snare, a trap, yet his whole
body was gripped by a yearning unlike
anything he'd ever known. Her scent
Lynn Flewelling
filled his nostrils again as she slipped his fingertips
beneath the edge of her necklace to press the bare,
yielding swell of a breast.
"You have only to ask, Alec. I'll release you
if you ask. Shall I free you?"
She slipped a hand to the back of his neck to rest where
Seregil's so often did. Then she kissed him again,
her lips parting, tongue gently seeking entrance and
gaining it as her other hand stroked his side. Pulling
him closer, she kissed her way to his neck.
"So young, so smooth," she murmured, the touch of her
breath sending a profound warmth to his loins. "So
beautiful. Have you known a woman? No? So much the
better." She shifted slightly, bringing a
half-exposed nipple against his fingers. "Tell
me, shall I release you now?"
"Yes! No- I don't know-was Alec groaned
softly, then embraced her. Magic or not, newly
awakened passions suffused him and he found her lips
again, returning kiss for kiss.
"Close your eyes, my darling," she whispered.
"Shut them tight and I'll show you another trick."
Alec obeyed, and was startled to feel himself
falling, tumbling onto something soft. When he opened
his eyes again, the two of them were lying in the heavily
draped enclosure of a huge bed. The forbidden glow
of candlelight filtered through layers of colored
silk, just bright enough for him to see that somewhere in the
transition, their clothing had been left behind.
"Something wrong, my dear?" asked Nysander, seeing
Magyana frowning over his shoulder as they danced.
"I was just watching Thero. He's looking dour again,
and he seemed to be having such a pleasant time.
Has Seregil been teasing him again?"
"Not that I observed."
Thero hovered grimly in a far corner, oblivious
to the band of nymphs dancing on the wall just behind him as
he scanned the room.
"I suspect Ylinestra has found more spirited
companionship for the evening," he guessed.
"Mmm. Well, that is a great deal less
surprising than seeing them together in the first place.
What in the world does she want with him?"

"He is not such a bad-looking lad," Nysander
said. "And he
is
young."
"Yes, but he's also your assistant," sniffed
Magyana. "I realize you don't mind, but it still
seems rather tactless of them."
Nysander chuckled knowingly. "Passion is seldom
governed by such niceties."
Just then, however, he caught sight of Seregil standing
by the cider barrel. He was fiddling absently with a
mug and looking rather perplexed.
"Come, my dear, you must be thirsty," said the wizard,
steering her in SeregiFs direction.
"You haven't seen Alec in the last few
minutes?" Seregil asked as they joined him.
The gloves were gone, Nysander noted, but a spotless
strip of linen still bound each hand. He wondered what
sort of explanation he'd concocted for his guests.
"Why, no. Is he missing?" replied the wizard.
"I don't know. It's been almost an hour since
I last saw him. I've just been all over the
house and he's not here. It's not like him to wander off.
Could you take a look?"
Nysander closed his eyes and sent a seeking through the
house and surrounding neighborhood, then shook his
head.
"You don't suppose-?" Magyana gestured
discreetly in There's direction.
Reluctantly, Nyander sent another of the spells
to Ylinestra's chamber, intending nothing more than a
brief glimpse to ascertain the boy's presence.
As he'd feared, Alec was there, but the energies
surrounding him were not sexual.
"What is it? Is something wrong?" Seregil asked
beside him.
Nysander held up a warning hand without opening his
eyes. "He is well. But I shall need a few
moments-was
Intensifying the spell, he found Ylinestra crouched
over Alec, who appeared to be asleep, sprawled
on his back among the disheveled blankets with a
blissful smile on his face. In contrast,
Ylinestra's face was a hard mask of concentration as
she wove an unfamiliar sigil in the air above
him. As it took form, the peaceful expression
drained from Alec's face. At first he simply
looked blank, then his brow furrowed as he
unconsciously turned his face away, a low sound
of protest rattling in his throat. The sorceress
Lynn Flewelling
leaned closer, enlarging the glowing symbol, then
struck him sharply on the cheek in frustration.
"That will be quite enough, Ylinestra!"
She whirled in surprise. The sigil snapped out
of existence.
"Nysander? How dare you spy into my chamber!" she
hissed, eyes wide with outrage at his disembodied
intrusion. "You have no right!"
"More right than you, to work magic on an unwilling
subject," Nysander retorted sternly. "Send him
back at once or I shall fetch him myself.".. .
"Such a fuss," she purred, stroking a hand down
Alec's belly, knowing he would see. "I assure
you, I did him no harm."
"That remains to be seen."
A moment later Nysander felt a ripple of
magic from upstairs. When had she mastered the
translocation spell?
With Seregil and Magyana close behind, he went
up and found Alec deeply asleep in his own
chamber. Satisfied that the boy was unharmed, he
placed a protective ward over the bed to curtail
any further mischief and quietly closed the
door.
"Well, I suspect I won't be teasing him about
his virginity anymore," Seregil said, sounding a
bit wistful. "He certainly fell in to the spirit of the
evening in a hurry."
"I doubt it was entirely his own doing," Magyana
said, wrinkling her nose in prim distaste. "If it
turns out he was coerced, I want to know about it.
There's no place for that sort of behavior in the
Oreska."
"Certainly not," Nysander said, thinking more of the
mysterious sigil she'd been using. "Still, if it was
his choice to go off with her, we must not make a fuss.
He is old enough to decide that sort of thing for himself."
Seregil let out an abrupt laugh. "I
suppose he is, really. But it may cause a
bit of a chill between him and There."
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gold.
he roar of festival gongs woke Alec at
dawn. Blinking, he gazed up in groggy confusion
at the bed hangings, a pomegranate pattern worked
with scarlet and
He'd gone to sleep beneath layers of colored silk
lit by candle glow. Ylinestra had been looking down
at him, her eyes vague with pleasure.
A delicious ache ran through him at the memory, but
with it came a twinge of anxiety that he couldn't
immediately explain.
Stretching himself fully awake, he sat up to find
Seregil dozing in an armchair beside the bed. He was
still wearing last night's breeches and shirt. Slouched
to one side, arms crossed tightly across his chest,
he looked profoundly uncomfortable.
Alec shook him gently by the elbow and he jerked
awake, rubbing painfully at his neck.
"How'd I get here?" Alec asked.
"She sent you back, I guess." The beginnings of a
dangerous grin played at the corners of his mouth.
"Ylinestra, eh? Arid after all Valerius"
warnings. Enjoy yourself?"
"Oh-yes. I mean, I did, I guess-was
"You
guess?"
Alec fell back against the pillows with a
groan. "It's just that, well-I think she used some
magic. At first, anyway."
"So that's what it takes." Chuckling, Seregil
leaned forward and touched a finger to Alec's cheek.
"And the kind that leaves marks, too. You all right?"
Alec brushed his hand away, feeling more
awkward than ever. "Yes, of course I'm all
right. It was great. Just sort of-strange." He
hesitated. "Do you dream? Afterward, I mean?"
"I usually talk. Why, did you?"
"Yes. I remember thinking that I was falling
asleep but not wanting to. And then I saw the
spinning dagger."
Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow. "The what?"
"The spinning dagger that Nysander used when I swore
the Watcher's oath. It was right in front of my
face, just like before, and I was afraid to say anything for
fear it would cut me. I could hear Nysander's
voice, too, but like it was coming from far away. I
couldn't understand what he was saying. There was something
else, too." He squeezed his eyes shut, trying
to seize the elusive fragment. "Something about an
arrow."
Seregil shook his head. "You're whisked away and
made love to by the most exotic woman in
Rhiminee and it gives you nightmares? You're a
strange creature, Alec, a very strange
creature." He grinned. "I just hope you're not
too worn out. This is the biggest celebration of the
year. And we'd better get ready. The Cavishes
are probably already at breakfast
downstairs."
Alec lay in bed a moment longer after he left,
trying to sort out his feelings about the previous
night's unexpected climax. He knew better
than to imagine that Ylinestra considered him anything more
than a virginal conquest; he doubted she'd give
him a second glance the next time they met.
At least he hoped not. Pleasurable as the
physical act-or rather, acts-had been, the whole
affair had left him feeling low and begrimed.
Seregil's well-intentioned ribbing had only
underscored his own confusion.
The sorceress' scent rose from his skin as Alec
threw back the covers and got up. Wrapping himself
in a robe, he called for the chambermaid, asking her
to prepare a bath and see to it that his bedding was changed.
The bath helped considerably and he headed
downstairs in somewhat better spirits. His one remaining
qualm was that Seregil had already blabbed his
exploits to Micum or Kari. But no one

gave signs of being any the wiser when he joined the
cheerful group around the dining table, although Seregi!
did raise a questioning eyebrow at his damp hair.
Ill ia was too excited by the prospect
of a day in the city to let anyone linger over their
morning tea. As soon as the meal was finished the
whole party set off for the Temple Precinct.
Kari and the girls rode in a comfortable open
carriage, with the men riding attendance on
horseback.
In contrast to the austerity of Mourning Night,
Sakor's Day was celebrated with wild abandon.
Horns blared, ale flowed, bonfires blazed at
all hours.
Looking around as they rode, it appeared to Alec that
there was a performance of some kind-animal trainers,
jugglers, troops of actors performing out of skene
wagons, fire dancers, and the like-on virtually every
street corner. Food sellers, gamblers,
whores, and pickpockets mingled with the revelers,
plying their trades.
"It's all so loud and exciting!" exclaimed
Elsbet, riding along beside him.
"You'll get used to it," Alec replied.
The girl grinned. "Oh, I look forward to that."
The main event of the day was the annual investing of new
troops at midday. Sakor was the patron god of
soldiers and the recognition of new troops was at
once a martial and religious occasion.
In the Temple Precinct, the tiers of seating had
been cleared away to make room for the ranks of new
soldiers formed up in front of the Sakor
Temple.
The day was a cloudless, bitter one and even Alec was
glad of the heavy, fur-lined cloak he wore over
his velvet surcoat. Seregil chatted idly with
other nobles, introducing Alec to this one or that as the
fancy took him.
"I've never seen so many new recruits, have you?"
Kari asked Seregil, shading her eyes with one hand
as they stood together on the steps of the Temple of
Illior.
He shook his head. "No, never."
"Where's Beka?" Illia demanded, bouncing
excitedly on her father's shoulder.
"Over with those in green there." Micum pointed out the
Queen's Horse, raising his voice to make himself
heard.
Glancing at Kari, Alec thought she looked rather
sad and
Lynn Flewelling
thoughtful. As if sensing his gaze, she looked over
at him and held a hand out for his.
By the time the last ranks had marched in, the
close-packed regimental groupings looked like
colored tiles in a huge mosaic. The Queen's
Horse was a block of green and white directly
in front of the Temple of Sakor.
"Look, there's the Queen," said Micum.
"They'll start now."
Looking solemn and proud despite her long
vigil, Idrilain took her place between the
pillars of the Sakor Temple. She wore flowing
robes of state and an emerald diadem and carried
the Sword of Gerilain upright on her shoulder like a
scepter. The golden Aegis gleamed behind her as she
stood motionless before the troops, the faint vapor of
her breath visible on the cold air. The tableau was
intentional; there was no doubt to whom the oath was to be
given. The priests might be allowed their mysteries
in the darkness, but here, in the light of day, stood the
embodiment of Skalan power.
Placing the sword point downward in front of her,
Idrilain grasped the hilt in both hands and began
the ritual.
"Come you here to swear the Oath?" she cried, her
voice carrying clear and harsh as if across a field
of battle.
"Aye!" came the response from a thousand
throats, thundering in the stone confines of the precinct.
From the corner of his eye, Alec saw Micum and
Seregil drop their hands to their sword hilts, as
did many around them. Without a word, he did the same.
"To whom do you swear?"
"To the throne of Skala and the Queen who rules!"
returned the initiate soldiers.
"By what do you swear?"
"By the Four, by the Flame, by our honor, and our
arms!"
"Swear then to uphold the honor of your land and
Queen!"
"Aye!"
"Swear then to give no quarter to the adversary."
"Aye!"
"Swear then to spare the supplicant."
"Aye!"
"Foreswear all that brings dishonor upon your
comrades."
"Aye!"
Idrilain paused, letting a moment pass in
stillness. Then, in a voice that would have done credit
to any sergeant, she barked out, "Display arms!"
With a ringing of steel, the various regiments
brandished their weapons: swords and sabers glinted in
the sunlight; small forests of lances sprang
to attention; archers beat arrow shafts against longbows,
producing a strange clacking sound; artillery
soldiers held catapult stones aloft. Standards
unfurled on cue to snap brightly over the throng.
"Then so are you all sworn together!" cried
Idrilain, raising her sword overhead. "By the
Four and the Flame, by land and Queen, by honor and
arms. Warriors of Skala, sound your cries!"
A deafening roar filled the square as each regiment
shouted its own battle cry, vying with the others to make
their voices heard.
"The Queen's honor!"
"Sakor'sFire!"
"Honor and steel!"
"The Flame on the Seal"
"True aim and well sped!"
"The White Hawk!"
Drummers and pipers stepped from behind the temple
pillars, setting up a martial tattoo. Great
horns as long as the men that sounded them blared and
bellowed on the rooftops as the ranks turned and
began to march out of the square.
"It all makes you want to join in with it,
doesn't it?" Alec grinned, pulse quickening with the
beat of the drums.
Laughing, Seregil threw an arm around Alec's
shoulders and drew him away, shouting over the din,
"That's the whole idea."
The clamor at dawn went unheard by Nysander.
Seated cross- legged on the floor of the casting
room, a long dead candle guttered out before him, he
floated in the dim oblivion of meditation.
Images came and went, yet nothing substantial
came into his grasp.
After seeing Magyana to her tower door the previous
night, he'd made his usual tour of the vaults beneath
the Oreska, then found himself leaving first the House,
then the sheltered gardens, to stalk alone through the windy
streets.
Hands clasped behind his back, he walked aimlessly,
as if trying to escape the anger that had been building
slowly inside him from the moment he'd found
Ylinestra hovering over Alec in her chamber.
Lynn Flewelling
Much of this anger was directed at himself. Ylinestra
had meant no more to him than a voluptuous diversion
possessed of a mind of uncommon ability. Yet
he had allowed his carnal desires to blind
him to the true depths of her cupidity. Her sudden
dalliance with There had reawakened his lulled sense of
prudence. What he'd witnessed this night strengthened
his suspicions.
He let out an exasperated growl. The Black
Time was coming, he knew, coming in the course of his own
Guardianship. Was he prepared?
Hardly.
He had an assistant he could not completely trust
and yet hardly dared release. A sorceress
twenty decades his junior had him passion-blind.
And Seregil!
Nysander clenched his hands, digging the nails into his
palms. Seregil, whom he loved as a son and a
friend, had very nearly condemned himself to death through his own
obstinate inquisitiveness. Alec would prove no
different in time-that much was already clear.
For the first time in years, he found himself wondering what
his own master would have to say about all this. Arkoniel's
craggy face came to him as readily as if he'd
seen him only the day before.
He'd been old when Nysander had first met him and
never seemed to change. How fervently the young
Nysander-that desperate, quick-tempered urchin of the
streets, plucked starving from the squalor
of the lower city-had tried to emulate the old man's
patience and wisdom.
But from Arkoniel he'd also inherited the burden of the
Guardianship, that dark thread of knowledge that must be kept
at once intact and concealed. A thread that the events
of the past few months, beginning with Seregil's finding
the cursed disk and culminating tonight with the omens at the
ceremony, showed to be nearing its end.
Finding no answers in the night, he'd returned
to his tower and prepared for a formal meditation. Dawn
found him motionless and seemingly serene. He'd been
dimly aware of There's arrival and respectful
withdrawal.
As the last light of Sakor's Day faded above the
tower dome, Nysander opened his eyes, no wiser
than when he'd begun. Denied inspiration, he was
left with facts. Seregil had stumbled across the
disk, ostensibly by accident, then found his way to the
Stalking Darkness

Oracle of Illior, who'd recited a fragment
of a prophecy no one but Nysander himself had any
business knowing about. Last night the same
words-"Eater of Death"-had been spoken by the priest
of Sakor following the strange omen of
carrion birds.
Rising, he worked the stiffness from his joints and set off
for the Temple Precinct again.
A cold sliver of moon was just sliding up from behind the
white dome of the Temple of Illior when he
arrived. Taking this as a favorable sign, he entered
the temple and donned the ritual mask.
He'd sought the counsel of the Oracle only a few
times before, and then more often in the spirit of curiosity. His
devotion to Illior took a different form than that
of the priests.
But now he hurried onward with a growing sense of
anticipation. Snapping a light of his own
into existence, he made his way down the twisting,
treacherous stairway to the subterranean chamber of the
Oracle. At the bottom he extinguished the light
and strode on through the utter blackness of the
corridor, more convinced with every step that the poor, mad
creature at its end had answers to offer.
A lumpish, disheveled young man squatting on a
pallet bed looked up as he entered. This was not the
same Oracle Nysander recalled, of course,
yet all the rest was as before: the profound silence, the
dim, cold light, the attendants seated motionless
on either side of the idiot vessel of the
Immortal, featureless silver masks gleaming from
the depths of their cowls.
"Greetings to you, Guardian!" he cried, vague
eyes locking with Nysander's.
"You know me?"
"Who you are is nothing," the Oracle replied,
rocking slowly from side to side.
"What
you are is everything. Everything. Prepare, O
Guardian. The ordeal is close at hand. Have you
preserved what was entrusted?"
"I have." Nysander suddenly felt weary beyond words.
How many times had he walked through the dusty labyrinth
beneath the Oreska House, feigning absent
curiosity? How many years had it taken
to cultivate his reputation as an eccentric,
albeit powerful, dabbler? How much had he
sacrificed to uphold the trust of generations?
"Stand ready, O Guardian, and be vigilant," the
Oracle continued. "Your time approaches out of
darkness and hidden places.
Lynn Flewelling
The minions of the Adversary ride forth in secret
glory. Your portion shall be bitter as gall."
The silence closed over them again like the
surface of a pool. Into that silence Nysander slowly
recited words that, to his knowledge, had not been said aloud in
nearly five centuries. It was a fragment of the
"Dream of Hyradin," the one faint ray of hope
he and all his predecessors had clung to down the
long years of their vigil.
was "And so came the Beautiful One, the Eater of
Death, to strip the bones of the world. First clothed in
Man's flesh, it came crowned with a helm of
darkness and none could stand against this One but Four.
was 'First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light
in the darkness. Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall
fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen
One, goes forth. And at last shall be again the
Guardian, whose portion is bitter, as bitter as
gall." his
The Oracle said nothing to this, but gazed up at him with
eyes that held no alternative.
After a moment, Nysander bowed slightly and went
back the way he'd come, in darkness and alone.
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Alec had hoped that their stay at Wheel
Street would be brief-a week perhaps, to satisfy
appearances. But the week stretched into two, and then
lengthened to a month. Seregil had "daylight
business" to attend to, as he called his numerous
legitimate interests around the city. They spent a
great deal of time in the lower city, where he met with
ship captains in warehouses smelling of tar and low
tide, or haggled with traders at the customs
houses. This meant that for the time being their comfortable rooms
over the Cockerel were generally off- limits; they
couldn't chance a connection being made between Lord
Seregil and the inn.
The business transactions bored Alec, but he
contented himself with observing how Seregil played the
role. Despite his affectations, he had the common
touch that invited confidence and respect. He also had
a reputation for openhandedness in certain matters;
tradesmen were happy enough to pass on whatever rumors
were current and there was little going on, legal or
otherwise, which Seregil didn't soon hear of.
Equally important were the evening salons. Once
it was known that the elusive Lord Seregil was home
at last, a veritable deluge of scented,
wax-sealed invitations poured in.
Lynn Flewelling
Thrown together night after night with nobles of all
degrees, Alei gradually learned the gentle art
of conversational thrust and parr so necessary to navigate the
intricate waters of Skalan politics
"Intrigue!" Seregil laughed when Alec
groaned over manner: once too often. "That's our
bread and butter, and the only intrigue that pay are
those of the wealthy. Smile nicely, nod often, an
less-than keep your ears open."
Alec's presence excited a certain amount of comment
at first and rumors regarding his relationship with
Seregil circulate less-than hotly. The
higher-minded accepted that he really was-
Seregil': ward, or perhaps his illegitimate
son, though the majority o opinion tended toward
less altruistic possibilities. Alec was
morti fied, but Seregil shrugged it off.
"Don't let it bother you," he counseled. "In
these circles this less-than only thing worse than
being slandered is not being talked about a all. In a
month or two they'll forget all about it and think
you'vi been around for years."
To this end, they made a point of frequenting the
better theater: and gambling houses. The Tirade
Theater in the Street of Light: was a
favorite haunt of Seregil's, particularly when
Pelion i Eirsii was on stage.
Alec was an instant aficionado of drama.
Brought up on ballad: and tavern tales, he was
amazed to see stories played out by a fill cast in
costume. Whether he understood the story line or
not-am he frequently didn't-the pageantry of it
was enough to keep him enthralled through the entire performance.
And through it all, Alec's education continued-lock
worl and swordsmanship, etiquette and lineage,
history and disguise, thi picking of surcoats and the
picking of pockets-together with a him dred other skills
Seregil deemed indispensable for an aspiring spy.
One grey morning several weeks after the Festival
Seregi handed Alec a sealed note from the pile of
new correspondence a his elbow as they sat over a
late breakfast.
Breaking the seal, he read a hastily scrawled
note from Beki Cavish.
Can get free a few hours this afternoon. Fancy a
ride? If so, meet me at the Cima Road
gate at noon.
-B.c.
Stalking Darkness
97
"You don't need me this afternoon, do you?" he asked
hopefully, passing the note to Seregil. "I
haven't seen her since the investiture."
Seregil nodded. "Go on. I think I can manage
without you."
Arriving at the Harvest Market well before the
appointed time, Alec found Beka already waiting for
him by the city gate. The way she sat her horse,
reins held casually in one hand, her other elbow
cocked out at a jaunty angle beneath her green
cloak, spoke volumes; she looked born
to soldiering.
"Aren't you still the fine young dandy?" she called as he
maneuvered Windrunner through the market crowd.
"Seregil's making a gentleman of me, after
all." He struck a haughty pose. "Soon
I'll be too good to hang about with the likes of you."
"Then we'd better get on with it while we still can.
I need a good run," she said, grinning at him.
Nudging Wyvern into a trot, she led the way through the
gate.
As soon as they were past the curtain wall beyond, they
kicked their mounts into a gallop and rode north
along the cliffs. The frozen roadway rang like
metal under their horses' hooves; the sea
gave back a metallic sheen beneath the pale winter
sky. To the east, the mountain peaks gleamed white
against the lowering sky.
Side by side, cloaks streaming out behind them, Alec
and Beka raced along the highroad for a mile or
more, then veered off into a meadow overlooking the sea.
"That's quite a harness you've got on Wyvem,"
Alec remarked, noting the leather breastplate and
frontlet. .
"That's to accustom him to the feel of it," she
explained. "For battle, the leather's replaced with
felt pads and bronze plates."
"How do you like military life? And what do I
call you now?"
"We all start as riders, although those of us with
commissions are actually officers from the start. I'll
be a lieutenant when we ride off to the war. Right
now all the new riders are divided up into training
decuria. I'm in the first turma under Captain
Myrhini. Lieutenants lead three decuriae,
but it's the captain more often than not who leads the
drills-was
"Hold on!" Alec interjected, reining in. "You
soldiers speak a different language. What's a
turma?"
"I'm still getting it all straight myself," she
admitted. "Let's
Lynn Flewelling
see, now-ten riders make a decuria, which is led
by a sergeant. Three decuriae to a turma, commanded
by a lieutenant; three turmae to a troop and four
troops to a squadron; two squadrons to the
regiment. What with officers, sutlers and the like, there's
about eight hundred of us altogether. Captain Myrhini
has command of First Troop of the Lion Squadron
under Commander Klia. Commander Perns commands the Wolf
Squadron. And the Queen's oldest son, Prince
Korathan, is the regimental commander."
"Sounds like a pretty exclusive bunch."
"The Horse Guard is an elite regiment; the
officers are all nobles. The riders all have
to provide their own mounts and prove themselves at riding
and shooting, so most of them are from well- to-do
families as well. I'd never have gotten a
commission without Seregil's help. Still, elite or
not, you should see some of the young blue bloods tumbling
off their horses as they try to draw! I tell you,
I've never appreciated Father's training so much as
now. Sergeant Braknil thinks Captain
Myrhini will want to keep me in her
troop when I've finished training. I'll have
thirty riders under me. But how about you? I
suppose Seregil's keeping you pretty busy?"
"Oh, yes." Alec rolled his eyes. "I think
I've gotten all of ten hours sleep this week.
When we're not arguing with traders or going off to some
fancy gathering, he's got me sitting up half the
night memorizing royal lineages. I think he
secretly means to make me into a scribe."
A little pause spread out and in it he felt the distance
opening between them as they headed down their divergent
paths. What he really wanted to tell her about were
their nocturnal adventures, but Seregil was
adamant about secrecy outside Watcher
circles. At some point, he thought, Nysander ought
to recruit Beka.
Looking up, he found her studying his face with a
faint smile. It occurred to him that having grown up
around Micum and Seregil, she probably had a
fair idea of his unspoken life.
"Did I tell you Seregil's teaching me
Aurenfaie?" he said, anxious to reestablish
common ground.
"Nos eyir? his
He laughed. "You, too?"
"Oh, yes. Elsbet and I were always pestering him
to teach us when he came to visit. She had a better
head for it, naturally, but I know a little. I
suppose you'll need it, too. It's all the
fashion among the nobles."

"Seregil says most of them sound like they're talking
through a mouthful of wet leather when they try. He's
making certain I get it right.
Makiry "torus eyair.
How's that?"
"Korveu tak melilira. Afarya tos
hara'beniel?"
she replied, wheeling her horse and kicking it into a
gallop.
Assuming it had either been an insult or an
invitation to another race, Alec galloped after her.
Dusk was settling outside the windows of
Seregil's bedchamber when Alec strode in with
flushed cheeks and new snow melting in his hair. The
sweet tang of a cold ocean wind still clung to him.
"Tell me we don't have to dress up tonight!" he
pleaded, dropping down on the hearth rug
by Seregil's feet.
Seregil laid his book aside and
stretched lazily. "You look like you've had quite an
afternoon."
"We rode for miles! I should have taken my bow-we
ended up in the hills and there were rabbits everywhere."
"I may have some other hunting for you." Seregil
pulled a small scroll from his belt and brandished it
between two long fingers. "This was left at the Black
Feather for the Rhiminee Cat. It seems Lady
Isara has lost some compromising letters and she wants
them back. She thinks Baron Makrin's study is
a good place to start looking."
"Tonight?" Alec asked, all weariness instantly
forgotten.
"I think that's best. It's a pretty
straightforward burglary, nothing fancy.
Midnight's soon enough. We'll have to wait
until the household's settled down, but I
don't want to be out in the cold any longer than
we have to."
The wind tugged at their cloaks as Seregil and
Alec set off for the baron's villa on the west
side of the Noble Quarter. They wore coarse
workman's tunics, and old traveling cloaks
covered the swords slung out of sight over their
backs.
They'd gone only a few blocks when Seregil
suddenly sensed someone on the street behind them. Touching
Alec lightly on the arm, he turned a corner
at random and caught a hint of motion in the shadows
behind them.
Lynn Flewelling
"Just like that time I was chased into Silvermoon
Street," Alec whispered, glancing back
nervously.
"I had the same thought, though it's probably just
someone out for a midnight stroll. Let's find out."
Leaving the baron for later, he turned right at the
next corner, heading east into the heart of the city.
A slice of moon broke free from the clouds,
giving just enough light for Seregil to make out a large,
dark form trailing them from a discreet distance.
Not so innocent after all,
he frowned to himself. -Keeping up a steady pace,
he strode on into the increasingly poorer streets of the
southeast quarter. Their man still kept his distance, but
matched them turn for turn.
"Do you hear that?" Alec asked softly.
"Hear what?"
"That little scraping sound, when he walks over a
patch of bare cobbles. I heard it that other
time, too."
"Well then, we'd better let him introduce
himself."
Wending his way into a disreputable warren of darkened
tenements and warehouses, Seregil spotted a
familiar alleyway. Pretending to stumble, he
reached out and grasped Alec's elbow and signed for
him to follow.
Ducking into the alley, he quickly tore off his
cloak and tossed it behind a pile of refuse, then
pulled himself through a crumbling window frame
overhead. Alec was up beside him in an instant. From
this vantage point, they watched as their man
hesitated, then drew a falchion and went slowly
on into the shadows of the alley. From this angle,
Seregil couldn't make out his face.
An amateur, but persistent,
Seregil thought, watching as he went half the length
of the alley before realizing that it was a dead end, and that his
quarry was nowhere in sight.
As he turned, Seregil and Alec dropped
lightly to the pavement and drew their swords.
"What do you want?" Seregil demanded.
Undaunted, their pursuer took a step forward,
weapon at the ready. "If ever you called
yourself Gwethelyn, Lady of Cador Ford, and
Ciris, squire of the same, then we've a matter
of restitution to discuss."
"Captain Rhal!" Alec examined.
"The same, boy."

"You're a long way from the
Darter,"
said Seregil, hoping he didn't sound as shaken as
he felt.
"And a good thing, too," Rhal retorted stiffly,
"seeing that she lies rotting at the bottom of the
Folcwine River."
"What's that to do with us?"
Rhal advanced another step, flinging his hat
aside. "I've traveled a long way to ask
you
that. Two days below Torburn we put in for water
at a little place called Gresher's Ferry. A
pack of swordsmen were waiting for us there, and who do you
suppose they wanted?"
Alec shifted uncomfortably beside him.
"I'm sure I have no idea," Seregil
replied. "Who were they looking for?"
"Two men and a boy, they claimed, but it was
you they meant, sure enough. If I hadn't caught
you out of your woman's riggings I might not have
tumbled, but it was you."
"You're mistaken, though I suppose you set them
after us anyway?"
"By the Old Sailor, I did not!" Rhal
retorted angrily. "I might have saved myself the
loss of a fine ship if I had."
Certain disturbing questions had occurred to Seregil
during this exchange, but before he could ask any the
three of them were startled by a sudden commotion behind them at
the mouth of the alley.
A gang of back alley toughs materialized out
of the shadows armed with swords, cudgels, and
daggers.- Seregil saw in an instant that there were enough
of them to be trouble.
To his surprise, he found Rhal at his side,
sword leveled at the newcomers. Alec cast him
one questioning look, then fell in beside the captain as the
ambushers charged in at them.
Rhal took the center, striking right and left with
workmanlike efficiency. Seregil had just time enough
to pull the poniard free of his boot before he found
himself fighting two-handed against a ruffian wielding a
quarterstaff.
The alley made for close quarters fighting and the
three of them were soon being forced back inch by inch toward
the dead end at their backs.
"Trouble above!" Rhal bellowed as a hail of
stones and roof tiles clattered down from overhead.
"Press the bastards!"
A heavy tile struck his arm, jarring his sword from
his hand. A tall footpad closed in, but
Seregil whirled and buried his poniard
Lynn Flewelling
between the man's ribs. Beside him, Alec struck
another across the face. Rhal rolled hastily out from
under their feet, scrambling through the dirty snow for his
weapon.
More stones rained down but thanks to the darkness or
someone's poor aim, most of this load landed among the
attackers. In the resulting confusion, Seregil and the
others broke free to the street, the gang hot on
their heels.
Freed from the confines of the alley, he rounded on the
man nearest him and ran him through, then blocked a
swing from a quarterstaff. He'd lost sight of
Alec, but a fierce yell just behind told him the boy
was holding his own.
Seregil was just facing off with two of the
footpads when the shrill alarm of a Watch
trumpet rang out nearby. A moment later a
Watch patrol galloped into sight down the street,
weapons drawn. The footpads left off at
once and melted away into the shadows like sea smoke
before a freshening breeze.
"Come on!" Seregil hissed at Alec and
Rhal, and bolted off in the opposite direction.
"What are we running for?" Rhal panted.
"So we don't spend the night inventing lies for some
thickheaded bluecoat," Seregil snapped.
Dodging into the next side street, he spotted a
sagging bulkhead at the base of a tenement just ahead.
Hoping for the best, he yanked up one of the flat
doors and tossed in a lightstone. Worn steps led
down to a disused cellar.
"Down here!"
Alec and Rhal dove for cover and he followed,
pulling the door shut overhead again.
Crouched tensely in the musty darkness, they listened as
the Watch made a cursory search of the area and then
moved on.
Seregil looked over at Rhal. "Now, you were
saying-?"
For the space of a few heartbeats Rhal
stared blankly back at him, then burst out laughing.
"By the Mariner, I came here to stick a knife in you
and now I'm indebted to you for my life. You two had
no call to cover me as you did just then."
"You had no call to let us go that night on the
Darter"
Seregil replied, picking up the light and heading
for the stairs. "But you did, and here we are. The boy
and I have some business to attend to just now, but I'd like
to continue our earlier discussion. Meet us at the inner
room of the Bower in Silk Street, say in an
hour's time?"

Rhal considered the invitation, then nodded. "All right
then. An hour."
Seregil lifted the bulkhead door cautiously,
then climbed out with Alec close behind.
"Are we really going to meet him?" Alec asked as
they hurried away.
"He tracked us to Wheel Street. I think we'd
better find out how he managed that, don't you?"
Seregil scowled, making no effort to mask his
concern. "And who it was that came to him looking for us,
although I think I can guess."
The answering look of fear on Alec's
face told Seregil that he could, too.
Their unanticipated run-in with Rhal had sapped
every ounce of enjoyment from the night for Alec. He
floundered through the job in a daze of apprehension.
Seregil had said nothing more on the matter so far, but
he couldn't shake the conviction that his own callow
ignorance aboard the
Darter
had somehow led Rhal to them after all these months. And
if he'd tracked them, then why not Mardus?
Luckily for him, the burglary was not a particularly
challenging one. Evidently a smug,
unimaginative fellow, Makrin had hidden the letters
in a locked box behind a bit of loose woodwork in
his study. Seregil spotted it while Alec was still
sorting through the contents of the writing table. With Lady
Isara's letters in hand, along with a few other items
of interest, they stopped briefly at Wheel
Street to deposit the goods, then set off on
horseback for the Bower.
This was a discreetly respectable establishment
Seregil often used for assignations. A yawning
pot boy led them to a room at the back. Rhal was
already there, but not alone; Alec immediately recognized
the two men with him as the helmsman and first
mate from the ill-fated
Darter.
They recognized him as well, and returned his
greeting with guarded nods, weapons close at hand.
Rhal pushed a wine jug over to them as he and
Seregil joined him at the table.
Seregil poured himself a cup, then said without
preamble, "Tell me more about Gresher's Ferry."
Rhal eyed him knowingly. "As I said, a pack of
armed men was laying for us there."
Lynn Flewelling
"A rough-lookin" crew," the helmsman,
Skywake, added darkly, "They didn't have no
uniforms, but they sat their horses like soldiers."
Alec's heart sank still lower, though Seregil's
face remained a carefully neutral mask.
"They came asking after two men and a boy, said they'd
stolen the mayor's gold up in Wolde," Rhal
continued. "When I told "em I hadn't carried
any three such as they described, they pulled
swords and swarmed all over my vessel, bold as
you please. Then their leader-a big, black-bearded
son of a whore with an accent thick as lentil
porridge-he laid into me, calling me a liar and
worse in front of my own crew. The more
he went on, the less I liked it. By the time he
stopped for breath, I'd sooner been drowned than
give him satisfaction. So I kept mum and
finally they rode off.
"We went on downriver and I thought that was the end of
it, but that same night a fire started in the hold and
burned so fierce we couldn't even get down to douse
it. Everyone got off, but my ship lies burnt and
broken against the mud bank below Hullout Bend.
That's just a bit too much of a coincidence for my
taste, especially since we were carrying silver and
bales of vellum that voyage."
"Not the most flammable of cargoes." Seregil
regarded Rhal impassively over the rim of his
cup. "And so you came looking for us."
"You're not going to tell me you were traveling in
disguise just to make a fool of me?" Rhal
snorted.
"No."
Nettles slammed his fist down on the table. "Then
it was you they was looking for!"
"I don't know anything about that," Seregil
maintained. "What I'm interested in is how you found
me."
"Not much trick to that," Skywake told
him, jerking a thumb at Alec. "This boy of yours
asked around amongst the crew how to get to Rhiminee
just before you got off."
Idiot!
Alec silently berated himself, his worst fears
confirmed.
"Who did he talk to?" asked Seregil, not
looking at him.
"There were a bunch of us on deck that day, as I
recall," Nettles replied. "Skywake, you was
there, and the cook's boy."
"That's right. And Applescaith. He was the one
wanted him to go overland the whole way, remember?"

"Aye. Him, too. And Bosfast."
Alec sat staring down at his wine cup, mouth set
in a grim line. How could he have been so green?
He might just as well have drawn their pursuers a
map.
Seregil took another sip of wine, considering all
this. "And so, with nothing more than a few tenuous
suspicions, you chuck everything and head off for
Skala to stick a knife in me?" He shook his
head in evident bemusement. "Rhiminee's a big
place. How in the world did you expect
to find us?"
Rhal scrubbed a hand over his thinning hair and gave
a short chuckle. "If you aren't the damnedest
creature for brass. All right then, I'll tell
you straight. You're looking at a ruined man.
All I came away with was my instruments and this."
Rhal held up his left hand, displaying a large
garnet ring on his little finger. Alec recognized it
as the one Seregil had worn while playing Lady
Gwethelyn, but what was Rhal doing with it? Looking
at Seregil for a reaction, he saw the hint of a
smile tugging at the corner of his friend's mouth.
"With the
Darter
beyond fixing and winter coming on, I didn't see too
many prospects for me in the north," Rhal went
on. "I was a deepwater sailor in my youth. I
took up the Folcwine passage when my uncle
willed me his ship and the chance to be my own master.
Now with the war brewing up for spring, I figured I
maybe could sign on with the navy.
"To tell you the honest truth, I didn't really
expect to find you. Then I caught sight of your
boy back around the time you had all that trouble with the
law. Since then, we've kept watch on
that fancy house of yours, hoping to have a quiet chat,
as it were. You're a hard pair to track down,
though."
"It was you that chased me that night," said Alec.
"That was us." Rhal rubbed a knee with a rueful
grin. "You're a tricky little bugger, and fa'st.
I'd figured you two for soft gents and didn't
think you'd give us much trouble. After seeing the way you
handled yourselves in that alley, though, I believe I'm
glad those footpads showed up when they did."
Seregil gave him the crooked grin. "It may be
good fortune for all of us, meeting up again."
"How do you figure that?"
"You two"-Seregil turned to Skywake and
Nettles-"do you fancy signing on as common
sailors with a war coming?"
"We go where our captain goes," Skywake
replied stoutly,
lynn Flewelling
though it was clear neither he nor the former helmsman were
enthusiastic about the prospect.
Seregil looked back to Rhal. "And you,
Captain-I'd think it would be difficult to serve
after having a vessel of your own."
Alec began to suspect where this conversation was
headed.
"Of course, I'd be the last person to discourage
anyone from fighting the Plenimarans," Seregil
drawled, "but it seems to me there are more rewarding
ways of going about it. Have you considered privateering?"
"I've considered it." Rhal shrugged, studying the
other man's face with a sharp trader's crafty
interest, "but that takes a strong, swift ship and more
gold than I'm ever likely to see."
"What it takes," Seregil said, reaching into his
belt pouch, "is the proper investors. Would this get
you started?"
Opening his hand, Seregil showed them an emerald the
size of a walnut glowing in the hollow of his palm.
It was one of many such stones Seregil kept handy as
a conveniently portable form of wealth.
"By the Sailor, Captain, did you ever see the like
of that!" Nettles gasped.
Rhal glanced down at the stone, then back at
Seregil. "Why?"
Seregil placed the stone in the center of the table.
"Perhaps I appreciate a man with a sense of
humor."
"Skywake, Nettles, wait outside," Rhal
said quietly. As they left, Rhal
made a questioning gesture in Alec's direction.
Seregil shook his head. "He stays. So, what do
you think of my offer. It won't be repeated once
we leave this room."
"Tell me why," Rhal repeated, picking up the
gem. "You've heard my story and told me nothing,
yet you offer me this. What's it really paying for?"
Seregil chuckled softly. "You're a clever man,
away from the ladies. Let's understand one another.
I've got secrets I prefer to keep, but there
are surer ways than this to protect them, if you
take my meaning. What I'm offering you,
all
I'm offering you, is a mutually beneficial
business proposition. You find a ship, see to the
crew, the provisioning, everything. I provide
capital, in return for which I receive twenty percent
of the take and passage wherever I say, whenever I
require it, which will most likely be never. The rest
of the profits are yours to be divided in whatever
fashion you see fit."
"And?" Still skeptical, Rhal put the stone back
on the table.
"Information. Any document confiscated, any
rumors from

prisoners, any encounter that seems out of the
ordinary-it all comes to me directly and not a word
to anyone else."
Rhal nodded, satisfied. "So you're nosers, after
all. Who for?"
"Let's just say we consider Skalan interests
to be our own."
"I don't suppose you have any proof of that?"
"None whatsoever."
Rhal drummed his fingers lightly on the tabletop
for a minute, calculating. "Ship's papers in my
name alone, and I run my vessel as I see
fit?"
"All right."
Rhal tapped the emerald. "This is a good start, but
it won't pay for a ship, nor get one built before
midsummer."
"As it happens, I know of a vessel being refitted
at a boatyard in Macar. The principal
backer's been having second thoughts." Seregil
produced a stone identical to the first. "These should be
ample evidence of good faith. I'll make
arrangements to have all further funds paid out to you in
gold."
"And what if I just slip the cable tonight with these?"
Seregil shrugged. "Then you'll be a relatively
wealthy man. Are we to say done to it or not?"
Rhal shook his head, looking less than
satisfied. "You're an odd one, and no
mistake. I've one last condition of my own, or
it's no deal."
"And that is?"
"If I'm to keep faith with you, then I want your
names, your true names."
"If you've tracked me to Wheel Street, then
you've already heard it; Seregil i Korit
Solun Meringil Bokthersa."
"That's a mouthful by half. And you, boy. You got a
fancy long hook, too?"
Alec hesitated, and felt Seregil's foot
nudge his own beneath the table. "You'll have heard mine,
too. Alec, Alec of Ivywell."
"All right, then, I'm satisfied." Pocketing the
gems, Rhal spit in his palm and extended his hand
to Seregil. "I say done to it, Seregil
whoever-you-are."
Seregil clasped hands. "Done it is,
Captain."
Alec was very silent as they rode back
to Wheel Street. Passing through the glow of a lone
street lantern, Seregil saw that he was looking
thoroughly miserable.
lynn Flewelling
"It's not as bad as all that," he assured him.
"Anyone looking for Lord Seregil knows where to find
him."
"Sure, but what if it hadn't been Wheel
Street he followed us to?" Alec shot back
bitterly.
"We're much more careful about that. No one's ever
tracked me there."
"Probably because you were never stupid enough to give them the
damn directions!"
"Still, considering the circumstances-me too sick
to think straight, you not knowing the country-I don't know
what else you could have done, except maybe have
waited until we were off the ship to ask the way. You
didn't know any better then. You do now."
"A fat lot of comfort that'll be when some other old
mistake of mine catches up with us," Alec
persisted, looking only slightly less miserable.
"What if the next one who shows up is Mardus?"
"Even if those were his men that boarded Rhal's ship-and
I admit, it sure sounded like them-he
didn't tell them anything."
"Then you think we're safe?"
Seregil grinned darkly. "We're never safe.
But I do think if Mardus had tracked us down,
we'd have heard from him by now. I mean, he'd have to be
insane to hang about in Rhiminee for any length of
time the way things are now."
i caret caret caret from caret it caret caret
caret Sf caret ili caret like caret caret
caret caret caret like caret caret caret Very
Sarisin wore into Dostin, tightening winter's
embrace on the city. Snow gusted down out
of
the mountains, only to be followed by icy rain
off
the sea that reduced it all to thick, dirty slush and
churned ice, treacherous underfoot. Smoke from
thousands of chimneys mingled with the fog and hung in a
grey haze over the rooftops for days at a
stretch.
Preparations for war continued amid a constant stream of
rumor and minor alarms. Skalan merchants were
harassed in Mycenian towns, warehouses were rifled
or burned. Plenimaran press gangs were
reported on the prowl in ports as far
west as Isil. Word circulated that more than a
hundred keels had been laid down in Plenimaran
shipyards.
No major host could be raised before spring, but the
forces already billeted in Rhiminee were more
visible-than usual as they worked on the city's
defenses and drilled outside the walls. Seregil
and Alec often rode over to view the Queen's
Horse at their maneuvers, but their friends there
seldom had time for more than a brief hello.
At Macar, Rhal's ship was progressing
rapidly under the captain's sharp eye. As
Seregil had anticipated, once assured of the good
faith
Lyim Flewelling
between them, Rhal looked out for his silent backer's
interests as if they were his own.
It would be another two months before the vessel could be
launched, but he already had Skywake and Nettles
combing seaports up and down the coast for sailors.
The one subject he kept silent on was the
vessel's name. When Alec asked, Rhal only
winked, telling him it was bad luck to say before she was
launched.
Though by no means oblivious to the import
of the events unfolding around him, Alec moved through the
grey midwinter days in a state of increasing
contentment. He'd gradually settled into the role of
Sir Alec and had lost most of his awkwardness around
the nobles. He was happiest, though, honing his more
illicit skills as he worked side by side with
Seregil as the Rhiminee Cat or on Watcher
business for Nysander.
He also came to appreciate the amenities of
life at Wheel Street. In his former life,
wandering the northlands with his father, winter had always meant
hardship-slogging up and down trap lines, sheltering
in brushwood huts, and the snowy solitude of the
forest.
Here, fires burned at all hours against the
ever-present damp and cold. Thick carpets
covered the floors, food and wine were there for the asking,
and warm baths-for which he had finally acquired a
taste-could be had at any hour in a special room
just down the hall. Some of his fondest memories of
those days would be sitting by a snug fire on a
stormy day, enjoying the sound of the rain lashing against the
shutters.
As always, life with Seregil had a charmed quality;
his enthusiasm and irreverent good humor
buoyed Alec along as a seemingly endless
progression of lessons were placed before him. The more
Alec learned, the more he found he felt like a man
who'd thirsted for years unknowing, only discovering his
need when it finally began to be slaked. In return,
Alec tried to teach Seregil archery and, despite
all evidence to the contrary, stubbornly refused
to give him up as a hopeless cause.
One stormy afternoon Seregil discovered Alec in the
library, frowning pensively as he scanned the
shelves.

"Looking for something in particular?"
"Histories," Alec replied, fingering the spine
of a thick volume. "Last night at Lord
Kallien's salon, someone was saying how this war may
be as bad as the Great War. I got to wondering what
that one was like. You've told me a bit about it, but I
thought it would be interesting to do some reading on it. Do you
have anything?"
"Nothing much, but the Oreska library does,"
Seregil replied, inwardly delighted at this show of
scholarly initiative. Alec generally preferred more
active pursuits. "We could ride over if you'd
like, and see Nysander, too. It's been
days since we've heard from him."
Sleet pelted wetly down on them as they
galloped through the streets of the Noble Quarter to the
Oreska House. As soon as they entered the
enchanted gardens surrounding it the sleet turned
to warm, gentle rain.
Turning his face up to it, Seregil wondered if
any of the wizards ever got bored with the perpetual
summer that surrounded the place.
Crossing the second-floor mezzanine on their
way to Nysander's tower, Alec nudged Seregil and
pointed to the walkway across the atrium.
"Look there," he murmured with a slight grin.
Following his nod, Seregil saw Thero and
Ylinesrra walking along arm and arm. As they
watched, Thero threw his head back and let out a
genuine laugh.
"Thero laughing?" Seregil whispered in amazement.
Alec watched as the pair disappeared down a
corridor. "Do you think he's in love with her?"
"He probably is, the poor idiot. Or
maybe she's magicked him."
He'd meant it as a joke on Thero, but Alec's
sudden blush made him wish he'd kept it to himself.
The boy never spoke of his own apparently
cataclysmic tryst with the sorceress, or betrayed
any sign of jealousy when speculating on her other
attachments, but he was rather brittle about the
circumstances.
Magyana answered their knock at the tower door.
She had a few willow leaves caught in her
silvery braid and a smudge of damp earth on her
chin.
"Hello, you two!" She exclaimed, letting them
in. "I just dug some lovely orris root in the
garden and brought some up to
Lynn Flewelling
Nysander, but he's not here. Wethis says he's off
visiting Leiteus i Marineus again."
Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow. "The
astrologer?"
"Yes, he's been spending quite a lot of time with him
these last few weeks. Evidently there's some sort
of conjunction they're both interested in. I've got
a potion on the boil back at my workshop so I
can't linger, but you can come in and wait for him."
"No, we've got other business while we're
here. Maybe we'll catch up with him later."
"I see." She paused, studying his face for a
moment in the most unsettling way. "You
haven't seen him lately, have you?"
"Not for a week or more," Alec told her.
"We've been pretty busy."
There was something hovering behind the old wizard's eyes that
looked very much like concern, though she seemed to be
masking it. "Is something wrong?" asked Seregil.
Magyana sighed. "I don't know. He just looks
so worn-out all of a sudden. I haven't seen him
look this tired in decades. He won't talk of
it, of course. I wondered if he'd said anything
to you?"
"No. As Alec said, we've hardly seen him
since the Festival except over a few quick
jobs. Maybe it's this business with Leiteus. You
know how he drives himself when he's working on
something."
"No doubt," she said, though without much conviction.
"Do look in on him when you can, though." She
hesitated again. "You two aren't angry with one
another, are you?"
A sudden image leapt in Seregil's mind; the
night they'd unraveled the palimpsest together, and
Nysander suddenly looking at him with a stranger's
eyes as he warned-
if you let slip the slightest detail of
what I am about to tell you, I shall have to till all of
you.
He pushed the memory away before it could show in his
face. "No, of course not. What would I be
angry about?"
Leaving Nysander's chambers, Alec followed
Seregil back down through the warren of stairways and
corridors to the ground floor.
"The Ore'ska library is actually scattered
all over the building," Seregil explained as they
went. "Chambers, vaults, closets, for

gotten cupboards, too, probably. Thalonia
has been the librarian for a century and I doubt
even she knows where everything is. Some books are
available to anyone, others are locked away."
"Why, are they valuable?" asked Alec, thinking of the
beautifully decorated scrolls Nysander had lent
him.
"All books are valuable. Some are dangerous."
"Books of spells, you mean?"
Seregil grinned. "Those, too, but I was thinking more
of ideas. Those can be far more dangerous than any
magic."
Crossing the atrium court, Seregil
swung open the heavy door to the museum. They
hadn't been in here since Alec's first visit
during Seregil's illness. As they passed the case
containing the hands of the dyrmagnos, Tikarie
Megraesh, Alec paused, unable to resist peering
in at them in spite of his revulsion. Recalling the
trick Seregil had played on him last time, he
kept his friend carefully in sight.
The wizened fingers were motionless, but he could see
freshly scored marks in the oak boards lining the
bottom of the case beneath the cruel nails.
"They look quiet enough-was he began, but just then one
of the hands clenched spasmodically.
"Bilairy's
Balls,
I hate those things!" He shuddered, backing
hurriedly away. "Why do they move like that? Aren't
they and all the other pieces of him supposed to be
dying?"
"Yes." Seregil looked down at the hands with a
puzzled frown. "Yes, they are."
Alec followed Seregil through a stout door at the
back of the museum and down two sets of stairs to a
series of corridors below the building.
"It's this one here," said Seregil, stopping
before an unremarkable door halfway down the
passage. "Stay here, I'll go find a
custodian to let us in."
Alec leaned against the door and looked about. The
walls and floors were made of stone slabs, laid
smooth and tight together. Ornate lamps were fastened
in brackets at intervals, giving enough light to see
clearly from one end of the corridor to the other. He was
just wondering whose job it was to keep all those lamps
full when Seregil came back with a stooped old
man in tow.
The custodian rattled the door open with a huge
iron key and then handed Alec a leather sack.
Inside were half a dozen large lightstones.
Lyim Rewelling
"No flames," the old man warned before creaking off
again about his business. "Just leave them outside the
door when you've finished."
The chamber was a large one, and rilled with closely
spaced shelves of books and scrolls.
Holding one of the stones aloft, Alec looked around
and groaned. "It'll take us hours to find anything
here!"
"It's all very logically arranged and docketed,"
Seregil assured him, pointing out little
cards tacked to the shelves here and there. On each, a
few words in faded script indicated general
subject areas. "Histories of the Great War"
took up several bookcases at the back of the
room. Judging by the undisturbed layers of dust
on most of them, there had been little interest of late in
the subject.
Seregil clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "People
ought to make more use of these. The past always sets the
stage for the future; any Aurenfaie knows that."
Alec looked at the closely packed tiers in
dismay. "Maker's Mercy, Seregil. I can't
read all these!"
"Of course not," said Seregil, climbing a small
ladder to inspect the contents of an upper shelf.
"Half of them aren't even in your language and most
of the others are ponderously boring. But there are one
or two that are fairly readable, if I can just
remember where to look. You browse around down there;
stick to things less than two inches thick to begin withand
see if you can read them."
If there was a system to the arrangement of the books, it
eluded Alec. Books in Skalan stood check
by jowl with those in Aurenfaie and half a dozen other
languages he couldn't begin to guess at.
Seregil appeared to be right at home, though.
Alec watched as his companion went busily to and
fro with his ladder, muttering under his breath as he went,
or exclaiming happily over old favorites.
Alec had already extracted half a dozen
suitably slim volumes when the ornate binding
of a thicker one caught his eye. Wondering if it had
illustrations, he pulled it out. Unfortunately, this
one served as a sort of keystone, for the ones on either
side of it let go and most of the shelf cascaded to the
floor at Alec's feet.
"Oh, well done!" Seregil snickered from somewhere
beyond the next shelves.
Alec set his books aside with an exasperated
sigh and began replacing the others. He hadn't been
all
that interested in the war in the first place; his simple
query was turning out to be consider

ably more trouble than it was worth. As he slid a
handful of books back into place, however, he
noticed something sticking out from behind some others.
Curious, he carefully pulled it free and found that
it was a slim, plainly bound book held shut with a
latched strap. Encouraged by its size more
than anything else, he tried to open it, but the catch
wouldn't give.
"How are you making out?" asked Seregil, wandering
back with a book under his arm.
"I found this in back of some others. It must have
fallen in behind." On closer inspection, he saw that
it was actually a case of some sort. There was no
writing anywhere on it to suggest what its contents
might be. "I can't get it open."
Alec jiggled the catch a last time, then handed it
to him.
Seregil glanced it over and passed it back.
"There's no lock; the catch is just corroded good and
tight. It can't have been opened for years. Oh,
well, it probably wasn't anything very interesting
anyway."
He gave Alec a challenging grin, one Alec
had seen often enough before.
"What, here?" he whispered in surprise.
Seregil leaned against a bookcase and gave a
careless shrug. "It's not much good to anyone that way,
is it?"
After a quick, rather guilty look around to make sure the
custodian hadn't returned, Alec drew the
black-handled poniard from his boot and worked
it under the strap. The deadly sharp blade cut
easily through the leather. Sheathing it again, he gently
opened the cover and found a loose sheaf of parchment
leaves inside. They were badly stained and scorched
along the bottom edge, some burned half away.
Small, close-packed script covered each on
both sides.
"Aura Elustri!"
Grinning excitedly, Seregil lifted out the first
sheet. "It's in Aurenfaie. It looks to be a
journal of some sort-was He read a few lines.
"And it's definitely about the war."
"It's so weathered I can hardly make it out," said
Alec, taking up another page. "Not that my
Aurenfaie's all that good to begin with."
"Anyone would have a hard time making this out." Seregil
squinted down at the cramped text a moment longer,
then closed it and tucked it under his arm with the other book
he'd chosen. Sorting through the ones Alec had
selected, he discarded all but
lyim Flewelling
two and hurried Alec upstairs again, obviously
eager to tackle the journal.
Back at Wheel Street again, they retreated
to Seregil's chamber with a supply of wine
and fruit. When the fire had been replenished and the
lamps lit against the early evening gloom, they began
sorting through the sheets on the hearth rug.
Taking up a page, Seregil studied it
closely. "Do you know what this is?" he exclaimed
with a smile of pure delight. "These are fragments
of a field journal kept by an Aurenfaie
soldier during the war. Alec, it's an eyewitness
account of events six centuries old! Just wait
until we show Nysander. I'll bet no one even
knew this was there, or it would have been in a different
vault."
The pages were badly shuffled in places and it took
some doing to sort them out. The translation from
Aurenfaie to Skalan was easy enough; deciphering
the crabbed and often smeared writing while searching through
mismatched pages was another matter. Seregil
finally found what appeared to be the earliest entry and
settled back in a nest of cushions on the floor
to read it aloud.
They soon pieced together that the author had been a young
archer, part of a regiment of well-to-do volunteers
raised by a local noble. He'd been a faithful
diarist, but the entries dealt mostly with skirmishes
and fallen comrades. It was clear that the
Aurenfaie had hated their Plenimaran
adversaries, who were consistently depicted as harsh and
brutal. There were several mercifully terse
descriptions of their barbaric treatment of captured
soldiers and camp followers.
The first series of entries ended with a detailed
description of his first sight of Queen Gerilain of
Skala. Referring to her as "a plain girl in
armor," he nonetheless praised her leadership. He
spoke only Aurenfaie, it seemed, but quoted
several lines of a powerful rallying speech she'd given
before the Third Battle of Wyvern Dug, which someone
had translated for him. He described the
Skalan soldiers admiringly as "fierce and full
of fire."
Stretched out on the carpet, watching the shadows
playing across the ceiling, Alec let the words paint
scenes in his imagination. As Seregil read about
Gerilain, the first warrior queen, he found himself
picturing Klia, although she was anything but plain.
The second fragment had been written in Mycena
during the battles of high summer, when the regiment
had been joined by a
lit
Stalking Darkness

contingent of Aurenfaie wizards. This was followed
by an intriguing line about "the necromancers of the
enemy," but the rest of the page had been destroyed.
Muttering again, Seregil sorted through the few
remaining pages. "Ah, here we are. Part of it's
missing, but it begins, 'and our wizards have moved to the
front, ahead of the cavalry. The Skalan
captain met these forces only two days ago and cannot
speak of them without paleness and trembling. Britiel
i Kor translated for us, saying he tells of
dead men rising from the field to fight the living." his
"Just like in the legends," Alec murmured, forgetting
for a moment that this was a factual account and not some
bardic tale.
was "We've heard this account too often now to call
him mad," was Seregil read on. was "The
Skalan captain claims Plenimar has a
terrible war god. We have heard wounded enemies
calling upon
Vatharna.
Now learn this is their word for god even they will not name.
Nor will Skalans speak it, saying instead with great
hatred, Eater of-" his
He faltered to a halt.
"Eater of Death!" Alec-finished for him,
scrambling up to his knees. "That's it, isn't
it? Just like in the prophecy at the Sakor
Temple. We've got to find Nysander. The
Eater of Death must be that death god you told me
about, the bad luck one, Seri-was
Seregil lunged forward, pages scattering as he
clamped a hand over Alec's mouth.
"Don't!" he hissed, face white as chalk.
Alec froze, staring up at him in alarm.
Seregil let out a shaky breath and dropped his hand
to Alec's shoulder, gripping it lightly. "I'm
sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
"What's the matter?"
"Be still a minute; I have to mink."
Seregil felt as if a black chasm had suddenly
opened beneath them.
Seriamaius.
-
if you let slip the slightest detail of what I
am about to tell you, I shall have to kill all of you
join our song, the only song. For the Beautiful
One, the Eater of Death-
lynn Flewelllng
For an instant the only thing that made any
sense was the solid feel of Alec's shoulder, the
warm brush of the boy's hair as it fell across the
back of his hand.
Memories crowded in on each other, treading
dangerously on each other's heels as they threatened
to coalesce into a pattern he didn't wish to see.
The palimpsest, telling of a "Beautiful One" and
leading to a crown surrounded by the dead. Micum's
grim discovery in the Fens. The ragged leather pouch that
Nysander had burned. And the coin, that deceptively
prosaic wooden disk that had nearly killed him with
madness and dreams-dreams of a barren plain and a
golden-skinned creature that embraced him, demanding
a single blue eye that winked from a wound over his
heart. Voices singing-over a barren plain, and
deep in the depths of a mountain cavern as blood
dripped down to pool on the ice. Nysander's
threat-a warning?
"Seregil, that hurts."
Alec's soft, tense voice brought him back and
he found himself clutching the boy's shoulder. He
hurriedly released him and sat back.
Alec closed cold fingers over his own. "What is
it? You look like you've just seen your own ghost."
A desperate ache lanced through Seregil as
he looked down into those dark blue eyes.
if you let slip the slightest detail
Damn you, Nysander!
"I can't tell you,
tali,
because I'd only have to lie," he said, suddenly
dejected. "I'm going to do something now, and you're
going to watch and say nothing."
Taking the final page of the manuscript, he
twisted it into a tight squib and tossed it into the
fire.
Alec rocked back on his heels, watching in
silent consternation as the parchment blossomed into flame.
When it was consumed, Seregil knocked the ash to bits
with the poker.
"But what about Nysander?" Alec asked. "What will
you tell him?"
"Nothing, and neither will you."
"But-was
"We're not betraying him." Seregil took Alec
by the shoulders, more gently this time, drawing their faces
close together. "You have my oath on that. I believe
he already knows what we just
learned, but he can't know that you know. Not
until I tell you it's safe. Understand?"
"More secrets," Alec said, looking solemn and
unhappy.
"Yes, more secrets. I need your trust in this,
Alec. Can you give it?"
Alec looked sidelong at the fire for a long
moment, then locked eyes with him again and replied in
halting Aurenfaie,
"Rei phoril tos tokun meh brithir, vri
sh 'ruit 'ya. his
Though you thrust your dagger at my eyes, I will not
flinch.
A solemn oath, and one Seregil had pledged him
not so long ago.
Seregil let out a small, relieved laugh.
"Thank you. If you don't mind, I think I'll
take a rest. Why don't you go have a look through those
books we found?"
Alec got up to go without a word. But he paused in
the doorway, looking back at Seregil still sitting
by the fire.
"What does
tali
mean? Is it Aurenfaie?"
"Tali?"
A ghost of the old grin tugged at one corner of
Seregil's mouth. "Yes, it's an Aurenfaie
term of endearment, rather old-fashioned, like beloved.
Where'd you pick that up?"
"I thought-was Alec regarded him quizzically, then
shook his head. "I don't know, at one of the
salons, probably. Sleep well, Seregil."
"You, too."
When Alec was gone, Seregil walked to the window and
rested his forehead against one cold pane, staring out over
the dark garden.
Stone within ice. Secrets within secrets.
Silences inside of greater silences.
In all the time he'd known Nysander, he had never
felt such distance between them. Or so alone.
Several days passed before Alec realized that they were
not going to talk of the matter again. Despite his oath,
it troubled him greatly. This silence toward the wizard
seemed to create a small cold gap in a
relationship that had been so seamlessly warm and safe.
For the first time in months he found himself wondering about
Seregil's loyalties.
Try as he might to banish such thoughts, they nagged
at him until at last he came out with it as they were
out walking in the Noble Quarter one evening.
lyim Flewelling
He'd feared that Seregil would evade the question or be
annoyed. Instead, he looked as if he'd been
expecting this discussion.
"Loyalty, eh? That's a large question for a thinking
person. If you're asking if I'm still loyal
to Nysander, then the answer is yes, for as long as I
have faith in his honor. The same goes for any of
my friends."
"But do you still have faith in him?" Alec pressed.
"I do, though he hasn't made it easy lately.
You're too smart not to have noticed that there are
unspoken things between him and me. I'm trying hard
to be patient about all that, and so must you.
"But maybe that's not the real issue here. Are you
losing faith in me?"
"No!" Alec exclaimed hastily, knowing the words
were true as he spoke them. "I'm just trying
to understand."
"Well, like I said, loyalty is no simple
thing. For instance, would you say that you, Nysander, and I
are loyal to Queen Idri- lain and want to act in
the best interests of Skala?"
"I've always thought so."
"But what if the Queen ordered us, for the good
of Skala, to do harm to Micum? Should I keep
faith with her or with him?"
"With Micum," Alec replied without hesitation.
"But what if Micum, without our knowledge, had committed
treason against Skala? What then?"
"That's ridiculous!" Alec snorted. "He'd
never do anything like that."
"People can surprise you, Alec. And perhaps he did it
out of loyalty to something else, say his family.
He's kept faith with his family but broken faith
with the Queen. Which outweighs the other?"
"His family," Alec maintained, although he was
beginning to feel a bit confused.
"Certainly. Any man ought to hold his family
above all else. But what if his justified act of
treason cost hundreds of other families their
lives? And what if some of those killed were also friends
of ours-Myrhini, Cilia, There. Well, maybe
not Thero-was
"I don't know!" Alec shrugged uncomfortably.
"I can't say one way or the other without knowing the
details. I guess I'd just have to have faith in him
until I knew more. Maybe he didn't have any
choice."
Seregil leveled a stern finger at him.
"You always have a

choice. Don't ever imagine you don't. Whatever
you do, it's a decision and you have to accept
responsibility for it. That's when honor becomes
more than empty words."
"Well, I still say I'd have to know why he did
it," Alec retorted stubbornly.
"That's good. But suppose, despite all his
kindness to you, you discovered he really had betrayed your
trust. Would you hunt him down and kill him as the
law required?"
"How could I?"
"It would be difficult. Past kindness counts for
something. But say you knew for certain that someone else
would catch him-the Queen's officers, for instance-and that
they'd kill him slowly and horribly. Then wouldn't
it be your duty, as a friend and a man of honor, to see
to it that he was granted a quick, merciful death?
Looked at from that angle, I suppose killing
Micum Cavish might be the greatest expression of
friendship."
Alec stared at Seregil, mouth slightly ajar.
"How the hell did we come to me killing Micum?"
Seregil shrugged. "You asked about
loyalty. I told you it wasn't easy."
The hands moved more often now. As Nysander gazed down
at them through the thick sheet of crystal that covered the
case, a trick of the light superimposed his
reflection over the splayed hands below, creating the
illusion that his head lay within the case, gripped in the
withered talons of the dead necromancer. The face he
saw there was a very old one, etched with weariness.
While he watched, the hands slowly curled
into fists, clenching so tightly that the skin over one
knuckle split, showing brown bone beneath.
Continuing grimly on through the deserted museum,
Nysander half expected to hear the Voice from his
nightmares, roaring its taunting challenge up through the
floor from the depths below. Those dreams came more often
now, since SeregiFs return from the Asheks.
Summoning an orb of light, Nysander opened the
door at the back of the museum chamber and began the
long descent through the vaults.
He'd wooed Magyana here in the days of their youth.
When she'd remained obdurate in her celibacy,
they had continued to share long discussions as they wandered
along these narrow stone corridors. Seregil had
often come
123
with them during his ill-starred apprenticeship, asking
a thousand questions and poking into everything.
Thero came with him occasionally, though less often than
he once had. Did Ylinestra bring him down here
to make love, Mysander wondered, as she had him?
By the Four, she'd warmed the very stones with her
relentless passion!
He shook his head in bemusement as he imagined her
with Thero; a sunbird embracing a crow.
He'd never completely trusted the sorceress.
Talented as Ylinestra was at both magic and
love, greed lurked just behind her smile. In that way
she was not unlike Thero, but Thero was bound
by Oreska law; she was not.
The fact that she had gone from his bed to There's troubled
Nysander in a way that had nothing to do with former
passions, though he had been unable to convince Thero of
that. After two tense, unpleasant attempts,
Nysander had dropped the subject.
Other wizards might have dismissed an assistant
over such a matter, he knew, yet in spite of
their growing differences, Nysander still felt a strong
regard for Thero and refused to give up on him.
And mixed with that regard, he admitted once again in
the silence of the vaults, was the fear that many of
his fellows in the Oreska would be glad to take on
Thero if he let him go. Many were critical of
Nysander's handling of the talented young wizard, and thought
Thero was wasted on the eccentric old man in the east
tower. After all, he'd ruined one apprentice
already, hadn't he? Small wonder Thero seemed
discontent.
But Nysander knew the boy better than any of them
and believed with every fiber of his being that given his head at
this stage of training, the young wizard would ultimately
ruin himself. Oh, he would earn his robes, of
course, probably in half the time it would take
most. That was part of the problem. Thero was so apt a
pupil that most masters would joyously fill his head
with all they knew, guiding him quickly through the levels
to true power.
But more than a keen mind and flawless ability were
needed to make so powerful a wizard as Thero would
undoubtedly become. Ungovemed by wisdom,
patience, and a compassionate heart, that same keen
mind would be capable of unspeakable havoc.
So he kept Thero with him, hopeful to change him,
fearful to let him go.
There were moments, such as the night he found him tending
to
lyim Flewelling
m
Seregil's injuries after the misadventure in the
sewers, when Nysander caught a gleam of
hope-signs that Thero might be coming to understand what it
was that Nysander was asking of him beyond the mere learning of
magic.
Reaching the door to the lowest vault, he shook off his
reverie and hastened on.
Few had reason to go to this lowest vault, which for time out
of mind had been the Oreska's repository for the
forgotten, the useless, and the dangerous. Many of the
storerooms were empty now, or cluttered with
mouldering crates. Other doors had been walled
up, their frames outlined with runic spells and
warnings. But as he walked along, the sound of his
footsteps muffled on the dank brick underfoot,
he could hear the bowl and its high, faint resonance,
audible only to those trained to listen for it. The sound was
much stronger than it once had been.
The wooden disk had had little effect on it; its
power was incomplete separated from the seven others
Nysander knew existed somewhere in the world. The crystal
crown was a different matter. As soon as he'd
placed it here, the resonance of the bowl had
grown increasingly stronger, and with it his nightmares.
And the movements of the necromancer's hands in the
museum.
How Seregil had survived his exposure to the
disk unprotected by anything but his own magical
block was still a mystery. Equally mystifying was how
little protection all Nysander's carefully prepared
spells and charms had been for Seregil from the
effects of the crown. In the first case he should have
died, in the second he should have had absolute
protection, yet in both cases he had sustained
wounds but survived.
All this, taken together with the words the Oracle of
Illior had spoken to Seregil, left Nysander
with the uneasy conviction that much more than mere coincidence
was at work.
Stopping, he faced the familiar stretch of wall
yet again. With a final check to be certain no eyes,
natural or otherwise, were upon him, he spoke a
powerful key spell and cast a sighting through stone and
magic to the small hidden room beyond.
Immured in the darkness of centuries, the bowl sat
on the tiny chamber's single shelf. To the
uninitiated, it was nothing more than a crude vessel
of burnt clay, unremarkable in any
way. Yet this homely object had dominated his
entire adult life, and the lives of three wizards
before him.

The Guardians.
To one side of the bowl lay the crystal box containing
the disk; on the other, still smeared with the ash of
Dravnian cook fires, was the flat wooden
case holding the crown.
For no better reason than curiosity, he spoke
the Spell of Passage and entered the chamber.
Magic crackled ominously around him in spite of the
wards and containment spells. Taking a lightstone from
his pocket, he held it up and regarded the bowl
solemnly for a moment, thinking again of his
predecessors. None of them, not even Arkoniel,
had anticipated ever adding to the contents of mis hidden
and most guarded chamber. Now he had, not once but
twice, and their combined song was a pulse of living
energy.
His hands stole to the containers on either side of the bowl.
What would that song be if I opened these, brought even
these three fragments together without the rest? What could be
learned from such an experiment?
His right thumb found the catch on the wooden
box, rubbed tentatively at it-
Nysander jerked back, made a warding sign, and
retreated the way he'd come. Alone in the
corridor, he broke the Spell of Passage and
slumped against the opposite wall, his heart pounding
ominously in his chest.
If just three fragments of the whole could force such
thoughts into his mind, then he must be all the more
vigilant.
Forced those thoughts into your mind, old man,
a niggling inner voice chided,
or revealed them there? How many times did Arkoniel
warn you that temptation is nothing more than the dark
mirror of the soul?
Inevitably, regret followed hard on the heels
of memory. Arkoniel had taught him well and
early the responsibility of the Guardians, allowing
him to share the weight of the secret they preserved.
Whom did he share it with?
No one.
Seregil could have been trusted, but the magic had
failed him. Thero had the magic, but lacked-what?
Humility, Nysander decided sadly. The
humility to properly fear the power contained in this
tiny, silver-lined chamber. The more apparent
There's abilities became over the years of his
apprenticeship, the more certain Nysander was that
temptation would be his undoing. Temptation and pride.
lyim Flewelling
Feeling suddenly far older than his two hundred and
ninety- eight years, Nysander pressed a hand to the
wall, bolstering the warding spells, changing and
strengthening them to conceal what must remain concealed. It
was a task he'd once thought he would pass along as
his master had passed it to him. Now he felt no such
certainty.
ira caret @.i8sga
i caret ztz caret so
Seregil and Alec were lingering over a late lunch
one bright afternoon toward the middle of Dostin, when
Runcer entered the room with a ragged young girl in tow.
Seregil looked up expectantly, recognizing
her as the sort who made her living as a message
carrier.
"Beka Cavish sends word that the Queen's Horse
is riding out at dawn tomorrow," the girl recited
stiffly.
"Thanks." Seregil handed her a sester and pushed a
plate of sweets her way. Grinning, the child
snatched a handful and hid them away in the
folds of her ragged skirt.
"Take this message to Captain Myrhini, of the
Queen's Horse," he told her. "As Beka
Cavish's patron, I'm honor-bound to give her
and her turma a proper send-off. The captain is
asked to attend and keep order. She may bring
anyone else she likes, so long as she gives
Beka and her riders a night out. Got that?"
She proudly repeated it back word for word.
"Good girl. Off you go." Turning back to Alec,
Seregil found his young friend frowning worriedly.
"I thought you said nothing would happen before spring?"
Alec asked.
"The war? It won't," Seregil replied, some
lynn Flewelling
what surprised by the news himself. "The Queen must have
some reason to think the Plenimarans mean to move in
early spring, though, and wants troops near the
border in case of trouble."
"This doesn't give us time enough to send for Micum and
Kari."
"Damn! I didn't even think of that." Seregil
drummed his fingers on the polished tabletop a moment.
"Oh, well. We'll ride out tomorrow with the details.
In the meantime, we've got a party
to prepare for."
Word soon came back by the same messenger that
Captain Myrhini would release Lieutenant
Cavish and her riders for the evening, with the expectation that
sufficient food and drink were included in the offer.
Seregil had already turned his attention to the
preparations with an efficiency that astonished Alec.
Within a few hours, extra servants had been
engaged, a raucous group of musicians was
installed in the gallery with their fiddles, pipes, and
drums, and a steady stream of deliveries from the
market had been whipped into a proper feast by the cook
and her crew.
In the meantime, the salon was cleared of all
breakables and three long trestle tables set up,
together with hogsheads of ale and wine set on pitched
braces at the head of the room.
Beka and her turma rode into Wheel Street at
sunset. They were an impressive sight in their
spotless white breeches and green tabards sewn
with the regimental crest.
A little daunting even, thought Alec, standing next
to Seregil at the front door to welcome them.
He'd always envied Beka just a little, being part of such
an elite group. The idea of riding into a
pitched battle surrounded by comrades had a certain
romantic appeal.
"Welcome!" Seregil called.
Beka dismounted and strode up the front steps, her
eyes shining almost as brightly as the burnished
lieutenant's gorget hanging at her throat.
"You do us a great honor, my lords," she said
loudly, giving them a wink.
Seregil bowed slightly, then looked over the crowd
of riders milling behind her. "That's a rough-looking
bunch you brought. Think they can behave themselves?"

"Not a chance, my lord," Beka replied smartly.
Seregil grinned. "Well then, come on in, all
of you!"
Alec's awe diminished somewhat as the men and women
of Beka's command filed past into the painted salon.
He'd only seen them at a distance on the
practice field before-dashing figures clashing in
mock battle. Now he saw that most of them were
scarcely older than he. Some had the bearing of
landless second sons and daughters or merchant's
scions; others-those who stood gaping at the opulent
room-came from humbler backgrounds and had earned their
place by sheer prowess and the price of a
horse and arms.
"I'd like to introduce my sergeants," Beka said.
"Mercalle, Braknil, and Portus."
Shaking hands with the trio, Alec guessed that most of
them had come up through the ranks. Sergeant Mercalle
was tall and dark-complected. She was also missing the
last two fingers of her right hand, a common wound among
warriors. Next to her stood Braknil, a big,
solemn-looking man with a bushy blond beard and
weather-roughened skin. The third, Portus, was younger
than his companions and carried himself like a noble.
Alec wondered what his story was; according to Beka,
it seemed unlikely that he would not be an officer of
some rank.
Seregil shook hands with them. "I won't
embarrass your lieutenant by telling you how long
I've known her, but I will say that she's been
trained by some of the best swordsmen I know."
"I can believe that, your lordship," Braknil
replied. "That's why I asked to serve with her."
Beka grinned. "Sergeant Braknil's too
tactful to say so, but he was one of the sergeants
assigned to train the new commissions when I came
in. I started out taking orders from him."
"A title may guarantee an officer's
commission, but it doesn't guarantee the officer's
quality," Mercalle put in rather sourly.
"Especially if there hasn't been a real war
to winnow out the chaff in a while. I've seen a good
many sporting the steel gorget who won't see high
summer."
"Mercalle's our optimist," Portus chuckled,
and Alec heard the remnants of a lower city accent
behind the man's smooth words.
"It's early for you to be sent north, isn't it?"
he asked ingenuously.
"There are rumblings from Plenimar already," Beka
told him. "Queen Idrilain and the Archons of
Mycena all want troops in
Lynn Flewelling
I
place near the west border of Plenimar before the
roads thaw into mud holes next month. They're
not making any secret of it, either. The Sakor
Horse Regiment and a squadron of the Yourkani
Horse have already headed up to Nanta. We'll be
going farther east."
was 'First in, last out," was Portus said
proudly. "That's been our motto since
Gerilain's day."
"The Queen's Horse Guard started as the token
group of soldiers King Thelatimos gave his
daughter after the Oracle said a woman was to lead the
country," Seregil explained. "She surprised
everyone when she led them successfully in battle."
Braknil nodded. "One of my ancestors was with
Gerilain and there's been at least one of my family
with the Guard ever since."
Stationed by the front door, Runcer announced
gravely, "Captain Myrhini and Commander
Perris, of the Queen's Horse, my lords."
Myrhini strode in, accompanied by a handsome
uniformed man Alec had seen around the drilling
field. Beka and her riders instantly snapped
to attention.
Myrhini introduced her companion as Commander
Perris, who led one of the other squadrons of the
regiment, then looked around, scowling. "What, no
one drunk yet? Lieutenant Beka, explain
yourself."
"I'll see to it at once, Captain!" Beka
replied, coloring a bit.
Seregil laid a hand on her arm. "I thought perhaps
some of your soldiers might be a bit self-conscious
dancing with each other, so I took the
liberty of inviting a few other guests to liven things
up."
At his gesture, the musicians struck up a
sprightly tune and a score of richly dressed men and
women entered from the dining room, streaming out to partner the
soldiers.
"Who are they?" asked Beka, her eyes widening in
surprise.
Seregil exchanged an amused look with Alec.
"Oh, just a few friends of mine from the Street of
Lights who think the Queen's best regiment
deserves nothing less than the best."
Myrhini covered a smile as Beka's eyes went
wider still as she recognized the significance of the
colored tokens each elegant "guest" wore
discreetly on their clothing or in their hair-white,
green, rose, or amber.
Alec leaned closer to Beka. "From what I
understand, you'll want to stick with amber."
"From what I understand, Sir Alec, I think
I'll stick with you," Beka retorted, slipping
her arm through his. "Come on and show a soldier a good
time, eh?"
"You are a generous patron," Commander
Perris noted with amusement. "Mind if I join
in? I see a familiar face or two."
"By all means," Seregil said, smiling.
Myrhini followed Seregil to the table and accepted a
cup of wine. "They can do with a bit of spoiling," she
said, watching the milling throng with obvious affection.
"It'll be cold camps and long riding for us between now
and spring."
"And then?" asked Seregil.
Myrhini glanced at him over the rim of her cup,
then sighed. "And then it will get worse. Most
likely a lot worse."
"Will this lot be ready?"
"As ready as green soldiers can be. These ones here
are some of the best, and so is Beka. I just hope they
can stay alive long enough to get seasoned. Nothing but
battle experience can do that for them."
By midnight Alec was drunker than he'd ever been
in his life and not only knew all the riders and
courtesans by name, but had danced with most of them.
He'd just staggered through a reel with a blue-eyed,
tipsily amorous rider named Ariani when
Corporal Kallas and his twin brother Aulos
grabbed him and hoisted him onto one of the tables.
"Lieutenant says you're lucky,"
Kallas bawled, pulling off his tabard and handing it
up to Alec. "So we're making you our mascot,
young Alec my lad."
Alec pulled on the uniform and made the company an
exaggerated bow. "I am honored!"
"You are drunk!" someone shouted back.
Alec considered this, then nodded solemnly. "I am
that, but as the Maker teaches us, in the depths of the cup
lies the back door to enlightenment-or something like that,
anyway." Snatching up a half-full bottle of
wine, he waved it in their general direction. "And the
drunker I get, the braver and worthier you all
look to me!"
"A visionary of the vine," Kallas exclaimed,
spreading his arms in mock reverence. "Give me your
blessing, O beardless sage!"
Lynn Flewellfng
Alec obligingly slopped some wine on the
ma
face. "Long life and a hollow leg,
my
S
on "*"
S
"Ponied
Laughing and cheering, the rest of the riri caret for his
benediction. Quite a number were mi8ment f

***

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demanded.
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Grabbing up a fresh bottle, Alec unci caret
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bless
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"I hope so," Alec whispered, looking down at
her. "I do hope so."
caret
"M-
:
backslash
aster Micum, there's riders coming up [the hill,"
a servant shouted to him
backslash
across the snowy pasture.
Standing atop the hayrack, Micum shaded his eyes
against the late afternoon sun and quickly scanned the frozen
river boundary. Two horsemen were riding up from the
bridge a mile below.
He'd been leery of unannounced visitors since
returning from the northlands that past autumn.
Despite all Nysander's assurances to the contrary,
he still didn't feel easy in his mind about Mardus
and his gang.
So he studied the riders with a chary eye. Seeing that
they kept to the main track, and rode at an
unhurried canter with weapons sheathed, he ruled out
enemy or messenger. They were still too far away
to make out faces, but he soon recognized the
horses.
Frowning, he pushed his way through the colts milling
around the hayrack and set off for the house. More often
than not, unexpected visits from Seregil
meant a summons to Watcher business. Kari was
three moons gone now and the sickness had passed,
leaving in its wake the glowing bloom of mid term
pregnancy. Nonetheless, she was older this time and he
disliked the thought of leaving her.
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Lynn Flewelltag
A farm hand met him apologetically in the
courtyard. "Illia run ahead with the dogs to meet
'em soon as she made out who it was, Master
Micum. I didn't think it no harm."
"Not this time maybe, Ranil, but I don't like her
getting in the habit of it," Micum retorted
gruffly.
Seregil and Alec clattered into the court a few
moments later, with Illia perched proudly on
Alec's saddlebow. They were both looking a little
pale, Micum noted, but they seemed in good spirits
otherwise.
"So I might have to marry Alec when I'm grown,"
Illia was prattling across to Seregil. "I hope
that won't hurt your feelings too much."
Seregil slapped a hand over his heart like a
troubadour in a mural. "Ah, fair maiden, I
shall slay a thousand evil dragons for you, and lay their
steaming black livers at your dainty feet, if
only you will restore me to your favor."
"Livers!" Illia buried her face against
Alec's shoulder with an outraged giggle. "You
wouldn't bring me livers, would you, Alec?"
"Of course not," Alec scoffed. "What a disgusting
present. I'd bring you the eyeballs for a
necklace, and all their scaly pointed tongues
to tie your braids with."
Shrieking with delight, Illia slid off into her
father's arms.
"Hey, little bird, what are you doing running off
by yourself?" he asked sternly.
"It's just Uncle Seregil and Alec. And I
wasn't alone," she added coyly, shawl askew as
she spread her arms grandly over the pack of great
shaggy hounds jostled around them, like a general over her
troops. "Dash and all the others came with me."
"You know the rules, young miss," Micum
remonstrated. "Run in now and tell your mother who's
here."
"What brings you two up?" he asked,
turning back to the others with a twinge of relief; they
were dressed for visiting rather than traveling.
Seregil waded through the dogs to hand him a stitched
packet of letters. "Beka asked us to bring this out to you.
Her regiment left at dawn."
"What, today? We should have been there to see her off!"
"There wasn't time," Alec explained quickly, coming
up beside Seregil. "The orders came yesterday.
We gave her and her

riders a proper send-off last night, though." He
rubbed his head with a rueful grin. "I think I'm still
a little drunk."
Seregil ruffled Alec's hair with playful
impunity. "Runcer will be a couple of days clearing
up the wreckage. Between that, and the complaints from the
neighbors, we figured it might be a good time for
Lord Seregil and Sir Alec to lay low for a few
days. We thought we'd put up here, if that's
agreeable."
"Yes, of course," Micum replied
distractedly, fingering the packet of letters. "Where were
they headed?"
"The western border of Mycena," Seregil told
him. "Word is Idrilain wanted them in
place before the Klesin thaws muck up the roads
next month. The Queen's Horse was the first to go,
but the city was swarming with soldiers by the time we rode
out. Idrilain isn't taking any chances."
Micum shook his head, wondering how Kari was going
to take this news. "Ranil, see to their horses.
If you two will excuse me a minute, I want a
look at these."
Seregil laid a hand on his arm as he turned to go.
Casting a quick glance toward the door, he said in a
low voice, "There's something else. Rhal tracked
us down in Rhiminee about a month ago."
Micum tensed. "That river trader?"
Seregil nodded. "Some foreign-sounding swordsmen
showed up looking for the three of us after Alec and I
had gotten off. Rhal covered our tracks, and
soon after the
Darter
went down under questionable circumstances. We've been
careful since, and there's been no sign of trouble so
far, but with spring coming on-you never know. That's another
reason we want to move back to the inn."
"What's Nysander say to all this?"
Seregil shrugged. "He's keeping a wizard eye
out for trouble. So far he hasn't spotted
anything."
"They must have lost us in Mycena," Alec put in,
sounding as if he and Seregil had had this discussion
before. "Otherwise, we'd have been approached or
attacked."
"So you'd think," Micum allowed. "Still, you're
smart to be careful. Go see to your gear. I'll
break the news to Kari."
"We won't hurry, then, eh?" Seregil said,
giving him an understanding look.
lyim Hewelllng
Kari took the news of Beka's departure more
calmly than Micum had feared. Reading over
Beka's letter, and those from Elsbet, she merely
nodded and then folded them carefully back into the
wrapper.
Old Arna and the other household servants joined
them by the central fire in the hall as Seregil
described Beka's departure in glowing detail.
"They looked grand, riding out of the city
by torchlight," he said. "Klia and the high officers
rode at the fore in full uniform, helmets and
all. And there was our Beka at the head of her
turma with a steel lieutenant's gorget at her
throat. The horses had bronze chest
plates and cheek pieces that jingled like bells as they
rode."
"She wrote that she's in Captain Myrhini's
troop," noted Kari, stroking Illia's dark
head as the little girl leaned against her knee.
"Myrhini's as good a captain as there is,"
Micum said, pulling her close. "The frontier will
be quiet for a while yet, too. The Plenimarans
couldn't get that far west much before mid-Lithion at
the earliest and probably not until early summer.
She'll have time to find her feet before any trouble
starts."
"I hope so," murmured Kari. "Will there be more
letters?"
"Dispatch riders go back and forth as often as
possible," Seregil assured her.
"That's good, then."
Micum exchanged uneasy glances with the others, but
after a moment she simply tucked the letters away and
rose with her usual briskness.
"Well, Arna, you and I had better go see to the
supper. Micum, tell the men to set up the tables.
You two chose a good night to come, Seregil;
we've got venison pie and apples baked in
cream."
li
The meal was the usual noisy communal affair and the
guests were summoned to give news of the absent
daughters between mouthfuls. Watermead was a country
household, close-knit and loyal. The servants
wouldn't be satisfied until they'd had
descriptions of Beka's regiment twice over and a
detailed account of Elsbet's studies at the
temple school.
Later, when a loudly protesting Illia had been
put to bed and the servants had spread their pallets in
the warmth of the hall, Micum and Kari joined
Seregil and Alec in the guest chamber.

"Tell me about your reunion with this fellow
Rhal," Micum said when he'd poured hot spiced
cider for everyone.
Sprawled crossways on the bed, Seregil
launched into what sounded like a highly colored tale
of their ambush of Rhal and the subsequent battle
with a mob of alley toughs. Alec's prowess was
featured in such flattering detail that the boy, who was
sitting close beside Kari, flushed with surprise.
"Well done, Alec," Kari laughed, hugging him.
"This Captain Rhal of yours sounds like a
man worth knowing," Micum said. "I've thought so
ever since you told how he let you go that night."
"Micum told me something of your trip, but I'd like
to hear your version of it," said Kari. "Did he
really fancy Seregil, Alec?"
Alec grinned. "I half fancied him myself, when
he was all prettied up. As it was, I had all
I could do to keep the two of them at arm's length."
With frequent interruptions from Seregil, he went
on to describe RhaFs attempts at
seduction, and Micum noticed that both of them
skillfully omitted any mention of the wooden disk,
or the influence it had exerted over Seregil. In this
account, Rhal had simply walked in on Seregil
in an unfortunate state of undress. It all
came out sounding a great deal more humorous than the
original version Micum had heard in Nysander's
tower.
"Ah, Seregil," Kari exclaimed, wiping her
eyes with the corner of her apron. "I've never known
anyone who could get himself into such messes, and then right
back out again!"
"It would have been considerably more difficult if
Alec hadn't been such a faithful defender of my
virtue." Seregil gave Alec a
courtly nod.
"My lady," Alec murmured, rising to give him
a bow of such elaborate solemnity that they all
burst out laughing again.
"I was watching Seregil's face tonight," Kari said
as they lay together in the darkness that night. "He's in
love with Alec, you know. He wasn't last time they
were here, or even at the Festival, but he is now."
"Are you surprised?" Micum yawned, resting a
hand lazily on the roundness of her belly, hoping
to feel the new life fluttering there.
Lynn Flewelling
"Only that it took so long. I doubt he knows it
yet himself. But what about Alec?"
"I don't think such a thing would occur to him, with his
upbringing and all."
Kari let out a long sigh. "Poor Seregil.
He has such rotten luck when it comes to love. Just
once, I'd like to see him happy."
"Seems to me you had your chance about twenty years
back," Micum teased, nuzzling her bare shoulder.
"When it was
you
he fancied, you mean?" She rolled quickly on top
of him, pinning him playfully as she
straddled his thighs. "And if I had relinquished my
claim to you, sir?" she challenged. "What would you have
done then, eh?"
"I can't say," he replied, pulling her mouth
to his with one hand, finding the generous curve of her
hip with the other. "Perhaps it would've been handy, having
a bed mate who's good with a sword."
"It's true I don't bring anything sharp into bed with
me."
"Mmmmm-I can feel that," Micum rumbled
contentedly. "Perhaps it's just as well things worked out the
way they did."
Kari moved over him like a blessing, her lips hot
against his brow. "I like to think so."
J
Seregil hadn't shared a bed with Alec since their
last visit to Watermead. He'd thought nothing of it
then; such arrangements were common, especially in old
country houses.
But this time was different.
He wasn't certain just when his feelings had gotten
away from him, or why. Months of close living and
shared dangers, perhaps, together with the genuine affection
Seregil knew had existed between them almost from the start.
It figures,
he thought dourly as they undressed for bed. He never
could seem to love anyone who could return the
favor.
Not that Alec didn't care for him in his own honest,
Dalnan way-Seregil had no doubt of that. But
he did doubt that Alec's heart skipped a
dizzy beat at the mere thought of sliding in between shared
sheets.
Out of deference to Alec's modesty-or so he told
himself-he kept his long shirt on and pulled up the
coverlet.
The old bedstead, built for company, was a wide one
and Alec

kept to his side of it as he climbed in.
"You're quiet all of a sudden," he remarked,
oblivious to Seregil's inner turmoil.
"All that wine last night left me tired."
Seregil mustered a yawn. He could go sleep in the
hall, he supposed, but that would take some explaining
later on. Better to stay here and hope he didn't
talk in his sleep.
Alec settled against the bolsters with a sigh of
contentment. "Me, too. At least we can get some
rest while we're out here. So quiet.
No jobs or midnight summons. No
worries-was His eyes drifted shut and his voice
trailed off into deep, even breathing.
No worries.
Seregil sat up to extinguish the lamp, but paused,
caught by the sight of Alec's thick, honey-gold
hair fanned out across the pillow. His expression was
peaceful, guileless. His lips curved in a faint
smile as if good dreams had already come to him.
For an instant Seregil wondered what it would feel
like to have that golden head against his shoulder, the warmth of
Alec's body against his own.
If it had been simple lust Seregil felt, he
could easily have driven it off. But what he felt for
Alec at that moment went far beyond that.
Seregil loved him.
Little more than the length of a tailor's yard separated
them, but it might just as well have been the breadth of the
Osiat Sea. Allowing himself nothing more than a
deep, silent sigh, he blew out the lamp and lay
back, praying for sleep.
Rising early the next morning, Micum found
Alec stacking wood in the kitchen. The boy had
changed his city clothes for plain garb and was sharing some
joke with Arna and young Jalis. Watching a
moment from the doorway, Micum was struck again by how
easily Alec seemed to fit into the rhythm of the
household.
Or anywhere else, come to that,
he amended, thinking of all the roles and identities
Alec had played in the time he'd been with
Seregil. They were like water, those two, always shifting
shape.
"It's a fine day for hunting," he announced. "The
deer have been thick up on the ridge this year. His
lordship up yet?"
Alec brushed dirt and bark fragments from his
tunic. "He was still buried somewhere under the covers
last time I looked. I don't think he slept
well last night."
lyim Flewelling
"Is that so?" Micum went to the kitchen door and
reached outside for a handful of loose snow. "Well
then, he wants waking up, doesn't he? I'm
sure he'd hate to miss such a beautiful
morning."
Mirroring his grin, Alec got himself a handful and
followed Micum to the bedroom.
The shutters were still closed, but there was enough light for them
to make out the long form beneath the quilts on
Seregil's side of the bed.
Together,
Micum signed to Alec.
Stalking in silently, they threw back the quilts
ari'd launched their assault, only to find they'd
ambushed a bolster.
The shutters banged open behind them and two familiar
voices shouted, "Good morning!"
Startled, Micum and Alec looked up just in time
to catch a faceful of snow from Seregil and Illia,
laughing victoriously outside.
"Sneak up on me, will you?" Seregil jeered as he
and the girl fled.
"After them!" cried Micum, scrambling out through the
window.
An ungainly chase ensued. Illia wisely
dodged into the kitchen and was granted asylum by Arna,
who brandished a copper ladle at all would-be
abductors.
Seregil wasn't so lucky. Never at his best in
a daylight fight, he stumbled over one of the excited
dogs who'd joined in the hunt and was tackled
by Alec. Micum caught up and together they heaved
Seregil into a drift and sat on him.
"Traitor!" he sputtered as Alec
thrust a handful of snow down the back of his shirt.
Micum cut him short with another handful in the
face. "I believe I owed you that," he chortled,
"and here's another with interest."
By the time they let him up, Seregil looked like a
poorly carved sculpture done in white sugar.
"What do you say to a hunt?" Micum asked,
attempting to brush him off a bit.
"Actually, I had more of a quiet day by the fire in
mind," Seregil gasped, shaking snow from his hair.
Grabbing him, Micum tossed him easily over one
broad shoulder. "Find me a fresh drift,
Alec."
"There's a good one right there."

"I'll go, I'll go, damn you!" howled
Seregil, struggling like
at.
"What did I tell you?" laughed Micum,
setting him on his feet.
knew he'd want to."
With dry clothes and a quick breakfast, the three of them
set off into the hills above Watermead with bows and
hounds.
The dogs struck the trail of a boar first,
but Micum called them off that, since they hadn't
brought spears.
For the rest of the morning they found nothing but birds and
rabbits. At Alec's insistence, Seregil had
brought a bow and no one was more surprised than he when
he managed to hit a roosting grouse.
They were just thinking of stopping for a midday meal when the
dogs flushed a bull elk from a stand of fir. They
chased it for nearly half an hour before Alec put
a broadhead shaft into the great beast's heart,
dropping it in midleap.
"One shot, by the Maker!" Micum exclaimed,
swinging out of the saddle to inspect the kill.
"Quick and clean," said Alec, kneeling to inspect the
shot. "That way they don't suffer."
Alec had dropped armed men with the same merciful
economy, thought Micum, inspecting the red-fletched
shaft protruding from the animal's side.
They built a fire and began dressing out the
carcass. It was messy work; the snow around them was
soon stained a steaming scarlet. Opening the belly,
Micum tossed the entrails to the dogs and presented
the heart and liver to Alec, his due for the killing
shot.
"We'll need more water before we're done,"
Micum remarked as they set about the skinning.
Alec wiped his bloodied hands in the snow. "We
passed a stream a ways back. I'll go refill
the water skins."
Seregil paused in his work, following Alec with his
eyes until the boy had ridden out of sight between the
trees. Beside him, Micum smiled to himself, thinking of
what Kari had said.
"He's grown up a lot, hasn't he?" he
ventured presently.
Seregil shrugged, going back to his skinning.
"He's had to, ramming around with the likes of us."
"You've come to think quite a lot of him, I'd say."
lyim Flewelling
Seregil saw through his flimsy words in an instant and
his smile faded to hard, flat denial. "If you
think I-was
"I'd never think ill of you for the world. I just think that
heart of yours leads you down some hard trails, that's
all. You haven't said anything to him, have you?"
Seregil's face was a careful mask of indifference,
but his shoulders sagged visibly. "No, and I'm not
going to. It wouldn't be- honorable. I have too
much influence over him."
"Well, he loves you well in his own
fashion," Micum said, unable to think of anything more
optimistic.
The silence spun out between them again, less comfortable this
time. Loosening the last bit of hide, Micum set
his knife aside.
"Do you have any idea what Nysander is up to? I
haven't heard a thing from him since the Festival."
This time there was no mistaking the troubled look in his
friend's eyes.
"Secrets, Micum. Still secrets. He's
driven me half-mad with them," Seregil
admitted, warming himself at the fire.
"Have you found anything out on your own?"
Seregil stirred the embers with a branch, sending up
a little flock of sparks. "Not much. And I'm
oath-bound not to talk about it. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. We both know how the game
works. How's Alec handling it, though? He's smart
enough to put things together and I'd say he's about as easy
to put off a scent as you are."
"True." Seregil gave a humorless laugh.
"I'm worried, Micum. Something really bad is
coming down the road and I can't tell who's in the
way."
Micum hunkered down beside him. "If
anyone can look out for him, it's you. But there are some
other things you could be telling him. He has a right
to know."
Seregil shot to his feet and waved at Alec as
he rode out of the trees toward them.
"Not yet," he said, his voice too soft for
Micum to tell if the words were a command or a plea.
caret BEP*"'CARET rather caret caret BP"
After three days at Watermead, Alec and
Seregil returned to the city under cover of night and
made their way quietly back to the Cockerel.
Runcer would keep up appearances at Wheel
Street; Lord Seregil was in town, but not always
available.
Thryis and the others had gone to bed when they arrived, but
the aromas still lingering in the darkened kitchen-new bread,
dried fruit, garlic, wine, and ashy coals
banked on the hearth-were enough welcome for Alec.
Ruetha appeared from somewhere and followed them up to the
second floor. Alec scooped her up and held
her until Seregil had disarmed the succession of
warding glyphs that protected the hidden stairway
leading to their rooms. Alec grinned to himself as
Seregil whispered the passwords that had once sounded
so exotically magical.
The command for the glyph at the base of the stairs was
Etuis midra koriatiian cyris.
"Your grandmother insults the chickens."
Halfway up:
Clarin magril.
"Raspberries, saddle."
For the hidden door at the top of the stairs the word was
Nodense:
"Almost."
The nonsense was intentional, making it virtually
impossible for anyone to guess the secret
lynn Flewelltag
words. Only the final command, the one for the door into the
sitting room, had any meaning.
Bokthersa
was the name of SeregiFs birthplace.
Seregil crossed the room with the aid of a lightstone
and lit the fire. As the flames leapt up, he
surveyed the room in surprise. "Illior's
Hands, don't tell me you cleaned the place up
before you left for Wheel Street?"
"Just enough so I could walk across the room safely,"
Alec replied, going to his neat, narrow bed in the
corner near the hearth. He didn't particularly
mind Seregil's chaotic living habits,
but he did dislike stepping on sharp objects
barefoot, or having heavy things fall on him from
shelves. Hanging his sword and bow case on their
nails above the bed, he stretched out with a contented
sigh.
Seregil collapsed on the sofa in front of the
fire. "You know, it strikes me that this is all a
bit of a comedown for you. After having your own chamber,
I mean. Perhaps we should think about expanding our
accommodations here. There are empty rooms on either
side of us."
"Don't bother on my account." Yawning, Alec
crossed his arms behind his head. "I like things just as they
are."
Seregil smiled up at the shadow of a dusty
cobweb wavering overhead. "So do I, now that you
mention it."
Their pleasure at returning to the inn was marred by a
sudden scarcity of jobs. The few that had come in
during their absence were petty matters, and over the
next week new ones were slow to follow. For the first
time in their acquaintance, Alec saw Seregil grow
bored.
To make matters worse, late winter was the
dreariest season in Rhiminee despite
the lengthening days. The icy rains brought thicker fog
in off the sea, and a grey dampness seemed to get
into everything. Alec found himself sleeping well past
dawn, and then nodding off over whatever he was doing in
the evening with the sound of the rain lulling him like a
heartbeat. Seregil, on the other hand, became
increasingly restless.
Returning from a visit with Nysander one dank afternoon
near the end of Dostin, Alec found Seregil working
at the writing desk. The parchment in front of him was
half-covered with musical notations, but he appeared
to have lost interest in the project. Chin

on hand, he was staring glumly out at the fog slinking
by like a jilted lover.
"Did you check with Rhiri on your way up?" he
asked without turning his head.
"Nothing new," Alec replied, unwrapping the
books the wizard had lent him.
"Damn. And I've already checked everywhere else.
If people keep behaving themselves like this we'll be out of a
job."
"How about a game of bakshi?" Alec offered. "I
could use some practice on those cheats you showed me
yesterday."
"Maybe later. I don't seem to be in the
mood." With an apologetic shrug, Seregil
returned to his composition.
Suit yourself,
thought Alec. Clearing a space on the room's
central table, he settled down to study the
compendium of rare beasts Nysander had given him. The
text was somewhat beyond his ability, but he stubbornly
puzzled it out, relying on the illustrations for clues
when the gist of a passage eluded him. With cold
mists swirling against the windowpanes, a fire
crackling on the hearth, and a cup of tea at his
elbow, it was not an unpleasant way to occupy an
afternoon.
It did require considerable concentration, however, which
quickly proved difficult as Seregil abandoned the
desk and began wandering around the room. First he toyed
with an unusual lock he'd picked up somewhere,
grinding noisily away at the wards with a succession
of picks. A few moments later he tossed it
onto a shelf with the others and disappeared into his
chamber, where Alec could hear him rummaging through the
chests and trunks piled there and muttering aloud, either
to himself or the ever faithful Ruetha.
Presently he reappeared with an armload
of scrolls. Kicking the scattered cushions into a
pile in front of the fire, he settled himself
to read. But this pursuit was equally short-lived.
After a brief perusal involving considerable rustling
of parchments and muttered asides, each document was
relegated in rapid succession into the fire or
onto a dusty pile beneath the couch. With this task
completed, he lay back among the cushions and
began to whistle softly between his teeth, keeping time
to his tune by tapping the toe of one boot against the
ash shovel.
Not even Nysander's excellent bestiary could withstand
such distraction. Realizing he'd just read the same
sentence for the third time, Alec carefully closed the
book.
Lynn Flewelling
"We could do some shooting in the back court," he
suggested, trying not to let his exasperation show.
Seregil looked up in surprise. "Oh,
sorry. Am I disturbing you?"
"Well-was
He stood up again with a sigh. "I'm not fit to be
around today, I'm afraid. I'll get out of your
way." With this he returned to his room, emerging a
few moments later wearing his best cloak.
He'd changed his rumpled tunic for a proper
surcoat and breeches, too, Alec saw.
"Where are you off to?"
"I think I'll just walk awhile, get some air,"
Seregil said, avoiding eye contact as he hurried
to the door.
"Wait a minute, and I'll go with you."
"No, no, you go on with your reading," Seregil
insisted hurriedly. "And tell Thryis not to wait
supper for me. I could be late."
The door closed after him and Alec found himself in
sole possession of their rooms.
"Well, at least he didn't take his pack this
time," he grumbled to Ruetha, who'd stationed herself on
a stack of books beside him. Tucking herself into a neat
loaf, the cat merely blinked at him.
Alec opened his book again, but found he couldn't
concentrate at all now.
Giving up, he made another pot of tea and
looked into Seregil's bedroom while it steeped;
no clue was immediately apparent in that chaotic jumble.
What's he up to, dashing off like that?
Except for that one mysterious journey, Seregil
had included him in every job since the Festival. But
he hadn't acted like he was going out on a
job just now.
The parchment was still on the desk. Bending over it,
Alec saw that it was the beginnings of a song. The words
were badly smudged in places, and whole lines had
been struck through or scribbled over. What remained
read:
Shelter awhile this poor tattered heart. Cool
my brow with your kiss. Tell me, my love, you
"II lie with me only. Lie to me all night
like this.
Sweet is the night, but bitter the waking When the
sun harries me home.

Others there 'II be, who drink at your fountain
While I toss cold and alone.
Yellow as gold, the hair on your pillow, Green
as cold emeralds, your eyes. Dear as the moon,
the cost of your favors,
Below this half a dozen lines had been struck out with
what appeared to be increasing frustration.
The margins of the sheet were filled with half-completed
sketches and designs-Illior's crescent, a
perfectly drawn eye, circles, spirals,
arrows, the profile of a handsome young man. In the lower
left coiner was a quick but unmistakable
sketch of Alec scowling comically over his books, which
Seregil must have drawn from his reflection in the
windowpane.
As he set the sheet aside, a familiar binding
caught his eye among the books stacked on the
workbench next to the desk. It was the Aurenfaie
journal case they'd discovered in the Oreska
library. He'd assumed Seregil had returned
it with the others; he certainly hadn't said anything more
about it, or about their discovery of the reference to the
mysterious "Eater of Death."
Opening it, Alec gently turned the fragile
pages over. Though he couldn't read them, they all
looked just as he remembered them.
He replaced the case as he'd found it, and for the first
time wondered if SeregiFs restlessness lately was
due to something more than just bad weather and boredom.
Come to think of it, he'd been restless at
Watermead, as well. Those nights they'd shared the
guest chamber bed, his friend had often tossed and
muttered in his sleep. He hadn't done that before.
What secrets was he wrestling with?
"Or maybe he's just pining for his green-eyed
mistress?" Alec speculated aloud, scanning the
parchment again with an amused chuckle.
Ruetha appeared to have no opinion on the matter,
however, and he found himself pacing as he rehearsed
various nonchalant comments he could use to broach the
subject when Seregil returned.
Whenever that turned out to be.
Lost in the quiet of the murky afternoon, he went back
to his book and read until the light failed. When
he got up for a fresh candle, he saw that the rain
had stopped. Beyond the courtyard wall, the street
lanterns glowed enticingly through the mist.
lyrai Flewelling
Suddenly the room seemed close and stale. There was
really no reason he shouldn't go out. Why hadn't he
thought of it sooner? Throwing on a surcoat and
cloak, he headed downstairs.
The door between the kitchen and lading room was open.
Through it he could see Cilia serenely nursing
Luthas in the middle of the dinnertime bustle, sorting
through a basket of apples with her free hand as she
did so. The baby sucked greedily, tugging at the
lacings of her open bodice. Her exposed breast
throbbed gently with the rhythm of his demand.
Alec's experience with Ylinestra had considerably
altered his reaction to such sights. He colored
guiltily when she looked up and caught
him hovering in the doorway.
"I thought you'd gone out already," she said.
"Ah-no. I was just, that is- It's stopped raining,
you see, and I'm just going out for a walk." He
gestured vaguely toward the door behind him.
"Could you hold the baby a minute before you go?" she
asked, pulling Luthas off the nipple and holding
him up. "My arm'll break if I don't shift
over."
Taking the child, Alec held him while Cilia
moved her baskets and uncovered her other breast.
It was swollen with milk; a thin stream jetted from the
nipple as she moved. Alec was close enough to see the
pearly drops that fell across the deep red skins of the
apples. He looked away, feeling a little
dizzy. Luthas let out a sleepy burp and
nuzzled at the front of Alec's cloak.
"The way he eats, you'd think I'd not have a drop
to spare, but just look at me!" Cilia exclaimed
merrily, taking the child back and putting him to breast
on the other side. "Maker's Mercy, I've got
more milk than Grandmother's goat."
Unable to think of a suitable reply to this, Alec
nodded a hasty farewell and turned to go.
"Hey, Alec. Take this for your
troubles," she said, tossing him an apple.
Feeling wetness beneath his fingers, he tucked it into a
pocket and retreated to the back courtyard.
There, with the fog cool on his face, he allowed himself
a moment's guilty pleasure replaying the scene in
his mind. Cilia had never treated him as anything but
a friend and until just now it had never occurred to him
to think otherwise of her. Of course, the fact that she
was at least six years older than he made it
unlikely that her opinion would change.

Settling his sword belt against his hip, he pulled
his hood well up and set off through the back gate with
no particular destination in mind. The fog carried the
smell of smoke and the sea. He tossed a corner
of his cloak over one shoulder, enjoying the feel of the
cold night air.
Skirting the Harvest Market, he strolled through
Knife Maker's Lane to Golden Helm and
followed it, watching the evening traffic bustle past.
As he reached the Astellus Circle, he was
suddenly struck by a new and unexpected inspiration.
Across the busy circle, beyond the pale,
templelike fountain colonnade, stood the
gracious arch that marked the entrance to the
Street of Lights. He'd been down this street
many times on the way to the theater and gambling houses
there, and Seregil had often jested about stopping in at
a brothel afterward, but somehow it had never happened.
He'd never imagined it would.
Until now.
The colored lanterns-rose, amber, green, and
white- glowed softly through the mist, each color
signifying what sort of companionship was available
within. Rose meant women for men, he knew, and
white was women for women; amber meant a house for
women, too, but the prostitutes there were male.
Most enigmatic of all, however, was the green
lantern, signifying male companions for male
patrons. Worse yet, some houses showed several
colors at once.
There's no reason to be nervous,
he thought as he crossed to the arch. After all, his
clothes were presentable, his purse was heavy, and
thanks to Ylinestra, he wasn't completely
inexperienced. As his friends never seemed to tire of
pointing out, he
was
of age for such diversions. There was no harm in just
having a look around, anyway. Nothing
wrong with being curious.
As usual, the street was busy. Riders on
glossy horses and carriages displaying the
blazons of noble houses and wealthy merchants
clattered past as he strolled along, looking with
new eyes at the establishments showing the pink
lantern. Groups of rich young revelers seemed
to be everywhere, their boisterous laughter echoing in the
darkness.
A woman wearing the uniform of the Queen's
Household Guard was bidding a lingering good-bye to a
half-dressed man in a doorway beneath an amber
lamp as he passed. Next door, a well-
heeled sea captain and several of his men burst from
one house showing the rose light and, after a moment's
consultation, stormed
Lynn Flewelling
off across the street to one with a green. Lights glowed
in nearly every window; muffled laughter and strains of
music drifted everywhere, adding to the festive feel
of the place.
It occurred to him as he walked along that the color
of a lantern was not a lot to go on for such a decision.
No doubt Seregil could have suggested a few
likely places, but that wasn't much good
to him now. At last, he settled on a house near
the middle of the street for no better reason than that
he liked the carvings on the door. Just as he was about
to go in, however, a door swung open across the
street and a group of young men spilled out in a flood
of light and music. A man was singing inside, and the
voice stopped Alec in his tracks. The clear,
lilting tenor was unmistakably Seregil's.
"Yellow as gold, the hair on your pillow,
Green as cold emeralds, your eyes. Dear as the
moon, the cost of your favors, But priceless, the
sound of your sighs. his
Well, well! So here you are,
thought Alec.
And you figured out that last line, too.
Wondering what role his friend was playing tonight, he
crossed the street and hurried up the stairs and into the
spacious vestibule beyond. In his haste, he
collided with a tall, handsomely dressed man just
inside the door.
"Good evening," he exclaimed, catching Alec
lightly by the shoulders to steady himself. His hair was
streaked with silver, but his long, handsome face was
youthful as he smiled down on Alec.
"Excuse me, I wasn't looking where
I was going," Alec apologized.
"No harm done. I'm always glad to meet anyone
so anxious to enter my house. You've not been my
guest before, I think. I'm Azarin."
The man's blue eyes swept over him in what
Alec sensed was well-practiced appraisal.
He'd given no patronymics and Alec's name was
not asked for.
Evidently he'd passed muster, for Azarin
slipped his arm through Alec's and drew him with gentle
insistence toward a curtained archway nearby.
"Come, my young friend," he said warmly, drawing
aside the curtain. "I believe you'll find the
company most congenial."

"Actually, I was just-was
- Taking the room in at a glance, Alec froze,
all thought of Seregil momentarily forgotten.
Beyond the curtain, a broad staircase led down
into an opulent salon. The air in the softly lit
room was heavy with incense. The walls were painted in
Skalan fashion with superb murals and, while
erotic themes were not uncommon, these were unlike any
Alec had encountered before.
Green,
he thought numbly, heart tripping a beat as he
gazed around.
The murals were divided into panels, and each
presented handsome male nudes intertwined in
passionately carnal acts. The sheer variety was
astonishing. Many of the feats depicted appeared
to require considerable athletic ability and several,
thought Alec, must have been pure fantasy on the part
of the artist.
Dragging his gaze from the paintings, he swiftly
took in the occupants of the astonishing chamber. Men
of all ages reclined on couches arranged around the
room, some embracing casually as they gave their
attention to a young lute player by the hearth, others
laughing and talking over gaming tables scattered here and
there. Couples and small groups came and went up
a sweeping staircase at the back of the room. There
was no unseemly behavior, but many of them wore little
more than long dressing gowns.
The patrons seemed to be mostly noblemen of various
degrees, but Alec also recognized uniforms of the
Queen's Archers, the City Watch, several naval
tunics, and a red tabard of the Oreska Guard.
He even recognized a few faces, including the
poet Rhytien, who was currently holding
forth to a rapt audience from the embrasure of a window.
The courtesans, if that was what one would call them,
were not at all what he'd expected; some were slight
and pretty, but most of them looked more like athletes
or soldiers, and not all of them were young.
He hadn't heard Seregil's voice again since
he'd entered, but he saw him now lounging on a couch
near the hearth. He had one arm around a handsome,
golden-haired young man and they were laughing together over
something. As the courtesan turned his head, Alec
recognized him-it was the same face Seregil had
sketched on the margin of the song. Even from this distance,
Alec could see the fellow had green eyes.
Lynn Flewelling
His heart did another slow, painful roll as he
finally allowed himself to focus on Seregil.
His friend wore only breeches beneath his open robe and
his dark hair hung disheveled over his shoulders.
Slender, lithe, and completely at ease, he could
easily have been mistaken for one of the men of the house.
In fact, Alec silently admitted, he outshone
them all.
He was beautiful.
Still rooted where he stood, Alec suddenly felt a
strange division within himself. The old
Alec, northern caret red and callow, wanted
to bolt from this strange, exotic place and the sight of
his friend stroking that golden head as absently as he'd
petted the cat a few hours earlier.
But the new Alec, Alec of Rhiminee, stood
fast, caught by the elegant decadence of the place as
his ever-present curiosity slowly rekindled.
Seregil hadn't noticed him yet; to see him like this
in such a place made Alec feel as if he were
spying on a stranger.
Seregil's strange, virile beauty, at first
unappreciated, then taken for granted as their
familiarity grew through months of close living,
seemed to leap out at him now against the muted
backdrop of the crowd: the large grey eyes beneath the
expressive brows, the fine bones of his face, the
mouth, so often tilted in a caustic grin, was
relaxed now in sensuous repose. As Alec
watched, Seregil leaned his head back and his robe
fell open to expose the smooth column of his
throat and the lean planes of his chest and belly.
Fascinated and confused, Alec felt the first
hesitant stirring of feelings he was not prepared
to associate with his friend and teacher.
Still hovering at his elbow, Azarin somewhat
misinterpreted his bedazzled expression. "If I
may be so bold, perhaps you lack experience in such
matters?" he asked. "Don't let that trouble you.
There are many hours in the night, take your time."
He swept a graceful hand at the murals.
"Perhaps you'll find inspiration there. Or have you a
particular sort of companion in mind?"
"No!" Startled out of his daze, Alec took a
step backward. "No, I didn't really- I
mean, I thought I saw a friend come in here. I was just
looking for him."
Azarin nodded and said, ever gracious, "I understand.
But now that you are here, why not join us for a while? The
musician is new, just in from Cirna. I'll send
for wine."

At Azarin's discreet summons, a young man
detached himself from a knot of conversation nearby and
came up to join them.
"Tirien will attend you in my absence," said Azarin.
Giving the two of them a final, approving look,
he disappeared back into the vestibule.
"Well met, young sir," Tirien greeted him.
Thick black hair, glossy as a crow's wing,
framed his face and a soft growth of new
beard edged the hollows of his cheeks. His smile
seemed genuinely friendly. He was dressed in
breeches, boots, and a loose shirt of fine linen;
for a moment Alec mistook him for a noble. The
illusion was shattered, however, when Tirien stepped
closer and said, "There's a couch free near the
fire, if you like. Or would you prefer to go up at
once?"
For one awful moment Alec was speechless; what in
Illior's name was he to do? Glancing past
Tirien's shoulder, his eyes happened to fall on
one of the panels. The young prostitute turned
to follow his gaze, then smiled.
"Oh, yes, I'm quite good at that. As you can see,
though, we'll need a third man."
Seregil's eyes widened in genuine amazement at
he caught sight of Alec framed in the salon
entrance, amazement followed at once by a
bittersweet pang of something deeper than mere
surprise.
The boy had obviously stumbled into Azarin's house
by mistake comthe tense lines around his mouth and faint,
betraying color in his cheeks attested as much.
I'd better go rescue him,
he thought, yet he remained where he was,
letting the scene play on a bit longer.
A quick glance around the room confirmed that Alec was
attracting the notice of other patrons, as well.
And no wonder, Seregil thought with a stab of something
dangerously close to possessiveness. For a moment
he allowed himself to see Alec through the eyes of the
others: a slim, somberly dressed youth whose
heavy, honey-dark hair framed a finely featured
face and the bluest eyes this" side of a summer
evening sky. He stood like a half-wild thing,
poised for flight, yet his manner toward the young
prostitute was almost courtly.
Tirien leaned closer to Alec and the boy's mask of
composure
Lynn Flewelling
slipped a bit, betraying-what? Alarm,
certainly, but hadn't there been just a hint of
indecision?
This time Seregil couldn't deny the hot flash of
jealousy that shot through him. Thoroughly annoyed with
himself, he began disentangling himself from Wythrin.
"Do you want to go back up now?" the young man asked
hopefully, sliding a warm hand up his thigh.
This gave him pause. Seregil touched the back of
one hand to Wythrin's cheek, savoring the
faint roughness of it. This one, a favorite for some
time now, had comcharms of his own, and talents that spared
Seregil's heart even as they satisfied his need.
Wythrin, and others like him, offered safe, guiltless
passion, free of obligation.
"In a moment. There's someone I need to talk
to first."
He'd get Alec out of whatever jam he'd stumbled
into, whether that sent him upstairs with Tirien or
not, Seregil told himself sternly, then lose himself
once more in Wythrin's deep bed. It was as simple
as that.
Alec quickly realized that Tirien had no intention of
being put off. His own increasingly embarrassed
protestations that he had no experience in such matters
only seemed to whet the courtesan's interest. It
wasn't the first time Alec had run into this
attitude; country virgins seemed to be a rare and
much sought-after novelty in Rhiminee.
For a fleeting instant it occurred to him that Tirien was
attractive, but he dismissed the treacherous thought at
once; that sort of thinking was not going to get him out of
this mess.
To his relief, he saw Seregil coming his way.
Clearly amused, he gave Alec a
discreet
need help?
sign. Alec answered with a quick nod.
At that, Seregil strode up to them and slipped an
arm around Alec's waist. "There you are at last!
Forgive me for intruding, Tirien. My friend and I
have some business. Will you excuse us for a moment?"
"Of course." The young courtesan withdrew with a
graceful bow, betraying only the faintest hint of
disappointment.
Alec braced for the inevitable ragging as they withdrew
to the vestibule, but Seregil simply said, "I
didn't expect to see you here."
A.
Stalking Darkness

"I heard you singing. I mean, I thought it sounded like
you and-well, I just came in." Aside from the fact
that he was stammering like an idiot, Alec was suddenly
all too aware of the fact that Seregil's arm was still
around him. Strange, enticing scents clung to his
friend's skin and hair, unlike his usual clean
smell. The troublesome new feelings stirred again,
closer to the surface this time, but just as confusing. "I
didn't think to check the lantern. I just
came in."
Seregil chuckled softly. "Curious as usual,
eh? Well, now that you're in, are you going to stay?
Tirien's an excellent choice. Azarin knows his
business."
"No." Alec glanced at the young prostitute, still
waiting hopefully nearby, then hastily back
to Seregil. There was no hint of challenge in his
friend's face, just bemusement. Why then, held in the
calm gaze of those grey eyes, did his own
agitation increase? The situation was well past his
ability to explain.
"No, I was just looking for you. I'd better go. This
place makes me feel strange."
"There's more than incense burning in those bowls. But
I assume if you were just passing by, then you're here
on business of your own? Let's see now, how long
has it been?"
"I was thinking of it," Alec admitted. He could
feel the warmth of Seregil's skin through the thick
silk of the robe now. "I don't know-I might just
go on home."
"Don't be silly," Seregil said, releasing him
at last. "I was planning to go back upstairs, but
that can wait." The grin flashed again, and
Alec abandoned all hope of escape. "There's a
place just down the street that's probably more to your
liking. And long overdue, too. I'll be right
back."
Returning to the main room, he said something
to Tirien. The man gave Alec a last wistful
look, then drifted away.
Leaning in the shadow of the arch, Alec watched
Seregil take leave of his companion, who was
clearly dismayed by his departure. After a brief,
animated exchange, Seregil pressed him back
on the couch with a deep, lingering kiss, then disappeared
up the stairs.
He came down again a few moments later fully
dressed, sword belt slung over one shoulder.
"Come along," he said jauntily, leading the way
to a villa down the block.
Lynn Rewelling
Well, at least there's a pink lantern here,
Alec thought, nervous again as Seregil urged him up
the stairs.
Seregil appeared to be well known here. A number
of women greeted him enthusiastically as he led
Alec into the salon. This establishment was quite similar
to Azarin's. Erotic tapestries and
statuary adorned this room and lovely women in
various states of dishabille entertained their
patrons, brilliant and lovely as rare birds.
As they handed their cloaks and swords to a page, a
richly dressed woman left a knot of conversation
and rushed to embrace Seregil. Her skin,
generously exposed by the blue silk gown she wore,
had a golden olive tone Alec had never seen
before. Thick black ringlets hung in a shining
cascade to her waist.
"Where have you been keeping yourself, you rogue," she
cried with obvious delight.
"A million places, Eirual, my love, but
none so pleasant as here," Seregil replied,
kissing her throat lasciviously.
She laughed, then pushed him away, dark eyes
widening in mock reproach. "I know that scent.
You've been to Azarin's already. How cruel you are,
coming to me with your fires already spent."
"Spent? My fires?" Seregil caught her
close again. "And when, my lovely one, have you ever
known
that
to be the case?"
"I'd like to put you to the test-upstairs."
"I accept your challenge gladly, madame, but
first we have to find companionship for my young friend."
Alec had been gazing around the room during this
exchange, his heart pounding in a manner even his
old, Dalnan-bred self could find no argument with.
"I think he's found someone already," Eirual said with
an amused smile.
Alec nodded shyly at a slender, blue-eyed
brunette in burgundy silk. "She's very
pretty."
"Myrhichia?" Eirual shot Seregil an arch
look as she summoned the woman. "He has
excellent taste, this friend of yours."
"He hasn't disappointed me yet," Seregil
replied, giving Alec a wink.
Myrhichia glided over, wrapped in perfume and
mystery. She was older than Alec had supposed,
older than he, but that didn't matter-there was something
familiar about her, something that

made him wave aside the offer of wine and let her
lead him up the stairs to her room.
It wasn't until she turned to speak to him over
her shoulder that he realized how much she resembled
Seregil, or rather Seregil as he'd
looked playing Lady Gwethelyn aboard the
Darter.
It was an unsettling revelation and he did his best
to put it out of his mind as they entered her chamber.
Looking around, Alec felt the last of his
trepidation giving way to sensuous anticipation.
A fire cracked invitingly on the hearth, its
flames softly illuminating the small, elegant
room. The bed was high and draped with patterned
hangings. Huge cushions were piled near the hearth,
together with a few oddly shaped stools. An
elaborate washstand was half-visible behind a painted
screen in a shadowy corner.
Myrhichia stood demurely at the center of the
room, offering him the choice of where to begin. "Does
it please you?" she asked, cocking her head
prettily.
"Yes," he whispered. Closing the door, he went
to her and loosened the jeweled pin holding her hair.
It tumbled free over her shoulders in dark,
sandalwood-scented waves.
Where his experience with Ylinestra had been out of his
control from the first, this woman seemed content to let him
direct things. He touched her face, her hair,
then hesitantly brought his lips to hers.
Her hands found his face, his shoulders, then slid
slowly lower.
The fastenings of her gown were no challenge for
Alec's expertly trained fingers; her clothes and his
were soon in a pile at their feet.
"Shall I light a lamp?" she whispered as he took
her hungrily in his arms.
He shook his head, pressing his body against the
yielding roundness of breasts, belly, and thighs,
letting the feel of her envelop him. "The fire's
enough."
Still holding her, he sank down onto the cushions
by the hearth. The warring sensations of the long, confusing
evening seemed to coalesce and clarify as he at
last abandoned himself to the powerful simplicity of
desire.
Eirual was half Zengati, Aurenen's
traditional enemy. It was that, together with the dark beauty
of her race, that had first attracted Seregil.
Though hardly more than a girl at the time of
Lynn Flewelling
their first meeting, she'd been a fiery lover and he'd
entertained notions of taking her away for himself.
She'd been the one who'd dashed that plan; she liked
her work, she'd told him firmly.
What's more, she planned to own a brothel of her own
one day, just as her mother and grandmother had before her. Although
his pride had been somewhat jarred, Seregil had
respected her wishes and over the years they'd
become friends.
She'd achieved her dreams. She was now the owner of
one of the city's finest and most nobly patronized
pleasure houses. This often brought interesting bits of
information her way and, though she was no gossiping
whore, she was aware of Seregil's supposed
connections to Rhiminee's mysterious "Cat" and had
often found it lucrative to pass on certain facts
and rumors.
Their reunion this night had been spirited in spite of
Seregil's earlier activities. Afterward, they lay
tangled together in the damp, disheveled sheets and
laughed together over little things.
Presently she sighed, then said, "You know, I saw
something rather odd a few weeks ago."
"And what was that?" he murmured, contentedly admiring
the contrast of his skin against hers as he stroked her
thigh.
"I entertained a new visitor last week, a
stranger. He was well turned out and behaved himself,
but I could tell from his way of speaking and the
state of his hands he wasn't upper class, just a
common fellow who'd come into gold and meant to treat
himself. You know the sort."
"But he was handsome and broad-shouldered and smelled of
honest labor," Seregil teased. "Sounds
delightful. Let's have him in."
"As if I'd share you! But I admit I was
intrigued at first, though he turned out very ordinary in
the end. No, I think you'd be more interested in what
fell out of his coat than what fell out of his
breeches."
"Oh?" Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow, knowing
better than to hurry her. She always enjoyed spinning
out a tale.
"He'd thrown his clothes every which way, so when he was
snoring afterward-which was all too soon, I might
add-I decided to tidy up a bit. A letter fell
from his coat when I picked it up. The ribbon had
come loose and I took a quick peek. He stirred
a moment later and I had to put it away, but I had
time to recognize the handwriting, and the seal at the
bottom."
"Did you, you clever girl? Whose was it?"

"Lord General Zymanis'."
"Really?" Zymanis had recently been appointed
to oversee the defenses of the lower city. "How do you
know it wasn't a forgery?"
Eirual traced a playful finger around his navel.
"Zymanis is a very dear friend of mine, as you well
know. Two months ago he knocked his ring against that
bedpost there behind you and chipped the stone seal. It was a
tiny piece, really, but he made such a fuss over
it! Quite spoiled the mood. This chip makes a tiny
flaw in the impression, so tiny that most people wouldn't
even notice it. But I knew what to look for and it
was his, all right. What do you think of that?"
Seregil cupped her full breast in his hand like a
goblet and kissed it reverently. "I think, in your
place, I'd have found some way of inquiring where this
lover of yours could be found again."
Eirual pressed closer with a luxuriant sigh.
"Sailmaker Street in the lower city. A tenement
with a red and white lintel. His name is Rythel, a
big, blond fellow with a lovely soft beard, very
handsome."
"And you don't think this visitor of yours ought to have such
a letter?"
Eirual shook her head. "For starters, it was
addressed to Lord Admiral Nyreidian.
I've never met the admiral, but I'd bet a
month's gold he doesn't have fresh calluses
on his hands and stained fingernails."
"Or a yellow beard," mused Seregil, thinking
of the man he'd met at the Mourning Night
ceremony. Nyreidian had spoken of his own
commission from the Queen, too, overseeing privateering
ships.
"Zymanis wouldn't let a fellow like this step on his
shadow, much less write letters to him." She gave
him a sly sidelong glance. "I thought maybe your
friend the Cat might be interested?"
"He just might."
"I could tell him myself," she wheedled, not for the first
time. Over the years the unseen Rhiminee Cat had
taken on a glow of romance for many, who envied
Seregil his apparently favored status.
Seregil kissed his way slowly across her chest.
"I've told you before, love, he's not what you
think. He's a nasty, weedy little man who spends
half his time wading through the sewers."
lynn Flewelling
"Last time you said he was a hunchback," she
corrected, stroking his head.
"That, too. That's why he keeps out of
sight, you see, because he's so hideous. Why, his
boils alone are enough--"
"No more!" Eirual laughed, admitting defeat.
"Sometimes I think
you "re
the Cat, and you just make all the rest up to hide
it."
"Me? Wading through sewers and running errands for bored
nobles?" He pinned her down, feigning outrage.
"Fancy me mincing across the roof slates!"
"Oh, yes," Eirual gasped, giggling
helplessly at the thought. "You're the terror of the
town."
"You've pegged me wrong, my girl. There's only
one thing I put that kind of effort into."
"And what's that, may I ask?"
Seregil leered down at her. "I'll show you."
The candle had burned to a stub when he slipped from
her bed.
Eirual stirred drowsily. "Stay, love.
I'll be cold without you."
He drew the comforter up under her chin and kissed her.
"I can't tonight. I'll send a nice present tomorrow."
"All right, then." She smiled, already half
asleep again. "Something with rubies and I
might forgive you."
"Rubies it is."
He dressed quickly and blew out the candle. Closing
her door quietly behind him, he headed for
Myrhichia's room down the corridor.
He had to knock several times to get a response.
She opened the door a few inches at last, peering
out with a resentful pout.
"He's sleeping," she informed him, pulling her
dressing gown closed.
"How inconsiderate." Pushing past her, Seregil
strode into the bedchamber. Alec lay sprawled on
his back in the bed, his sleeping face the picture of
weary bliss.
Looks like he managed to enjoy himself after all,
he thought with a mix of pride and wistfulness, glancing
around at the disordered room.
Ignoring the courtesan's simmering displeasure,
Seregil leaned down and shook him by the shoulder.
Alec stirred drowsily, murmuring something amorous
as he reached to pull Seregil into bed.

When his fingers encountered wool rather than whatever he'd
been dreaming of, however, he snapped fully
awake.
"What are
you
doing here?" he gasped, sitting up.
"Sorry." Seregil crossed his arms, grinning.
"Terrible timing, I know, but something's come up and I
may need your help."
Alec glanced quickly from him to the girl. "A job?
Now?"
"I'll wait for you downstairs. Don't be long."
Alec let out an exasperated sigh. Before he could
get up, however, Myrhichia dropped her robe and
slipped back into bed beside him.
"Does he always barge in like that?"
"I hope not," muttered Alec.
"Are you going to leave me now?" She nibbled
teasingly down the side of his neck as her hand
slipped up his thigh to more sensitive regions.
He could picture Seregil pacing impatiently
downstairs, waiting for him, but Myrhichia was
putting up a persuasive argument under the covers.
"Well," he sighed, letting her push him back
against the bolsters, "maybe not right this second."
Seregil had the bones of a workable plan in mind by the
time he got downstairs. Strolling into the cloak
room, he found it conveniently unattended.
He soon had what he wanted; he returned to the
salon with an officer's mantle and a wineskin
concealed beneath his own cloak, Alec's sword belt
and cloak over his arm.
To his surprise, Alec had still not come down. Rather
annoyed, he settled in a chair near the door
to wait.
It was late now. A few girls remained in the
salon, playing bakshi to pass the time while they
waited for whatever late- coming patrons might show
up. Having seen Seregil come down, they paid little
attention to him.
Minutes passed and still no Alec.
Seregil was just about to leave without him when the boy
came down the staircase. His loose shirt
flapped around his legs as he struggled with his coat,
one sleeve of which appeared to be inside
lyim Flewelling
out. Getting himself more or less sorted out at last,
he hurried to join Seregil.
"Delayed, were you?" Seregil inquired with a smirk,
tossing him his cloak and sword.
"Myrhichia isn't very happy with you," Alec
grumbled, flushed and out of breath. He wrapped his
sword belt around his hips and fastened the
buckle. "I'm not so sure I am, either. If this
is just another silly lover's token-was
Seregil tugged Alec's collar straight, still
grinning. "You think I'd ruin your fun for that? Come
on, I'll tell y8u about it on the way."
Outside, he glanced around quickly, then whispered,
"I think Eirual may have put us onto a spy."
Alec brightened up at once. "That's worth getting
out of bed for."
"Did you ride?"
"No."
"Good, we'll hire horses and abandon them if we
have to. I'll explain as we go."
Leaving the warm glow of the lanterns behind, they hurried
into the embracing darkness.
less-than
"W!
Ihere are we going?" Alec asked as " Seregil
headed west through the dark streets.
The
quickest way to the lower city was down the Harbor Way.
"I need a very special horse for this one,"
Seregil explained. "There's an ostler over by the
Harvest Gate who's likely to have what I want,
and still be hiring out at this hour."
Pausing, he opened the wineskin and took a sip,
then sprinkled a more liberal libation down the front
of his surcoat. Evidently satisfied with the
effect, he passed it to Alec.
Grinning, he did the same. "Drunk, are we?"
"Oh, yes, and I'll be worse off than you.
You'll be playing the sensible friend."
"Don't I always?" Alec took another fortifying
sip and capped the skin.
A lantern was still burning in front of the ostler's
stable. Seregil fell into a loose, unsteady walk
as they stepped into the circle of light.
"Ostler!" he called, striking an arrogant
pose, fists on his hips. "Two gentlemen need
mounts. Show yourself, man."
"Here, sirs," a man replied, opening a side
door a crack for a wary look at the late
customers.
Seregil shook his purse at him. The ring of
Hf f caret Ss caret TsSr caret
.8caret caret you caret gg"'caret
@l
Lynn Flewelling
coins had the desired effect; the ostler swung the
stable doors wide and held the lantern
while they inspected the half-dozen horses
inside.
Alec quickly found a decent mare and the man saddled
her for him.
Seregil was longer at it. After much pacing and
muttering, he finally settled on a rawboned
grey.
"I'm not one to tell a lord his business, but he's
made a poor choice with that one," the worried ostler
whispered to Alec. "Old Cloudy there has been
off his feed for days and Jias a cough. If you'd
speak to your friend for me, I'll see to it he has the
best of my stable."
Alec gave him a reassuring wink and counted out a
generous stack of silver. "Don't concern yourself.
We're going to play a joke on a friend and your
grey is just what we need. We'll take good care
of him, and have them both back before dawn."
They set off at a trot, but before they'd gone a
quarter of a mile Seregil's cob stumbled to a
halt, nearly throwing him over its head. Jerking its
head down, it let out a hollow, braying cough.
"Poor old fellow." Seregil patted the
animal's neck. "You're better than I could have
hoped for. We'll have to send a drysian
to look at him."
"What do you think this spy of yours is up to?"
Alec asked as they continued at a walk.
Seregil shrugged. "Hard to say yet. Eirual
thinks this fellow Rythel has some documents that he
shouldn't. I want to see if she's right."
"Do you think he's a Plenimaran?"
"Too soon to say. At times like this it's best
to keep an open mind until you have hard facts.
Otherwise, you just run around trying to prove your own
theory and overlooking important details that may
turn up in the process. It could be there's nothing
to it at all, but it's more interesting than anything else
we've seen in the last few weeks."
Well-dressed, slightly intoxicated lords heading
down to the lower city for a roister were of little concern to the
guards at the Sea Gate. The sergeant-at-arms
waved them through with a bored look and returned to the
watch fire.
At the bottom of the Harbor Way they rode east
along the waterfront past the custom houses and
quays into a moderately respectable street lined
with tenements.

A few lights showed behind shuttered windows,
but most of the neighborhood was asleep. A dog
howled mournfully somewhere nearby, the sound carrying
eerily through the streets. Seregil's horse
twitched its ears nervously, then let out another
rattling cough in a jingle of harness.
"Here's Sailmaker Street," said Seregil,
reining in at the mouth of an unmarked lane.
Unclasping his mantle, he threw it to Alec and
shook out the mantle he'd brought from Eirual's.
It belonged to a captain of the White Hawk
Infantry and bore a large, distinctive device.
"Who'd you steal that from?" Alec asked, watching him
put it on.
"Borrowed, dear boy, borrowed," Seregil
corrected primly.
Alec peered up and down the poorly lit street.
"That must be the house there," he said, pointing to one at
the end of the lane. "It's the only one with a striped
lintel."
"Yes. You hang back and be ready for trouble. If
it comes to any sort of a chase, I'd better ride
dou'with you. I don't think poor old Cloudy
has much run left in him."
Seregil emptied the last of the wine over his mount's
withers, bunched the mantle awkwardly over
one shoulder, aind pulled one foot loose from the
stirrup. Settling into a loose, drunken slouch,
he nudged the horse into a walk. Riding up to the
door, he kicked loudly at it.
"You! In the house!" he bawled, swaying
precariously in the saddle. "I want the leech,
damn him. By Sakor, send out the bastard son of a
pig!"
A shutter slammed back just above his head and an
old woman popped her head out, glaring down
indignantly.
"Leave off with that or I'll have the Watch down on
you," she screeched, swinging a stick at his head.
"This is an honest house."
"I'll leave off when I've got his throat in my
hand," Seregil yelled, kicking the door again.
"You're drunk. I can smell you from here!" the old
woman said scornfully. "Who is it you're after?"
Just then, the grey jerked its head down in another
racking cough.
"There, you hear that?" Seregil roared. "How in the
name of Bilairy am I supposed to explain this
to my commander, eh? Your leech has ruined the beast.
Gave him a dose of salts and half killed
Lynn Flewelling
him. I'll run my sword up his arse, that
pus-faced clod of shit! You send out the leech
Rythel or I'll come in after him."
"You whoreson drunken mullet!" The old woman
took another swing at him with her cudgel. "It's
Rythel the
smith
that rooms here, not Rythel the leech."
"Smith?" Seregil goggled up at her. "What in
the name of Sakor's Fire is he doing dosing my
horse if he's a smith?"
Lurking in the shadows at the mouth of the street,
Alec shook with silent laughter. It was as good a
performance as any he'd seen at the theater.
"Half the men on the coast are called Rythel, you
fool. You've got the wrong man," the old
landlady sputtered. "Smith Rythel is an honest
man, which is more than can be said for you, I'm sure."
"Honest man, my ass!"
"He is. He works for Master Quarin in the upper
city."
She disappeared and Seregil, comno doubt with knowledge born
of long experience, reined his horse out of the way just as
she emptied a chamber pot over the sill at him.
Seregil made her an ungainly bow from the
saddle. "My humblest apologies for disturbing your
rest, old mother."
"You'd best sleep on your belly tonight," the old
woman cackled after him as he rode unsteadily
away.
"That wasn't exactly subtle," Alec
observed, still laughing as they headed back to the Harbor
Way.
"A drunken soldier making a ruckus at the
wrong house in the middle of the night on Sailmaker
Street?" Seregil asked, looking pleased with
himself. "What could be subtler than that? And
successful, too. Now we know that this Rythel is a
journeyman smith of some sort. Which leaves us still
asking what he's doing with gold enough for the Street of
Lights and a lord's papers in his pocket."
"And why he had that much gold on him with the papers
still
in his pocket."
"Exactly. And what does that suggest?"
"That he's been up to whatever he's doing for a while
already," replied Alec, looking back toward the
waterfront. "We'll have to get into his rooms, and
we'd better find out who Master Quarin is."
"We'll start tomorrow. Hold up a
minute."
Seregil's grey was wheezing dejectedly now.
Reining in by a lantern at the foot of the Harbor
Way, he dismounted and took the

animal's head between his hands. "I'd better ride
double with you, Alec. This poor old fellow's at the
end of his strength. I'd better change cloaks,
too."
Alec kicked a foot out of the stirrup and held his
hand down. Grasping it, Seregil climbed up behind
him and wrapped an arm around his waist.
Alec felt another unexpected twinge of
sensuality at his touch, faint as a bat's whisper,
but unmistakable. There was certainly nothing
seductive in the way Seregil gripped a handful
of his tunic to keep his balance, yet suddenly he
had an image of that same hand stroking the head of the
young man at Azarin's brothel, and later embracing
dark-eyed Eirual.
Seregil had touched him before, but never with anything more
than brotherly affection. Alec had seen tonight what
sort of companions his friend chose-Wythrin and
Eirual, both of them exotic, beautiful, and
undoubtedly skilled beyond anything Alec
could conceive of.
What's happening to me?
he wondered dejectedly. Maker's Mercy, he
could still smell Myrhichia's lush scent rising from his
skin. From some neglected corner of his heart, a
small voice seemed to answer silently,
You 're waking up at last.
"Anything wrong?" asked Seregil.
"Thought I heard something." Alec nudged the horse
into a walk.
Seregil bunched the stolen cloak out of sight beneath his
own. "I suppose we really should return this. I
don't want any of Eirual's women getting
into trouble on my account. I don't suppose you'd
mind going back there twice in one night?"
Alec couldn't see his friend's face, but he could
tell by his voice that he was grinning.
"Me? Where will you be?" asked Alec.
"Oh, not too far away."
Alec shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.
"You're going back to Azarin's."
He heard a throaty chuckle behind him. "Fowl
never tastes as savory when you're hungry for
venison."
At least you know what you want,
Alec thought grudgingly.
iLike
less-than
*eyi caret just caret so caret greater-than
'iich"ch"s caret caret is backslash
Cilia was
just
stirring up the fire when Seregil returned to the
Cockerel the next morning. "Is Alec back?"
he asked.
"I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon. You
haven't gone and lost him, have you?"
"Let's hope not." Grabbing a few apples from a
basket, he headed for the back stairway.
"Hang on, I've got something for you," Cilia
called after him. She pulled a small, sealed
packet from behind the salt box on the mantel and
gave it to him. "Runcer sent this over from Wheel
Street. A regimental courier from the Queen's
Horse delivered it there."
Pocketing the apples, he examined the packet as
he continued upstairs. The folded parchment was sealed
with candle drippings and covered in smudged finger
marks. Directions to Lord Seregil's house were
written across the front in Beka
Cavish's impatient, upright hand.
Opening it, he read the brief letter inside.
Dear S. and A.
27 Dostin-Have reached Isil. Tomorrow we move
into Mycenian territory. One of the other turmae
lost a rider at bridge over

the Canal at Cirna when his horse bolted and
threw him over the edge. Horrible.
The weather is foul. It's still very much winter up here.
The worst enemy we've faced so far is boredom.
Capt. Myrhini and some of the other officers break the
monotony with their war stories. Some of the best come from
the sergeants, however.
Billeted tonight in stables of Baron of Isil's
estate. The glory of a soldier's life, eh,
Seregil?
-B. Cavish
Reaching their rooms, he found Alec asleep on his
narrow cot, clothes dropped in a careless heap on
the floor. Seregil sat down on the clothes chest
at the end of the bed and tapped him on the foot.
"Good morning. We've got news from Beka."
Alec growled something into the pillow, then rolled
over. He blinked sleepily at the
morning light streaming in at the windows, then at
Seregil. "You just getting in?"
Seregil tossed him an apple. "Yes. Tirien
asked after you, by the way, and sends his regards."
Alec shrugged noncommittally and bit into his
apple. "What's Beka say?"
Seregil read him the letter.
"Maker's Mercy!" Alec muttered, hearing of the
man lost off the Canal bridge. He disliked
heights and Seregil had to coax him across the
bridge the first time he'd traveled over it.
"Let's see," said Seregil when he'd finished,
"if they were in Wyvern Dug two weeks ago and
headed southeast from there, they could be across the Folcwine
River by now."
"Sounds like she's doing well with it all."
"I wouldn'f*expect anything else of her.
Beka's as good with people as she is with horses and
swordplay. I'll bet you a sester she's wearing
a captain's gorget the next time we see her."
If we see her again,
skittered at the back of his mind as he said this, but
he pushed the doubt away. He thought he saw a
shadow of the same thought cross Alec's face, and the
same quick denial.
"Where do we start today?" Alec asked, pushing a
handful of tousled hair back from his eyes.
Seregil went to the hearth and stirred up the remains
of last night's fire. "I'd like to find this Master
Smith Quarin first.
Lynn Flewelling
Unfortunately we don't know what kind of a smith
he is, do we? Goldsmith, silversmith,
swordsmith, blacksmith-was
Alec chewed thoughtfully, watching him. After a moment
he said, "How about an ironsmith?"
Seregil glanced down at the poker in his hand, then
saw that Alec was looking at it, too.
"You said Lord Zymanis is in charge of the lower city
defenses, so he's more likely to need an
ironsmith than a goldsmith, right? And Eirual
said he had rough hands."
"You've got a clearer head than I do this
morning," Seregil said, chagrined not to have thought of it
himself.
"I imagine I got more sleep."
Seregil glanced over at him in surprise,
fancying he heard an edge of disapproval in
Alec's tone. After last night's evident
success with Myrhichia, he'd assumed the
boy was cured of any undue scruples.
Evidently he still retained his Dalnan attitude
toward establishments like Azarin's.
Well, that's just too damned bad for him.
"There are ironsmiths scattered all around the city
but they all belong to the same guild," he said
aloud, letting the moment pass. "I'll have Thryis
send one of the scullions over to ask after Quarin.
In the meantime, I think I'll have a bit of a
rest."
By midday they'd learned that Master Quarin's shop
lay in Ironmonger Row near the Sea Market
Gate. They set off soon after, dressed as ragged
cripples.
Alec's face was half-obscured by a dirty
bandage. Seregil wore an old wreck of a hat
tied on with a scarf so that the brim curved down to his
chin on either side. Their disguises had the desired
effect. As they crossed the back court Rhiri
saw them and shook a rake threateningly in their
direction.
"Ah, the ubiquitous beggar," Seregil chuckled
when they'd scuttled out the gate. "No one is ever
surprised or glad to see you anywhere in the city."
Begging bowls in hand, they set off for Sheaf
Street, the broad avenue that ran through the city between
the Harvest and Sea Market gates.
As expected, they attracted little attention as they
made their way through the crowded streets. Carts and
wagons rumbled past endlessly. Tinkers and knife
grinders chanted their availability in

singsong voices. Dirty children dodged through the
crowds, chasing dogs or pigs or each other.
Soldiers were everywhere, along with malodorously
genuine beggars and a few early whores importuning
passersby.
Watching for their chance, they stole a ride on the
back of a hay wagon and clung to the tail posts as
it jolted over the cobbles.
"Look there," said Seregil, pointing behind them.
Alec looked and winced inwardly. Half a block
back, five heads swayed on pikes set upright
in the back of a rough wooden cart surrounded by a
grim formation of the City Watch. He'd seen such
displays before; this was the fate of traitors and spies
in Rhiminee. Their decapitated bodies would be
lying in the cart below, on their way to the city pit.
"Maker's Mercy, that's getting to be a common
sight," he muttered. "If we're right
about our man-was
"comthen he'll come to the same end." Seregil eyed the
heads impassively. "I wouldn't dwell on that,
if I were you. I don't."
Especially since you came within spitting distance of
ending up that way yourself.
Alec thought grimly. He still had nightmares about that
sometimes, and what would have happened if he and Micum
had failed to clear Seregil's name from the Leran's
carefully contrived treason charges. He wondered
if Seregil did, too.
As soon as the brightly colored awnings of the Sea
Market came into sight, Seregil jumped down from
the cart and led the way into Ironmonger Row, a
twisting side street of open-sided workshops and
smoke-stained buildings. Playing his role, he
doubled over into a crabbed, sidelong limp and
grasped Alec's arm.
In spite of the name, metal workers of all sorts
plied their trade here, taking advantage of the
proximity to both the port and the marketplace.
Acrid fumes stung Alec's eyes as they made
their way through the din. Inside the workshops he could
see half-naked men silhouetted against the red glare
of the forges, looking like vengeful demons as
their hammers struck sparks from glowing metal.
Apprentices ran here and there with tools and hods of
coal; others sweated over the bellows, pumping
until the forges glowed yellow-white. Pots,
swords, tools, and bits of armor hung over
doorways advertising the wares being crafted within.
Pausing at the first they came to, Seregil limped
up to an apprentice and asked after Quarin.
lynn Rewelling
"Master Quarin?" The boy pointed farther down the
narrow lane. "His place is way down near the
wall, biggest on the block. You can't miss it."
"Many thanks, friend," croaked Seregil, taking
Alec's arm again. "Come along, son, we're
nearly there."
For a single, disorienting instant Alec stared down at
him. They hadn't discussed their roles in
detail-hearing himself unexpectedly called "son"
so many months after his father's death sent a sickening
chill through him. Guilt followed hard on the heels
of it; he hadn't thought of his fathef in weeks, perhaps
longer.
Seregil peered up at him from under his hat, one sharp
grey eye visible. "You all right?"
Alec stared straight ahead, surprised
at the stinging behind his eyelids. "I'm fine. It's just
the smoke."
Dodging heavy wagons and wrathful shouts, they
finally located Quarin's shop. It was a huge
establishment, much larger than the rest, and housed in a
converted warehouse.
Seregil hung back a moment, sizing the place
up through the open door. "Two forges that I can see
from here," he whispered. "See those fellows with the
metal studs across the top of their aprons? They're
all master craftsmen. Master Quarin must be well
established to have a crew like that under him. Let's go
see what he knows of our friend Rythel."
Just inside the door, they found a woman in a studded
apron putting the final touches on an
elaborately decorated gate. Catching sight of
them, she paused, resting her hammer on one knee.
"You want something here?" she called.
Seregil lowered his voice to a windy growl. "Is
this Master Quarin's shop?"
"That's the master, there at the back." Hefting her
hammer again, she pointed out a bluff, white-haired
old man standing behind a worktable with several other
smiths, metal stylus in hand.
"It's a Master Rythel we was sent
to find," Alec told her. "We've a message
to deliver and we was told he works here."
The woman sniffed scornfully. "Oh, him! He
and his crew are down at the western sewer tunnel in
the lower city."
"Friend of yours, dearie?" Seregil wheedled, giving
her a wink beneath the cracked brim of his hat.
"He's nobody's friend here. Upstart nephew of the
master, is

all. That sort always nabs the plums, and damn
all to the rest of us. Be off with you, and I hope you
charge him double for the message. The bastard can well
enough afford it."
Alec gave her a respectful bob of the head.
"Thanks and Maker's Mercy to you. Come on,
Grandfather, we've got a long walk ahead of us."
"Grandfather, eh?" Seregil eyed him wryly as they
continued on toward the Sea Market.
"You could be anything under there. That smith didn't
seem to care much for Rythel, did she?"
"I noticed that," said Seregil, straightening up and
stretching his back. "The guild smiths are a
proud, stiff-necked lot and seniority is everything
to them. Sounds like Quarin put some noses out
of joint giving the job to a relative."
"Why would anyone begrudge him working in the sewers?"
"If they're in the sewers, then they must be replacing
the iron grates that guard the channels coming down from
the citadel. Who do you suppose ordered that job?"
"Lord General Zymanis."
"By way of whatever underlings handle the details,
anyway, which would make it a particularly
lucrative contract, with extra pay for the smith in
charge of the repairs and his crew. She said he'd
'nabbed the plums," remember?"
"That still doesn't explain why Rythel would have papers
with Lord Zymanis' seal."
"No, but it does establish the beginnings of a
plausible connection. The letter he had was addressed
to Admiral Nyreidian. We met him at
Kylith's gathering at the Mourning Night
ceremony, if you recall."
"The lord who'd just been commissioned to oversee the
privateers!" Alec exclaimed. "That has to do
with the war, too."
"Which means we're probably right about Rythel being a
noser of some sort."
They walked on in silence to the Harbor Way.
Presently Seregil looked up again and
said, "If we're right, then I may need to play with
this Rythel a bit, see what I can get out of him.
When we get down there, I'd better stay out of
sight and let you play messenger. If he is a
fellow professional, then I don't want to chance
him recognizing my voice later on."
At the harbor they made their way west beyond the last
quays and warehouses to a stretch of rocky land that
hugged the base of
Lynn Rebelling
the cliffs. A freshly rutted wagon track led
on out of sight among the twisted jack pines and
hummocks. Following it for a quarter of a mile or
so, Alec and Seregil found RytheFs crew at the
head of a steep, malodorous gully.
From where Alec and Seregil stood, the entrance to the
sewer channel was about five hundred feet up the
cut. The opening was the same size and shape as an
arched doorway, tall enough for a man to walk through without
ducking his head. A noisome grey torrent flowed out
over its threshold and on down through a stone
sluiceway to the sea beyond. A foul odor hung
over the rocky cleft and Alec noted that the workmen
wore wet rags over their noses and mouths.
Vinegar cloths, he guessed, to protect
them from the evil humours of the place.
A forge had been set up near the opening and the black
smoke from it collected sullenly on the damp
air. A small wagon stood nearby and half a
dozen armed bluecoats were lounging against it.
"What are they doing there?" Alec asked as they
looked out from behind the cover of a boulder.
"Watching for gaterunners and spies. The sewers go
everywhere under the city."
"What are gaterunners?"
"Thieves, mostly, who know how to get past all the
gates and grates and travel the tunnels. They
know more about where those channels lead than anyone, even
the Scavenger Guild. You'd better go have a
look."
Leaving Seregil behind the-rock, Alec hugged his
rags about himself and followed the stony track up
toward the forge.
"What do you want here?" a soldier demanded,
looking more bored than suspicious.
"I've got a message for one of the smiths,"
Alec replied. "Man named Rythel."
"Go on then, but be quick about it," the guard said, waving
him on.
At the forge two apprentices were doggedly
pumping the bellows, while another held an iron
rod in the coals with heavy tongs. Behind them, a
smith was shaping a glowing spike of iron on the
anvil. Short and dark-haired, he didn't match
the description Eirual had given Seregil.
Alec waited until the man paused in his
hammering, then stepped up and touched his brow
respectfully.
The smith eyed his rags suspiciously. "What do
you want?"

"Begging your pardon, master, but I've got a
message sent for Master Rythel," Alec replied
with a beggar's unctuous civility.
"Tell it quick and be off with you. The guards don't like
anyone hanging about."
"That I can't, sir," Alec told him
plaintively, twisting the hem of his tunic in his
hands. "Begging your pardon, but I was given good
silver to deliver it to nobody but Rythel his self.
It'd be worth me livelihood if word got around
I passed on private messages to anyone as
demands to know "em."
The smith was less than sympathetic. "Bugger your
livelihood. Rythel would have my hammer
if I let you go wandering around in there."
This exchange appeared to be a welcome diversion
for the sentries. "Aw, he looks harmless enough,"
one called over, taking Alec's side. "Let
him wait out here, why don't you? The message is
for Rythel, after all."
"Aye, and one he'd be none too happy to miss,
if you take my meaning." Grinning, Alec made a
lewd two-fingered sign.
"All right, then, but it's on your heads," the smith
growled, finding opinion against him. "Sit on the end
of that cart, you, and don't stir."
Alec's champions lost interest in him as soon as
they'd had their victory. Perched on the back of the
open cart, he swung his feet idly and hunted
imaginary lice among his rags.
The cart was loaded with iron grates. These were
simple, sturdy affairs of upright bars and
crosspieces. Apparently they were made at the
shop in the upper city, then carried down for final
fittings here. At the forge, the smith and his helpers
were putting the last touches on one, trimming the
crosspieces to fit caliper measurements and
fashioning hot iron from the forge into the final bars.
When they'd finished with that, heavy metal
flanges were fastened to the outermost uprights, top and
bottom. The lower flanges had heavy pins
protruding down from them; the upper did not.
Presently several workmen came out of the tunnel.
Their faces were covered with the vinegar cloths, but one was
noticeably taller than the rest, and bushy blond
hair showed beneath the rim of his leather cap.
"Ordo, we'll want those rivets when we go
back in," he called to the smith at the forge.
"Are they hot yet?"
"Whenever you're ready for 'em, Master Rythel. And
this
lyim Rebelling
young fellow's been waiting for you." The smith hooked
a thumb in Alec's direction, adding pointedly,
"Sergeant Durnin said it was all right."
Rythel pulled off his face cloth and scrubbed a hand
over the thick, well-trimmed beard beneath it. "What
do you want?"
Alec jumped down and bobbed an anxious bow.
"I've a message for you, master, from a woman."
The man's scowl lessened appreciatively.
Waving for Alec to follow him, he moved away from
the others.
"What woman and what message?" he
asked.
"A dark-haired bawd in the Street of Lights,
master. She says she prays you remember her
fondly, and that you'll come back to her soon as ever
you're able."
"Did she give her name?" Rythel asked, looking
pleased.
"No," Alec told him with a worried frown, then,
as if suddenly remembering, added, "but she's in the
House of the Swans."
"I know the one," Rythel said, recognizing the name of
EiruaFs establishment. "Anything else?"
"That's the whole of it, just as she sent. And if I
may say, master, I was lucky to find you-was
"Yes, yes!" Reaching into a wallet at his belt,
Rythel dropped a few coins into Alec's
outstretched palm. "Tell your lady I'll see
to her when I can. Now off with you."
"Maker's Mercy to you," said Alec, hurrying
away. As he passed the soldiers he looked at
the coins Rythel had paid. They were all coppers.
Showing them to the grinning soldiers, he spat
sideways and muttered, "Stingy son of a bitch.
Let him carry his own messages."
Their laughter followed him up the gully.
At the boulder Seregil fell into step beside him and
Alec told him all he'd seen as they walked
back along the track.
Seregil rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.
"Well, now we know what our noser looks like."
"We still don't know much about him, though."
"But if that woman at the shop is anyone to go by,
I think we can find those willing to gossip. You
carried that off well, as usual. I think maybe
we'll use you for the jilt again tonight."
Alec grinned happily at the praise. "What will
I be this time?"
"A doughty, fresh-faced country lad, looking for
an apprenticeship and a few friends."
Alec's grin widened. "That has a familiar ring
to it."

Standing at the end of Ironmonger Row, the Hammer and
Tongs was a traditional gathering place for the smiths
in that part of town. Most outsiders were actively
discouraged by that close- knit fraternity, who
considered the alehouse their personal sanctuary and
unofficial guildhall, but no one objected to the
little wayfaring minstrel who came in out of the storm that
evening. Such musicians, hardly more than
beggars, were common enough in the city, playing for pennies
in taverns and market squares. His cloak, stitched
all over with scraps of colored cloths and cheap
beads, and the flutes protruding from various pockets
granted him entrance and a place near the fire.
Selecting a long wooden flute, Seregil piped
out a simple tune and then sang the verse in a
voice that would have made Rolan Silverleaf cringe.
Fortunately, his present audience was less
discriminating and a small crowd had soon gathered at
his end of the room. Rythel was not among the company, but
he soon found Alec, looking the perfect bumpkin
with his homespun tunic and scrubbed, beardless
face. The boy gave a slight nod, signaling that
all was well.
From his seat by the fireside, Seregil could see that
Alec had been adopted by a group of drinkers, and
that the woman they'd spoken with at Quarin's shop was
among them. Judging by how they included him in their
jests, he had obviously made a favorable
impression.
Seregil piped on, keeping an ear open for useful
tidbits of conversation around him until Alec
left. He played a few short ditties,
collected his coppers, and followed.
Alec was waiting for him at the public stable where
they'd left horses. Stripping off their disguises
in the shadow of an alley, they put on plain
clothes and rode to a dram house near the north
wall of the Ring.
"I didn't have much luck, unless you want to know the
current price of pig iron," Seregil said as
they sat down at a corner table. "How did you
make out?"
"You were right about noses being out of joint among
Quarin's people," Alec told him. "Maruli and some
of the other smiths gave me a real earful. Not only
is Rythel Quarin's nephew, but he hasn't been
with him that long. He had a shop of his own down in
lynn Flewelling
W
Kedra, but it burned four months ago. That's when
he showed up here."
"Is Quarin fond of his nephew?"
"Not anymore. Old Alman Blackhand told
me things were friendly at first, but that there've been hard
words. Quarin's hardly spoken to him since he handed
him the sewer job. And some think it's strange that
Rythel lodges apart from his uncle."
"Interesting. were any of those you spoke with
part of Rythel's crew?"
"A few, and they don't much like him either. He has
a sharp tongue and treats them like first-month
apprentices, always looking over their shoulder.
Early on in the job he found fault with the way the
grates were being secured. Now he does most of the
final fitting himself."
Seregil raised an appraising eyebrow. "I'll
just bet he does."
"They've been at it for a little over three weeks.
All the old grates had to be pulled out and the
masonry knees repaired. That's why the guards
are there. They're putting in the new grates now.
Alman is in charge of measuring the part of the sewer
tunnel where the grate will be, so that the flange pins
and holes will set in properly, but Rythel does the
final seating and pinning. And the grates are fixed, not
gated. That's about it, except that I've been told
to see Quarin about an apprenticeship."
"Hopefully it won't come to that."
Alec leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Do you
think Rythel could be tampering with the grates?"
"Judging by his behavior, we can't afford
to overlook the possibility. The question is how, and
whether any of the other workmen are in on it.
And who's backing this whole thing, of course."
"It's got to be the Plenimarans."
"I mean specifically who, and whether or not Rythel
knows who's running the show. We've got to move very
carefully, Alec. We don't want another
cock-up like the raid at Kassarie's. We got
the big snake there, but all the little ones slithered
safely away. We'd better go talk to Nysander.
This looks to be Watcher business."
He must still be keeping company with Ylinestra,
Alec thought wryly as Thero let them into Nysander's
tower. Several long

scratches were visible on the young wizard's neck just
above the collar of his robe. She'd left similar
marks on Alec during their single encounter.
He's welcome to her,
Alec decided.
Having let them in, Thero returned to a worktable
spread with open books. "Nysander's downstairs,"
he told them.
"You'd better come down with us," said Seregil as he
started down the stairs.
Thero shot Alec a look of surprise.
"Watcher business, maybe."
Alec was pleased to see the hint of an expectant
smile cross There's face as he hurried to join
him. He was a cold fish, and no mistake, but in
the months since he'd helped secure Seregil's
release from prison, albeit grudgingly, Alec
had come to feel a certain sympathy for the stiff young
wizard, and respect. He was talented, and his
arrogance seemed a shield for his own inner loneliness.
As for the rivalry between him and Seregil, Alec had
quickly learned that this was as much Seregil's fault as
There's.
They found Nysander in his favorite sitting-room
armchair, the floor around him covered in charts of some
sort.
"Well, there you two are," he exclaimed, looking
up with a pleased smile. "How long has it been?
Two weeks?"
"Closer to four," Seregil said. "Business has
been slow lately, but we may have run across something
interesting."
With Alec's help, he quickly sketched out what
they'd learned over the past two days. Thero sat a
little apart, arms crossed, nodding silently to himself as
he listened.
"Dear me, that does sound suspicious,"
Nysander said when he'd heard their report. "I
seem to recall "hearing that one of Lord Zymanis"
valets disappeared not too long ago. I had not
heard of any stolen documents, though. Most
curious. I assume you mean to make a closer
investigation?"
Seregil nodded. "Tonight, but we'll have to be careful.
So far Rythel is the only fish in our net. I
don't want to get the wind up him before we find out
who's behind all this."
"Have you looked into his lodgings?" asked Thero.
"Not yet. Tenements are terrible for housebreaking-every
room occupied and half the time no corridors, just
a series of rooms letting one onto another. I
thought we'd have a look at the sewer tunnel first,
then proceed from there."
"Yes, that seems to be the logical course," said
Nysander.
Lynn Flewelling
"How do you propose to get in with the tunnel so
carefully guarded?"
"The lower end is, where they're still working," said
Alec. "But it shouldn't be at the upper end, where they
started. There's no need, since the grates are
fixed and they started at the top and worked down
toward the lower city end. Seregil figures there must
be at least five or six between the city wall and the
sea."
"Anyone planning to bugger about with any of the grates
later on would have to do them all," Seregil added.
"I know of an access passage near the south wall
that should lead down to the head of the channel. If we can
get to it from this end, we should be able to find out what
they've been up to."
"When will you go?" asked Nysander.
"Tonight seems as good a time as any," replied
Seregil, standing to go. "I'll let you know if we
need any help."
"Luck in the shadows," said Thero as he passed.
Seregil raised an eyebrow in mild surprise,
then touched a finger lightly to one of the scratches on
There's neck. "And to you."
Tamir the Great's builders had laid down the
sewers of Rhiminee before a single building was
constructed, thereby sparing the new capital the
unpleasant and often unhealthy filth common to most
large cities. So extensive was it, and so often
modified and enlarged to accommodate the growth of the
city over five centuries, that now only the
Scavenger Guild knew the full extent
of it. Even among the Scavengers, most knew
only the section that they maintained, and they guarded their
knowledge jealously.
Alec and Seregil waited until the second
watch of the night before making their way to the southern ward
of the city. Though armed, they went cautiously, fading
silently into alleys or doorways whenever a
Watch patrol happened by.
The entrance they'd targeted was located in a small
square behind a block of tenements by the south wall of the
city. Half-covered by an unkempt clump of
mulberry bushes, the low, iron-strapped door was
set into the wall itself. The small grate near the
top of it reminded Alec uncomfortably of a
prison door, but he kept this to himself as they set
down the torches and pry bars they'd brought with them.
He stood behind Seregil and held his cloak
lyrai Flewelling
out with both hands to hide the light of his companion's
light- wand. Kneeling in front of the door,
Seregil probed the keyhole with a hooked pick,
soon producing a succession of grating clicks.
The door swung in on blackness. Gathering their
gear again, they slipped inside.
Alec tacked a square of heavy felt
over the grate, then looked around the little entrance
chamber. In front of them, stone steps led downward
through an arched passage and out of sight. The faint
stench already permeating the air left no doubt they were in
the right place.
"Here, we'd better put these on now." Seregil
pulled vinegar- soaked face rags from a leather
pouch and handed one to Alec. Leaving their cumbersome
cloaks, they lit their torches with a firechip and
started down, Seregil in the lead.
"Why did they build it so big?" Alec
whispered; the arched passage was nearly ten feet
high.
"For safety. The poisonous humours that can
collect down here rise. The theory is that this
design lets them collect overhead, with good air
below. Keep an eye on the torches, though; if they
burn blue or gutter, the air's bad."
The stairway led down to a tunnel below. Narrow
walkways bordered a central channel, full to the
brim now with a swift, evil- smelling stream.
Turning to the right, they followed the tunnel for several
hundred feet. The recent rains had swelled the
flow, and it had overflowed whole sections of the raised
walkway, forcing them to wade ankle deep
in the foul, frigid waters.
Suddenly they heard high-pitched growling and squeaking
coming from the darkness ahead. Seregil edged forward,
torch held high, until they came to an iron
grate fixed across the width of the tunnel.
The lower ends of the vertical bars extended down into the
channel and the body of a small dog was caught against
them, held there by the pressure of the stream as it flowed
through. Dozens of fat, snarling rats swarmed over the
carcass, tearing at it and each other. Others paddled
down the channel toward the feast or perched on the
crosspieces of the grate. They paid little attention
to the human interlopers as they fed, beady eyes
glaring red in the torchlight.
"This one is gated," whispered Seregil, driving
off the closest

rats with the burning torch. "It's locked up, but
it's nothing we can't manage. Want to do the
honors?"
"Go ahead," Alec rasped, not wanting to have
to squeeze past his companion in such a narrow
place.
Jiggering the lock, Seregil swung back a narrow
section of grate on protesting hinges and
stepped through, Alec close on his heels.
There were more rats beyond, rats everywhere. The chuckle
of the flowing water and the sounds of the rats echoed in the
silence as they paused at a sort of crossroads
where another channel flowed into the one they were following.
Leaping the four feet to the other side, they continued
on to a second hinged grate. Beyond this the way began
to slope downhill noticeably.
No other tunnels intersected theirs and finally they
came to a fixed grate. The ironwork was new and of the
same design Alec had seen at the work site.
The broad flanges set at the four corners of the
grate rested against stone knees jutting from the walls
of the tunnel and were held in place by thick iron
pins set in holes drilled into the stone.
"Here we are," Seregil whispered, setting down his
bundle. "Light your torch from mine and go check that
side."
"What are we looking for, exactly?"
"I don't know, so be thorough. It could be some
fault in the iron or the stone."
Alec jumped across the channel and began his
examination of the ironwork, looking first for something as
obvious as bars sawn through. They seemed sound enough,
however. The sockets for the pins had been
sealed with rivets hammered in hot and the lower
flanges, which bore the weight of the grate, rested
solidly against the stone knees.
"Let's try moving it," said Seregil.
Grasping two crosspieces, they braced their
shoulders against the bars and lifted. The grate lifted
an inch or two.
"Push!" Seregil grunted, shaking his side of it.
But the grate was solidly held in place by the
pins. Giving up, they let it fall back
into place with a dull clank.
"I thought maybe he'd sawn off the lower pins,"
Seregil panted, flexing his arms. "I guess
not."
"It did move, though." Alec squinted up at the
flanges overhead. It was impossible to see anything
from this angle, so he climbed the crossbars for a
closer inspection, torch in hand.
Lynn Flewelling
Across the channel, Seregil was about to do the same, but
his torch was burning low. Pulling a fresh one from his
belt, he paused to light it from the old one. "See
anything?"
"There's nearly three inches of pin exposed up
here," Alec replied, clinging one-handed to the
top of the bars.
"I'm no expert, but that seems like a lot. How
does it look?"
"Like a metal pin." Alec held his torch
closer. "No marks or cuts. Hold on.
Hey, it's melting like wax and there's-was
"Be careful!"
Searing white sparks erupted inches from Alec's
face with an angry spitting sound. With a startled
cry, he dropped his torch and threw an arm across his
face.
"Alec! Alec, get down," Seregil yelled.
Alec crouched awkwardly, one leg jammed between the
bars. Overhead, sparks still rained down from the
sizzling corona of light.
Dark spots danced in front of Seregil's eyes
as he launched himself across the channel. Grabbing
Alec, he dragged him to the floor and tried to roll
him onto his belly to smother the smoldering patches on
his tunic.
"My eyes!" Alec gasped, struggling away in
pain and confusion.
"Hold still," Seregil began, but Alec's foot
found sudden purchase against the wall and, with a final
lurch, he toppled Seregil backward
into the icy channel.
Fortunately, Seregil had the presence of mind
to clamp his mouth shut as he went under. For a
horrifying second he tumbled helplessly against the
side of the channel, unable to find the bottom with his
feet. Fetching up against the grate, he righted himself
and used the crossbars to pull himself back onto the
walkway.
Sputtering and retching, he grasped Alec by the
back of the tunic and hauled him out of range of the
sparks, then held him forcibly still while the white
light faded slowly to a small orange glow. One
torch still burned, and by it he could see the thin pall of
smoke curling lazily near the roof.
Alec groaned again, hands pressed over his face.
Fearing the worst, Seregil dug the lightwand from his
sodden tool roll and pulled the boy's hands away
to inspect the damage.
Alec's hair and the vinegar mask had protected
most of his face from the sparks, but half a dozen
tiny blisters were already bub-

bling up on the backs of his hands. Tears streamed
down his cheeks as he turned his head from the light.
"Can you see anything?" Seregil asked
anxiously.
"I'm beginning to." Alec pressed one sleeve
across his eyes, then blinked. "Why are you wet?" A
look of shocked realization slowly spread across his
face. "Oh, no. Oh, Seregil, I'm
sorry!"
Seregil managed a tight grin, trying hard not
to think about the water dripping down his face toward his
mouth.
"What was that light?" Alec asked.
"I don't know." Going back to the grate, he
climbed up to inspect the damage. "The pin is
burned completely away, stonework cracked from the
heat, top of the flange warped. And whatever it was,
it must work on the other side, too, or you still couldn't
move the grate."
Jumping the channel, he gripped the handle of the
lighrwand between his teeth and climbed up to inspect the
upper corner.
"Tell me again what you saw."
Still blinking, Alec came across and picked up the
torch. "I held the flame close to the pin, trying
to see if it had been cut. It must have been the heat,
because the surface of the pin began to melt and run like
wax. I think I saw something white
underneath, just before it flared up the way it did."
Craning his neck cautiously, Seregil found
several inches of exposed pin between the flange and the
stonework above. Using the tip of his dagger, he
scraped gently at the surface of the pin. Curls
of some black, waxy substance shaved off easily,
revealing a white layer below.
"You were right. A band of silvery white metal has
been set into the pin."
The white substance cut easily as lead.
Extracting a tiny sliver, he handed it down
to Alec on the tip of his blade. "Put it on the
floor and light it."
Alec set the sliver gingerly on the floor and,
standing well back, held the torch to it. It burst
at once into a brief, sputtering blaze of light
that left black burns on the stone.
Alec let out a low whistle. "Bilairy's
Balls, I think we found what we're looking
for."
"There must be enough iron in the center of the pin to strengthen
it, but this stuff burns right through it."
"Is it magic?"
Seregil cut away another small sample of the
white substance.
Lynn Flewelling
I:
"Maybe. I've never seen anything like it, but
Nysander might know."
Seregil placed the shavings carefully in the little
ceramic jar he'd carried the firechip in, then
handed it down to Alec.
"I sure made a mess of that corner," Alec
said, casting a worried look at the blackened
stonework.
"True." Seregil climbed down to join him.
"Our saboteurs are bound to come checking sooner or
later and even if they don't, there are the
Scavengers to consider. We'd better get Nysander
down here, or Thero."
Alec's sight slowly returned to normal as they
cleaned up the site as best they could and started back.
"What about the locks?" he asked, reaching the first of the
gated barriers.
"Best leave "em as we found 'em," Seregil
replied. "I'll scout ahead to the next one. You
catch up."
The lock was rusty; swearing softly under his breath,
Alec ground a pick against the wards until something
dropped into place.
Seregil was out of sight beyond a bend in the tunnel
by then. Anxious to leave the rats and echoing dampness
behind, Alec hurried after him.
He'd just caught sight of him ahead near the
intersection of channels when Seregil suddenly
collapsed sideways into the water with a startled
grunt. The torch he'd been carrying hung
precariously over the edge and by its light Alec
saw two ragged, hooded figures jump out from the
side tunnel, cudgels raised as they reached for
Seregil's floating form.
Without stopping to think, Alec let out a yell,
drew his sword, and charged.
The gaterunners were caught by surprise, but the one
closest to Alec got a long club up in time
to block the first downward slash. Alec jumped
back a pace and braced, ready to fight.
The narrowness of the walkway kept the fight to a one
against one affair, but it also severely restricted the
range of Alec's swings. His opponents were more
accustomed to such conditions. The second quickly jumped
across the channel to outflank him from behind. Alec did
the same, keeping his face toward them. He couldn't
see Seregil anywhere.
187
The current must have swept him back the way we
came,
he thought, and for a sickening instant he pictured the
dog's carcass and its attendant rats trapped
against the lower bars of a grate. The gaterunners
didn't allow him time to dwell on the image,
however. The one on his side of the channel was
advancing, cudgel at the ready. From the corner of
his eye, Alec saw the other reaching into his tattered
tunic for something, presumably a knife or dart.
Suddenly, however, the runner slumped against the wall
with a high- pitched wail, clutching at a throwing
knife protruding from his shoulder.
"Hammil!" the one facing Alec cried out, and he
realized it was a woman.
"Let's not anyone be stupid," said a familiar
voice from the shadows downstream.
Alec and the woman both turned in time to see
Seregil step into sight on the far side. He was
wetter than ever but held a second dagger at the
ready as he walked slowly toward the wounded runner.
The boy scuttled weakly back, still clutching his
arm.
"We don't mean any harm here," Seregil said
calmly, motioning for Alec to back slowly
away.
The woman pushed her hood back, showing a harsh,
deeply lined face. "Get away from my boy,"
she growled, shaking her club threateningly in
Alec's direction.
"You started mis. What do you want?" asked
Seregil, stopping a few paces from the boy, dagger
in hand.
"Nothin"," the woman replied. "You's just
strangers is all, and strangers is getting to be a
hazard down here. We've lost friends to strangers
down here lately."
Seregil sheathed his knife. Bending over the fallen
boy, he examined the wound, then pulled the small
throwing blade out. "It's not too bad a cut," he
told the woman over his shoulder. "You're lucky
my aim was off."
"I'm alright, Ma," the young gaterunner gasped,
cringing away from Seregil. By the dying light of the
torch, Alec saw that he was younger than himself. He
could also make out a thin ribbon of blood running
down Seregil's right cheek.
"You all right?" Seregil called over.
"Yes. Are you?"
Seregil nodded, then stepped over the wounded
boy and addressed his mother again. "I'll leave yours
if you'll leave mine," he told her, holding his
hands out palm up.
Lynn Flewelling
Without a word, she sprang across, grabbed the boy
up, and hurried him away into the shadows.
Alec crossed over and reached to inspect the cut on
Seregil's scalp. "That's quite a lump she
raised."
"Serves me right," he muttered through chattering
teeth. "Illior's Fingers! Jumped by a pair of
gaterunners. If the cold water hadn't brought
me around I'd have drowned."
"I'm glad you didn't kill him. He couldn't have
been more than twelve."
Seregil braced one arm against the wall and let out a
long sigh. "Me, too. It's strange for them to have
attacked in the first place. Runners are usually a
pretty elusive lot. They steal and spy, but they
generally avoid a fight."
Frowning, Alec pulled off his face rag and
pressed it to the cut on Seregil's head. "Are you
sure you're all right? You're looking kind of
shaky."
Seregil closed his eyes for a moment,
resting one hand on Alec's shoulder. Then, taking the
cloth from him, he held it himself and continued on down
the tunnel. "Come on, let's get out of here.
I've had all the swimming I care for tonight."
They reached the upper entrance behind the mulberry bushes
without incident, but the combined effects of cold and the
blow were beginning to take their toll on Seregil.
"You go for Nysander," he said, shivering even with his
dry cloak pulled tightly around him. "I'd
better stay and make sure no one tumbles to our little
adventure in the meantime."
To his surprise, Alec balked.
"No, you go," he stated flatly. "Your head is
still bleeding and I can hear your teeth chattering from here."
"I'll survive," Seregil retorted. "I
don't want you here alone. What if someone does
show up?"
"All the more reason for you to hurry," Alec said
stubbornly. "I'll stay out of sight-they'll never
know I'm here. You're the one needs looking after. Go
on!"
Seregil could tell by the set of Alec's jaw that his
mind was made up. Cutting a small strip from the
hem of his cloak, he handed it to Alec. "Hang
on to this. Nysander can use it to find you. And
keep out of sight no matter what, understand? No
heroics."

"No heroics."
Seregil let out a defeated sigh. "If I'm not
back soon, you get back to the Oreska, understand?"
"All right, yes! Will you just go? I don't want
to be here all night." Pulling up his hood,
Alec melted back into the shadows.
The pounding in SeregiFs head worsened as he dashed
through the darkened streets toward the Oreska, but he
managed to ignore the pain by worrying about Alec
instead. Despite his faith in the boy's quick wits,
he couldn't seem to shake off visions of Alec being
caught unawares by the Watch or stealthy spies
returning to check their handiwork.
Arriving at the Oreska filthy, wet, and
bloody, he argued his way past the watchman and
hurried up the twisting stairs to Nysander's tower.
Thero opened the door and recoiled, covering his nose
with one full sleeve. "By the Four!" he gagged,
blocking the doorway. "You smell like you just crawled
out of the sewers."
"Very observant of you. Get out of my way."
"You're not coming in here like that. Go down to the
baths first."
"I don't have time for this, Thero. Now move or
I'll move you."
The two glared at each other, years of mutual
dislike laid open between them without the gloss of banter
or social nicety. Either could have done the other
considerable harm if it came to open confrontation, and
they both knew it.
"Alec's alone out there, and we need Nysander's
help," hissed Seregil.
With a last disgusted look, Thero stepped aside and
let him through to the workroom. "He's not here."
"Where is he?"
"Out for his nightly walk, I imagine," Thero
replied stiffly. "Or perhaps you've forgotten about
those?"
"Then summon him!" Seregil paused, took a
deep breath, and said through clenched teeth, "If
you please"
Thero conjured a message sphere with a casual
wave of his hand. Balancing the tiny light over his
palm, he said to it, "Nysander, Seregil needs you
right away. He's in the workroom." The light shot
away through the floor. He waved Seregil to
Lynn Flewelling
a wooden bench near one of the tables, but remained standing
himself.
The young wizard was immaculate as ever, Seregil
noted sourly, his robe spotless beneath his leather
apron, his curly black hair and beard neatly
trimmed, blunt-fingered hands unsullied. The thought
that he'd inhabited that angular frame himself, if
briefly, still made him cringe inwardly. That Thero
had had the use of his body didn't bear thinking about.
"You're bleeding," Thero said at last, stepping
reluctantly toward him. "I'd better have a
look."
Seregil drew back from his touch. "It's just a
scratch."
"You have a lump the size of an egg over your ear and
fresh blood on your cheek," Thero snapped.
"What do you think Nysander would say if I let you
sit there like that?"
Wethis, the young servant, brought clean water and
dressings and Thero set about cleaning the wound.
Nysander returned just as he was finishing.
"What an unprecedented tableau," the wizard
exclaimed, hurrying in between the stacks of
manuscripts. He was dressed in a threadbare
surcoat and trousers. Seregil noted with a
twinge of pride how kind and unwizardly his old friend
looked in comparison to his stiff assistant.
"By the Light, Seregil, what an appalling stench!
When you have finished there, Thero, please go and find him
a clean robe."
Folding the bloodied towel next to the basin, Thero
disappeared down the back stairway to their quarters.
Nysander smiled, examining his assistant's handiwork.
"He does surprise me sometimes. But where is
Alec?"
"Take this." Seregil pulled out another scrap of
cloth he'd cut from his cloak and pressed it
into Nysander's hand. "We found what we were looking
for, sabotage in the tunnels, but made one hell
of a mess doing it. I need you to fix it up for us.
Alec's waiting by the entrance, so we'd better
hurry."
Nysander shook his head. "Yes, of course, but I
see no reason to drag you out again. You are still chilled
to the bone, and a translocation would not be the best thing for
you after such a knock on the head."
Seregil rose to protest and was very surprised
to feel the floor lurch beneath his feet in a
decidedly unpleasant manner.
"There now, you see?" Nysander chided,
pressing him back

down on the bench. "You go downstairs and sit by the
fire. Alec can show me whatever it is I need
to see."
"I can't just sit here," Seregil insisted again, though
his head was still spinning. "We ran into one pair of
gaterunners down there already tonight. There could be others,
or worse."
Nysander raised a shaggy eyebrow at him. "Are you
suggesting that Alec would not be safe in my company?"
Seregil sank his head in his hands as Thero
reappeared with clean garments over his arm.
"I leave Seregil in your able care," Nysander
told him. "I suggest a cup of hot wine and,
by all or any means necessary, a bath." Clasping the
scrap of woolen cloth Seregil had given him,
he traced a series of designs on the air and
disappeared into the wide black aperture that opened
briefly beside him.
When Nysander opened his eyes again, he was in a
small deserted square.
"There you are," whispered Alec, crawling out from behind
a clump of leafless bushes. "Is Seregil all
right?"
"Yes, just a bit dizzy. He says you have something
to show me."
"Something we need fixed," the boy replied with a
familiar grin. "Follow me."
This was the first time he'd actually seen Alec at
work, and he was impressed with his quickness and efficiency.
"My, but Seregil has been busy with you!"
Nysander remarked as Alec let him through the second
gate.
"Ruint me for honest work, he "as," Alec
replied, making a passable stab at a dockman's
accent. "It's not far now."
Reaching the damaged grate, Nysander climbed up
to inspect the damaged stone and ironwork, then moved
across to see the intact corner.
"I see," he murmured to himself, peering closely
at the remaining pin. "Most ingenious. And ingenious
of you to have discovered it. Yes, I am quite satisfied.
Well done."
"Can you fix it?"
"Can I fix it?" Nysander snorted, climbing down
again. Grasping the bars with both hands, he closed his
eyes and listened to the voice of the cold iron.
Letting his own energy pass into it through his hands, he
visualized the metal, felt it stir under
his hands.
Lynn Flewelling
Standing beside him, Alec felt a powerful ripple
pass through the rank air. There were no flashes of
light or magical signs, just the brief scrape
and whine of metal. For a moment it seemed to Alec that
the metal came alive, like a plant, growing and
moving as it healed.
Looking up, he saw that the damaged corner now
looked as it had before. "Illior's Light!" he
gasped, hardly able to believe his eyes.
Nysander laughed. "I hope you did not expect me
to come down here with a hammer and anvil." Opening his
hand, he showed Alec a long iron pin. It was
scored along its length where it had been driven through
the flange and blackened from forging, except where the
white metallic substance showed through near one end.
Without a word Alec scaled the left side of the
grate to find a solid pin in its place.
"That's amazing," he exclaimed, tapping the iron
with his knife blade.
Nysander shrugged. "It is only magic."
Seregil grudgingly accepted the willow bark
infusion There prepared, then went down to the baths. As
soon as he was clean and dressed, however,
he returned to the workroom and refused to be moved,
despite There's obvious desire that he wait
elsewhere.
Anxious and impatient, Seregil prowled the
crowded room, fiddling with bits of delicate
apparatus.
"Give me that!" Thero snapped, snatching away a
cluster of fluid-filled glass spheres. "Drop
that and we'll be up to our eyes in swamp sprites.
If you won't go downstairs then for Illior's
sake, sit down."
"I know what it is." Scowling, Seregil climbed
the stairway to the catwalk overhead and stared out through the
thick glass panes of the dome, watching the movement
of lights below.
By the time Nysander and Alec materialized neatly in
the center of the room, it would have been difficult to say
which of the two looked more relieved.
"There you are!" Seregil exclaimed, bounding down.
"Any trouble?"

"No, everything looks as good as new," Alec
told him, grinning.
"Shall I fetch fresh clothing?" Thero inquired,
wrinkling his nose again.
"Yes, in a moment," said Nysander. "First, however,
I must congratulate our two able spies on a
most valuable find." He shook the iron pin from his
sleeve. "I will keep this for now. Seregil,
Alec tells me you took a sample of this
curious white material?"
Seregil held up the small container. "Right here.
Want to see it work?"
"Yes, but not here, I think. Too many flammable
items." Taking a crucible from a nearby shelf,
he ushered them into the casting room.
Placing a few of the white shavings in the crucible,
Nysander set it on the floor and touched a candle
flame to its contents. A small fountain of white
sparks flew up and scattered across the floor.
"Incredible!" murmured Thero, nudging the remaining
shavings about with a small glass wand.
Seregil watched him surreptitiously,
recognizing the sudden light of enthusiasm in those
pale eyes. At such moments he could almost see
what maintained Nysander's hopes for the young man-the
keen and wondering mind that underlay Thero's cold
facade.
"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Thero asked,
turning to Nysander.
The older wizard lit another fragment, then sniffed
at the smoke left behind. "It's a sort of
incendiary metal, I believe. It's called
Sakor's Bite or Sakor's Fire for
obvious reasons. Very, very rare but"-Nysander paused
to raise one bushy eyebrow at Seregil-"found in
greater quantities in certain regions of
Plenimar."
Seregil exchanged knowing grins with Alec.
"Looks like we've got ourselves a decent bit of
work at last."
t;
Over the next few days Alec and Seregil
shadowed their man closely, but learned little more than that
Rythel was annoyingly regular in his habits. He
rose early, gathered his crew, and worked the day through
without leaving the site. At night he took supper
at his lodgings and turned in early.
Lounging across the street from the Sail- maker
Street tenement the fourth evening, they saw a
broad, ruddy young man step out into the street.
"That's the landlady's grandson," Seregil whispered
to Alec. "He's been down to that tavern on the
corner every night so far."
True to form, the fellow set off for the
corner tavern, stopping to chat with neighbors along
the way.
Seregil stood up and stretched, still following the young
man with his eyes. "He looks like a talker to me.
I think I'll nip in for a pint and try to strike
up a conversation."
It was a clear, windless night, but cold. Moving
restlessly from one cold doorway to another, Alec
watched the house, and the half moon sailing slowly
over it. It had gained
caret I
Stalking Darkness

the chimney by the time Seregil reappeared, chuckling
to himself and smelling warmly of beer.
"You look pleased with yourself," Alec muttered,
shifting his frigid feet.
"I am." Seregil threw his cloak back and
presented him with a wooden cup of the Dog and
Bell's best lager. "Let's go home.
Rythel's unlikely to stir out for another couple of
nights yet."
Alec took a grateful swallow of the watery beer
as they headed back to the court where they'd left their
horses. "Then you did get something out of the
grandson?"
"Our smith appears to be equally disliked by almost
everyone who knows him, with the exception of his landlady,
who judges her tenants solely by how punctual
they are with their rent. Her grandson, young Parin, has
had a few run-ins with him around the house.
Apparently harsh words were exchanged when Parin entered
the smith's rooms unexpectedly one day. 'Mind
you" "com grinning, Seregil mimicked Parin's
somewhat slurred complaints -""he was only
messin" about with some drawerings. Not like he was tupping
nobody or nothin'. Just drawerings, for the love a'
hell! He's a queer one, and a miser, for all his
high and mighty ways."
"A shrewd judge of character, our Parin," Seregil
said with a chuckle. "He wasn't much help about the
nature of the 'drawer- ings," but he did tell
me that Rythel always keeps to his rooms on work
nights, but come end of the week he goes on a
regular spree."
Alec's hunter instincts stirred. "Tomorrow night."
"That's right. According to Parin, he appears downstairs
in gentlemen's clothes, sends Parin next door
to hire a horse, tips like the miser he is, and
rides off not to be seen again until dawn
or the next night."
"That explains how he came to be in the Street of
Lights."
"And I'm willing to bet he makes a few other
stops along the way. I think it's time Lord
Seregil put in an appearance."
Alec shot him a sharp look. "Just him? What about
me?"
Seregil threw an arm around his shoulders and
playfully ruffled his hair. "Well now, if
Master Rythel is out gambling and whoring all night,
what better time for a bit of housebreaking?"
Lynn Flewelling
The following evening Rythel rode out from Sailmaker
Street just as expected. The streets were busy,
making it an easy matter for Seregil to follow him
up to the main city. A heavy cloak masked the fine
surcoat and breeches he'd put on for the evening's
role.
The smith rode easily, apparently enjoying the
evening air, and ended up at the Heron, a stylish
gambling house on the eastern fringe of the Merchant's
Quarter.
That's a lucky turn.
Seregil grinned to himself, watching from a
distance as Rythel disappeared inside. Lord Seregil
was well known at the Heron from the days when he'd
made his living in such dens. And gaming-house
friendships were easy enough to manage.
Leaving Cynril with a groom, he strode inside.
The elderly doorkeeper took his cloak with a bow.
"Good evening, my lord," the old man said. "It's
been some time since we last saw you. Will anyone be
joining you?"
"No. A canceled engagement has left me at
loose ends." Pausing, he slipped a discreet
coin to the man, murmuring, "Any new blood tonight,
Starky?"
Stark palmed the bribe and leaned closer. "A
few, my lord, a few. Young Lady Lachia has
become quite addicted to bakshi since her marriage, but
her husband's with her tonight and he may know you rather too
well from times past. There's a country knight,
Sir Nynius, with plenty of gold and a passion for
eran stones who plays badly as a rule. And
there's a third, a newcomer. Not noble, but well
turned out. Calls himself Rythel of Porunta."
"How will I know him?"
"He's tall and fair, with quite an impressive
beard. I expect you'll find him in the
card room. A bold player, as I hear it, though
not always clever. He's become a regular over the
past month or so and takes both wins and losses
philosophically."
Seregil slipped him a second coin and a wink.
"Hlior's luck to you, my lord."
The Heron was a modestly opulent establishment
divided into a number of large rooms. Those near the
front featured various sorts of games open
to all corners; smaller rooms at the back were
reserved for private affairs.
Seregil found Rythel in one of the latter, settled
down to a round of Rook's Gambit with several rich
merchants and a few officers of the Queen's Archers.
A number of them knew Seregil
V
Stalking Darkness

and invited him to join in. He took the empty
chair nearest Rythel and set his purse on the table.
"Good evening, Lord Seregil," Vinia the wool
merchant greeted him, gathering up the brightly painted
cards for a new deal. "The hazard is three gold
sesters, the limit eight. As the new player, you
begin the bid."
Keeping one eye on Rythel's style, Seregil
played conservatively for the first few rounds, managing
to collect a modest pile of winnings. He chatted
with the others as they played, spicing the light banter with
investment advice and allusions to recent successful
ventures, including an interest in the privateer
fleet being overseen by Nyreidian.
Rythel listened with polite interest, saying little
until the deal came around to him again.
"I suggest a change of game," he said, gathering
the pack. "Sword and Coin? There are enough of us
to partner two games."
The other players were agreeable and when the chairs and
tables had been shifted, Seregil was not surprised
to find himself sitting across from Rythel. With a silent
nod to Illior, he settled down to make his partner
a richer man.
The less circumspect players were soon winnowed
out as Seregil, no stranger to creative card
shuffling, gently tipped the scales in his and
Rythel's favor. Rythel, too, showed signs of
certain talents; in an hour's time the two of them
had exhausted the resources of the other players.
Seregil gave him a slight bow as they rose
to divide their winnings and extended his hand.
"Well played. I'm Lord Seregil, as you may
have gathered. And you?"
"Rythel of Porunta, my lord." His hand was hard in
Seregil's, but not as stained and roughened as he'd
expected. The man had obviously taken pains
to hide his current occupation.
"Porunta? That's down near Stoneport, isn't
it? What brings you so far north this time of year?"
"I'm in commerce there, my lord, in a modest way."
Rythel paused, giving Seregil a disarmingly open
smile. "I must confess, some of the ventures you've
mentioned tonight interest me."
"A man of vision, eh?" Seregil said with a knowing
wink. "I'm a great admirer of ambition, and our
brief partnership tonight didn't do my purse any
harm. Perhaps you'd like to discuss things further over a
bit of supper?"
"I'd be honored, my lord," Rythel replied, just
a hint too eager.
Lyim Flewelling
"Anyplace in particular?"
Rythel shrugged. "No, my lord. I've no plans
for the night."
Damn,
thought Seregil.
Looks like we'll spend the evening plying each other
with drink and fishing for secrets.
A harsh, clear dawn was breaking when Seregil
returned to the Cockerel. Alec was asleep on the
couch, legs stretched out toward the ruins of a fire.
He awoke with a start when Seregil flopped
wearily down beside him.
"Well, how did it go?"
Seregil shrugged, running both hands back through his
hair. "He's not the greatest spy in the world, but he
knows how to keep his mouth shut. We spent most of the
night drinking at the Rose, then he decided he
wanted a woman. I hoped maybe he needed
to meet someone at a brothel, but instead he was ready
to take up with the first pair of clapmongers we passed
in the street. I finally managed to steer him into the
Black Feather."
"The Feather? That's quite a comedown from Eirual's."
"The same thought occurred to me. Either he was putting
on an act for my benefit, or his fortunes
fluctuate considerably from week to week. It's
something to keep an eye on. At any rate, we
parted company there a few hours ago and I followed
him down to Sailmaker Street. He didn't go out
again."
"Sounds like a wasted evening."
"As far as this sewer business goes it was. Still, you
can't spend a whole evening drinking and whoring with a
person and not learn something. He's passing himself off
as some well-heeled merchant and, to tell you the
truth, he carries it off so well that I wonder
if some of it isn't true. I'd say he's
Skalan born, and has done a bit of this kind of
work before-a small-time noser. The Plenimarans know
how to find that type and use them."
Alec gave him a wry grin. "So do you."
"It's too soon to tell with this one, though."
Seregil stretched wearily. His night at the
Feather had left him feeling gritty and in need of a
bath. "Although Lord Seregil clearly made quite an
impression on him. I let a few details
slip about privateers and suddenly he was my boon
companion. I passed on a few rumors; it'll
be interesting to see where they pop up later. How'd you
do?"
Alec pulled a flattened roll of parchment from
inside his tunic and waggled it triumphantly.
Carrying it to the table, he pinned the
corners down with books. As he reached
to secure an upper corner , Seregil saw a
ragged tear in his left sleeve that appeared to be
stained with blood.
"What happened to you?"
Alec shrugged, avoiding his eye. "It's nothing."
"Nothing?" Grasping his friend's hand, he pushed the
torn sleeve back. A rough bandage was tied around
the boy's forearm and stained through with a circle of dried
blood the size of a two- sester piece. "Nothing
doesn't usually bleed like that."
"It's just a scratch," Alec insisted.
Ignoring Alec's objections, Seregil drew his
dagger and cut away the dressing. A shallow, jagged
cut began at a puncture just below his elbow and ended
dangerously close to the delicate tendons just above
Alec's wrist.
"Illior's Fingers, you could get blood poisoning
with a cut like that!" he gasped, fetching brandy to clean
the wound. "What happened?"
"I just slipped going over the roof to his window,"
Alec admitted with a grudging sigh. "I figured
that would be the safest route in, but it was a little steeper
than I thought, and the slates were really slick-was
"Ever heard of rope?"
"By the time I realized I needed one, I
was already up there. Anyway, my sleeve caught-a
nail sticking out of the gutter-was
"The gutter?" Seregil sputtered, feeling his
stomach give a little lurch. "You went over the
edge?
It's a forty-foot drop to stone paving! What in the
name of Bilairy's-was
"Actually, there's a shed right under his window," Alec
corrected. "It would've broken the fall-was
"Oh, so you had it all carefully planned, then?"
Seregil said with heavy sarcasm.
Alec shrugged again. "Learn and live, right?"
Illior "s Light, that must be the same look
I give Micum or Nysander when they're berating
me for surviving some stupid escapade!
Shaking his head, Seregil turned to inspect
Alec's work, a crude, gridlike drawing done
in charcoal and smudged here and there with blood.
"This is a copy of a map I found in a hollowed-out
post of Rythel's bed," explained Alec, frowning
down at it. "It's not very good, I know, but I knew
I'd never remember any of it unless I marked it
out somehow."
Lynn Rewriting
"You didn't steal this parchment from his room?"
"Of course not! I remembered what Parin said about
drawings in his room and thought I might need to copy
something. I took all the materials with me."
"Except a rope."
At first glance Alec's map, done in a feverish
haste by an unpracticed hand, seemed little more than a
meaningless scrawl of lines.
"I think it's a map of the sewers," said Alec.
"There wasn't any writing on it, just marks here and
there, but it looked a lot like those plans we found at
Kassarie's, remember?" He pointed to a
circle near the bottom of the sheet. "I'd say this
represents the outlet where they're working, and this is
probably the top of the channel, where we found the
sabotaged grate."
Seregil nodded slowly, then tapped a spot just beyond
where a number of lines radiated out from a single
terminus. "Several large channels come together here.
One goes west, toward the Noble Quarter; this one
here probably leads under the middle of the city- Is
this exactly what you saw, line for line?"
"I think so, but I didn't get all of it. It was
really complicated and I was jumping at every noise.
Finally I did hear someone coming, so I just grabbed
what I had and rabbited. Sorry,"
"No, no, you did well," Seregil mused, still
puzzling over the layout. "This is solid grounds for
arresting him, but how in hell did he get this much
information?"
"Could the Plenimarans use it to attack the city through
the sewers?"
"Not a mil-scale attack, but they could cause
plenty of other mischief-enemy sappers opening
gates from inside, assassins popping out of the royal
privies, or anywhere else in the city, for that
matter." Straightening up, he thumped Alec
proudly on the shoulder. "Good work. This is more than
I came up with."
Alec colored, grinning. "The smiths I talked
to from his crew expect to be done in a couple of
weeks. That means that Rythel has to complete whatever
work he has left on this by then." He paused.
"What I want to know is how he learned all this
if he never goes out at night and never leaves the
work site?"
"That's the real question, isn't it? Exploring and
mapping out all these tunnels would take weeks,
months even. But what if you find someone who knows
already?"
"Like a Scavenger!"

"Or a gaterunner. What did that one who jumped
me say?"
"Something about strangers in the sewers, someone she was
afraid of."
"Right." Seregil looked down at the smudged
parchment, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder what
Tym's up to these days?"
"Tym?"
"You must remember him, the thief who cut your
purse for me that time?"
Alec grimaced. "I remember him, all right.
He's not a gaterunner, is he?"
"No, but he has connections there, and just about everywhere
else among the poor and the criminal. That's what
makes him so useful to us."
"I didn't think it was his charm," Alec remarked
sourly.
"U
Hi
ow do you know he'll come?" Alec asked as they
climbed to the empty room over the nameless lower city
. slophouse the following evening.
"He'll come." Seregil eyed the greasy table with
distaste, then sat down on one of the stools
next to it. "He's probably already around somewhere."
He hadn't been hard to contact An informal network
permeated the lowest classes of the city like the roots
of a tree; a coin and discreet word with the right party was
usually sufficient.
Almost before Seregil had finished speaking, they heard
a light step on the stairs behind them. Tym paused
in the doorway, scanning the room suspiciously.
With a deferential nod to Seregil, he sauntered
in.
Alec eyed the thief with carefully guarded dislike.
The last time Alec had seen him was outside the city
that day with Micum and Beka. Cocky with his new
skills, Alec had surprised him in a crowd,
hoping to pay him back for cutting his purse.
Instead, Tym had nearly knifed him.
He was still thin and dirty as ever, and still cloaked in an
air of hungry arrogance. Slinging one leg over the
bench opposite Seregil, he favored Alec with a
long, appraising sneer.

"Still with 'im, eh? Must be gettin" something you like."
Alec returned the look impassively.
Tym snorted a brief, humorless laugh and
turned his attention to Seregil. "You asked
after me?"
Seregil rested one fist on the table and slowly
opened it to display a thick silver half sester.
"Any queer customers about?" he asked, using the
common slang for spy.
Tym snorted again, a harsh, ugly sound. "What do
you think?"
Seregil snapped his hand closed over the coin,
opened it again. A second coin glittered in the
hollow of his palm. "Are you working for any of them?"
Tym eyed the coins, an almost thoughtful look
smoothing his narrow face for an instant. "Think
I'd tell if I was?"
Seregil's hand closed, opened. Four coins.
Alec studied Tym's face. The aloof mask
stayed firmly in place.
"Could be," Tym replied cautiously.
Close. Open. No coins.
That got a reaction. Tym sat forward, looking like
a man who'd just overplayed his game.
"Bugger! No, I ain't working for nobody, but
there's them that might be."
Seregil opened his hand again. Five coins.
"Rat Tom come by a stash real suddenlike, wouldn't
say where from," Tym confided, all crafty
compliance now.
"Where's Rat Tom now?"
Tym shrugged. "Turned up dead in an alley not
two weeks ago, throat cut."
"Who else?"
"Fast Mickle claims he did a papers job
in Helm Street."
"What house?"
"Don't know."
"Where could I find Fast Mickle?"
Tym shrugged again. "Ain't seen him for a while."
Seregil snatched the coins away with a disgusted sigh
and rose, motioning for Alec to follow. "Let's go.
There's nothing to be learned here."
"There's talk," Tym added hastily.
Halfway to the door already, Seregil turned with an
exasperated frown. "What talk?"
Lynn Flewelling
"It's the gaterunners mostly. Some turn up
flush all of a sudden, then they turn up dead or not
at all."
Alec exchanged a quick look with Seregil, thinking
of what the woman had told them in the sewers.
"Madrin, Dinstil, Slim Lily, Wanderin'
Ki, all of "em dead one way or
another just in the last month," Tym continued.
"Tarl's been lookin" for Farm the Fish for a
week now."
"I thought Farin was a breaker?" Seregil returned
to the table. Alec remained standing just behind him.
"He is, but still it's funny he's gone. Him and
Tarl been together for years."
"Any others?"
"Virella maybe, she's another runner, but you
don't never know with her. And that young breaker,
Shady-they found her floating in the harbor out past the
moles. Some are even wondering about the Rhiminee
Cat, but he's another you don't never know about."
Seregil jingled the coins in his fist. "Who's
supposed to be doing all this killing?"
For the first time Tym looked uneasy. "Don't know.
Don't
nobody
know, and that is strange. The snuffers claim ain't
none of them doing it. Folks is gettin' nervous.
You don't hardly know whether to take a job or
not."
"I have a job, if you're interested," Seregil
told him, sliding the silver enticingly closer.
Tym looked hungrily at the stack of
coins. "This wouldn't be a running job would it?"
"No, just a snoop. There's a house near here I
want watched. If you see anyone you know go
in-breaker, runner, keek, anything -I want
to know about it. Or anyone you think doesn't fit with the
neighborhood. Is that clear?"
"Breakers and runners?" Tym's eyes narrowed
again. "This got to do with the killings?"
"Maybe he's scared," Alec suggested
quietly, speaking for the first time.
Tym lurched up, gripping the hilt of his knife.
"Maybe I ought to fix that pretty face of yours!"
"Sit down!"
barked Seregil.
Alec stiffened, but remained where he was. Tym
sullenly obeyed.
"Now," Seregil resumed calmly, "do you want
the job or not?"

"Yeah, I want it," Tym growled. "But it'll
cost you."
"Name your price."
"Two sesters a week."
"Done." Seregil spat in his palm and clasped
hands with the thief. As Tym tried to withdraw
his, Seregil gripped it tight.
"You've never turned on me yet. This would be a
poor time to start." Seregil smiled, but that only
made the threat implicit in his tone more ominous. The
force of it drove the cocky sneer from Tym's
face. "If anyone tumbles and offers you more to turn
to them, you smile and you take their money, then you come
straight back to me."
"I will, sure I will!" Tym stammered, wincing.
"I ain't never turned on you. I ain't going
to."
"Of course you aren't." Seregil relinquished his
hold at last, but the imprint of his long fingers
glowed for a moment in white, bloodless stripes across
the back of the thief s hand. "The house is the
tenement in Sailmaker Street with the red and white
striped lintel. You know the one?"
Tym nodded curtly, flexing his hand. "Yeah, I
know it."
"You can start now. Report to me in the usual
way."
Alec shook his head incredulously as Tym
disappeared down the stairs. "You actually trust
him?"
"After a fashion. He just needs the
occasional reminder." Seregil drummed his fingers
lightly on the table. "In his own way, Tym
trusts me. He trusts that I'll pay. He
trusts that I won't double-cross him, and he
trusts that I'll hunt him to the ends of the earth and
slit his throat if he turns on me. You'd do
well to watch your step with him, though. That was no
idle threat just now."
"I was just trying to push him along," Alec began,
but Seregil held up a hand.
"I know what you were doing, and it worked. But you don't
understand people like him. He respects me because he fears
me. I nearly killed him once and he's the sort
that takes to you afterward because of it. But he'd slice you
open in a minute and worry about my reaction later.
Insulting him the way you did is enough to mate him your
enemy for life."
"I'll keep that in mind," Alec said. He'd
never quite gotten around to telling Seregil of his last
confrontation with Tym. Now didn't seem to be the
right time, either, but he stored away the advice.
Through the next week the dreary Klesin rains
rolled in off the sea in earnest, melting away the
last of the filthy snow still lingering in the shelter of
alleyways and corners, and insuring that
Seregil and his company were perpetually damp.
Tym kept watch over the Sailmaker Street
house, but reported nothing beyond RytheFs expected
movements between there and the sewer site.
Work for the Rhiminee Cat-a papers job- came in
at midweek. This fell to Alec, who spent the
next few days scouting the household of a certain
lord whose estranged wife wanted certain papers
stolen. During the evenings, however, he became a
welcome regular at the Hammer and Tongs.
Whether Rythel would remain in his uncle's shop
once the work was completed seemed to be a matter of
speculation, though it was unclear whether this was grounded
in some hint from Rythel or mere wishful thinking on the
part of the other smiths. Meanwhile, Seregil set
to work on the connection between the smith and Lord General
Zymanis, but his discreet inquiries yielded little
beyond what Nysander had already told them.

A young valet had disappeared four months before, but
there was no evidence that he'd stolen anything.
At week's end the winds changed, shredding the
clouds into tatters of vermilion and gold against the
late afternoon sky.
"Rythel will be going out soon. What's the
plan for tonight?" asked Alec, gazing out the window beside
the workbench.
Seregil looked up from a pick he'd been
repairing and smiled. The slanting sunlight bathed
Alec's profile as he leaned against the window
frame, striking fiery glints in his hair and casting
his cheekbones and the folds of his clothing into fine
relief.
A painter should capture him like that, all light and
eagerness.
"What are we going to do?" Alec asked again,
turning to look at him.
"Since we don't have any new information, I think
I'll shadow him this time," Seregil replied,
sliding the pick back into Alec's tool roll and
handing it to him. "Why don't you go ahead with that papers
job for Lady Hylia?"
Alec grinned. "On my own?"
"You've done all the legwork. You're sure Lord
Estmar will be away until tomorrow?"
"That's what his cook says. It looks like an
easy job, too. Lady Hylia's instructions
to the Cat said the papers she wants are hidden in the
wine cellar. The door leading down to it is in the
second pantry, which has a decent-sized
window."
"All the same, take your time and be careful,"
Seregil cautioned. "The cook knows your face. You
can't afford to get caught."
"I know, I know," Alec muttered happily,
only half listening as he checked his tools and
tucked the roll away in his coat. "I expect
I'll be done by midnight, in case you need me
later on."
"I'll look for you here if I do."
Either he's following some plan, or he's the most
dismally predictable spy in Rhiminee,
Seregil thought, watching from a discreet distance as
Rhythel went into the Heron.
A few coins to the doorkeeper, Stark, bought
Seregil hourly reports on the goings-on
inside. Rythel asked after Lord Seregil and
expressed regret at not finding him among the
company. He
lyim Flewelling
soon consoled himself by falling in with another young noble,
the son of Lady Tytiana, Mistress of the
Queen's Wardrobe. They parted company early,
however, and Seregil shadowed him to the Maiden's
Laugh, a moderately respectable
tavern and brothel near the center of the city. Settling
in with the tavern crowd downstairs, Seregil soon
charmed a weary tap girl into confiding which girl
Rythel had gone up with, which room was hers, and that
he'd paid for the entire night.
After giving the pair time to settle in, Seregil
slipped through the boisterous crowd and made his way
unnoticed up the stairs to a dim third-floor
corridor. Waiting until he was alone in the
passage, he went to the door at the end of it and
peered through the keyhole.
Inside, Rythel and his woman were attending earnestly
to business. The tiny room had no window or other
exit that Seregil could see.
Paid for the whole night, did you?
Seregil thought, stealing back the way he'd come.
Outside, he unhobbled his mare and glanced up at
the moon; just past midnight. Alec was probably
back by now, waiting for word from him. Gathering the
reins, he headed for the Cockerel.
Alec was home. Seregil found him pacing
morosely in front of the fire. He was still wearing his
cloak, and there were twigs and dead leaves tangled in
his hair.
"Problem with the job?"
Alec paused, scowling. "Lord Estmar is out for the
night, but his new lady friend isn't. Seems she
decided to have a few hundred friends in while he's
gone. The whole damn place was lit up bright as
noon. I skulked around the garden for hours, thinking
things might die down. I gave up when fresh
musicians showed up just before midnight. Anything
new with Rythel?"
"Only his choice of whores," Seregil replied.
"Come on. I've had enough of trailing around after this
bastard. Show me this map of his."
"All right." Alec arched an eyebrow knowingly, then
went to his bed and pulled a coil of rope from beneath
it. "And this time, I'm prepared."

Galloping through the darkened city under a wan,
lopsided moon, Alec felt a hunter's-thrill
of anticipation. The seemingly fruitless days of
stalking Rythel wouldn't be wasted if they could use him
and his map to bring down larger game. And for once, he
was the one to lead. He was rather proud of himself for finding the
hollowed bedpost on his own and was looking forward to showing
Seregil.
Just as they came within sight of the Sea Market,
however, one of Nysander's tiny message
spheres materialized suddenly in front of
Seregil. Although Alec could not hear it, he knew
by the way his friend reined sharply to a halt that there was about
to be a change in plans.
"What did he say?" he asked when the little light
had winked out.
Seregil pushed his hood back and Alec saw that
he was frowning. "He wants us at the Queen's
Palace immediately. He didn't say why, just that I
should come right away, and bring you if you're with me."
"Damn! Look, you could go back and I'll meet
you-was
"He asked for both of us."
"But what about the map? And what if Rythel
does
come back and then heads out somewhere else?"
"I know, I know-was Seregil shrugged. "But
Watchers can't ignore a summons to the Palace.
Besides, Rythel's out for the night and Tym's clever enough
to keep an eye on things until we get back.
Come on now. Back we go!"
But Rythel did return to Sailmaker Street, and
not long after Seregil and Alec turned back toward
the Palace.
What the bloody hell are you doing home
on this fine night?
Tym thought. More surprising yet was the fact that the
smith was not alone. A lantern still burned over the
door and by its light Tym caught a glimpse of the
two men with him. They had their hoods pulled forward,
but the gleam of their fine boots in the lamplight
told him they were not denizens of the area. Reaching behind
him, he gave a rough shake to the small ragged boy
dozing against the alley wall just behind him.
"Skut, wake up, damn you!"
The child jerked up, instantly tense and alert.
"Yeah, Tym?"
"You ever see any gentleman types go in there?"
lynn Flewelling
"Naw, nothing like that."
Watching a house was child's work, and it hadn't taken
Tym long to find a child to help him do it. Having
survived to the lucky old age of nine, scrawny,
gap-toothed little Skut knew all the Folk as
well as he did himself and feared Tym's wrath enough
to be dependable. It was Skut, in fact, who'd
spotted a gaterunner called Pry the Beetle
late that same afternoon while Tym was off to his
supper. The Beetle had shown up soon after the
smith returned from work that evening and,
by Skut's estimation, stayed long enough for a decent
conversation?."
Learning this, Tym had gone off again to track the
Beetle down and soon found him already half-drunk
in one of the filthy waterfront stews the runner
frequented. A little silver loosened the man's
tongue and Tym judged the resulting information well
worth the price. It seemed a certain tenant on
the top floor of the Sailmaker Street house was
buying information about the sewers, information only a
Scavenger or runner was privy to, so to speak.
Tym allowed himself a wolfish grin; that was just the
sort of information Lord Seregil might loosen his
purse strings for.
Returning to Sailmaker Street, he'd settled
in for another uneventful evening, but here was something
else unexpected. And lucrative, no doubt.
He waited until light showed through a chink in the
shutters of the smith's room, then turned to Skut
again.
"I'm going up for a listen. You keep your eyes
open down here and give the signal if anyone comes
along that might see me," he whispered,
punctuating his instructions to the boy with a light cuff
over the ear. "You doze off while I'm
up there and I'll strangle you with your own guts, you
hear?"
"I ain't never dozed on nobody," Skut
hissed back resentfully.
Unwittingly following the same route Alec had
taken several days before, Tym clambered ur
greater-than the rickety wooden stairs at the back
of the house and crept over the slates to the edge of the
roof just over Rythel's window. Stretched out on his
belly, he peered carefully over for an
upside-down view of the window below. A crack at
the top of the left shutter showed only a thin slice
of the room, but he could just make out scraps of the
conversation going on inside.
"Three more days." That was the smith; Tym had heard
him speak in the street.
"Well done," said another man. "You'll be well
rewarded."

"I have another letter, as well."
"Are you certain no.one-was a third man broke
in, and this voice carried a strong Plenimaran
accent.
Tym heard movement inside and the voices dropped
too low for him to make out. Cursing
silently, he kept still, hoping they'd move closer
to the window.
He was just wondering if he should chance opening the shutter
a bit more for a peek when some inner alarm sent an
uncomfortable prickle down his spine. Gripping the
lead gutter with one hand, his knife in the other, he
twisted sharply around, scanning back up the steep
pitch of the roof.
There, just to the left of a chimney pot, the black
outline of a head was visible above the roof peak.
More of the figure rose up, moving with uncanny
silence.
There's something wrong about him,
was Tym's first thought.
The other stood in full view now, a long black
stain against the starry sky. He looked unusually
tall, and he didn't move right, either. There was none
of the ungainliness of a cripple-and what in hell would
a cripple be doing up here?-but a queer set to the
shoulders of the silhouette, the crooked thrust of the
torso over the legs-
The other suddenly jerked his head in Tym's
direction. The thief could still make out no more than the
stranger's outline, but he knew instinctively that
he'd been spotted.
The figure stooped, bent down as if making Tym
a ridiculously low bow. But that was not the end of it,
and Tym's mouth suddenly went dry.
The other somehow curled himself downward, arms still at his
sides, until his hooded head touched the roof
slates below his feet. Down he went, and down,
sinuous as an eel-chest, belly, legs, all bent
at angles chillingly wrong. And like some huge and
loathsome eel, the long black shape began slithering
down toward him.
A coldness that had nothing to do with the weather reached
Tym, driving a numbing ache into his bones that
left his hands as stiff and useless as an old
man's. Still, it wasn't until the stench hit him that
he began to suspect the sort of nightmare that was
bearing down on him.
For the first time in his hard, rough life, Tym
screamed, but the ignominious sound came out of his
throat as a faint, futile squeak.
The thing came to a halt scant inches away from where
he crouched and coiled upright again.
lyrm Rebelling
Instinct overrode terror. Still clutching his knife,
though he could scarcely feel it in his fist, Tym
lunged up and slashed at the apparition and
felt his hand pass through a vacant coldness where the
thing's chest should have been. The attack overbalanced
him on the slick slates and he crouched again,
wobbling for balance.
The black thing hovered motionless for a moment,
radiating its icy stench. Then it laughed, a thick,
bubbling laugh that made Tym think of rotting,
bloated corpses floating in foul water.
The hideous thing raised long, wrong-jointed arms and
he braced for a blow.
But it didn't strike at him.
It pushed.
Standing faithful watch in the shadow of the alley,
Skut saw a dark form topple from the roof.
Plummeting down, headfirst, the falling man struck
the cobbled pavement of the yard with a dull thud.
Skut froze, waiting for an outcry. When none
came, he crept out to the body, squinting down at
it in the waning moonlight.
Tym was unmistakably dead. His head had been
smashed into a terrible lopsided shape. His chest was
caved in like a broken basket.
Skut stared down in shocked disbelief for an
instant, then burst into tears of frustration. The
bastard hadn't paid him yet!
Tym carried no purse, no valuables. Even his
long knife was missing from its sheath.
Wiping his nose on his arm, Skut gave the body
a final, furious kick and disappeared into the night.
ssSo-aSisssls caret stfH.
LS-FETSV caret sSSS
Vargul Ashnazai moved restlessly around RytheFs
tiny room while the smith was making his report
to Mardus. So far the man's spying attempts had
turned up little of any significance, for all his
self-important airs. But his sabotage of the
sewer channels had been brilliantly carried off
and, more importantly still, his compilation of the map of
sewer channels beneath the western ward of the city.
Mardus had it before him now, making a final
painstaking check before paying the smith for its
delivery.
Ashnazai's job was to maintain a cloaking glamour
about the two of them; through Rythel's eyes, they were
fair, heavyset men with Mycenian accents. He
also had a
dra'gorgos
on watch, ranging the courtyard outside comn an
especially taxing task for a necromancer of his
degree, but a necessary one, as it turned out.
Soon after their arrival, he suddenly felt a
silent call from the
dra "gorges.
Closing his eyes, he sent a sighting through his dark
creation and discovered the intruder on the roof overhead,
a rough-looking young fellow with a knife.
Vermin,
he thought.
A common thief.
With a barely perceptible smile, he mouthed a
silent command. A moment later he felt the stalker
Lynn Flewelling
lunge and heard a satisfying thud from the yard below.
Mardus glanced up from the document the smith was showing
him.
"It's nothing," Ashnazai assured him, going to the
window and pushing back one of the warped shutters. As
he looked down at the body sprawled below, a
small figure darted over to it from the deep shadows
across the street. Ashnazai sent a quick stab into this
one's mind: a child thief, too grief-stricken at
the loss of his compatriot to notice the ripple of
blackness flowing down the side of the building toward
him.
The
dra 'gorgos
gave a hungry, questioning call. Ashnazai was about
to release it for another kill when his hand brushed
something on the windowsill, something that sent an
unpleasantly familiar tingle through his skin.
Incredulous, he forgot the child completely as he bent
to scrutinize the sill.
There, so faint no one but a necromancer would ever have
noticed, was a thin smear of blood. And not just any
blood! Pulling out the ivory vial, he compared the
emanations of its contents to these.
One
ost8them.
Yes, the boy! Known here as Alec of Ivywell,
minion of the Aurenfaie spy, LordSeregil.
That much they'd learned since their arrival in
Rhiminee. Urvay had tracked the troublesome
thieves as far as a villa in Wheel Street, where
they acted the fine gentlemen as they consorted with nobles
and royalty.
Ashnazai had seen them several times since then, could
easily have had them at any point, but the two were still
under Oreska protection; any move against them would
alert the real enemies in the Oreska House. So
he had stayed his hand and soon after the
Aurenfaie and his accomplice had dropped
maddeningly from sight yet again.
Vargul Ashnazai clenched a hand around the vial for a
moment, using its power to detect other traces of
Alec's blood around the room: droplets on the
shutter, a smudge on the table by Mardus" elbow,
a tiny brownish circle dried on the floor near
the hollow bedpost that Rythel thought such a clever hiding
place, and none of it more than a day or two old.
Standing there, surrounded by the essence of the hated boy,
Ashnazai experienced a brief twinge of the fear a
hunter feels realizing that the prey he's been
stalking has circled to stalk him. In the midst of his
silent fury, he was startled to hear Rythel speak the
Aurenfaie's name.

Seated at ease across the table from the smith, Mardus
was regarding his spy with polite attention.
"Lord Seregil, you say?" Mardus inclined his head
slightly as if greatly interested, but Ashnazi saw
through the pose; at such moments Mardus reminded him
of a huge serpent, chill and remorseless as it
advanced unblinking upon its prey.
"A lucky meeting, my lord," the smith told him
proudly. "I happened across him in a
gambling house one night last week. He has quite
an interest in the privateering fleet and likes
to brag about it. A puffed-up dandy, full of himself.
You know the sort."
Mardus smiled coldly. "Indeed I do. You must
tell me everything."
Ashnazai bided his time impatiently as the smith
described how he'd courted the supposed cully,
and the information he'd had from him. He made no mention
of the boy.
Standing behind the smith, Ashnazai caught Mardus'
attention, pointed to the window, and held up the vial
with a meaningful look. The other gave a slight nod,
betraying no reaction.
"You've surpassed all expectations," Mardus
told Rythel, passing him a heavy purse in
return for the sewer map, together with a packet of the
sabotaged grate pins. "You've done an
excellent job with the map, and I believe I can
arrange an additional reward once you've completed
your work in the tunnels."
"Another week and it'll be done," the smith
assured him, eyes alight with greedy anticipation.
"If there's anything else I can do for you, you just say
the word."
"Oh, I shall, I assure you," Mardus replied
with a smile.
Unseen and unheard under the cover of Ashnazai's
magic, he and the necromancer made their way down
through the crowded rooms and stairways of the tenement to the
yard.
The thief s body lay where it had fallen, twisted
like a child's discarded doll.
Mardus turned the corpse's head with the toe of one
boot. "The face is damaged, but it clearly
isn't one of them."
"No, my lord, just a common footpad who blundered
into the
dra "gorgos
by chance. But the boy has certainly been here within the
past day or two. His blood is all over the
room. He must have been wounded."
lyim Flewelling
"But not by Rythel, I think. There was nothing in his
demeanor to suggest he was hiding anything of the sort."
The necromancer closed his eyes for a moment, his
pinched face narrowing still more as he concentrated.
"There's blood on the eaves above the window. He
must have cut himself breaking in."
Mardus looked down at the dead man again.
"Two thieves in as many days? Rather a lot, don't
you think, even for this part of the city." He watched with
satisfaction as a fish hook of anxiety tugged in
the necromancer's cheek. "A pity-we weren't here
the night our young friend made his visit," he continued.
"Then it could have been him lying here dead and unable to be
questioned, instead of this useless piece of meat. Get
rid of it before it attracts any attention."
Vargul Ashnazai muttered a summons through
clenched teeth and the darkness beside them convulsed. A
second
dra'gorgos
materialized, a wavering, faceless presence that
hung like smoke for an instant before streaming down into the
dead man's mouth and nose. The body gave a
convulsive jerk, then lumbered clumsily to its
feet. There was no semblance of life in the face;
the dead glazed eyes remained fixed, the one on the
ruined side of the head bulging grotesquely from its
smashed socket.
Mardus regarded the thing with detached interest. "How
long can you maintain it in this state?"
"Until it decomposes, my lord, but I fear it
would be of little use. So much of the magic is consumed
simply to animate it that it lacks the
dra 'gorgos"
strength. That, of course, will not be the case once our
purpose has been accomplished."
"Indeed not." Mardus touched a gloved hand
briefly to the corpse's chest, feeling the black
emptiness of death within-such power in that void, and so
nearly in his grasp.
The necromancer spoke another command and the corps
loped away in the direction of the nearby harbor.
Still cloaked by the necromaner's spell, they rode
up to this less-than main city. The few folk they
passed in the streets at that hour wer aware of little more
than a momentary chill, a fleeting bit of move
ment caught from the corner of the eye.
"It's of little consequence really, even if they do
discove Rythel's work in the sewers," Ashnazai
ventured nervously a; they rode down Sheaf
Street toward their lodgings near the Harvest
Market. "The map is the important thing, and we
have that

Still, it's unsettling, having the two of them both
nosing around Rythel."
"On the contrary, I see the hand of Seriamaius
at work in it," said Mardus. "It seems
our journey has been a long spiral path, one
narrowing quickly now to tighten around our quarry. You
may have been correct after all about these thieves being
of some importance, Vargul Ashnazai. They
wouldn't be crossing our trail so often unless there is
some greater purpose in it. We have only to bide our
time until the others arrive. Meanwhile, I think
it's time to deal with Master Rythel. Arrange something
unremarkable, would you?"
Nearing the market, Mardus reined in. "I'm
to meet with our new friend, Ylinestra. I shouldn't be
long."
"Very good, my lord. I'll check on Tildus and the
others at the inn."
Parting ways with the necromancer, Mardus turned his
mount down a side lane. Halfway down it, he
glanced at the fine pair of brass cockerels
decorating the entrance to an inn of the same name.
He'd passed through Blue Fish Street several
times since arriving in Rhiminee and the figures,
each holding a lantern suspended from an upraised
claw, often caught his eye.
A Watcher password got them by the guards at the
same postern gate Alec had used as a refuge
a few months before. Riding through the palace
grounds, they dismounted at a tradesman's door
near the Ring wall of the Palace.
"I feared you would not come," Nysander said, hurrying
them inside. As he reached to close the door behind
them, Alec noticed the hem of a finely
embroidered robe beneath the wizard's plain mantle.
"You caught us in the middle of a job," Seregil
told him.
"I suspected as much, but I had no choice.
Come, there is little time."
Nysander inscribed a faint sigil in the air over
their heads, then led the way silently down a
servant's passage. They hadn't gone far when a
serving woman came around a corner ahead of them
carrying an armload of linen. She looked
directly at Alec as she passed, but gave no
sign that she'd seen him.
Magic?
Alec signed.
Seregil motioned him onward with an impatient
nod.
still
hope I don't have to find my own way out of here,
Alec thought as Nysander hurried them up stairways
and through more corridors and

increasingly lavish public rooms. Climbing a
final, curving stairway, they reached a closed
door. Nysander took a key from his sleeve and let
them into a long, dimly lit gallery.
An ornate balustrade screened by panels of
wooden fretwork ran the length of the right side of the
room. Light streamed up through the openings, casting
netted patterns on the ceiling overhead.
Nysander raised a finger to his lips, then drew them
to one of the panels. Putting his face close to the
fretwork, Alec found himself looking down into a
brightly lit audience chamber.
He'd seen Queen Idrilain only once before, but
he recognized her at once among the small
knot of people gathered around a wine table at the center
of the room. Phoria sat at her left with several
other people in Skalan court dress. To Idrilain's
right sat a man and two women dressed in a
fashion he'd never seen before.
All three wore tunics of soft white wool
accented only by the polished jewels glowing on their
belts, torques, and broad silver wristbands.
Two of them, the man and the younger woman, wore their
long dark hair loose over their shoulders
beneath elaborately wrapped head cloths. The older
woman's hair was silvery white, and on her brow
was a silver circlet set with a single large ruby
in a fan of blade-shaped gold leaves.
Intrigued, Alec turned to Seregil but found his
friend pressed rigidly to the screen, his face a
mask of anguish washed with stippled light.
What's he seeing?
Alec wondered in alarm, looking down at the
strangers again. Just then, however, the younger woman
turned her head his way and Alec felt his breath
catch in his throat as he recognized the fine
features, dark shining hair, and large, light
eyes-
Aurenfaie.
Still staring down, he reached for his friend's shoulder, felt
the slight trembling there before Seregil shrugged him
away.
The conference below continued for some time. At last the
Queen rose and led the others out" of the chamber.
Seregil remained where he was for a moment, forehead
resting against the screen as a single tear inched down his
cheek. Wiping it quickly away, he turned to face
Nysander, who'd stood silently behind them all the
while.
"Why are they here?" Seregil asked, his voice
husky with emotion.
Lyim Flewelltng
"The Plenimaran Overlord died today," the wizard
replied. "The Aurenfaie had the news before we
did and translocated a delegation here tonight. There
is still no official alliance between Plenimar and
Zengat, but both Aurenfaie intelligence and our
own suggests that secret agreements have in fact been
made."
"What's that got to do with us?" Seregil's face was
stony now, the naked sorrow too thoroughly erased.
"Nothing, as yet," said Nysander. "I summoned you
here because the lia'sidra has granted permission for you
to speak with her briefly. There is a small
antechamber just through that door behind you."
Still rigidly expressionless, Seregil stalked
away into the next room.
As soon as he was gone, Alec let out a pent-up
gasp. "Illior's Hands,
Nysander-Aurenfaie!"
"I thought you should see them, too," Nysander said with a
rather sad smile.
"Who's he meeting?"
"That is for Seregil to tell you. And with any
luck, before you wear a trench in this excellent
carpet."
Seregil paced the small, well-appointed sitting
room, one eye on the side door. And as he
paced, he fought to maintain some semblance of inner
calm. There was a looking glass on the wall and he
paused in front of it, ruefully inspecting his
reflection. His hair was tangled and windblown, and a
week of puzzling over Rythel had left dark
circles under his eyes. The old surcoat he'd
thrown on that evening was frayed at the cuffs and one
shoulder was torn.
Don't I look the ragged outcast?
he thought, giving the glass a humorless smile as
he combed his fingers through his hair.
Behind him the side door opened and for a moment another
face was reflected next to his, the two images
so similar, yet worlds apart. When had his eyes
grown so wary, the lines around his mouth so harsh?
"Seregil, my brother." Her pure, unaccented
Aurenfaie washed through him like cool water.
"Adzriel," he whispered, embracing her. The
scent of wandril blossoms rose from her hair and
skin, blinding him with memories. She had been both
sister and mother and suddenly he remem-

bered what it had been to be a child, smelling her
special scent as she comforted him or carried him
home from some moonlit festival. Now she felt
small in his arms and for a long moment he could do nothing
but cling to her, his throat tightening painfully as he
blinked back four decades of unshed tears.
Adzriel stepped back at last, still holding him
by the shoulders as if afraid he'd disappear if she
didn't.
"All these years I've carried the image of that
unhappy boy looking down at me from the deck that
awful day," she gasped, her own tears flowing
freely. "O Aura, I missed seeing you grow
into a man! Now look at you; wild as any
Tirfaie and wearing a weapon in the presence of your
kin."
Seregil quickly unbuckled his sword belt and
hung it over a nearby chair. "I meant no
offense. It's like another limb to me here. Come,
sit down and I'll try to remember how civilized
people act."
Adzriel stroked a hand through his unkempt hair.
"And when were you ever civilized?"
Sitting down next to him on a divan,
she drew a small bundle of scrolls from her
tunic. "I have letters for you from our sisters and your old
friends. They haven't forgotten you."
More memories held at bay pressed in, and with them
a pang of long suppressed hope. Swallowing
hard, he examined the heavy silver bracelet of
rank on her wrist. "So you're a member of the
lia'sidra now. And an envoy, too. Not bad for
someone who hasn't seen her hundred and a half
birthday yet."
Adzriel shrugged, though she looked pleased. "Our
family's tie to Skala may be useful in the coming
years. Idrilain welcomed me as a kinswoman
when we arrived, and spoke highly of you. From what
little your friend Nysander i Azusthra had time to tell
me, I gather you've been of some service to her?"
Seregil studied her face, wondering how much
Nysander had said about their work. Little enough,
evidently.
"Now and then," he told her. "What did your
companions make of that, I wonder, Seregil the
Traitor praised by the Skalan Queen? I
remember old Mahalie a Solunesthra, but
who's the other?"
"Ruen i Uri, of Datsia Clan.
And you needn't worry about either of them; they're both
moderates, and good friends of mine."
"And you're here because of Plenimar?"
"Yes. All recent reports indicate an
alliance being attempted with Zengat and there can only
be one reason for that."
Lyim Flewelling
"To keep Aurenen too busy defending her western
borders to ally with Skala. But if the
Plenimarans had just left things alone, wouldn't the
Edict of Separation have done their work for them?"
"There's been considerable progress against the Edict
since you left. The recent discovery of our kinsman
Corruth's body- well, you can imagine the effect
that has had in the lia'sidra."
Seregil watched her again; no, she didn't know the
part he'd played in that, and his oath as a Watcher
prevented him from telling her.
"Total uproar, I hope," he said with a smirk.
"All those years of accusing every Skalan in sight of
foul play. Old Rhazien's faction must be choking
on their own isolationist rhetoric."
Adzriel chuckled. "Nothing so dramatic, but it
has tipped the scales a bit for those of us who
want to renew the old alliances. With
Petasarian gone and his successor, young Estmar,
already rumored to be the puppet of his own generals and
necromancers, I don't think we can afford to stand
alone any longer."
"Adzriel?" He hesitated, knowing what he must
ask next, but dreading the answer. "Does this have
anything to do with why you've been allowed to see me?"
"The lifting of your banishment, you mean?" Adzriel
smoothed a thumb over one of the jewels in her
bracelet. "Not officially. The time isn't right.
Not yet."
Seregil jumped to his feet, clenching one hand against
his side where his sword usually hung.
"Bilairy's Guts, I was a
child

.
Willful, misguided, guilty as hell, but still a
child. If only you knew what I've done since
then."
We found their precious Lord Corruth, Alec and
I!
The words burned his throat. "I know the Skalans,
their culture and politics, their language,
better than any envoy."
"Yes, but whose interests would you be representing?"
AdzrieFs level gaze stopped him in his
tracks. "So I'm to sit idle here while the
Zengati boil out of the hills and descend on
Bokthersa once again?"
Adzriel sighed. "I hardly think you'll be
idle, not when the might of Plenimar is pounding against
your shores and their armies roll across Mycena
to batter at your northern borders. And mark my
words, it will come to that before it's over. I understand your
pain, my love, but you've spent more than half your
life here." She paused. "I sometimes wonder if
things haven't worked out for the best, somehow."

"My being exiled, you mean?" Seregil stared at
her. "How can you say that?"
"I'm not saying I'm glad you were taken from us, but in
spite of all the loneliness and pain you must have known,
I wonder if life among the Tirfaie doesn't
suit you better? Truly now, could you ever be content
to sit under the lime trees at home, telling
tales to the children, or debating with the elders of the
Bokthersa Council whether the lintel of the temple
should be painted white or silver? Think back,
Seregil. You were always restless, always
demanding to find out what lay over the next hill.
Perhaps there's some purpose in it."
Rising, she took his hands in hers. "I know you've
paid for your mistakes. Believe me, I want your
exile lifted, but you must be patient. Changes are
coming for Aurenen, great ones. Make your stand here for
now, in this dangerous, wonderful land of yours. What
say you, my brother?"
Still frowning, Seregil muttered, "Silver."
"What?" asked Adzriel.
"Silver," Seregil repeated, looking up with the
crooked grin that had always won her over. "Tell the
elders of the Council I said the lintel should be
silver."
Adzriel laughed, a wonderful, radiant sound.
"By Aura, Father was right! I should have beaten you more.
Now where is this Alec i Amasa Nysander told
me of? He interests me greatly."
"You know about Alec?" Seregil said, surprised.
"More than he does himself, it would seem,"
Adzriel chided.
Seregil gave her a chagrined look. It seemed
Nysander had packed a great deal into a short
conversation.
If Nysander hadn't been with him in the
gallery, Alec would have been hard-pressed not
to eavesdrop. As it was, he could hear a steady
murmur of voices from beyond the door where Seregil
had gone.
After what felt like an interminable length of time, the
door opened and Seregil came back into the
gallery, accompanied by the young Aurenfaie woman.
His air of anguish was gone, erased by an almost
sheepish grin.
Alec knew before his friend spoke who she must be.
Her lips were fuller and had none of the hard set of
Seregil's, but the
Lynn Flewelllng
I
beautiful grey eyes were the same, with the same
expression of appraising intelligence.
"This is my eldest sister, Adzriel a Illia
Myril Seri Bokthersa," said Seregil.
"Adzriel, this is Alec."
What little Aurenfaie Alec knew deserted him.
"My lady," he stammered, making a passable bow.
The woman smiled, holding out her hands for his.
"My people seldom use such titlesst" she said in
heavily accented Skalan. "You must call me
Adzriel, as my brother does."
"Adzriel," Alec amended, savoring the'sbund
of it, and the feel of her cool hands in his.
Rubies and moonstones glowed in the rings she wore
on nearly every finger.
"Nysander tells me you are my brother's valued
companion, a person of great honor," she said,
gazing earnestly into his face.
Alec felt his cheeks go warm. "I hope so.
He's been a good friend to me."
"I am glad to hear such things said of him." Bowing
gracefully to him and the wizard, she stepped back
toward the door. "I hope one day soon I may
greet you all in my own land. Until then,
Aura Elustri matron."
"So soon?" Seregil asked, his voice hoarse with
emotion.
Alec looked away in embarrassment as the two
embraced, speaking softly to each other in their own
language.
"Aura Elustri matron, Adzriel tali, his
Seregil said, releasing her reluctantly.
"Phroni soutua neh noliea. his
Adzriel nodded, wiping her eyes. Nysander went
to her side and offered his arm.
"Aura Elustri mdlron,
dear lady. I shall accompany you back to the others."
"Thank you again, Nysander i Azusthra, for all
your assistance in this matter." As she turned to go,
however, she spoke once more to her brother in their own
language, glancing at Alec as she did so.
"Quite right," Nysander said. "It is the boy's right
to know; he should hear it from you."
With that, he escorted Adzriel back the way
she'd come.
Turning to Seregil, Alec found his friend looking
pale and uncomfortable again. "What did they mean?"
Seregil pushed a hand back through his hair and sighed.
"I'll explain everything, but not here."
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The unexpected reunion with his sister had shaken
Seregil to the core of his soul. A fierce sorrow
seemed to emanate from him as they left the Palace,
and the weight of it left Alec feeling mute and
helpless. What could he say, what could he offer in
the face of this? And what was it Nysander had
meant, that Seregil had something to tell
him?
He trailed anxiously in his friend's wake, the sound
of their horses' hooves echoing from the ornate
walls of villa gardens as the misshapen moon
sank slowly toward the western rooftops. Alec
couldn't forget the sight of that single tear rolling
slowly down Seregil's face. He'd never
imagined him capable of weeping.
Seregil paused long enough to steal two flasks of
sweet red wine from a vintner's shop, then rode on
until they reached the wooded park behind the Street of
Lights. Dismounting, they led their horses along a
path to an open glade beyond.
A small fountain stood at the center of the little
clearing, its stone basin filled now with rain and dead
leaves. Sitting down on the rim of it, Seregil
handed Alec a flask, then uncorked his own and
took a drink.
"Go on," he told Alec with a sigh. "You'll
need it."
lynn Flewelltag
Alec found his hands were shaking. He took a long
swig of the sweet, heavy wine, felt the heat curl
down into his belly. "Just tell me, will
you? Whatever it is."
Seregil was quiet for a moment, his face lost in
shadow, then he gestured up at the moon. "When I
was a child, I used to sneak out at night just to walk in
the moonlight. My favorite times were in the
summer, when people would come from all over Aurenen to the
foot of Mount Barok. For days they'd gather,
waiting for the full moon. When it rose over the
peak, we'd sing, thousands of voices raised together,
singing to the dragons. And they'd fly for us across the
face of the moon, around the peak, singing their answering
songs and breathing their red fire.
"I've tried to sing that song once or twice since
I've been here, but do you know, it just won't come?
Without all those other voices, I can't sing the Song
of Dragons at all. As things stand now, I may
never sing it again."
Alec could almost see the scene Seregil had
described, a thousand handsome, grey-eyed folk in
white tunics and shining jewels, massed beneath the round
moon, voices raised as one. Standing here in this
winter-ruined garden, he felt the crushing weight of
distance that separated Seregil from that communion.
"You hoped your sister was going to say you could go home,
didn't you?"
Seregil shook his head. "Not really. And she
didn't."
Alec sat down beside him on the rim of the fountain.
"Why were you sent away?"
"Sent away? I was outlawed, Alec. Outlawed
for treason and a murder I helped commit when I was
younger than you."
"You?" Alec gasped. "I-I can't believe it.
What happened?"
Seregil shrugged. "I was stupid. Blinded by my
first passion, I allowed what I thought was love
to cut me off from Adzriel and all the others who
tried to save me. I didn't know how my lover was
using me, or what his intent really was, but a man
died all the same, and the fault was rightly mine. The
details don't really matter-I've never told
anyone else this much, Alec, and I'm not going
to say more now. Maybe someday- At any rate,
two of us were exiled. Everyone else was executed,
except my lover. He escaped."
"Another Aurenfaie came to Skala with you?"
"Zhahir i Aringil didn't make it. He
threw himself overboard
with a ballast stone tied around his neck as
soon as we lost sight of the coastline. I very
nearly did the same, then and many times later on.
Most exiles end up suicides sooner or
later. But not me. Not yet, anyway."
The few inches between them felt like cold miles.
Clasping his flask, Alec asked, "Why are you
telling me this now? Does it have something to do with what
Nysander meant?"
"In a way. It's something I don't want
secret between us anymore, not after tonight." He took
another drink and rubbed his eyelids. "Nysander's
been after me since he met you to tell you that-was
Seregil turned to him and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Alec, you're "faie."
There was a gravid pause.
Alec heard the words, but for an instant he couldn't
seem to take them in and make sense of them. He'd
rehearsed a dozen dark possibilities during their
walk from the Palace, but this had not been one of them.
He felt the flask slip from his fingers, felt it
bounce on the damp, dead grass between his feet.
"That can't be!" he gasped, his voice unsteady.
"My father, he wasn't-was
But suddenly it all fell into place-Seregil's
questions about his parents, veiled remarks
Nysander had made, all the rumors that he and
Seregil were somehow related. The impact of this
sudden revelation made him sway where he sat.
Seregil's grip on his shoulder tightened, but he
could scarcely feel it.
"My mother."
"The Hazadrielfaie," Seregil said gently,
"from beyond Ravensfell Pass near where you were born."
"But how can you know that?" Alec whispered. It felt
like the entire earth was spinning out from beneath his feet,
leaving him stranded in a place he couldn't comprehend.
At the same time, it all made terrible sense: his
father's silence regarding his mother, his distrust of
strangers, his coldness. "Could she still be there?"
"Do you recall how I told you the
Hazadrielfaie left Aurenen a long, long time
ago? That their ways are different than ours? They
don't tolerate any outsiders, especially
humans, and they kill any half-breeds that are
born, along with the parents. Somehow your mother must have
broken away long enough to meet your father and have you, but her
own people must have hunted her down in the end. Even if
she'd gone back of her own accord, the penalty would
still have been death. It's a miracle your father and you
escaped. He must have been a remarkable
man."
1(1
and.

Lynn Flewelling
"I never thought so." Alec's pulse was pounding in his
ears. This was too much, too much. "I don't
understand. How can you know any of this?"
"I don't, for certain, but it fits the facts we
do know. Alec, there's no getting around the fact that
you
are
'faie. I saw the signs that first morning in the
mountains, but I didn't want to believe it then."
"Why not?"
Seregil hesitated, then shook his head. "I was
afraid I was wrong, just seeing what I wanted
to see.- But I wasn't wrong- your features, your
build, the way you move. Micum saw it right
away, and the centaurs and Nysander and the others at the
Oreska. Then, that first night we came back to the
Cockerel, I went out again, remember? I went
to the Oracle of Illior about another matter ,and
during the divinations, he spoke of you, called you a
'child of earth and light"-Dalna and
Illior, human and "faie- there was no question what
he meant. Nysander wanted me to tell you from the start
but-was
At that, a wave of anger burst up through Alec's
shocked numbness. Lurching to his feet, he rounded
on Seregil, crying out, "Why didn't you? All
these months and you never said
anything"!
It's like that Wheel Street trick all over again!"
Seregil's face was half black, half bone
pale in the moonlight, but both eyes glittered.
"It's nothing like Wheel Street!"
"Oh, no?" Alec shouted. "Then what, damn it!
Why?
Why didn 'tyou tell me?"
Seregil seemed to sag. Lowering his face, he
rested both hands on his knees. After a moment he
let out a ragged breath. "There's no single answer
disfft. At first, because I wasn't certain." He
shook his head. "No, that's not true. In my heart
I
was
certain, but I didn't dare believe it."
"Why not?"
"Because if I was wrong-was Seregil spread
his hands helplessly. "It doesn't matter. I'd
been alone for a long time and I thought I liked it that
way. I knew if I was right, and if I told you
then,
if you'd
even believed me, then it might create a bond, a
tie. I wasn't willing to risk that either, not until
I figured out who you were. Illior's Hands,
Alec, you don't know, you
can't
know, what it was like-was
"Enlighten me!" Alec growled.
"All right." Seregil let out another unsteady
sigh. "I'd been
Stalking Darkness

exiled from my own kind for more years than you've been
alive. Any Aurenfaie who came to Skala
knew who and what I was, and was under prohibition
to shun me. Meanwhile, all my human companions
age and die before my eyes."
"Except Nysander, and Magyana."
"Oh, yes." Now it was Seregil who sounded
bitter. "You know all about my apprenticeship with
him, don't you? Another failure,
another place I didn't belong. Then, from out of
nowhere, comes you, and you were-are-was
Alec looked down at the bowed figure before him and
felt his anger slipping away as quickly as it had
come. "I still don't understand why you didn't want
to say anything."
Seregil looked up at him again. "Cowardice, I
guess. I didn't want to see the look that's on
your face right now."
Alec sat down next to him again and sank his face
in his hands. "I don't know what I am," he
groaned. "It's like everything I ever knew about myself
has been taken away." He felt Seregil's
arm go around his shoulders, but made no move to push
him away.
"Ah,
tali,
you're what you've always been," Seregil sighed,
patting his arm. "You just know it now, that's all."
"So I'll see Beka get old, and Luthas, and
Illia and-was
"That's right." Seregil's arm tightened around him.
"And that wouldn't be any less true if you were
Tirfaie. It's not a curse."
"You always talk like it is."
"Loneliness is a curse, Alec, and being an
outsider. I don't have a clue why the two of us
ended up in the same dungeon cell that night, but
I've thanked Illior every day since that we did.
The greatest fear I've had is losing you. The
second greatest is that when I finally did tell you
the truth, you'd think it was the only reason I'd
taken you on in the first place. That isn't so, you
know. It never was, not even in the beginning."
The last of the shock and anger drained away, leaving
Alec exhausted beyond measure. Reaching down, he
retrieved the wine flash and drained what was left in
it. "It's a lot to take in, you know? It changes
so much." His
For the first time in hours Seregil chuckled, a warm,
healing sound in the darkness. "You should talk to Nysander,
or There. Wizards must go through these same feelings
when they learn they have magic in them."
"What does it mean, though, with me being only
half?" asked
Lynn Flewelling
Alec as a hundred questions and comparisons flooded
in. "How long will I live? How old am I,
really?"
One arm still around Alec, Seregil found his
own flask again and took a sip. "Well, when the
"faie blood comes from the mother it's generally stronger.
I don't know why that is, but it's always the case and
all those I know of lived as long as the rest of us,
four centuries or so. They mature a bit
faster, so you're about as old as you thought. There's also
a good chance you'd inherit any magic she had, although
it seems like that would have shown itself-was He trailed off
suddenlybb'and Alec felt him shiver. "Damn it,
I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner. The
longer I waited, the harder it got."
Without giving himself time to evaluate the impulse,
Alec turned and put both arms around Seregil,
hugging him tightly. "It's all right,
tali"
he whispered hoarsely. "It's all right now."
Taken by surprise, Seregil hesitated a
moment, then returned the embrace, heart beating
strong and fast against Alec's. A weary peacefulness
came over Alec at the feel of it, and with it a
whisper of pleasure at their closeness. From where they
sat, Alec could see the glimmer of a few
lanterns shining through the bare trees from the Street of
Lights beyond. Seregil's fingers were twined in his
hair at the nape of his neck, he
realized with a guilty start, the same way he'd
touched the young man at Azarin's a few short
weeks ago.
First that strange, perception-altering night, he thought
wearily, and now this. Illior's Hands, if things
kept up in this manner, he'd end up not knowing who
he was at all!
Releasing him at last, Seregil looked up at the
moon, half- hidden in the tangled treetops.
"I don't know about you, but I've had about all the
excitement I can deal withfor one night," he said with a
hint of his crooked smile.
"What about Rythel?"
"I guess Tym can keep an eye on things one more
night. We'll track him down in the morning."
As they mounted for the ride home, it was Alec's
turn to chuckle.
"What's so funny?"
"It could have been worse, I guess," Alec
told him. "In the old ballads, orphans
turn out to be the long-lost heir to some kingdom, which
means they end up either cooped up in the family
castle

learning royal manners, or get sent off
to slay some monster for a bunch of total strangers.
At least I get to keep my old job." "I
don't think anyone will get much of a ballad out of
that." Alec swung up into the saddle and grinned over
at him. "That's fine by me!"
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here are we?"
Zir
shouted over the
jingle of harness.
"We're in Mycena!" someone
else called back. Beka grinned in spite of
herself.
They'd
worn the joke threadbare weeks ago, but every once
in a while someone trotted it out again just to break the
monotony.
Sergeant Mercalle's riders were in high spirits this
morning. Beka had received orders to take a
decuria and ride to a nearby market town
to buy supplies for the troop. Mercalle had won
the toss.
For weeks they'd ridden through rolling, snow-covered
hills, oak forest, and empty fields; past
thatch-roof steadings and small country towns where
soldiers of any sort were regarded with guarded
resentment. Mycena was a country of fanners and
tradesmen. Wars interrupted commerce.
It had taken the regiment nearly a month to reach the
port city of Keston-a month of cold camps and
thrown-together billets in garrisons and courtyards,
and slow-march riding over frozen roads. At
night, the green new officers sat around the fire and
listened to the veterans' war tales, hoping to pick
up some of the things

they hadn't had time to learn during their brief six
weeks of training.
The more Beka listened, the more she realized that
despite all their drilling and individual prowess
with horse, sword, and bow, it would take a battle
or two to sort out how well the turma worked together and
trusted one another.
And how much they trusted her.
She'd noticed that many of her riders still
looked more often to her sergeants for guidance than
to her. That stung a bit, but then, they were the turma's
only seasoned veterans. To their credit, they all
showed the strictest respect for her rank, even
Braknil, who was old enough to be her father.
In return, Beka was mindful of the fact that without
Seregil's patronage and the commission it had won
her, sergeant would have been the highest rank she
could've hoped for in such a regiment. Some of the other
squadrons' new lieutenants-the sons and
daughters of Rhiminee lords-seemed to keep this in
mind, too, and let her know with the occasional sneer or
condescending remark. Fortunately, her brother
officers in Myrhini's troop were not among these.
At Keston the regimental commander, Prince
Korathan, had taken Commander Penis' Wolf
Squadron and split off to follow the coastline.
Commander Klia's squadron headed inland toward the
Folcwine Valley. The Folcwine River was the
southern leg of the great trade route that ran north
all the way to the Ironheart range in the distant
northlands. The river was the first prize the
Plenimarans were expected to reach for.
That had been two weeks ago; it would be another
two before they came to the river.
Turning in the saddle, Beka looked back at the
column snaking darkly over the hills behind her:
nearly four hundred horsemen and officers of
Lion Squadron, the sledges of the sutlers and
armorers, provision wains, livestock and drivers.
It was like traveling with a small town in tow. Scouting
trips, vanguard duty, even mundane provision
runs like this offered a welcome break.
Catching Mercalle's eye, Beka said,
"Sergeant, I think the horses could do with a run."
"You're right, Lieutenant," Mercalle answered
with the hint of a smile; they both knew it was the restless
young riders who needed it more.
Beka scanned the rolling terrain ahead of them and
spied a dark
Lynn Rewelling
line of trees a mile or so off. "Pass the word,
Sergeant. At my signal, race for the trees.
The first one who gets there has first chance at the
taverns."
Mercalle's riders fanned out smoothly,
catcalling back and forth to each other. At Beka's
signal, they spurred their mounts forward, galloping
for the trees.
Beka's Wyvern could easily have
outdistanced most of the other horses, but she held
back, letting Kaylah and Zir end the race in a
tie.
"I hear they always finish togetherea"dis" Marten
grumbled as the rest of the riders reined in around the
winners. A few of the others smirked at this.
Sexual relations in the ranks were frowned on, and a
careless pregnancy got both parties cashiered, but
it happened, nonetheless. Still celibate herself, Beka
chose to turn a blind eye to who was sharing blankets with
who. A number of her riders had come into the regiment
already paired, including Kaylah and Zir. Others,
like Mirn and Steb, had formed bonds during the march.
"Don't worry about it," Braknil had advised
after she'd noticed certain blankets moving late
at night. "So long as it's honorable, it'll just
make them fight the enemy all the harder. No one
wants to look a coward to their lover."
Kaylah and Zir already seemed proof of this; during
training they'd competed fiercely against each other and
everyone else. Kaylah was a pretty blonde who
looked almost too fragile for a warrior's life,
but she was like a centaur on horseback, and could
match anyone in the turma with a bow. Zir, a young,
black- bearded bear of a man, had
Sakor's own sword arm mounted or afoot.
The trees turned out to be a thick pine forest.
Skirting along its edge, they struck a
well-packed road that led through in the direction of the
town. Just before noon they came out on the far side
into a valley overlooking the town. It was a
prosperous-looking place, with a palisade for
protection and a busy market square.
Their dark green field tunics attracted less
attention than their dress tabards might have, but the
townspeople still looked askance at their swords,
bows, and chain mail.
Better us than the Plenimaran marines,
Beka thought, pulling her gorget from the neck of her
tunic to show her rank.
Their Skalan gold was welcome enough, however. In
less than an hour's time they'd found all the
supplies they'd been sent for- parchment, flints,
wax, honey, meal and flour, dried fruit and
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Stalking Darkness

beans, salt, smoked meats, ale, four fat
sheep and a pig, oats and winter fodder for the
horses-and hired three carters to haul the goods
back to the column under escort.
Her riders had also found time to purchase items for
themselves and those left behind with the rest of the turma:
tobacco, playing cards, sweetmeats, fruit, and
writing materials were always in demand. Some even had
chickens and geese slung from their saddlebows.
Mercalle shopped for the other sergeants; Portus was
partial to nuts and raisins, Braknil to Mycenian
cider brandy.
Mercalle glanced up at the sun as the carters
secured the last of their load on their sledges and
hitched up their oxen teams. "The column should have just
about caught up by now. It'll make a shorter
return trip for the carters."
"Everyone back?" asked Beka, counting faces.
"All accounted for, Lieutenant."
"Good. You, Tobin, and Arna take the point. The
rest of us will ride escort with the sledges. We'll
switch off point riders now and then, just to keep them
from getting bored."
Mercalle saluted, and galloped off with the two
riders. Beka and the rest fell in around the sledges.
No one seemed to mind the slower pace; it was
pleasant to saunter along with the sun on their
backs and a cold breeze in their faces. Leaving
town by the same road they'd entered, they wended their
way back up into the pines.
"Do you travel this road often?" Beka asked,
striking up a conversation with the lead driver.
The man twitched the reins across his team's broad
backs and nodded. "Often enough spring to autumn," he
replied, his accent thick as oat porridge. "My
brothers and me drive goods up
to Torbum-on-the-River. Boats take it on to the
coast."
"That must be a long trip at this pace."
He shrugged. "Three weeks up, three back."
"Have you heard much news here about a war coming?"
The carter spared her a sour glance. "I should think
we have. Seeing as how we're like to get trampled
once again when you lot and the Plenimarans go at each
other. There's some say we ought to just trade land with one
or t'other of ye, so's ye can fight without bothering
us."
Beka bristled a bit at this. "We're on our
way east to keep that from happening. Otherwise, your
armies will be left on their own when Plenimar comes
after your land and the river."
Lynn Flewelling
"They ain't took it yet. And you lot ain't never
stopped "em from wading in to try it."
Beka bit back a retort and eased her mount
away from the sledge. There was no sense arguing the
point. "Marten and Barius, you go take point.
Tell Sergeant Mercalle I'll be up
to relieve her as soon as the others get back."
"Right, Lieutenant!" Barius said, grinning through his
new beard. He and Marten set off at a
gallop, cloaks streaming behind them as they raced each
other out of sight around a bend in the road.
The sound of their hoofbeats had just faded out of earshot
when the scream of a horse raised the hair on the
back of Beka's neck. Wheeling Wyvern, she
saw Syrtas" mount buck him off behind the third
sledge. The horse screamed again, then bolted for the
trees.
Rethus reined in beside the fallen man, then slung
himself from the saddle.
"Ambush!" they shouted, dashing for cover behind the
sledge.
An arrow sang past Beka's horse and struck the
side of the lead sledge. A glance told her that this was
no military attack. The arrow was double fetched, rather
than the military triple vane style,
and the fletching was done clumsily, with one white vane
and one a ragged brown.
"Bloody bandits!" the carter growled, pulling a
short sword from under his seat and jumping over the
side.
"Take cover!" Beka yelled, although the others were
already doing just that. She slid off Wyvem with her bow
in hand and whacked the horse on the haunches, hoping
he'd get clear of the archers.
Heart pounding in her ears, Beka dove for the scant
cover at the front of the sledge. Crouched there beside the
carter, she tried to size up the situation.
The point riders weren't back yet; that left
Zir, Kaylah, Corbin, Rethus, Mikal, and
Syrtas-assuming none of them were already killed-and the
three drivers.
Judging by the hail of arrows whining at them from the cover
of the trees, however, her group was considerably
outnumbered. Worse yet, they were being fired on from
both sides of the road.
"You said nothing about bandits when we set out," she
hissed to the driver.
"Ain't seen any most of the winter," he replied
grudgingly.
237
"This crew's come north early. They must of laid for
us until they saw you send off them other two."
Beka moved to the opposite side of the sledge just in
time to spot three swordsmen running at them from the
woods. Almost without thinking, she fitted an arrow
to her bowstring and shot one of them; the other two fell
to someone else's shafts.
Arrows snarled and hissed over her head as Beka
dashed back to the next sledge, where she found
Mikal, Zir, and Kaylah shooting wildly into the
trees to either side.
"Stop shooting!" Beka ordered. "We can't afford
to waste the arrows."
"What
do
we do?" Mikal demanded.
"Wait for a clear shot. And grab any spent arrow
you can reach without getting hit."
Ducking low, she made it to the last sledge.
Rethus and Corbin were unscathed. Their carter lay
panting beneath the sledge, an arrow shaft protruding from
his hip.
That first enemy arrow had cut Syrtas just above the
knee before striking his horse. The wound was bleeding
freely, but it didn't seem to be slowing
him down much as he and the others shot into the trees.
Beka repeated the order, and then nocked another
arrow on her bowstring, waiting for one of their
attackers to show himself.
The bandits mistook their actions as a sign of
surrender; in a moment the arrow storm stopped and
swordsmen burst from the trees, yelling wildly as
they charged the sledges on foot.
"Now hit them, both sides!" Beka shouted,
scrambling to her feet. Heedless of any archers who
might still be lurking in the trees, she sent shaft after
shaft at the swordsmen running at her, downing
three of them. For the first time since the skirmish
began, it occurred to her that she was taking human
lives, but the thought carried no emotion. The thrum of
bowstrings and the cries and shouts of battle filled her
mind, leaving room for nothing else. Beside her,
Rethus fired with the same silent determination.
An arrow nicked the shoulder of her tunic and pinned
her cloak to the side of the sledge behind her. Yanking
the brooch pin loose, she dropped to one knee and
continued to shoot.
A dozen or more bandits fell to their arrows, but an
equal number were closing in around them.
"Swords!" Beka shouted. Drawing her
blade, she strode out to meet a bearded man in
scarred leather brigadine and ragged
Lynn Flewelling
leggings. Ducking his wild swing with a broadsword,
she whirled and struck at the back of his neck.
She'd practiced the move a thousand times against her
father and others; this time she drew blood.
There were plenty more with him, though, and she drew a long
dagger in her left hand, using it to fend off thrusts
to her open side.
Syrtas was to her right, Kaylah to the left.
Covering each other as best they could, they waded into the
knot of bandits.
The attackers outnumbered her side at least three
to one, but Beka quickly realized that most of them
relied more on brawn than skill. With almost
disappointing ease, she ducked another swing and ran
a man through, then pulled her blade free in time
to strike another on the arm as he attacked
Kaylah. The girl flashed her a grin, then
lunged at a tall, scrawny youth who turned
tail and fled.
Looking around, Beka realized that there were mounted
fighters at work, too. Mercalle and the others had
come back at some point and were charging into the
fray, their helmets flashing in the sunlight as they
scattered ambushers and struck down the stragglers with
their swords.
The bandits were already beginning to fall back when more
riders of the Horse Guard thundered down the road from
the direction of the column. Tobin was at their head,
with Portus and Braknil beside him.
The enemy broke for cover and the horsemen followed,
driving them into the trees and dismounting to give chase.
"Come on!" cried Beka, rallying her
blood-streaked comrades. "Let's not let them steal
all the fun!"
When the rout was over, more than twenty ambushers lay
dead in the snow. Beka's riders had sustained
nothing worse than a few sword cuts and arrow
wounds.
"By the Flame, that was a fair-sized gang,"
Mercalle exclaimed.
The lead carter crawled from under his sledge. "Looks
like old Garon's crew. They been harrying the
traders up and down the valley for nigh onto three
years now. The sheriffs couldn't never catch "em."
"They chose the wrong prey this time," Sergeant
Braknil remarked, grinning as he strode over
to join them. "Looks to me like you had things
pretty well in hand by the time we got here,
Lieutenant."

"I wasn't so sure," Beka said, noticing for the
first time how shaky her legs felt. "What are you
doing here, anyway? Not that I'm not glad to see
you."
"When Barius and Marten showed up, I sent Tobin
and Arna back," Mercalle explained. "But all
of a sudden they came belting back with word that you were under
attack. They didn't know how big the force was or
who, so I sent Arna back to the column for help
and came on with the others. As it turns out,
Braknil had talked the captain into letting the rest
of the turma come meet you. He and Portus were less
than a mile away when Arna met them."
The rest of the turma had drifted over to listen.
"Any losses?" she asked.
"Not a one, Lieutenant!" Corporal
Nikides reported proudly. "Not bad for our first
battle, eh?"
"I don't know that I'd claim routing bandits as a
battle, but we acquitted ourselves well enough,"
Beka said, grinning around at the others. "You did
well, all of you."
Braknil exchanged a look with Mercalle and
cleared his throat. "With all due respect,
Lieutenant, there's a custom some of the riders should
observe. For their first kill, that is."
"Drinking the blood of the first man you kill to keep
off the ghosts, you mean?"
"That's the one, Lieutenant. Some call it
superstition nowadays, but I say the old ways are
sound."
"I agree," said Beka. She'd heard of the
custom from her father, and from Alec, who'd done the
same after his first fight. "How many of you made your
first kill today?"
Everyone in Mercalle's decuria stepped forward,
and several more from the others. "All right, then. All of
you archers, find your first killing shaft. Come back
here when you find it. The rest of you bring your
swords."
Beka walked to the body of the first swordsman she'd
killed, a middle-aged brigand with a braided beard.
He lay on his back, a look of mild
surprise on his unremarkable face. She stared
down at him a moment, making herself remember the
murder in his eyes as he charged at her. She was
glad to be alive, but not to have killed him.
It was an odd mix of feelings. Shaking her head,
she pulled the arrow from his chest and joined the others standing
in a rough half circle beside the road. When everyone
else had come back, she looked around and felt the
weight of the moment settle upon her.
lynn Flewelling
"Sergeants, I'm as new to this as the rest of them.
Are there any special words to be spoken?"
"Whatever you want to say," Braknil replied with a
shrug.
Beka raised the arrow in front of her. "May we
all fight together with honor, mercy, and strength."
With that, she touched the arrowhead to her tongue and the
coppery tang of the blood flooded her mouth. She
wanted to grimace and spit, but she kept her face
calm as she cleaned the arrowhead in the snow and
dropped it back into her quiver.
"Honor, mercy, and strength!" echoed the others,
doing the same with arrows and sword blades.
"I guess that's it. Now we've got supplies
to deliver," she told them. "Anyone seen my
horse?"
That evening Captain Myrhini's troop feasted on
the first fresh meat they'd had in weeks and drank the
health of Beka and her turma several times
over.
When they'd finished and were settling in their tents for
another cold night, Captain Myrhini drew
Beka aside.
"I've been talking with some of Mercalle's
riders," she said as they walked together past the
campfires of the various turmae. "Sounds to me like
you kept your head and took care of your people."
Beka shrugged. She'd been doing some thinking of her
own. "It's a good thing. I made a mistake
sending out two riders when three were already up on
point. I don't think it was any accident that those
ambushers jumped us when they did."
"Oh?" Myrhini raised an eyebrow. "What could
you have done differently?"
"I was going to relieve Mercalle anyway. I
should've ridden up alone and sent the other two back
for their replacements."
"But that would have left your riders without an officer or
sergeant."
"Well, yes-was
"And the way I hear it, it was you who kept those green
fighters from wasting all their arrows on the bushes, which
the raiders were probably counting on. The fact is,
it was me who made a mistake today."
Beka looked at her in surprise, but Myrhini
motioned for her not to interrupt. "I assumed that because
we were in neutral terri-
Stalking Darkness

tory, it was safe to send a decuria out on its
own. If you'd had the turma with you, those brigands would
never have attacked. Of course, you were far too
tactful and inexperienced to bring this to my attention when
I gave you that order, weren't you?"
Beka couldn't quite read the officer's cryptic
smile. "No, Captain, it just never occurred to me
that we'd need any more people than that for a supply run."
"Then we were both in error," Myrhini said. "But
learn and live, as a certain friend of ours always
says. You did well, Lieutenant. Sergeant
Mercalle thinks you've got the makings of a good
fighter, by the way."
"Oh?" Beka asked, caught between pleasure at the
veteran's appraisal and a certain pique that the
sergeant had evidently not had the same confidence in
her abilities before now. "What made her say
that?"
"I think it was the way you were grinning as you fought,"
Myrhini answered. "At least, that's what
she hears from those fighting beside you. Tell me, were you
scared?"
Beka thought about that a moment. "Not really. Not during
the fight, anyway."
"Sakor touched!" the captain exclaimed, shaking
her head. But Beka thought she sounded pleased.
Gitching the stolen loaf beneath his shirt, kut sprinted
through the late afternoon rowd filling the marketplace.
Behind him e could hear the furious bread seller
shouting, "Stop him, stop thief!" A few people made
halfhearted grabs at him, but the sympathy of the
waterfront crowd was obviously with him.
Reluctant to leave his wares open to further
depredations, the bread seller quickly gave up and
returned to his handcart.
Hunger knotted Skut's empty belly;
Tym's death had thrown him off his game for three
days now, and he'd had almost nothing to eat. Grabbing
the loaf had been a desperate move, but he
couldn't stand the gnawing ache in his gut any longer.
Keeping one eye out for trouble, he threaded his way
through filthy alleys to a ruined warehouse on the
western fringes of the lower city, his current home.
One wall had burned and fallen in and the whole
place reeked of old smoke, but an
attic loft was still sound. Picking his way over the
rubble, he climbed the makeshift ladder leading up
to it.
Sunset light spilled across the floor below but the
back of the loft was already lost in

shadow. The grey doves roosting overhead shifted
suspiciously as he peered over the edge of the
platform.
"Kaber, you here?"
There was no answer.
That was a relief. He hadn't seen Kaber in a
week and good riddance. The older boy had provided
a certain amount of protection, but he was lazy and
had lately taken to punching Skut when he didn't
bring home enough for them to eat.
He went to the rusty brazier at the center of the loft
and felt for the fire makings. His hand had just closed
around the tinder bowl when suddenly he sensed movement
behind him.
Skut was a quick lad, but not quick enough this time. Before he
could stand up someone had thrown a heavy cloak over his
head and pinioned his arms.
Snuffers!
Skut thought desperately.
He squirmed wildly, struggling for his life, and
felt his foot hit something with satisfying force. There
was a soft grunt of pain, but strong arms caught his
flailing legs. His captors lifted him off the
floor, holding him so tightly he could scarcely
wiggle.
"We're not here to harm you," said the one holding his
arms. It was a man's voice, and soft. "I want
to know about Tym."
"Don't know nothin"!" Skut whimpered, bucking
helplessly.
"Oh, let's not go down that route, shall we? Word is
you're the one who saw it happen. I only want
to talk to you about it. Settle down now and I'll
make it worth your while."
Skut resisted a moment longer, his thin body taut
as a bowstring, then gave in. Whoever had a hold of
him clearly wasn't about to let go.
"All right then, I'll tell you. Only let me
down."
"Put him down."
Skut felt his legs released, though the one behind him
maintained a strong hold around his chest and arms.
"Are you going to behave yourself?"
"Said I would, didn't I?" Skut
mumbled, heart hammering in his throat.
"Sit down where you are."
Skut obeyed, then cried out in fear as something heavy
settled on his thigh. Looking out from under the edge of the
cloak, he saw that it was a rough sack.
"Go on, open it," the man urged, still behind him. He
could see
Lynn Flewelling
Jl
the boots of another just in front of him, the one who
hadn't spoken yet.
With trembling hands, Skut opened the bag and was
amazed to discover a small sausage, a wedge of
cheese, and half a dozen boiled eggs. The
toothsome aroma was unbearably good, but he was still
suspicious. The one doing all the talking had a
highborn sound to him. What'd he want with Tym?
"It's all right," said the second one, speaking for the
first time. Another man. "Go ahead and eat. You
look like you could use it."
The smoky garlic scent of the sausage was too much.
Praying it wasn't poisoned, Skut took a
cautious nibble, then another.
"What happened to Tym?" asked the first one.
"Fell off a roof, that's all," Skut
replied around a mouthful.
"Tymsteff?"
Skut shrugged, peeling one of the eggs with dirty
fingers. "Saw him go over. He didn't yell or
nothin', just toppled down."
"No one's found his body. Are you certain he was
dead?"
"Course!" Skut snorted. "Think I wouldn't
make sure? The bastard hadn't paid me yet. His
head was all stove in and broken. He didn't have so
much as a groat on him, neither, not even his knife."
His unseen interrogator seemed to consider this for a
moment. "What were you doing there? What was it he was
going to pay you for?"
"Well-was Skut hesitated. "I guess I could
say, since he's dead and all. I was watching a
house for him, the one he fell off of."
"What house?"
"Tenement house in Sailmaker Street. Tym said
I was to keep an eye out for any shady sorts,
especially breakers and gate- runners. And
Scavengers, too."
"How long did you watch?"
"Most of a week." The sausage was good, best
he'd ever tasted. On the strength of this, he
added helpfully, "I seen one, too. Pry the
Beetle come by day before Tym fell."
"Did Tym say why he wanted you to watch for these
fellows?"
"No, and I didn't ask. When Tym wanted
something done, you done it, that's all," Skut told
him, adding somewhat pointedly, "Would've paid me,
too, if he hadn't gotten his self killed."
The man chuckled in a friendly way. "A true man
of honor, our Tym. Did you see anyone on the
roof, or hear anything strange before Tym fell?"

Skut absently cracked a louse on his sleeve
as he thought hard. "No, nothin'."
"What was he doing up on the roof in the first
place?"
"Said he was going to have a listen on the feller he was
watching, lived up on the top floor. That's where
he went over, right at that window. You ain't going
to kill me or nothing, are you?"
"No, but I'll give you a word of advice.
Keep low and stop blabbing. You don't know who
else might take an interest in you. Now 1 want
you to sit tight awhile, until you know we're gone.
I wouldn't want to have to hurt you after you've
been so helpful."
"I won't twitch!"
A strong hand clamped menacingly down on Skut's
shoulder. "And not a word to anyone about this little visit,
right?"
"Right! You wasn't never here," he whispered,
suddenly fearful again.
The hand withdrew. Skut heard a shuffle of boots,
the creak of the ladder, then silence. He made himself
count to a hundred twice before he dared pull the
cloak off his head. When nothing stirred, he
scrambled to kindle a light and found a sturdy dagger
and a small cloth purse lying on the brazier
grill. The bag held at least a sester's worth
of pennies.
Highborn or not, those gents knew a thing or two,
Skut thought wonderingly. Showing gold or silver
around these parts could get you killed right quick,
especially a skinny brat like himself. But a few
coppers here and there were safe enough and a stash like this could
keep him going a month or more. He turned the
knife over with something like reverence, testing its wicked
edge against his thumb. Just let Kaber try knocking
him around again! Gathering what few belongings he owned,
together with anything of Kaber's that struck him
as useful, he set off in search of new lodgings.
"Sounds like an accident," Alec said as soon as
they were well away from the ruined warehouse. "He must
have slipped coming down those slates, just like I did."
Seregil looked doubtful. "It's hard to believe
Tym could fall. He's been over those roofs all
his life. And the missing knife, that bothers me.
Tym only drew his blade when he meant to use
it. If it was in its sheath when he fell, Skut would
have taken it. He said
Lynn Flewelling
himself it wasn't there. Besides, if Tym had gone
clattering over the slates, the boy would have heard
it."
"And what happened to the body?" mused Alec.
They'd already made the rounds of the charnel houses.
"From the sound of it, he didn't just get up and walk
away."
Seregil shrugged. "There are plenty strange characters
in Rhiminee who'd pay for a corpse."
Alec grimaced. "Like who?"
"Oh, the mad and the curious, mostly. There was one
man, a lord, no less, who wanted to determine which
organ contained the soul. Artists have been known to use
them, too, sculptors in particular. I
recall a woman was executed after it was discovered that
she'd used human skeletons as armatures for
statues she was casting for the Dalnan retreat house.
According to the story, a priest stopped by her shop to see
how the work was coming along and inadvertently knocked
over one of the life-size clay models. The head
struck the floor at his feet and split open
to reveal an all too lifelike mouthful of
teeth."
"You're joking!"
"It's the Maker's truth. Valerius has told
that story a hundred times. "Burn 'em or leave
'em alone!" was generally the moral of the tale. As
for Tym, though, it could be necrophiles or just some
poor starving sod-was
"Enough, I get the idea," Alec growled. He
had no idea what a necrophile was and didn't
think he wanted to know; the thought of cannibalism was
nauseating enough all by itself.
"What? Oh, sorry. All that aside, I think
it's more likely that Rythel or some of his
associates caught Tym spying and wisely
disposed of the body. We'd better have a look up
there ourselves."
if.
They waited until it was full dark, then rode
down to Sailmaker Street. The inhabitants of the
house were still awake and at their suppers; their own
clatter would cover any noise Seregil might
make going over the slates.
With Alec on watch below, he climbed the rickety
stairs at the back of the house and pulled himself onto
the roof. Looping a rope around a chimney pot,
he crept cautiously down to the eaves just over
Rythel's window.
He spotted the knife at once, its naked
blade gleaming cleanly in the gutter.

Stretched out on his belly, face just inches from the
knife, Seregil regarded it for a moment, wondering
how Tym-quick, clever, deadly Tym-could have been
caught out on the edge of a bare roof and not drawn a
drop of blood before he died.
You were good, Tym, but it looks like we all meet
our match sooner or later,
he mused, reaching for the dead thiefs knife. The thought
sent a brief chill up his spine as he grasped the
scarred hilt. Hurrying on its heels, however,
came the still more chilling memory of sending Alec
to burgle the room by himself. Was it any more
than Illior's luck that whoever Tym had run
afoul of had not been on hand for Alec's visit?
Tucking the knife into his belt with a silent prayer
of thanks, he worked his way back the way he'd come
and found Alec waiting across the street.
"I checked the yard," he told Seregil. "All
I found was this." He held up a small, fancy
button of carved bone. "Anytime I saw him, his
clothes were pretty fancy under the dirt."
Seregil nodded. "True enough. What about
bloodstains?"
"Too much rain and foot traffic. Did you have any
luck?"
Alec's eyes widened a bit at the sight of the
knife. "I'll be- But where does that leave us?"
"Nose deep in the shit heap, I suspect,"
Seregil sighed. "I expect that map is long
gone, and it's two more days before we can check. Rythel
will be done with his good work in the sewers by then and we still
don't have a clue who's behind him on this. Now the
bastard's cost me a good thief to boot."
Alec looked up at the place Tym had fallen.
"If Nysander hadn't called us away that night-was
Seregil shook his head. "Then we'd be wiser or
dead, too. It's useless to speculate.
It's time to grab our man, but we've got to do it
quick and proper. And for that, we'll need a wizard's
help."
He touched Tym's dagger again. "Maybe Nysander
can get something out of this, while we're at it.
Let's see if he's home."
Galloping up the Harbor Way, they rode at
full tilt through the streets toward the Oreska
House. Catching sight of its high spires looming
ahead of them at last, the'y were relieved to see a
light burning in the east tower.
They found Nysander and Thero at work over a
malodorous collection of bubbling limbics and
crucibles. At one end of the worktable a handful of
unpolished broad arrow points lay in a little heap
on a leather pad.
Lyra Flewelling
Seregil saw Alec's eye stray toward these, but
they had more pressing matters at hand.
"Can you get any sort of a sighting off this?" he
asked, showing Nysander Tym's dagger.
Wiping his hands on a stained rag, Nysander took it
and turned it over in his hands for a moment, then grasped
it and closed his eyes.
After a moment, however, he shook his head and
handed it to Thero. "There is a faint trace of
magic about it, but I cannot say what sort or how
long it had been there."
"Objects seldom retain much," Thero observed.
"His body would have told us more."
"Obviously someone else knew that," Seregil
muttered, dropping onto the nearest bench with a disgusted
grunt. "We're getting nowhere! Let's just reel
Rythel in. Week's end is the night after tomorrow. I
say we keep a close eye on him, and hit him
then."
"That would appear to be the next logical step,"
Nysander agreed. "What will you need?"
"A translocation key. Make it something small
I can hand him without raising suspicion. A rolled
document should do the trick. As Lord Seregil, I
can talk it up to be a salable item. I think we
can count on our man's greed."
"Excellent. And I shall make arrangements with the
warder at Red Tower Prison. We will pop him
into a cell before he can wiggle loose."
Seregil turned to Alec, hovering expectantly
beside him. "You'll nip in and toss his room as soon
as he leaves for his weekly whoring. Even if the
map's gone, there may be something else
incriminating lying around. We don't want to give
anyone else time to clean up after him once we've
got him. As soon as you're done there, meet us at
the prison."
Alec grinned, ready for the hunt. "This shouldn't
take too long."
Seregil grinned back, glad to see an end to this
particular job. "Hell, we'll probably be able
to catch the second performance at the Tirarie
Theater!"
Vargul Ashnazai looked resignedly around his
latest lodging. The deserted house smelled of
damp and mice, but the roof was sound and the hearth was
usable. He'd lost count of the inns and taverns they'd
stayed at since their arrival in Skala three
months before. Winter was harsher here than in his native
Benshal, but not so harsh as those they'd endured for three
years as he helped Mardus scout the northlands for the
Eyes and the Veil.
No, in Skala the necromancer's greatest hardship
so far had been boredom. The Oreska's reach was
long; no matter if they were in Rhiminee tracking
Urvay's various spies and dupes, or
sequestered at a deserted steading such as the one they
now occupied, he could not afford to practice
his art without first weaving a tight barrier of shielding
spells. Such magicks had worked admirably with the
avaricious young sorceress Urvay had netted for
them. Ylinestra was altogether too sure of her powers;
never once had she divined who, or what, Mardus
truly was.
Throwing back the warped shutters, Ashnazai blinked
out at the cove below the house. Great slabs of sea
ice lay piled at the tide line,
Lynn Flewelltng
but beyond the shingle open water rippled grey-green in
the morning light.
Yet another impediment nicely cleared away,
he thought, smiling to himself. Urvay's actor dupe,
Pelion, had leapt with predictable glee at the
offer of a series of special engagement performances in
the southern city of lolus. He would have his triumphs
there, no doubt, never knowing his life's thread had
been measured to its final length, to be cut two
weeks hence by an assassin already paid in full. And the
beautiful Ylinestra, too, was living on ransomed
time, along with all the others."
The months of waiting were nothing now, compared to the coming
triumph. Ashnazai's revenge hung before him like
a heavy, promise-filled fruit, almost
ripe and soon to be within his grasp, a fruit that would
ooze with the sweet liquor of blood when pressed.
Two short nights, and all would be in place.
She would be here.
The stars stood out like glittering eyes against the
midnight vault of the sky.
Standing beside Mardus on the beach, Ashnazai could hear
Tildus' men moving through the trees that fringed the little
cove, and the nicker of the horses that were tethered, ready
for the night's ride. Other men patrolled the woods
beyond the gully where an unlucky peddler lay face
down in a brackish pool of water. There would be no
witnesses.
They hadn't been waiting long when a black
presence suddenly coalesced out of the darkness in
front of them.
Ashnazai bowed gravely to the
dra "gorges.
"We will be with you presently," it announced in its
hollow, wind-filled voice.
"All is prepared," Mardus replied. "We
await you here."
Soon the light splash of oars came to them from across
the water. Tildus and his men tensed, weapons
drawn, as the black outline of a longboat
came into view. Two sailors pulled the oars,
while their two passengers sat motionless in the bow.
Reaching shore, one of the oarsmen jumped out and pulled
the prow up onto the beach so that his passengers could
disembark dry shod. The first to climb out was the
gaunt, grey-beaded necromancer, Harid
Yordun.

"Welcome, my brother," Ashnazai said,
clasping hands with him, "and to Irtuk Beshar, our most
esteemed lady."
Yordun gave a terse nod, then lifted his
companion out onto the shore. Silent and invisible
behind her thick veils, Irtuk Beshar extended a
leathery, blackened hand in benediction.
At week's end Seregil and Alec lurked for the
last time in the evening shadows across from the smith's
tenement. "You don't think he'll, change his
pattern, now that the job's finished, do you?" Alec
asked for the third time that day. His new cronies at
the Hammer and Tongs had passed on the news that the
sewer contract had been fulfilled. So far, there was
no word of Master Quarin awarding his nephew more work,
or of Rythel requesting it.
Seregil stifled an impatient remark.
"Wait another few minutes and we'll know.
Hold on, there he is, and dressed fit for a
ball, too!"
As Rythel paused by the lantern over his door, they
saw the glint of gold embroidery on the coat beneath
his fur-trimmed mantle.
"Looks like we guessed right," Seregil whispered.
Under his black cloak he wore one of his finest
claret-colored coats, white doeskin breeches,
and a weighty purse.
A boy brought Rythel his mount and the man headed off in
the usual direction.
"Luck in the shadows," Seregil whispered, quickly
clasping hands with Alec. "See you at the
prison."
Flashing him a happy grin, Alec ghosted off
toward the tenement's back stairs.

Seregil let Rythel round the corner down the
street, then mounted Cynril and set out to arrange a
chance meeting with his quarry.
Tonight Rythel bypassed his usual haunts and made
straight for the Street of Lights.
They must have given you a nice bonus today,
Seregil thought, shadowing him to a gambling
house called the Golden Bowl.
Perhaps you 're even thinking of setting up in a new
line of work with the proceeds. I wouldn 't make too
many plans just yet, my dear fellow.
Reestablishing contact proved an easy enough matter.
Seregil had hardly stepped inside the card room
where Rythel was playing before the man was hailing him like
an old comrade.
"Sir Rythel, how good to see you again!" Seregil
greeted him, shaking hands warmly as he joined him
at the table.
This was clearly a triumph of sorts for Rythel;
Seregil could see him scanning the other nobles at the
table, gauging their reaction to his reception by one of
their own.
"Well met, Lord Seregil," Rythel
exclaimed, taking up his cards again. "We'll be
getting up a game of Coin and Sword next.
Perhaps you'd partner me?"
With the subtlest of winks Seregil nodded, bidding his
time.
As before, Seregil talked a great deal during the
game, interspersing his gossipy chatter with casual
references to various business ventures. He could
see Rythel rising to the bait; another few
rounds and he'd suggest they retire for a quiet
drink somewhere. A private room here would do
nicely.
Seregil had just broached the suggestion when a ragged
lad appeared with a message for Rythel.
Laying his cards aside, Rythel scanned the scrap
of parchment and then tucked it carefully away inside
his coat.
"You must excuse me," he said, sweeping his winnings
into his purse. "I have a small matter to attend
to, but I shouldn't be long. Could we meet here in,
say, an hour or two?"
"I expect I'll be here most of the night,"
Seregil replied, nodding cordially. Then, to set
the hook, he gave him a rakish wink and added,
"There's a small matter I Would appreciate
your assistance with. Small but quite possibly
lucrative. We can discuss it when you return."
"I'm at your service, my lord." Giving
Seregil and the others a bow, he hurried out.
"And since my partner has deserted me, I think
I'll take a
Lynn Flewelling
moment to freshen up." Leaving the table, Seregil
retrieved his cloak and hurried outside.
To his surprise, he saw Rythel strolling away
on foot. Keeping well back, Seregil
followed.
It was a warmish night. The last grimy remnants
of snow steamed in the damp night air, mingling with the
light fog rolling up from the harbor. Early spring
was fast coming to Skala; the dank, rotted smell of
it was on the air.
Rythel whistled softly through his teeth as he left the
Street of Lights and skirted the Astellus
Circle to Torch Street. This soon led them to the
narrower streets of the nearby merchants district.
Where in Bilairy's name is he headed to?
Seregil wondered.
Ahead of him, Rythel passed out of sight around a
corner. Seregil was hurrying to catch up when the
quiet of the evening was shattered by the screams of maddened
horses. Running to the corner, he saw Rythel some
thirty feet away, standing frozen in the middle of the
lane as a team of draft horses charged out of the
mists at him, the heavy wagon they pulled
fishtailing wildly behind them. The lane was
desperately narrow; even if Rythel managed
to dodge the horses, he would almost surely be
crushed by the cart.
With a nightmarish feeling of impotence, Seregil could
not even shout as Rythel just stood there, hands raised as
if he meant to halt the beasts.
The lead horse struck him full on, cutting
short his ragged scream and trampling him beneath its
huge hooves. Then the cart jolted sideways and a
leg spun out from beneath it, severed by one iron-rimmed
wheel.
Seregil leapt back to the safety of the corner and
watched the wagon thunder by. Foam hung from the
horses" mouths; their eyes rolled in panic.
There was no driver on the bench. One long rein
whipped uselessly across their backs.
As the wagon hurtled past, he saw several large
hogsheads lashed in the back.
A brewer's wagon, out on the nightly rounds?
Like a nightmare vision, it vanished again into the fog
with a thunder of hooves and jangling harness.
Crouched in the shadows, sword drawn, Seregil
waited until the clamor had died away, watching
to see if anyone would come. When no one did, he
ran to where Rythel lay crushed against the wet cobbles.
Bile stirred bitterly at the back of his throat.
It was as bad a
255
mess as he'd ever seen made of a man. The torso
was smashed. Pressing the back of one hand over his
mouth, he recognized a familiar sourness amid the
horrid stench that rose from the mangled flesh.
still
bought you that wine,
Seregil thought, averting his eyes from the contents
revealed in the ruins of the ruptured stomach.
Lips pressed in a thin line of anger and disgust,
he dragged the severed leg back and laid it over the
corpse, then took out Nysander's magicked
scroll, the one he'd meant to hand Rythel only
moments before. Grasping it in one hand, Rythel's sound
right arm in the other, he pried the wax seal loose with
his thumb. An instant later, the street was empty.
"NYSANDER!"
Seregil's furious shout echoed up the prison
corridor, jarring Nysander, Alec, and Thero from
their patient vigil. Nysander was the first to recover.
Rushing to the cell door, he cast a light spell
and peered in through the grate. Inside, Seregil
crouched over what appeared to be a tangled mass of
clothing. The stink that hit the wizard's nostrils
told another story. The door swung open at his
command and he stepped in.
"By the Four! What happened?"
"He was run down in the street," Seregil hissed
between clenched teeth. "I was practically within arm's
reach of him- He just stood there like a rabbit while a
runaway brewer's wagon rolled over him and I
couldn't do a thing to save him."
Nysander heard a gagging sound behind him and looked up
in time to see Thero staggering blindly out, one hand
clapped across his mouth. Grim-faced and pale,
Alec remained at the open doorway, watching as
Seregil stripped back the dead man's blood-
soaked garments with savage thoroughness, his fine
clothing already smeared with foul-smelling muck.
Seregil was pale as milk, too, but his eyes
blazed with fury. Kneeling on the other side of the
body, Nysander held his hands a few inches above
RytheFs ruined head.
"Again, I sense nothing," he sighed. "You must
tell me everything. Was it an accident?"
"I'm getting very leery of'accidents," was growled
Seregil.
He turned the body over and a bloody purse
fell into the straw
w
'th a sodden chink of coins. He turned out
the purse, inspected
lynn Flewelllng
the remains of the coat, and then flung the whole lot
across the cell.
"Damn it to hell!" he raged. "Damn it
to hell! There
was
a note. Someone summoned him to that place, someone
he knew. He sauntered off to his death whistling like
a bridegroom! Alec, get the boot off that leg
and check it."
Alec dutifully tugged at the boot on the severed
leg. It was snugly fit and he had to brace his
foot on the remains of the thigh to get it off.
Pulling it free, he felt inside and shook his
head. "Nothing here either."
"Or here." Seregil tossed the other boot aside
and yanked off the remains of the dead man's trousers.
After another careful inspection, he leapt up with a
guttural cry and slammed one bloodstained hand
against the cell wall.
Just then There reappeared at the doorway. "Forgive
my weakness, Nysander," he mumbled, still looking
green. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Look well," Nysander replied
somberly. "Someday your vocation will take you from the
shelter of the Ore'ska House; you must be strong enough
to face such ugliness. This may have been an
accident-was
"An accident!" Seregil burst out, glaring down
at the body. "Bilairy's Balls, Nysander, the
man was murdered, and so was Tym."
"Probably so. And we still do not know who was
masterminding this man's work."
"But the map-?" Seregil turned to Alec.
"It wasn't there," Alec replied dully, staring
at Rythel.
"Nothing
was there. Clothes, papers, chests, everything-gone. The
room had been turned out. I don't think he was
planning to go back there again. The old woman who
owns the house said everything had been taken away
by cart this afternoon."
Nysander closed his eyes a moment, then sighed.
"Thero and I will retrace your paths tonight using our
own methods. Should we uncover anything, I shall inform
you at once."
Slipping a hand beneath Alec's arm, Nysander drew
the boy from the cell. But Seregil remained, crouching
gloomily over the body.
"You clever son of a whore," he whispered at it,
barely loud enough for Nysander to overhear. "You were
better than I thought."
yyp
h
I
other! Father, where are you? his
Gripping a handful of Valerius" magical
herbs, Alec ran headlong down the bare
passageway. There were no doors, no windows, just
endless walls of stone as he turned corner after
corner, following the splashes of dark blood on the
floor and the wracking sound of his father's labored
breathing. But no matter how fast he ran. Alec
couldn "t catch up with him.
"Father, wait," he pleaded, blinded by tears of
frustration. "I found a drysian. Let me help
you. Why are you running away? his
The hoarse wheezing changed as his father tried to speak,
then fell deathly silent.
In the awful stillness, Alec heard a new and
ominous sound, the soft tread of footsteps behind him,
echoing his pace. When he stopped the sound disappeared;
when he went on, they dogged him.
"Father? was he whispered, hesitating again.
The sound of footsteps continued this time, and suddenly
he was mortally afraid. Over his shoulder he saw
only empty passageway behind him, stretching away
until another bend cut off the line of vision. And
still the footsteps came on, closer and louder.
The flesh between Alec's shoulder blades
Lynn Flewelling
tightened as he fled, expecting any moment to be
grabbed from behind. The sound of pursuit grew nearer,
closed in behind him.
Wresting his sword clumsily from its sheath, Alec
whirled to fight. Instead of his sword, however, he
found himself grasping a blunt arrow shaft.
And facing a wall of darkness.
Alec lurched up in bed and hugged his knees to his
chest, shivering. His nightshirt was soaked with icy
sweat and his cheeks were wet with tears. Outside, a
storm had blown up. The wind made a lonely
moaning in the chimney and lashed rain against the windows.
His chest hurt as if he really had been running.
Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he
focused on the red glow of the hearth and tried
to exorcise the nightmare's bitter imagery. His
heart had almost slowed to normal when he heard a
floorboard creak across the room.
"That's the third time this week, isn't it?"
Seregil asked, stepping into the glow of the hearth. His
cloak looked sodden, and water dripped from his
tangled hair.
"Damn, you startled me!" Alec gasped, hastily
wiping his eyes on a corner of the blanket. "I
didn't expect to see you back tonight."
It had been nearly a week since Rythel's death
and none of them, not even Nysander, had been able to find
evidence tying the smith to anything other than the sewer
sabotage and a few indiscretions at various
gambling houses. Everyone had given up by now
except Seregil, who'd grown increasingly
short-tempered as he pursued one false scent after
another. Lately Alec had found it wiser to keep
out of his way when they weren't working. He'd taken it
as a hopeful sign this evening when Seregil slouched
off to the Street of Lights in search of consolation; his
untimely reappearance now didn't bode well.
But Alec saw nothing but genuine concern in his friend's
expression as Seregil fetched cups and the decanter
of Zengati brandy from the mantel shelf. Sitting
down on the foot of Alec's bed, he poured out
liberal doses for them both.
"Bad dreams again, eh?" he asked.
"You knew?"

"You've been thrashing in your sleep all week.
Drink up. You're as pate as old ashes."
The brandy warmed Alec's belly, but his nightshirt
was clammy against his back. Tugging a blanket around
his shoulders, he sipped in silence and listened to the
wind sobbing under the eaves.
"Want to talk about it?"
Alec stared down into the shadows in his cup. "It's just
a dream I keep having."
"The same one?"
He nodded. "Four or five times this week."
"You should have said something."
"You haven't exactly been approachable
lately," Alec replied quietly.
"Ah, well-was Seregil pushed his fingers back through
his hair. "I never was very gracious in defeat."
"I'm sorry about the map." The thought of it had
plagued Alec through the long, unhappy week. "I
should have taken it when I had the chance."
"No, you did the right thing at the time," Seregil
assured him. "We just seemed to have a lot of bad
timing with this business. If I'd gone after Rythel
sooner, or if he'd held off getting
killed another half an hour, we'd have had him.
There's no changing what happened, though. Now tell
me about this dream."
Alec took another sip of brandy, then set the
half-finished cup aside and recounted all the
details he could remember.
"It doesn't sound so bad, just telling it," he said
when he'd finished. "Especially that last part. But in
the dream, it always feels like the worst part. Even
worse than my father-was
He broke off, surprised at the tightness in his
throat. He sat staring down at his hands, hoping his
hair veiled his face for the moment.
After a while Seregil said gently, "You've had a
lot to contend with lately, what with finding out the truth
about your birth and then this. Seeing Rythel all
mangled in that cell must have dredged up some
unpleasant memories. Maybe this is your way of
finally allowing yourself to mourn your father's death."
Alec looked up sharply. "I've mourned him."
"Perhaps,
tali,
but in all the time we've been together you scarcely ever
mention him or weep for him."
Alec rolled the edge of blanket between his
fingers, surprised at
Lynn Flewelling
the sudden bitterness he felt. "What's the use?
Crying doesn't change anything."
"Maybe not, but-was
"It wouldn't change the fact that I couldn't do
anything for my own father but sit there watching him shrink
like a burnt moth, listening to him drown in his own
blood-was He swallowed hard. "Besides, that's not
even what the dream was about, really."
"No? What, then?"
Alec shook his head miserably. "I don't know,
but it wasn't that."
Seregil gave him a rough pat on the shin and stood
up. "What do you say we scrounge breakfast with
Nysander tomorrow? He's good with dreams, and while
we're there, you could talk to him and Thero about this life
span business. With all the uproar over Tym and
Rythel, you haven't had much time to absorb it all."
"It's been easier, not thinking about it," Alec said
with a sigh. "But I guess I would like to talk to them."
In the darkness of his own bed, Seregil lay listening
to Alec's breathing soften back into sleep in the
next room.
"No more dreams, my friend," he whispered in
Aurenfaie, and it was more than a simple
well-wishing. He could almost hear the Oracle's
mad whispering in the shadows, echoing over the weeks and
months with increasing insistence and clarity.
The Eater of Death gives birth to monsters.
Guard you well the Guardian! Guard well the
Vanguard and the Shaft!
The shaft. An arrow shaft, like the one Alec
clutched in his dreams night after night-useless,
impotent, without its broadhead point.
could mean a thousand different things, that image,
he told himself, struggling angrily against his own
instant certainty that another fateful die had been
irrevocably cast in a game he could not yet
comprehend.
The storm blew itself back out to sea before dawn. The
soaring white walls, domes, and towers of the
Oreska House sparkled against a flawless morning
sky ahead of them as Seregil and Alec rode
toward it. Inside the sheltering walls of the grounds,
the scent

of new herbs and growing things enveloped them in the
promise of a spring not far behind in the outside world.
Nysander and Thero had other guests
breakfasting with them. The centaurs, Hwerlu and his
mate Feeya, had somehow navigated the maze of
stairways and corridors, not to mention doorways not
designed to admit creatures the size of large
draft horses. Magyana was there as well,
sitting on the corner of the table with her feet propped
on a chair next to Feeya.
"What a pleasant surprise," Nysander
exclaimed, pushing another bench up to the impromptu
breakfast spread out on a worktable. Most of the
regular victuals were laid out-butter and cheese,
honey, oat cakes, tea-together with a huge platter
of fruit. The usual breakfast meats had
evidently been banned for the occasion, in deference to the
centaurs. Giving Seregil a meaningful stare from under
his beetling brows, he added, "I do hope this is a
social call."
"More or less," Seregil said, piling a plate with
bannocks and fruit. "Alec's feeling a bit
lost about living for a few extra centuries. I
thought you wizards could give him some helpful
guidance, since it takes your sort by surprise,
too."
"So he finally told you," said Magyana, giving
Alec a hug. "And high time, too."
Hwerlu let out a snort of surprise. "Not
until now does he know?" He said something
to Feeya in their whistling language and she shook her
head.
Turning to Alec, Hwerlu smiled. "We saw it
that first day you came here, but Seregil says not
to tell you. Why?"
"I guess he wanted me to get used to him first,"
Alec said, shooting Seregil a wry look.
"I suppose that would take a long while," Thero
threw in.
"Yet, as things have turned out, I now believe
Seregil may have been wise to wait," said
Nysander. "It is more than a sense of obligation or
fear which keeps you with him, is it not, Alec?"
"Of course. But the idea that I could be sitting here
three or four hundred years from now-was He stared
down at his plate, shaking his head. "I can't
imagine it."
"I sometimes still feel that way," said Thero.
caret Seregil looked at the younger wizard in
surprise. In all the time he'd known him, he'd
never heard Thero reveal a personal feeling.
"I'd guessed it when I was a boy," Thero
continued. "But it was nonetheless overwhelming to have
it confirmed when the
Lynn Rewelling
wizards examined me. Yet, think of what we'll
experience in our lifetimes-the years of learning, the
discoveries."
He's almost human today,
Seregil thought, studying his rival's countenance with
new interest.
"I made a poor job of telling you," he
admitted to Alec. "I was feeling a bit shaky that
night myself, after seeing Adzriel and all, but what
Thero says is true. It's what has kept me
sane after I left Aurenen. Long life is a
gift for those with a sense of wonder and curiosity. And
I don't think you'll ever have any shortage of those
qualities."
Nysander chuckled. "Indeed not. You know, Alec, that
for over two centuries I have studied and learned and
walked in the world, and yet I still have the satisfaction
of knowing that should I live another two hundred years
there shall still be new things to delight me. Magyana and
I have gone out into the world more than many wizards and so, like
Seregil here, we have seen many friends age and die.
It would not be truthful to tell you that it is not painful,
yet each of those friendships, no matter how
brief, was a gift none of us would sacrifice."
"It might sound hard-hearted, but once you have
survived a generation or two, it becomes easier
to detach yourself from such feelings," added Magyana.
"It isn't that you love them any less, you just learn
to respect the cycles of life. All the same,
I thank Illior the two of you found each other the
way you did."
"So do I," Alec replied with surprising
feeling. He colored slightly, perhaps embarrassed
by his own admission. "I just wish I could have talked
to my father about it, about my mother. Seregil's spun out
a good theory about what must have gone on between the two of
them, but now I'll never know the real story."
"Perhaps not," said Nysander. "But you can honor them
by respecting the life they gave you."
"Speaking of your parents, Alec, tell Nysander
about that nightmare you've been having since Rythel
got killed," Seregil interjected, sensing the
opening he'd been hoping for.
"Indeed?" Nysander cocked an inquiring eyebrow
at the boy.
"Can you describe it?" asked Magyana.
"Dreams are wondrous tools sometimes, and those that
come to you more than once are almost always
important."
Seregil kept a surreptitious eye on
Nysander while Alec went through the details of the
nightmare; he knew the old wizard too

well not to see a definite spark of interest behind
Nysander's facade of thoughtful attentiveness.
"And that's always the last of it, and the worst," Alec
finished. Even with the morning sun streaming down through the
glass dome overhead, he shifted uneasily as
he described the final image.
Magyana nodded slowly. "Violent events can
summon up other painful memories, I
suppose. Though your father died of the wasting sickness rather
than violence, it must have been a time of terrible fear
and pain for you."
Alec merely nodded, but Seregil read the pain behind
his stoic expression.
"Yes, and coupled with the shock of learning your true
parentage, it could create such images in the mind,"
Nysander concurred, although the look he gave
Seregil showed that he had other ideas on the matter.
"I would not worry too much about them, dear boy. I
am certain they will pass in time."
"I hope so," sighed Alec. "It's
getting so I hate to go to sleep."
"Nysander, do you still have that book of meditations by Reli
a Noliena?" asked Seregil. "Her
philosophy might be of some use to Alec just now.
I seem to recall seeing it on the sitting-room
bookshelves somewhere."
"I believe it is," replied Nysander. "Come
along and help me look, would you?"
Nysander said nothing as they descended the tower stairs.
As soon as the sitting-room door was firmly shut
behind them, however, he fixed Seregil with an
expectant look.
"I assume there is some matter you wish to discuss
privately?"
"Was it that obvious?"
"Really now. Reli a Noliena?" Taking his
accustomed seat by the hearth, Nysander regarded
Seregil wryly. "I seem to recall that you have on
numerous occasions referred to her writings as utter
tripe."
Seregil shrugged, running a finger along the painted
band of the mural that guarded the room. "First thing that
popped into my head. What do you make of this dream of
Alec's, and the headless arrow shaft? I have a feeling
it's tied in with"-Seregil paused,
acknowledging Nysander's warning look-"with that particular
matter about which I am not allowed to speak."
"It does seem a rather obvious correlation. No
doubt you are thinking of the words of the Oracle?"
Lynn Flewelltng
child"'ggi
:
to l r
was "The Guardian, the Vanguard, and the
Shaft." his
"It is certainly possible that there is a connection,
although why it should suddenly surface now, I do not
know. Then again, it could conceivably be nothing more than
it appears. Alec is an archer. What stronger
image of helplessness could there be for him than a
useless arrow?"
"I've tried to tell myself that, too. We both know
who this Eater of Death is; I've been touched
twice by the dark power and was damn lucky both times
to get away with life and sanity intact. So I
want to believe that Alec isn't getting pulled
into this web, but I think he is, that that's exactly
what that dream means. You believe that, too, don't
you?"
"And what would you have me do?" Nysander asked
with a trace of bitterness. "If we are dealing with
true prophecy, then whatever must happen will
happen, whether we accept it or not."
"True prophecy, eh? Fate, you mean."
Seregil scowled. "So why dream? What's the use
of being warned about something if you can't do anything
to avoid it?"
"Avoiding something is seldom the best way
to resolve it."
"Neither is sitting around with your head up your ass
until the sky falls in on you!"
"Hardly, but forewarned is forearmed, is it not?"
"Forearmed against what, then?" Seregil asked with
rising irritation as an all-too-familiar guarded
look came over the wizard's face. "All right
then, you're still guarding some dire secret, but it
seems to me that the gods themselves are giving hints.
If you're
the Guardian, which you've admitted already, and Alec,
our archer, is the Shaft, then am I the
Vanguard?" He paused, mentally trying the title
on for size. But the bone-deep feeling of certainty
he'd had about Alec eluded him. "Vanguard, those
who go before the battle, one who goes in front-
No, that doesn't resonate somehow for
me. Besides, the Oracle wouldn't tell me to guard
myself. So why would he tell me anything at all
unless-was
"Seregil, please-was
"Unless there's a fourth figure to the prophecy!"
Seregil exclaimed, striding excitedly back and
forth between the hearth and the door as the myriad
possibilities took shape in his mind. "Of
course. Four is the sacred number of the
Immortals who stand against the Eater of Death, so-was
The inner certainty was there now. No matter what
answer Nysander gave, he knew instinctively that
he was on the right track now. "Illior's Light,

Nysander! The Oracle wouldn't have spoken to me as
he did if there wasn't a reason, some role for
me to play."
Nysander stared down at his clasped hands for a moment,
communing with an inner voice. Taking a deep breath,
he said quietly, "You are the Guide, the Unseen
One. I did not tell you before for two reasons."
"Those being?"
"First, because I still hoped-continue to hope, in fact-that
it will not matter. And secondly, because I know nothing
more than that. None of the Guardians ever
has."
"What about the Vanguard?"
"Micum, most likely, since he has also been
touched by these events. For the love of Illior,
Seregil, do stop that pacing and sit down."
Seregil came to a halt by the bookshelves.
"What do you mean, you hope it won't matter?"
Closing his eyes, Nysander massaged the bridge of
his nose with thumb and forefinger. "Just as there have been
other Guardians, so have there been other Shafts,
other Guides. It is as if they always exist from
generation to generation, kept in readiness in case-was
"In case what?"
"I cannot say. I confess I still cling to the hope that
this terrible evil may yet be forestalled. For now,
I must guard my secret as I have done. What I
can tell you, seeing that you have guessed so much, is that the
four figures of the prophecy have always been known to the
Guardians, but what their functions are has never
been revealed. But if you are the Unseen One,
Seregil, if Alec is the Shaft and Micum the
Vanguard, then there is nothing any friend or foe can
do to alter that."
Seregil let out an exasperated growl. "In
other words, all we can do is wait for this
terrible Something to happen. Or
not
happen, in which case we spend the rest of our lives
waiting because we won't know that it isn't going
to happen after all?"
"That is, no doubt, one of the reasons that the
Guardians keep such knowledge from the others. It serves
little purpose for you to know, and will only make you
uneasy. On the other hand"-he paused, looking up
at Seregil with a mix of concern and pity-"I
suspect that my hope to pass my burden on to a
new Guardian will prove a vain one. Mardus had
the wooden disks; other Plenimarans came to the
Asheks on your very heels, seeking the crown.
Lynn Flewelling
There are other objects-magical ones-some in
Plenimar, others thankfully scattered to lost
corners of the world. It was only by chance that my master,
Arkoniel, came into possession of the palimpsest that
led you to the crown. Clearly the Plenimarans are
making a more deliberate effort to recover them. It
bodes ill, dear boy, most ill.
"As for your dilemma"-Nysander gave him a weary
smile- "may I remind you that if you were not such a
intolerable meddler you would not be in this
quandary."
"What about the others?"
Nysander spread his hands. "I do not forbid you to tell
them what you know, but reflect a moment on what you have
just said. Even knowing, there is nothing yet to be done;
our fates rest on the knees of the immortals."
"And a damned uncomfortable seat that is," Seregil
grumbled.
"I agree. And perhaps a dangerous one now. We
must all live cautiously for a time."
"I can keep an eye on Alec, if that's the way
you want it, but what about Micum?"
"I placed a number of protective spells
around the three of you as soon as you came back from the
north. Since then someone has tried to break through those
surrounding you and Alec a few times, but-was
"What?" An icy stab of fear lanced through
Seregil's chest. "You never-was
"I was not surprised by such attempts," Nysander
told him calmly, "and they have failed, of course.
The spells surrounding all of you are intact, making
it impossible for you to be seen magically. Thus far,
there have been no disturbances in the spells surrounding
Micum or his family."
"Bilairy's Balls! Do you know who was
doing this?"
"Unfortunately, the seekers are equally well
shielded. Their magic is very strong and they know how
to protect themselves."
"I don't like this. I don't like this at all,"
muttered Seregil. "There are more ways than magic
to find someone. Hell, Rhal showed up, didn't
he? Who's to say Mardus or his dogs haven't,
too? Poor Alec had no idea how to cover his
tracks."
"Whatever happens, you must not blame the boy,"
cautioned Nysander.
"Who said anything about blame?" Seregil ran his
fingers back through his hair in frustration. "He did
a damn fine job, given the

circumstances. He saved my life. Now it's up
to me to protect him. And Micum; knowing what I
do, I'm honor-bound to give him any warning I
can."
Seregil braced for further argument, but instead,
Nysander sighed and nodded. "Very well, but only as
much as is absolutely necessary."
"Fair enough. Damn, they'll be wondering where we
are by now." Seregil rose to go back
upstairs, but Nysander remained where he sat.
"Seregil?"
He turned back to find Nysander regarding him
sadly.
"I hope, dear boy, that no matter what the coming
days bring, you will believe I never foresaw this time coming
during my Guardianship, or that its advent would
enmesh any of you."
Seregil gave him a grudging grin. "You know,
I've spent most of my life listening to legends
or telling them. It should be interesting being part of one.
I only hope the bards who tell it years from now
will be able to end with 'And the Band of Four all lived with
great honor for many years thereafter." his
"As do I, dear boy. As do I. Make some
excuse for me, would you? I would like to sit here for a
while."
Silence closed in around Nysander after Seregil had
gone. With his hands resting on his knees before him, he
allowed himself to go limp in the chair, listening to the sound
of his breathing and his heart until he was aware of
nothing else. Then, slowly, he opened himself to the
invisible currents of foreseeing, using the faces of his
three chosen comrades to call in the energies he
sought. Grey images stirred sluggishly
before his mind's eye, the tangled flux of
Sh/might/shd
and
Imagine.
How to pluck crumbs of truth from a future as
yet unfixed-
like
-
the hands ofTikdrie Megraesh, the icon of his
dreams and visions, opened before him. Voices came
faintly through the murk, shouting, raging, weeping. He
could hear the clash of weapons, men shouting- Then,
harsh as a blow, came the vision of a black disk
surrounded by a thin white nimbus of fire. It
seemed to glare at him.
an accusing eye.
Lynn Flewelling
A familiar perfume wafted out to Seregil as he
neared the workroom door. Opening it, he found
Ylinestra sitting next to Magyana. A quick
glance revealed an interesting tableau around the
breakfast table. As usual, Ylinestra looked
intentionally stunning as she chatted with Magyana, with
her shining black hair braided loosely over one
shoulder of her loose-flowing gown.
Magyana appeared to be a willing conversationalist,
but Seregil thought he detected faint lines of
distaste around her eyes.
Feeya was not so subtle. She'd moved to the other
end of the table and stood eyeing the sorceress
with.@lvident dislike.
Thero seemed torn between embarrassment and lust.
Alec stood at what might be considered a safe
distance from his former seducer, carrying on some earnest
conversation with Hwerlu.
All eyes turned Seregil's way as he entered.
"Ah, here they are," said Magyana. "But where is
Nysander?"
"Oh, he got distracted by something down in his
study," Seregil replied.
"How unfortunate," sighed Ylinestra. "I was
hoping I could lure him out to the gardens for a while."
"You know how he is. He's likely to be a
while."
"I'll tell him you were looking for him," Thero
offered a trifle stiffly. "In the meantime, perhaps
I-was
"Ah well, another time," Ylinestra said
breezily, gliding to the door.
When she was gone Feeya whistled something
to Hwerlu, who laughed.
"She says the smell of the woman makes her
belly hurt," he translated.
"Mine, as well," Magyana agreed with a
mischievous smile. "Although I daresay most men
find the scent alluring enough. She must be missing
Nysander. That's the third time this week she's come
looking for him. Isn't that right, Thero?"
"I don't keep track," the young wizard said with a
shrug. "If you'll all excuse me, I've got
work of my own I'd better get started on."
Alec chuckled as he and Seregil set off for the
Cockerel again. "I'll bet you a sester he
waits until everyone else clears out, then goes
after her."
"That's a loser's bet," Seregil said with a
crooked grin. "I've

never seen it fail; when a cold fish like Thero
finally does fall in love, it makes a total
fool of him."
"You know, I think you're too hard on him."
"Is that so?"
Alec shrugged. "I didn't care much for him at
first, either, but now he doesn't seem so
bad. He helped save our lives during that raid
on Kassarie's keep, and he was useful during that
whole business with Rythel, too. Since then, he's
been almost-friendly. Nysander may be right about him, after
all. As arrogant and cold as he can seem,
underneath I don't think he's so bad."
Seregil gave Alec a skeptical grin.
"You've a charitable nature. We've got more
important things to worry about than Thero right now,
though. I'll explain it once we get home."
They both rode with hoods pulled forward, but Alec
guessed even without seeing his friend's face that something of
note had come up during Seregil's separate
conversation with Nysander.
"What is it?" he asked, unable to guess from
Seregil's guarded tone whether the matter was
likely to be a job or a problem.
Seregil shook his head. "Not here."
They spoke little the rest of the way back to the inn, but
Alec noted that the route they took to approach it was
more cautiously circuitous than usual.
Thryis hailed them as they passed the kitchen door.
"I didn't hear you go out," she said, sharpening
knives by the fireside. "Rhiri brought in a
message for you last night, but it wasn't
sent for the Rhiminee Cat. It's there on the
mantelpiece behind the salt box."
Seregil found it, a coarse square of paper tied
with greasy twine and sealed with candle drippings.
"Anything else?" asked Seregil, bending down
to tickle Luthas, who sat playing with a wooden
spoon at his great-grandmother's feet.
"No, nothing."
"How many are there in the inn today?"
"I think this wind's blown all our custom away,"
the old woman grumbled, testing the edge of a cleaver
against her thumbnail. "There were those six draymen in
the big room, but they left first thing this morning.
All we've got left now is a horse trader
and his son in the room at the front and a cloth
merchant in for the spring trade. I've never seen it
so slack this time of year. I sent Cilia and
Diomis out to see what's what down at the market"
Lynn Flewelling
Suddenly Luthas startled them all with an angry
squall.
"By the Flame, he's been restless all morning,"
Thryis sighed. "Must be another tooth coming."
"I'll get him." Alec scooped up the child,
bouncing him gently in his arms, but the child
howled on.
"You're wanting your mother, aren't you, dear one?"
Thryis smiled, offering him his spoon. But Luthas
knocked it away and cried louder, squirming like an
eel.
"Find me that rag of his," Alec called
to Seregil over the uproar.
Rummaging in the nearby cradle, Seregil found a
colorful kerchief with a knot tied in the middle and
held that within reach. Luthas grabbed it and stuffed the
knot in his mouth, chewing at it with a decidedly
disgruntled air. After a moment he relaxed
drowsily against Alec's shoulder.
"You're quite the nursemaid these days," whispered
Seregil.
"Oh, they're great friends, these two," Thryis said
fondly.
Alec was just attempting to lay the child in his cradle
when Rhiri stamped in, slamming the door behind him.
Luthas jerked awake, crying ferociously.
The mute ostler gave Alec an apologetic
nod, then pulled a small scroll tube from his
jerkin and handed it to Seregil.
"Come on!" groaned Seregil, motioning for Alec
to follow.
Back in their disordered sitting room again, Seregil
flopped down on the couch and opened the scroll
tube, which contained a jeweled ring and the usual
request for the Cat's services. Setting these
aside with an impatient sniff, he cut the string
on the folded paper and smoothed it out on his knee.
"Well now, here's a bit of good news," he
exclaimed happily. "Listen to this. "In
Rhiminee Harbor, awaiting your pleasure. Ask
for Welken at the Griffin." It's signed
"Master Rhal, captain of the
Green Lady,"
and dated yesterday."
"Yesterday? We'd better get down there."
"Another hour won't matter." His smile faded
as he waved Alec to a chair. "We've got
something else to deal with first."
Alec sat down, studying Seregil's face
uneasily; he didn't look happy.
"First, you have to swear secrecy under your oath as a
Watcher," Seregil began with uncharacteristic gravity.
A thrill of anticipation went through Alec as he
nodded. "I swear. What's going on?"
"Those dreams of yours, with the headless arrow
shaft? They meant something to Nysander.-To me, too,
really, the moment you told me about it last night, but
I had to have Nysander hear it to be certain."
"Of what?" Alec asked uneasily.
"There's so much to tell you, it's hard to know where
to begin." Seregil studied his clasped hands for a
moment. "That first night we came here, I went out
again."
"To the Temple of Illior."
"That's right, but I never told you why I went there,
did I?"
"No, never."
"I went hoping the Oracle could tell me something
about that wooden disk we brought back from Wolde."
Seregil touched a hand to his breast where the hidden
brand lay.
Alec stared at him in disbelief. "Does Nysander
know?"
"He does now, but that's not the point. The Oracle
didn't tell me anything specific about the disk,
but he did say something that I know now was a piece
of a prophecy. He spoke of the Eater of Death-was
"Just like in the journal we found, and at the Mourning
Night ceremony."
"Yes, and then he told me I was to guard
three people he called the Guardian, the Vanguard,
and the Shaft. And there's a fourth, the Unseen One
or Guide. That's me, it seems, and Nysander's
the Guardian. After hearing about your dream, we think
you might be-was
"The Shaft," Alec said softly, remembering the
headless arrow and the feeling of helplessness he always
felt at the sight of it.
"Apparently Nysander has had some presentiment that
Micum is the Vanguard."
"But the Eater of Death is Seriamaius." He
saw Seregil flinch as he said the name aloud. "This
Shaft and Guardian business, it's connected
somehow. Oh, wait a minute-was Alec's belly
twisted into a queasy knot. "That disk, that damned
wooden disk that made you so sick and crazy. That's
what you went to the Oracle to ask about, so it must have
something to do with the prophecy."
"It does," said Seregil. "But what, .1
don't know. Nysander won't say, except that the
disk is part of something bigger, something the
Plenimarans are willing to go to any lengths to get.
When I went away just before the Festival of
Sakor, it was to get another object before the
Plenimarans did, a sort of crown. It
had the same
lynn Rewelling
sort of evil magic about it, only worse." His
face darkened as some memory surfaced. "Much
worse, and much more dangerous. But I got it."
"There were other disks just like the one we stole,"
Alec recalled, his mind racing. "Maybe they had
to be all together to have their full effect."
"That's right. Which means if we'd been greedy and
taken them all, you and I probably wouldn't have
made it as far as Boersby. I've wanted
to tell you all this before, but Nysander swore me
to silence. I wouldn't be telling disy now, except that
you seem to be part of it, too."
"Of what?" demanded Alec. "What does the
Shaft do? If Nysander has the disk and the crown,
then the Plenimarans aren't going to get them and whatever
they're part of can't happen, right?"
"I guess that's the idea. But why would you be having
these dreams now, if that's all there is to it, eh?"
"Do you think Mardus could still be after us? Bilairy's
Balls. Seregil, if Rhal could find us, then
why not him?"
Seregil shrugged. "It's not impossible. He
didn't strike me as the sort who gives
up easily. But why hasn't he shown up yet?
It's been months now, and if he had any idea that
we have the crown as well, then he or somebody like him
will be certain to come after it sooner or later. There's
something else, too. You remember Micum's
description of the ritual sacrifice he found up
in the Fens?"
"All those bodies cut open," Alec said with a
small shudder.
"I found the same sort of thing with the crown. All the
bodies were ancient there, but the mutilations were the
same, breastbone split, ribs pulled back like
wings. Now Nysander claims that all this may come
to nothing, that there have always been Guardians and Shafts
and so forth chosen just in case. But he didn't sound
all that confident. That's why I'm telling you this, and
why we've got to warn Micum. I want you
to ride out there tomorrow and tell him just what I've told
you."
"What about you?"
Seregil smiled darkly. "There are a few old
mates of Tym's I'd like to have a chat with. If
Plenimarans are getting into Rhiminee, then someone
has got to know about it."
"They covered their tracks pretty well
with that business in the sewers," Alec reminded him.

"Except for Rythel. There's almost always a Rythel
in any plot. When you get to Watermead, what
I've told you is for Micum's ears alone. Do
whatever you can to get him alone but try not to raise
suspicion. Kari usually knows when something's up.
And ask him about his dreams while you're at it, although
I expect he'll scoff.
"It's a lot to take in, I know. Like I said,
Nysander claims this may all come to nothing, but I
don't think he really believes it. I know I
don't."
Half-realized images whirled through Alec's
mind, too chaotic to grasp. Yet bits and
pieces seemed to stand forth from the general maelstrom,
like branches in an eddy. "So Nysander has at
least two pieces of whatever this thing is: the disk
and the crown. But there must be something else, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, if he's been the Guardian all these
years, then what's he guarding?"
Seregil's eyes widened in surprised realization.
"That's a good question. But somehow I doubt we'll ever
know."
Resuming their roles of Lord Seregil and Sir
Alec for the day, they emerged from the Wheel Street
villa at midday and rode down to the lower city
to inspect a certain privateering vessel anchored
just beyond the quays. They found Rhal's man still
waiting at the Griffin. A day and night spent in a
tavern notwithstanding, he was still sober enough to row them out to the
ship.
"That's "er," he said proudly, nodding over one
shoulder as he rowed them toward a sleek, twin-masted
raider. The
Green Lady
sported fighting platforms fore and aft. Even
to Alec's untutored eye there was no mistaking her
prime purpose.
"Bilairy's Balls, what's
that
supposed to be?" Seregil asked as they crossed
beneath her prow. Fitted under the bowsprit was the painted
statue of a woman.
"Figurehead," Welken replied. "Lots of the
new ships has 'em. Said to bring luck. Captain
Rhal got the best carver in lolos to do our lady
there; she's even got a real golden ring on her
finger with a great red stone winking in it.
Captain says her round belly'll
b
nng us a full hold."
Dark hair streamed over the woman's shoulders and the
carved skirts of her emerald-green gown flowed
back from a rounded,
Lynn Flewelling
pregnant belly. One outstretched hand pointed
ahead; the other lay modestly over her heart.
Alec broke into a broad grin as he squinted up
at the painted wooden face; it was not fine work, but the
resemblance to Seregil was obvious to anyone who'd
seen him playing a Mycenian gentlewoman aboard
the
Darter.
Still staring up, Seregil swore pungently under his
breath.
Alec stifled a snort of laughter and asked
innocently, "Does she have a name?"
"Oh, aye. Captain calls her Lady
Gwethelyn."
"It suits her," Alec observed, still fighting
to keep a straight face.
"Charming," muttered Seregil.
Climbing a rope ladder, they found Rhal
waiting for them on deck. After a brief tour, he
ushered them belowdecks to his aft cabin. Though by no
means luxurious, it was a far cry from the cramped
quarters he'd entertained them in aboard the
Darter.
"I hope that figurehead of yours brings you luck,"
Seregil remarked dryly, taking a chair.
"Aye, and I don't doubt we'll be needing it
soon," Rhal said, pouring wine for them. "The weather
is settling out early this year. With the old Overlord
dead, there isn't much to hold the Plenimarans back
now. Of course, his son Estmar isn't Overlord
yet. According to Plenimaran custom, there's a month of
official mourning before he can be crowned. That should
give us another few weeks."
Seregil shook his head, frowning. "I wouldn't count
on it. There have been rumors of Plenimaran scouts
sighted as far west as the Folcwine River."
This had come as troubling news, Alec reflected.
The swift- moving units of the Queen's Horse
Guard were scouting there, too, but there'd been no word
from Beka in weeks.
"Well, whatever happens, the
Lady
and her crew are ready," Rhal assured
them stoutly. "She sailed easy as a swan coming up
from Macar and as you saw, we're fitted out with
grapples, catapults, and fire baskets. When
we set off raiding I'll have twenty archers among
my crew and ten more hired on special."
"Impressive. When do you sail?"
Rhal stroked his dark beard. "Soon as we get
the Queen's Mark."
"The only thing that separates privateers from
pirates," Seregil interjected for Alec's
benefit.

"That, and the percentage of the take appropriated for the
royal treasury," Rhal added. "I figure
we'll do coasting trade until the war breaks out in
earnest; goods loads, transporting soldiers, that
sort of thing. The crew needs a proper sea run.
Word is there's already plenty of activity down around
the Inner Sea and the Strait, lots of fat
Plenimaran merchant ships carrying supplies and
gold up toward Nanta. And of course, I stand
ready to honor our bargain, though I don't see
how you'll find me if you need me."
"We thought of that," Alec said, flipping him a
silver medallion. "It's magicked. Just
hang it up in here somewhere and a wizard friend of ours can
sight off it wherever you are."
Rhal studied the emblem of Illior stamped into the
face of the disk. "This has a lucky feel to it,
too, and we can use all of that we can get."
"Then the best of it to you," said Seregil, rising to go.
"I hope your ship's belly is as full as your
figurehead's before long."
Rhal scratched his head sheepishly. "Oh, you
noticed that, did you? She was a fine-looking
woman, that Gwethelyn. Thinking back to that night I
caught you out, I don't know if I was more angry
or disappointed. But in the end I'd say meeting you
brought me luck, so there she is. The
Green Lady's
a fine ship and she'll do us all proud."
Since they were already dressed for the part, Alec and
Seregil put in a suppertime appearance at Wheel
Street, then slipped back to the Cockerel after
dark. Once there, Seregil went straight to his
room and rummaged out his tattered beggar's rags.
"Are you going out tonight?" asked Alec, leaning in the
doorway as Seregil changed clothes.
"There are some thieves and nightrunners I want
to speak with. I'm not likely to find them in
daylight. I probably won't be back before you go,
so get some rest and leave early. Before I go, though,
let's hear what you're going to tell Micum.
Things happened pretty fast today. I want to be
sure you've got everything straight."
Alec recited as best he could what Seregil had
told him about the prophecy and dreams. Seregil
made one or two corrections, then nodded
approval.
"Just right. I don't know what Micum will make of
all this but "least he'll know what's in the wind."
Clapping on his old felt
Lynn Flewelling
hat, he stepped past Alec and began dusting himself
with ashes from the hearth.
"I'll come back as soon as I've talked
to him," said Alec, "I could be back
by nightfall."
"There's no need. Stay the night and come back in
daylight."
Alec opened his mouth to protest further, but
Seregil forestalled him with an upraised hand. "I
mean it, Alec. If we are in danger, then the more
care we take the better. I don't want you
getting caught out in some lonely place after
dark."
Still slouching unhappily in the doorway, Alec
frowned down at his boots. The truth was, he
suddenly didn't like the thought of leaving Seregil
alone here, either, though he knew better than to say
so.
Seregil seemed to guess his thoughts just the same.
Adjusting a greasy patch over one eye, he came
over and grasped Alec by the shoulders. "I'll be
all right. And I'm not shutting you out of anything,
either."
Despite the patch, tangled hair, and
ridiculous old hat that partially obscured his friend's
features, Alec heard the warm earnestness in his
voice clearly enough.
"I know," he sighed. "You missed a spot."
Reaching over, Alec smeared ashes over a bit of
clean skin just under Seregil's right cheekbone. His
friend's one visible eye widened noticeably.
Strange feelings stirred again, and Alec felt
himself blush.
Seregil held his gaze a moment, then cleared his
throat gruffly. "Thanks. We don't want
any telltale signs of cleanliness giving me
away, do we? I'll take a run through the
stable dung heap before I go, just to make sure I've
got the right odor about me. Take care."
"You, too." Alec felt another twinge of
unease as Seregil headed out the door. "Luck in
the shadows, Seregil," he called after him.
Seregil looked back with a crooked grin. "And
to you."
Left to himself, Alec set about packing the small
bundle for his journey. But he soon found himself
repeatedly packing and unpacking the same few
items as his thoughts wandered over the harried events of the
day, and his strange unease over Seregil's
departure.
Stalking Darkness

That night Alec's nightmare returned, but this time
there was more to it.
In the end, when he turned to look for his pursuer,
blocks of stone slid out of the wall beside him,
tumbling to the floor with a hollow crash. Gripping the
headless arrow, he forced himself to go to the opening in the
wall and look through. He could see nothing but darkness
beyond, but he could hear a new sound, one that was at
once as ordinary and as inexplicably terrifying as
the sight of the simple arrow shaft.
It was the booming grumble of the sea battering a rocky
shore.
1 lee opened his eyes well before dawn. Too A
anxious to sleep, he dressed quickly and
just backslash
went down to the stable to saddle Patch. L V A
damp grey mist hung over the city, presaging a
foul day, but in the Harvest Market the first traders
and stall keepers were already preparing for the day's
business. Alec paused to buy a bit of
breakfast, then headed for the gate. To his
surprise, pikemen of the City Watch stepped out
to block his way.
"State your name and business," one of them said,
stifling a yawn.
"What's this?"
"Queen's orders. Anyone going in or out of the city
gets recorded. State your name and business."
Just a spy riding out to warn an old friend that the
Immortals may have designs on his future.
Alec thought wryly.
"Wilim i Micum of Rhiminee," he said
aloud. "I'm heading up to Tovus village to see
a man about a horse."
A guard seated at a rough table by the gate
busily recorded this information in a day book.
"When do you expect to return?" asked the first
guard.
"With luck, late tonight" As he said it, Alec
realized that sometime between last night and

now, he'd made up his mind to return that day, no
matter what Seregil said. There was no good reason
he couldn't make the trip in a day if the weather
didn't turn too bad.
Riding north along the highroad, he watched a
cheerless grey dawn crawl slowly up from the eastern
horizon. The first crocus and snowdrops were
blossoming in the ditches, but the pallid light
seemed to rob both them and Alec's spirits of any
color.
His dreams had left him feeling gritty-eyed and
dour. The farther he rode from Rhiminee, the more
heavily the weight of a formless dread seemed to weigh
on his heart.
It was midmorning when Alec crossed the bridge and
started up the hill toward Watermead. Micum's
hounds came pelting out to meet him, but there was no
sign of any other welcome.
Wondering where Illia could be, he entered
the courtyard to find a farm hand waiting for him.
"Good morning, Sir Alec. If you're looking
for the master, he ain't here. He and the family up and
headed over to Lord Warnik i Thorgol's estate
in the next valley day before yesterday. Folks are
gathering there from all over the district to talk about
defenses for the war."
Alec slapped his gloves against his thigh in
exasperation. "When do you expect them back?"
"Not until tomorrow, maybe longer."
"Is that Master Alec?" Kari's old woman
servant, Arna, called out the front door. "Come
on in, love. This house is always open to you. You can
put up here until they return. Is Master
Seregil behind you on the road?"
"No, I'm alone." Still mounted, Alec considered
the offer. "How long would it take for me to get
to Warnik's?"
Ama considered this a moment. "Well, you'd have to go
down to the highroad and then north to the next valley.
What would you say, Ranil, he could be there in two
hours or so, couldn't he?"
"Two hours, eh?" Two there, two back here, and
another two back to the city, plus however long it
took to explain things to Micum. Alec
frowned to himself. With this weather, he would be riding home
in the dark.
"Oh, aye," said Ranil. "And you'd be wanting a
fresh horse to give young Patch here a spell.
Course, if you're in a particular hurry,
you
might want to try the old hill track."
Lynn Flewelling
"He doesn't want to go riding up the hills
today," scoffed Arna, pulling her shawl closer about
her skinny shoulders. "That trail will be nothing but a
ribbon of mire with all the thaw and rain."
"How long does that way take?" Alec pressed,
trying hard not to let his impatience show.
"I dunno." Ranil scratched his head as he
considered the question. "Perhaps no more than an hour, if you
rode hard and didn't lose yourself. Myn's the one
who'd know best. He comes from over in that valley."
"There now, so he does," said Arna, sounding as if
the next valley were some exotic distant land.
"Myn's the one could tell you, Master Alec.
Perhaps he could guide you."
"Where is he?" Alec asked.
"Myn? Now let's see, Ranil, where's Myn
today?"
"Gone over to Greywall with the reeve," Ranil
replied. "That's five miles or so east of here."
Another costly detour. "Ranil, is this hill
track of yours far from here?" asked Alec.
"No, you know the one, sir. Ride back down to the
stream at the bottom of the hill and you'll strike it
running to your right along the near bank."
"You mean that trail that leads up to the pool where the
otters live?" Alec exclaimed in relief.
He'd ridden there with Beka.
"Aye, that's the one," said Arna. "It's a rough
track beyond, though, or so I hear."
"I'm used to that," said Alec, dismounting. "I will
borrow a horse, though, and leave my pack here.
I'll be back for Patch before dark."
He was underwater. Looking up, he could see the
surface shimmering just above him, a shifting silver
mirror that reflected nothing. Just beyond the surface
something dark moved, like a man standing against the sky-
Seregil uncurled with a startled grunt as something
prodded him roughly between the shoulder blades.
"Told you he was alive!" he heard a woman
say.
Two bluecoats were looking down at him from
horseback, early morning light glinting
from their helmets. A third stood over him holding
a truncheon in both hands.
"Come on, you. On your feet," the one with the
truncheon

growled, looking like he'd just as soon give a beggar
another good jab for good measure.
"Maker's mercy and blessings on you," Seregil
whined.
"Keep your blessings, you Dalnan mudlark."
Seregil pulled his dirty rags closer about him and
got stiffly to his feet, wondering how in hell
he'd let himself doze off in the middle of the east end
stews.
He'd been watching a nearby slophouse, hoping
to snag a certain informant who often drank there. The
dingy establishment was shuttered now, his man long
gone.
Grabbing Seregil roughly by the arm, the bluecoat
marched him past the horses to a high-sided cart.
"Get up there and be quick about it."
Scrambling over the tailboard, Seregil found
half a dozen sullen beggars and whores already
huddled inside.
Disgusted with himself, Seregil clung to the
hard bench as the cart lurched on. Something nagged at
the back of his mind, some dream he'd been having when
the bluecoats had woken him. But it was gone. Time
now to deal with the present situation.
"I ain't done nothing," he protested
querulously, tucking his chin down against his chest.
"I've done nothing a'tal. What are they at,
taking a poor cripple up like this?"
"Haven't you heard?" a ragged girl asked
tearfully. "Word come that war's started. It's the
Beggar Law for us!"
Seregil stared at her mutely as the irony of the
situation struck home. Ancient and time-honored,
the Beggar Law stated that in time of war all
vagrants, beggars, and criminals were to be either
pressed into military service or cast out of the
cities to fend for themselves. In the event of a siege,
no precious stores would be wasted on societal
parasites.
Looking around at his fellow unfortunates-the tearful
whore, a pair of vaguely familiar thieves, a
one-armed drunken giant covered in sour vomit, a
half-starved boy-Seregil had all he could do not
to laugh at his own unwitting miscalculation in
choosing a disguise.
Stay with this lot and I'll find myself facing down a
Plenimaran cavalry charge with nothing but a pike in
my hands,
he thought grimly. still
might just as well have taken a pleasant ride out
to Watermead with Alec for all the use I've been
so far.
Lynn Flewelling
Alec didn't see the otters as he rode past
their pool, although there were footprints and slide marks
enough to show that they were still in residence there.
Beyond the pool, the trail grew steeper, winding
steadily uphill around thick fir trunks and
boulders bigger than his borrowed mare. Crusts of
snow still lingered under roots and rocky overhangs, but
the air was sweet with the scents of tender new growth and
moist earth. Despite the rain already pattering down
through the boughs, it felt good to be in the woods. After
a winter spent mostly in the confines of Rhiminee
his
-s intricate streets, the simple task of
following a disused woods trail held a comfortable
familiarity.
Spring runoff and fallen needles had obscured
long stretches of the trail. In other
places, it crossed open expanses of bare ledge
with nothing but the tumbled remains of a.few small
cairns to show the way.
The forest grew thicker as he went along. Thick
stands of hemlock and fir laced their branches
overhead, shutting out what little light the day had
to offer. Winter storms had felled trees across the
trail, forcing him to dismount frequently and lead his
horse around or over.
After an hour of struggling along, he still hadn't seen
any sign that he'd reached the pass Ranil had
spoken of. The wind picked up suddenly, lashing a
torrent of icy rain down through the trees. Cursing,
Alec pulled his cloak around him and tucked it under
his thighs to keep out the wet as long as he could.
At last he reached the crest of the pass. From here the
trail seemed to open up a bit, but before he could
make up any lost time he rounded a bend and found
himself faced with the worst deadfall so far.
The ground was steep here, and the path hugged a small
cliff face to the left. A thick hemlock had
fallen across against the rock face, its thick
branches forming a dark green palisade higher than
Alec's head.
He could have wormed his way through, but the
horse was another matter. Cursing Ranil again, and
himself for listening, he dismounted again to look for a way
around.
Trees groaned in the wind around them as Alec led
his horse off the trail, following the trunk to its
base. A tangled network of roots twenty feet
across lay exposed there, torn from the thin, stony
soil in some past storm.

His horse shied as they went around it, spooked perhaps
by the gnarled fists of the roots or the roar of the storm.
Gripping the reins in one hand, he pulled the
animal's head down and threw his cloak over its
eyes. By the time he'd climbed the bank back up
to the trail he was soaked to the skin and covered in
mud.
He had one foot in the stirrup to mount when the mare
shied again. Alec staggered awkwardly, pulling his
foot free in case she bolted.
The move probably saved his life. He'd just
gotten both feet on the ground when he caught a
hint of motion out of the corner of one eye and
instinctively flinched.
Something struck his left shoulder hard before he could
turn, hard enough to knock him sideways.
Scrabbling backward, he tugged his sword free and
got it up in time to make his attacker pause.
The ragged bandit held a club in both hands,
grinning wolfishly as he circled for another
strike. He was gaunt but sinewy, with a long reach
behind the long club he wielded. Alec suspected
he was overmatched, but that his sword had surprised the
man, judging by the wary way he watched it, still not
pressing the attack.
"What do you want?" Alec demanded as the first shock
of the attack passed.
The bandit gave him a nasty, gap-toothed grin.
"What else you got?" he sneered, jerking a thumb
down the trail. "We already got yer 'orse."
Alec glanced quickly in that direction and saw a
harsh-faced woman leading his horse away.
"I have gold," Alec told him, ignoring the
dull pain that ran down his left arm as he pulled
his purse from his belt and shook it so the coins inside
jingled. "You're welcome to it, but I need that
horse."
"Did you hear the fine young gentleman's offer, me
love?" the bandit exclaimed gleefully. "He
wants to buy back his 'orse!"
The woman gave a listless shrug and said
nothing.
"Give us the bag, then, and we'll shake on the
bargain," the bandit offered, sidling closer.
Alec lowered his sword and held out the purse, as
if he'd been gulled into the bargain. As he'd-
expected, the bandit immediately struck at him.
Jumping back, he blocked the blow and swung a
slashing stroke that opened the front of the man's jerkin
and some of the skin below.
Lynn Flewelling
"Bilairy's Collops, the little bastard cut
me!" the bandit snarled in surprise. "Got
teeth, have you, you whelp? I'll soon blunt
'em!" Gripping his club in both hands, he flew
at Alec and swung another blow at his head.
The bandit was strong; blocking the swing with a two-handed
parry, Alec felt a nasty jolt down both
arms. Pushing him away, he fell back, letting
the man push him toward the deadfall. Rain ran
down into his eyes as he blocked blow after blow,
hoping to make his attacker think he was a novice
swordsman.
Still moving backward, he felt branch, tips
graze his neck. It was time to hazard his one
gambit.
He lowered his sword and turned slightly, as if
he meant to run for it. As Alec had hoped, his
opponent struck at him, and hit the springy
branches of the hemlock instead. Overbalanced by the
force of his own swing, he stumbled.
Alec whirled and struck him a savage blow to the
shoulder. The blade glanced off bone, flaying the
muscle from shoulder to elbow in a great bloody
flap.
Alec had expected the blow to stop the man in his
tracks, but it didn't. With a howl of pain, the
bandit dropped his club and grappled Alec,
locking his good arm around the boy's neck and dragging
him to the ground as he choked him.
Raw, severed flesh slapped against Alec's face,
and the hot blood pulsing from the wound spurted into his
mouth and eyes. His sword was useless at such close
quarters. Dropping it, he tore at the arm around his
throat, but the man held on, pinning him down as he
locked his hand around Alec's windpipe.
Blood loss alone should be weakening him,
Alec thought grimly as his vision began to darken.
Through a red haze he saw mindless determination still
burning in the haggard, white face above his, felt
it in the hard hand crushing his throat; the man
might just live long enough to kill him first.
Letting go of the man's arm, Alec felt for the
slender, black- handled dagger in his right boot. His
fingers found the rounded pommel and closed over it,
pulling it free. Gripping it, he drove it with the
last of his strength into the bandit's neck. More blood
spurted out, steaming hotly against his face as the world
went dim around him.
The sound of fading hoofbeats brought him around again a
moment later. From the sound of them, the woman had
decided the horse was booty enough and taken off with it as
soon as her

man went down. Alec pushed the dead man off and
sat up, but it was too late. She was already out of
sight.
Wet, bruised, and muddier, than ever, Alec got
to his feet only to find that his legs were not ready
to support him just yet. Staggering away from the body,
he braced himself against the tree trunk and waited for the
world to stop spinning around him. He tasted blood in his
mouth and spat repeatedly, trying to get rid of the
revolting metallic taste.
He supposed he should be grateful for the woman's
cowardice. She'd taken the horse, but had
left his purse, his weapons, and his life, for that
matter. She'd had ample opportunity to knife
him.
Hoping he'd already covered at least half the distance
to Warnik's valley, he set off on foot again.
The trail was no better on this side of the pass but
the downhill grade made for easier walking. Coming
to a stream, he waded in to wash off some of the filth.
His clothes were ruined, but it was a relief to cleanse
away more of the blood. He could still taste it at the
back of his mouth and retched suddenly, remembering the
feel of it spurting down on him.
A more immediate worry, however, was whether or not the
bandit's woman would decide to circle back for
another try, drawn by a delayed desire for
revenge or his purse. Wading out of the stream,
Alec scanned the surrounding forest with renewed
wariness. Thick underbrush pressed close on both
sides of the trail, the potential for ambush
unlimited. The storm blew on, hastening the afternoon
darkness already thickening into mist beneath the tangled forest
roof.
Seregil was obliged to delay his escape. Soon
after they picked him up, the Watch patrol entered the
East Ring to begin a sweep of the shanties
there. Even if he got away now, there was nowhere
to run.
Other bluecoats were already at work there, pulling down
the shacks and piling the scrap wood onto carts,
clearing the Ring to serve its wartime purpose as a
killing zone between the inner and outer walls of the city.
The marketplaces and circles all around the city
would be cleared as well for similar reasons.
Despite its size and grandeur, Rhiminee had
been designed first and foremost to be a defensible
citadel.
Most of the shanrytown denizens had cleared out already,
Lyim Flewelling
warned by the vagrant's sixth sense that trouble was
brewing. Those that had remained were rounded up and sorted
out. Cripples and mothers with young children were allowed to stay
in the city, as well as any able-bodied person
willing to work for their keep or fight.
Unpatriotic ne'er-do-wells would have to fend for
themselves in the countryside.
The cart was full by midday and the patrol headed back
through the east ward. Seregil stood at the rear of the
cart, maintaining his air of sullen bewilderment
until a familiar street corner came into view.
Taking the three bluecoats riding behind the
cart by surprise, Seregil vaulted over the
side, dodged between their horses, and tore off down
the street. Behind him, his fellow prisoners cheered
him on with delighted jeers and catcalls.
Two of the guards wheeled in pursuit, but Seregil
had chosen his moment carefully. Running back to the
familiar street, he bolted around the corner.
It was more of an alley than a street. There were no
side ways leading off it and the far end was blocked by a
high wooden barrier. Without slowing, Seregil
launched himself at it, found purchase with hands and
feet, and clambered over the top just as the furious
guards thundered up.
On the far side, another alley angled off toward
a larger street. The bluecoats knew this section
of the city nearly as well as he did himself; he could
hear the approaching clatter of hooves ahead of him
as he ran. Dodging down a side lane before they
caught sight of him, he slipped into the narrow
space between two sagging tenements and came out in a
tiny, weed-choked courtyard.
Here he bounded up a rickety exterior stairway
to a disused attic. The cache of spare clothing and
knives he'd hidden there months ago was still under the
warped floorboards, no worse for wear
except for a few beetles and some mouse turds.
Whistling softly through his teeth as he shook them out,
he changed clothes and settled down at the garret
window to outwait his pursuers" patience. It was
only a filthy beggar they'd lost. They wouldn't
waste much time hunting for him.
Hungry, wet, and footsore, Alec finally
reached the edge of the woods by late afternoon. Through the
trees ahead he could see a rolling valley
stretching out before him.

A small log house stood near the trail, with a
low byre and a goat pen beside it. Too tired to care
what he must look like, he headed for it, hoping to beg
a little food and some directions.
As he approached the place, a huge mongrel
charged out of the byre, baying as it charged toward him.
"Soora thasdli,"
Alec said quickly, making the left-handed charm sign
Seregil had taught him. It worked to a degree; the
dog halted a few feet away, but remained on
guard, growling every time he moved.
"Who's that?" a man called out, emerging from the byre
with an ax gripped in both hands.
"Sir Alec of Ivywell," Alec
replied, holding his hands out, palm up. "I had
some bad luck up the trail. Bandits stole my
horse. Could you-was
"That so?" The man stepped nearer, squinting for a
better look at him.
Alec had managed to wash off most of the blood, but
his bedraggled clothing and sword appeared to inspire
little confidence.
"Lots of bandits about just now," the man went on, still
wary. "Stole two of my milch goats just the other
day. Could be you're one of "em come back to rob me
again. Tugger!"
The dog crouched, baring its fangs.
"No, please!
Soora thasdli."
Alec fell back a pace, making the sign again.
"Listen, I'm only trying to get down to-was
"Here now, what're you up to with my dog?" the man
demanded. "Tugger, on him!"
"No-
soora thasdli-
if you'd just listen-was
"Damn you, Tugger, at him!"
"@lgreater-than ora

Shit!" Alec took to his heels with Tugger
snapping at the ends of his cloak close behind.
The dog chased him until they were well out of sight
of the cottage, then stood its ground in the center of the
trail, snarling every time Alec chanced a backward
look.
Winded and irate, Alec ran on until he was
certain the dog had given up, then collapsed on a
rock to get his breath. Evidently Seregil's
dog magic worked'best without the cur's master on hand
to countermand it.
Less than half a mile farther on he struck the
main road and soon met a string of heavy oxcarts
heading for Warnik's estate. At
Lynn Flewelling
the sight of Alec's gold the lead carter and his
wife agreed to let him ride with them.
Climbing into the cart, Alec stretched out
gratefully among the bales and baskets.
"Maker's Mercy, lad! You've had rough
traveling, ain't you?" the woman asked, turning
to look him over.
"I had a little trouble coming over the hill trail,"
Alec told her.
"The hill trail," snorted the carter.
"What in the world made you go that route when it's faster
on the highroad?"
"Faster?" Alec groaned. "I thought the hill
track was a shortcut."
"What looby told you that? It's my
livelihood, driving these roads, so I guess
I know a thing or two. It don't take more than
two hours by cart from this valley around to the next one,
less on a good horse. The hill track this time of
year? By Dalna, you're lucky you got over at
all."
The late afternoon light was already beginning to fail when they
arrived at Lord Warnik's fortified keep. A
gate in the curtain wall swung wide for the carts
and they rumbled to a halt in the bailey yard.
"We've got someone looking for one of his lordship's
guests," the carter told the reeve who came out
to take charge of their stores.
"I'm looking for Micum Cavish of Watermead,"
Alec- explained. "I need to speak with him at
once."
The reeve gave him an appraising once over,
then motioned to a stable boy loitering nearby.
"Portus, go and find Sir Micum. Tell him
there's a messenger boy waiting his
pleasure in the bailey."
Alec stifled a smile, then bid the carter and his
wife farewell. A large brazier had been set
up in the yard and he drifted over to join the knot of
guards and servants who'd gathered around it. Sitting
in the cart in wet clothes had chilled him through.
Leaning close to the fire, he ignored the curious
glances his sword and filthy clothes attracted.
A few minutes later he saw Micum stride
into the bailey. He was dressed in a fine coat and
furs, and looked rather harried.
"Someone looking for me?" he called out.
"Me, sir," Alec said, reluctantly leaving the
brazier.
"What is it then?" Micum asked impatiently.
He stopped, recognizing Alec as he came
closer. "By the Flame-to "
"Greetings, Sir Micum," Alec said, covering
a discreet warning

gesture with a bow. "Is there someplace we could speak
privately?"
Taking Alec by the arm, Micum drew him into the
stable. Grabbing a horse blanket from a nearby
stall, he handed it to Alec.
"What happened to you?" he whispered. "And what are
you doing here of all places?"
Alec pulled the smelly blanket around him
gratefully and sat down on an upended bucket with
his back against a post. "It's a long story," he
sighed. "I ran into a bandit on the hill track-was
"The hill track. What possessed you to come that
way this time of year?"
Alec cut him short with a weary gesture.
"Believe me, I won't do it again."
"And you were attacked by bandits. were you on foot?"
"As a matter of fact, no. I borrowed a fresh
mount at Water- mead, and they took it. That is,
she took it, his woman. I killed the man-
Anyway, I'll pay you for the horse and I'll
need another to get home from here. But that's not what
I came to tell you. Seregil and Nysander think the
four of us-them, you and I-may be mixed up in some
sort of prophecy having to do with the Eater of Death
and that wooden coin we found up in Wolde."
Micum looked less surprised than Alec had
expected. "After what I saw up in the Fens, that
makes some sense. But what have we got to do with it?"
Alec told him what Nysander had revealed, his own
dreams, and the possible connections between the coin
and the Plenimarans.
Micum listened without comment. When Alec finished,
he shook his head slowly. "These Illiorans and
their dreams. You mean to tell me that he sent you
clear up here by yourself in this weather just to tell me that
something bad might happen and that he's not even certain
what it is?"
"Well, yes. But Seregil says he thinks
Nysander's not telling us everything yet, and that he
seems genuinely worried."
"If Nysander's worried, then we'd do well
to pay heed. But first we need to get you into some dry
clothes. I'll wager you haven't eaten all day,
either. Cpme on in."
"I'd better not," Alec said. "Seregil
didn't want Kari or anyone to see me
U
p here like this."
"All right, then. You wait here and I'll bring things
out. Stay
Lynn Flewelling
r
Micum returned quickly with a bundle of clothes and a
mug of steaming soup, a hunk of fresh bread
balanced on top.
"Strip off those wet things," he ordered.
Alec pulled off his coat and shirt, anxious
to get into warm clothes. As he was about to pull on the
thick tunic Micum had brought him, the man let
out a low whistle and touched a finger to a long purple
bruise darkening across Alec's left shoulder.
"Fetched you a good one, didn't he?"
"I was lucky; he was aiming for my head. My
arm's fine, though." Pulling on the tunic and
breeches,, he wrapped his hands around the hot mug
and took a sip of the thick, steamy broth.
"Maker's Mercy, that's good! So, about that horse?
I mean to go back tonight."
Micum's heavy red brows drew together ominously.
"Now look here, Alec. You're hurt, tired, and
chilled through and it's already starting to get dark. Stay
here tonight and get an early start in the morning."
"I know I should, but I can't. Seregil's trying
to track down some Plenimaran spies, and he may
need my help."
Whether he knows it or not,
he added mentally. It wasn't exactly lying
to Micum. Not exactly.
Micum looked like he was about to argue the point, but
then he just shook his head and said gruffly,
"All right then. I can't force you. I've got a
horse you can take if you promise to stick to the
road and not go gallivanting around through the woods with it
in the dark!"
Alec grinned as he clasped his friend's hand. "You have
my word on it."
Alec saddled Micum's Aurenfaie black
quickly, not wanting to give him time to reconsider.
"I should be home before midnight," he said as he
mounted and settled his sword against his thigh under his
borrowed cloak.
"Maybe," said Micum, still looking dubious.
"Don't gallop yourself into a ditch for the sake of an
hour, you hear?"
"I hear."
Micum reached up and clasped Alec's hand
tightly again, a shadow of worry crossing his face
as he looked up. "Safe journey to you, Alec,
and luck in the shadows."
Alec returned the grip, then walked the black
toward the gate. He was just about to ride out, however,
when he realized he'd for

gotten something. Turning, he rode back to where
Micum stood watching by the stable door.
"By the way, Seregil wanted me to ask if you've
had any strange dreams lately."
Micum shrugged, grinning. "Not a one. Tell him
I leave that sort of thing to you. I do my best
fighting when I'm awake."
Thryis and the others sat pushing their suppers around their
plates in silence that night. The announcement of war
had come at midmorning and the news of Plenimar's
attack on Mycena the previous day had thrown the
city into an uproar.
Bluecoat patrols were out in force, rounding up
beggars and keeping the peace. Down in the harbor,
fighting ships that had rocked at anchor like winter
ducks hoisted their colors and sailed out through the
moles to join others from ports up and down the coast.
At the Harvest Market vendors" stalls were being
moved aside to make way for ballistas and
catapults.
Diomis had spent the afternoon in the streets, trying
to sort some sense out of the ebb and flow of rumors
flying freely around the city: the Plenimaran fleet
had been spotted off the southern tip of Skala; the
fighting was centered around the island of Kouros; it was a
land attack-the enemy had crossed the Folcwine and
was marching west toward Skala; Plenimaran
marines were at the Cirna Canal.
A Queen's herald had arrived at the market at
last with solid news; the Plenimarans had made a
surprise attack against Skalan troops somewhere
in Mycena.
"It makes my old fingers itch for a bow

string even now," Thryis commented wistfully as her
family and Rhiri gathered in the kitchen for the evening.
"I still remember that battle we fought above Ero.
A clear summer morning, not a breath of wind
to spoil the shot, and a hundred of us lined up behind the
infantry with our longbows. When we let fly, the
Plenimarans fell like a swath of wheat before a
scythe."
"They'll be fighting in mud and rain, starting in this
early. I wonder how Micum Cavish's girl
is making out-" Diomis broke off in surprise
as a tear trickled down his daughter's cheek.
"Why, Cilia, you're crying. What's the matter,
love?"
Cilia wiped her cheek and hugged the baby to her,
saying nothing.
"Luthas' dad is a soldier, isn't he,
dear?" her grandmother asked gently, patting
the girl's shoulder.
Cilia nodded mutely, then hurried up the back
stairs with Luthas in her arms.
Diomis rose to follow, but Thryis stopped him.
"Let her go, son. She's never talked of the man
before; I don't suppose she'll say anything now
until she's a mind to."
"What do you know about that?" he said, scratching under his
beard in bemusement. "You'd think if she cared for
whoever this fellow is enough to weep for him now, she'd have
said more about him to us. Why do you suppose she keeps
it such a damned secret?"
"Who knows? I always thought maybe he'd broken
promises to her, but she wouldn't cry for him if he
had. Ah well, Cilia's always had her own way
of doing things."
They sat quietly a moment, listening to the crackle
of the fire. Then Rhiri tapped the table with his
spoon and made a hand sign.
"No, I have had no word of them since yesterday,"
Thryis told him. "Alec's Patch was gone this
morning, but both of SeregiFs horses are still in
their stalls, aren't they?"
Rhiri nodded.
"I wouldn't worry about those two," said
Diomis. "You go on up to bed now, Mother. Me and
Rhiri will see to things down here."
"Make certain the doors are barred," Thryis
warned as he helped her to her feet.88Rhiri,
don't you forget to put oil in the lanterns out
front. With all the excitement today some folks may
get up to mischief. I want the court well
lit."
"Aye, we will, Mother," sighed Diomis.
"Haven't we seen to
Lynn Flewelling
the closing up these last twenty years? Rhiri, you
go on out and check the stable. I'll take care of the
front room."
Rhiri gave a quick salute and went out through the
lading-room door to the back court.
In the front room Diomis checked the bar on the
door and extinguished the lamp. The hearth fire was
out; with only two guests in the inn, he hadn't
bothered to keep it burning when they'd turned in
early. He was just checking the shutter hooks when he
heard the familiar rattle of the front door
latch.
Diomis peered through the crack of the shutter but saw
no horses in the courtyard.
"Who's that?" he called.
There was no answer except a crisp rap on the
door.
Diomis had no patience for games tonight. "We're
closed up! Try the Rowan Tree, two streets
over."
The unseen visitor knocked again, more insistently this
time.
"Now look here-was Diomis began, but was cut
short by the crash of the kitchen door slamming back
on its hinges.
Topping the crest of a hill just north of Watermead,
Alec was surprised to see a long line of torches
in the distance. As they came closer, he saw it was a
column of cavalry under the red and gold insignia
of the Red Serpent Regiment. Reining in, he
hailed the first of the outriders as he came abreast of
him.
"What's going on?" Alec called out.
The soldier slowed his horse. "War, son. It's
war at last. Pass it on to all you meet."
"This early in the year?" Alec exclaimed.
"Looks like the bastards were spoiling for a fight," the
man replied grimly. "A Plenimaran raiding
party ambushed some of our cavalry up in the
Mycenian hill country. We're headed north
to join with the Queen's Horse Guard. Word is they
took the brunt of it, as usual."
"The Queen's Horse? I know someone in that
regiment. Could you take a message formed ?"
"No time, son," the man said, spurring away as the
column caught up.
The hundred or more riders wore red and gold
tabards over their chain, and their huge black
horses rang with harness and breast
lynn Flewelling
plates. Then, like an apparition in the deepening
dusk, they disappeared over the crest of the hill.
"Maker's Mercy, here you are at last!" Arna
exclaimed, coming out into the courtyard to meet him.
"Did you have trouble on the way?"
Alec was in too much of a hurry to properly
address that. "Just tell that fellow Ranil not to send
anyone else that way," he said, leading Micum's
black to the stable. "I had news on the road,
though. The war's started."
Arna's hands flew to her wrinkled cheeks. "Oh,
my poor Beka! She's up on the border already.
Do you think she's in it yet?"
Alec didn't have the heart to lie.
Turning, he took the old servant by the shoulders.
"The soldier who gave me the news said the
Queen's Horse was in it, yes. Micum didn't
know any of this; word hadn't reached Warnik's yet.
I imagine they'll hear it there before long, but in
case they haven't, you tell Micum first, then let
him break it to Kari, all right?"
"I will, love, I will," Arna sighed, dabbing her
eyes with a corner of her shawl. "Wouldn't you just know
it? Nothing will do for her but to enlist, then doesn't she
land smack in the middle of things. And her not even
twenty yet."
"Well, she's a good soldier," said Alec, as
much for his own comfort as hers. "With Micum and
Seregil for teachers all those years, and then
Myrhini-that's as good training as anyone could have."
Arna gave his arm a squeeze. "Maker love you,
sir, I hope you're right. I'll go get you something
to eat as you ride. Don't you go off without it,
hear?"
By the time he'd shifted his borrowed saddle onto
Patch's back, she was back with a bundle of food
tied up in a napkin and several torches. Mounting
he lit one from the courtyard lantern and set off on
the final stretch to Rhiminee under a
clouded, moonless sky. He met more columns of
riders and foot soldiers along the way, but
didn't stop for news.
He came in sight of the city just before midnight. The
highroad followed the top ofthe.cliffs above the sea
and from here he could see down to the harbor where lines of
watch fires outlined the moles, shining brightly across
the dark expanse of water. More

signal fires burned on the islands at the mouth
of the harbor, and torches had been lit along the city
walls above.
The north gate was open under heavy guard to allow for the
passage of troops. Inside, the Harvest
Market looked as if a war had already been fought
there. Piles of scrap wood and tangled shreds of
colored canvas were all that appeared to be left of the
booths and stalls he'd ridden past that same
morning. Despite the lateness of the hour, soldiers
were at work everywhere, setting up ballistas and hauling
off refuse. From now on, it appeared, merchants
would have to carry on their business under the open sky or
from the backs of carts.
Steering Patch through the chaos of the market square,
Alec rode on into the maze of side
streets beyond to Blue Fish Street. Light still
showedaround the front shutters, although in the excitement
Rhiri had let the lanterns hanging at the
Cockerel's front gate go out.
Thryis will be after him for that.
Alec thought, riding around to the back courtyard.
He stopped at the stable long enough to unsaddle Patch
and throw a rug over her steaming back. Leaving her with
water and feed, he let himself through the lading-room
door and hurried up the back stairway. With all
the uproar around town, perhaps Seregil would overlook
the fact that Alec had ignored his admonition
to spend the night at Watermead.
He knew the way upstairs well enough not to bother with a
light. On the second floor he gave the
corridor a cursory glance, then headed up the
hidden stairs to their rooms. The keying words for the
glyphs had become habit to him by now, and he
spoke them with absent haste as he went up. In his
eagerness to find Seregil, he failed to notice that
the warding symbols did not make their usual brief
appearance as he passed.
No final dream or vision prepared him.
Nysander was dozing over an astrological compendium
by his bedroom fire when the magical
warning jolted him to his feet; the Oreska
defenses had been breached. The alarm was followed
by a storm of message spheres, swarming like bees
through the House as every wizard in the place called out for
information.
Or in fear.
Invaders in the atrium!
Golaria's voice rang out in a red flash.
Lynn Flewelltng
A dying cry from Ermintal's young apprentice stabbed
at Nysander's mind like a shard of glass, and then that
of Ermintal himself-
The vaults!-
cut short by another burst of blackness.
Through the onslaught of voices Nysander called out
to There. There was no response.
Steeling himself for the battle he'd hoped never
to fight, Nysander cast a translocation and stepped
through the aperture into the corridor of the lowest vault
just beyond the secret chamber. Shadowy figures
waited for him there. He took a step toward them and
stumbled. Looking down, he saw what was left of
Ermintal and his apprentice, recognizing them by the
shredded remains of their robes. Other bodies lay
heaped beyond them.
"Welcome, old man." It was the voice from
Nysander's visions. Magic crackled and he
barely managed to throw up a defense before it struck
him in a roar of flame. The corpses sizzled and
smoked as it passed.
Regaining his balance, Nysander retaliated with
lightning, but the smaller of the two invaders merely
lifted a hand and brushed it aside to explode against
the wall. By its light, Nysander saw it was a
dyrmagnos. Beside it stood a figure so cloaked
in a shifting veil of shadows that Nysander could not be
certain at first if it was human or supernatural.
"Greetings, old man," the dyrmagnos hissed.
"How weary you must be after your long vigil."
Not Tikarie Megraesh, but a woman, Nysander
thought as he took a step toward her. She was a
tiny, wizened husk of a creature, blackened with
years, desiccated by the evil that animated her. This
was the ultimate achievement of the necromancer-the
embodiment of life in death wearing the sumptuous
robes of a queen.
Raising gnarled hands, she held up two human
hearts and squeezed them until blood oozed out in
long clots, spattering to the floor around her feet.
"The feast has begun, Guardian," the
figure beside her said, and Nysander again recognized the
voice of the golden-skinned demon of his visions. But
it was an illusion. Through the veils of darkness, he
saw a man-Mardus-speaking with the voice of the Eater
of Death.
Just behind them, several other robed figures came
into view. Nysander could smell the stench of
necromancy coming from

them and with it something heartbreakingly familiar-the
unmistakable sweetness of Ylinestra's special
perfume.
"After all these disyears of anticipation, you have no
reply?" the dyrmagnos sneered.
"There has never been any reply for you but this."
Raising his hands, Nysander launched the orbs of power
that burned against his palms.
I
The moon had passed its zenith by the time Seregil
came back to Blue Fish Street. It had been
a pointless day overall. With the Beggar Law in
force, most of his more valuable contacts had fled or
gone to ground. Those that he had managed to track down
had no fresh information on Plenimaran movements in
the city. If the enemy was in town, he was
keeping a low profile.
Weary as Seregil was, however, the sight of the
unlit lanterns in front of the inn brought him up
short. A tingle of presentiment prickled the
hairs on his neck and arms. Ducking quickly into a
shadowed doorway across the street, he scrutinized
the courtyard for a moment, then drew his sword and
crept cautiously across to the front door.
It was slightly ajar.
Leaving it untouched, he crept around to discover the
back door open as well. He pushed it wide with the
tip of his blade, tensed for attack, but there was no
sound from inside.
An unlucky door rilled his nostrils as he
entered the kitchen; the stale, flat smells of a
cold hearth and lamps left to gutter out on their
own. Taking out a lightstone, he saw nothing out of
place, except for Rhiri's pallet, which was
missing from its place near the hearth.

On the second floor the signs were more ominous.
Thryis and her family were not in their rooms and only
Cilia's bed appeared to have been slept in;-the
linens were thrown hastily back, and the coverlet hung
awry over the side. Next to the bed, an
overturned chair lay in the shattered remains of a
washbasin.
A grim heaviness settled in the pit of
Seregil's stomach as he moved on to the guest
rooms at the front of the inn. Only one had been
occupied. The unlucky carter and his son lay dead
in their beds, smothered with the bolsters.
The hidden panel leading to the stairs up to his
rooms appeared untampered with from the outside but
opening it, he found that the warding glyph at the base
of the stairs had been tripped. There were spots of
blood on the lower steps, and several were smeared where
more than one person had stepped in them before disthey'd
dried. The glyphs farther up were simply gone. Still
gripping his sword in his right hand, he drew his
poniard with his left hand and mounted the stairs.
The doors at the top of the stairs stood open, showing
darkness beyond. If there was anyone lurking in the disused
storage room, it was best to find out now while there was
still a chance of easy retreat. Fishing a lightstone from
a pouch at his belt, he tossed it into the room. The
stone skittered noisily across the floor,
illuminating the few crates and boxes scattered
there. No one jumped out to attack, but the floor
told a tale it didn't take Micum
Cavish to read; people had been in and out of his rooms, quite
a number of them. Some had been dragged and some had
been bleeding.
The final warding glymph on the door to the sitting
room was gone, too. Taking a deep breath,
Seregil flattened himself against the wall next to the
door frame and slowly turned the handle.
A band of eerie, shifting light spilled across the
floor at his feet, and with it came a horrendous
slaughterhouse stench. Weapons clutched at the
ready, he stepped inside. Even with all the warning
he'd had, his first glimpse of what lay beyond struck
like a blow.
Several lamps had been left burning, and pale,
unnatural flames danced on the empty hearth.
Someone had turned the couch to face the door, and on
it four headless bodies sat as if waiting for him
to return.
He knew who they were even before he looked past them
to the heads lined up on the cluttered mantelpiece.
The strange light cast their features into tortured
relief: Thryis, Diomis, Cilia, and
Rhiri seemed to look with dull incomprehension
toward their own
lyim Flewelling
corpses, which some monstrous wit had arranged in
attitudes of repose. Diomis leaned against his
mother, one arm draped over her bloody shoulders.
Cilia sat next to him, slumped against the remains
of Rhiri.
There was blood everywhere. It hung in congealed
ribbons from the mantelpiece and pooled on the
hearthstones below. It had dried in scabrous crusts
on the pitiful bodies. There were great sticky
smears and handprints on walls.
There had been a struggle. The dining table had been
knocked sideways, spilling a sheaf of parchment
onto an already blood- soaked carpet. The writing
desk was overturned in a litter of quills and
parchment, and the shelves to the left of it had been
pulled down. As he stooped to inspect the mess more
closely, something in the shadows beneath the workbench caught
his eye, stopping his breath in his throat.
Alec's sword.
He dragged it out and examined it closely. Dark
stains along its edge showed that Alec had put up a
fight before losing it. Gripping it by the hilt,
Seregil was surprised by a brief, irrational
burst of anger.

told him to stay at Watermead!
The door to his bedroom was shut, but bloody
footprints led inside. Taking a jar of
lightstones from a nearby shelf, he kicked the door
open and tossed them in.
An unearthly yowl burst out from inside and Seregil
raised his sword in alarm. It came again, ending in
a drawn-out snarl. Following the sound, he saw
Ruetha crouched on top of a wardrobe, eyes
glowing like swamp fire. She hissed at him, then
leapt down and scuttled away toward the front
door.
Nothing appeared to have been disturbed here except the
green velvet curtains of his bed. He never used
them, but someone had pulled them shut all around the bed.
Someone who'd left the bloody foot marks on the
carpet.
Seregil's breath sounded loud in his ears as he forced
himself across the room, knowing already whose body he'd find
when he pulled the hanging aside.
"No," he said hoarsely, unaware that he was
speaking aloud.
"No no no please no
-"
Gritting his teeth, he flung the curtain
aside.
There was nothing on the bed but a dagger-a dagger with a
hank of long yellow hair knotted around the hilt.
Seregil picked it

up with shaking hands, recognizing the black horn
grip inlaid with silver; it was the knife he'd
given Alec in Wolde.
For one blinding second he seemed to feel
Alec's thumb on his face again, reaching to smudge
over the clean spot on his cheek.
"Where is he?" Seregil hissed. Grabbing up his
sword,
he
rushed out into the sitting room again. "You bastards!
What have you done with him?"
An evil chuckle erupted beside him and Seregil
froze, scanning the room. The laugh came again,
lifting the hair in the back of his neck. He knew
that voice.
It was the voice of the apparition that had dogged him through
the Mycenian countryside; the one he'd fought through a
fever dream the night Alec had torn the wooden
disk from his neck.
But this time there was no black, misshapen
specter. The voice issued from the writhing lips of
Cilia's severed head.
"Seregil of Rhiminee and Aurenen!" Her glazed
eyes rolled in their sockets, seeking him. "We
found you at last, thief."
Diomis" jaws gaped with the same terrible voice.
"Did you think we would allow you to escape? You have
desecrated the sanctuary of Seriamaius, and
defiled his relics."
"The Eye and the Crown." It was Rhiri now, who'd
never had a voice in life.
"Thief! Defiler!" Thryis spat out, her withered
lips curling back in a leer.
"Defiler! Thief!" the other heads cried in
moaning, joyless chorus.
"Aura Elustri mdlrei, his
gasped Seregil, watching the grotesque performance
with a mixture of outrage and revulsion. "What have you
done with Alec? Where is he?"
They made no answer, but Rhiri's head tumbled
to the floor and rolled at him, snapping its jaws and
laughing, followed by the others.
"Forgive me, all of you." Feeling as if he were
trapped in the worst of nightmares, Seregil
raised his sword and hacked at the heads
until only a scattered mass of hair and brains
remained. In the midst of it he found four small
charms, charred human finger bones wrapped with
nightshade vine.
Choking back a wave of nausea, he cast a
suspicious eye over the bodies, still slumped together
on the couch.
"You deserved better than this," he whispered
thickly. "Somehow-somehow I'll make this right."
Lynn Flewelltag
ID:
Going back to his bedchamber, he pulled out his old
leather pack and thrust in a few essentials. Then
he wrapped Alec's dagger carefully in a large
scarf and slipped it inside his tunic.
In the sitting room he took Alec's bow and
quiver down from their hook over the bed and put them by the
door, not allowing himself to wonder whether they would ever be
needed again. The sword he slipped into his own
sheath; he had no plans for sheathing his own until he
was well away from here.
Skirting the mess on the hearth, he pulled the box
of loose jewels on the mantelpiece free
fronj a puddle of congealed blood and upended it
into his pack. The spoils of years of
casual pilfering tumbled out, glittering in the
unnatural light of the fire. Alec had sorted
them recently during a lesson on gem
appraisal. A layer of bright rubies slid into the
pack to fill the spaces between clothes and pouches, then
emeralds, opals, amethyst, a handful of gold and
diamond buttons they'd used for gaming stones.
His hands were beginning to shake. A lord's ransom
spilled over the lip of the pack but he left the
stones where they fell. Cinching the pack shut, he
carried it to the door, then turned for a last look at
the home he'd inhabited for nearly thirty years.
He'd been happy here, perhaps happier than anywhere
else in his life. Now all of it-the books,
weapons, tapestries and statues, the shelves of
accumulated relics and curiosities-all of it was
nothing more than stage dressing for the mocking tableau
centered around the mutilated corpses gathered at his
hearth.
Taking a large lamp from the table, Seregil
whispered a quick prayer and emptied the oil over the
bodies. Then he gathered every other lamp within reach,
flung them against the walls, and scattered a jar of
firechips over the spilled oil. Flames
sprang up, quickly spreading out into sheets
of hungry, purifying fire.
Shouldering the packs and weapons, Seregil fled
down the stairs, leaving the doors open behind him.
As he hurried past Cilia's room on his way
to the kitchen stairs, however, a muffled cry brought
him to a halt. Dropping everything but his sword, he
dashed into the room and flung the overturned chair
aside. There, tightly wrapped in thick
blankets to keep him still, Luthas lay squalling
in his small trundle bed.
Cilia had heard her attackers coming. In what little
time she must have had, she'd hidden her child, overturning
the chair and pulling the blankets down over the edge
of the bed to cover him from view.

He must have been asleep when I was in here before,
Seregil thought, gathering up the furious child.
And if he hadn "t cried-
As Seregil turned to go, he caught sight of himself
in Cilia's mirror. The image reflected there,
white-faced, eyes black with rage, might have been
his own vengeful ghost.
Smoke poured down through the ceiling boards as he
hefted the pack and weapons again and carried Luthas
downstairs. In the first, thin light of
dawn, the familiar back courtyard had an unreal
look, like a familiar place seen in a dream just
before it transforms into something sinister. The weight of
pack, swords, and child pulled at him, sapping his
strength.
"Thank the Lightbearer, there you are!" a familiar
voice called.
Turning in confusion, Seregil saw Nysander's young
servant Wethis coming around the corner of the inn on a
sorrel horse.
"I saw the smoke from up the street," Wethis
told him, reining in. His clothing was torn and he
had a bandage wound around one hand, Seregil noted
with a fresh pang of dread. "When no one answered out
front-was
"Everyone's dead," Seregil told him, his voice
coming out thin and strained. "What happened to you? What
are you doing here?"
"The Oreska was attacked last night," Wethis
answered, his voice cracking with emotion. "It was
terrible. Nysander- They found him in the lowest
vault-was
"Is he dead?" barked Seregil.
Wethis flinched. "I don't know. Valerius and
Hwerlu were with him when I left. They sent
me after you. You have to go at once!"
Seregil dropped his gear and thrust Luthas up at
the boy. "Take him, and have the rest of this brought to the
Oreska. And see that the rest of the horses get out
of the stable before the whole damn place goes up."
Leaving the boy to fend as well as he could, Seregil
dashed into the stable and bridled Cynril.
Patch nickered at him from the next stall. Alec
had taken the time last night to feed and cover her before
going up, never suspecting what lay in wait.
Mounted bareback, Seregil rode out past Wethis
and away from the burning inn without a backward glance.
The world seemed strangely muted as he galloped
toward the Oreska. The streets, the pale morning
sky, the sound of Cynril's hooves-all had a
vague, muffled air, as if he were observing the
scene from a distance through one of Nysander's magnifying
Lynn Flewelling
lenses. But somewhere behind the protective barrier of
shock, the anguish was building.
Not yet. Not yet. So much to do.
He pelted on through the streets, through the Oreska
gate and the scented gardens, not slowing his horse
until he reached the House itself. Reining in, he
leapt from the saddle and took the steps two
at a time.
The atrium reeked of smoke and magic. The
mosaic floor was scorched and cracked, the dragon
design nearly obliterated. Where the arched doors
leading to the museum had been, there was now a gaping
hole partially blocked by rubble.
Afterward, Seregil could not recall how he got
upstairs, or who had let him into the tower, but when
he finally stopped running, he was at Nysander's
bedroom door and Valerius was blocking his way.
"Is he alive?" Seregil panted, heart
hammering in his chest.
The drysian nodded, frowning. "Yes, for the moment
at least."
"Then let me pass. I've got to talk to him!"
Seregil tried to shoulder past but Valerius grabbed
his arm, holding him back with considerable insistence.
"Gently, Seregil. Gently," he warned.
"By all the medicine I know, he shouldn't have
survived such an attack. A good many others
weren't so fortunate. But all the same, he won't
let any of us ease his pain as much as we should
until he's spoken with you. Be quick and don't tax
his strength. He's got none to spare."
Stepping aside, Valerius opened the
door and followed Seregil in.
Nysander lay on his side beneath a clean white
sheet. His eyes were shut, his face slack.
Hwerlu knelt at the end of the bed, tears streaming from
his strange horse eyes as he played a song of
healing. Two unfamiliar drysians, a woman
and a boy, stood chanting softly nearby.
Valerius exchanged a brief word with them and they
withdrew.
Seregil went to the bed and knelt beside Nysander. The
wizard's breathing was so shallow Seregil could
scarcely hear it.
"What happened?" he whispered, gently touching the
old man's cheek. It was as cold and moist as
clay.
"There was a great noise in the night, like thunder and
battle," Hwerlu told him, still playing as he
spoke. "The sound of it woke us in our grove. As
I ran to the House, I saw a dark shape rise
above it, very large. It disappeared against the darkness of the
sky.

I ran on, and inside I found a scene of such
carnage-was The centaur's fingers faltered briefly
on the harp strings. "The intruders had
brought swordsmen as well as wizards. So many
dead!"
"But how?" Seregil asked in disbelief. "How
did they get so many in? lllior's Hands, this is
the Oreska House!"
"Through the front gate, and the sewers, it appears,"
Valerius said behind him.
"The sewers? But I thought that had all been taken
care of after Alec and I found out about Rhythel."
"As it turns out, the authorities concentrated
only on those routes that might lead toward the
Palace. It's also possible someone was paid to turn
a blind eye here and there. Whatever the case, just after the
alarm went up, another group, mostly swordsmen,
burst through the garden. How they got in unnoticed is
another mystery, but the main attack seems to have come
up through the vaults."
Seregil sank his head into his hands. "AH those
dead gate- runners this winter. By the Four, if
I'd gotten to Rythel sooner, we might have been
able to stop this!"
Nysander's eyelids fluttered slightly.
"Mardus," he whispered, the word scarcely audible.
"It was Mardus, I saw him, a dyrmagnos,
more-was
His voice failed, but his lips kept moving.
Seregil leaned down, placing his ear close
to Nysander's lips to catch the faint words.
"Eater of Death." It was hardly more than a breath,
but unmistakable. Nysander shuddered and closed his
eyes, fighting a wave of pain. Yet he struggled
on, forcing the words out breath by breath. "Where-Alec?"
"They took him, left me this." Seregil pulled
out the dagger and held it up for Nysander to see.
The wizard gazed at the lock of hair, then
squeezed his eyes shut as another spasm wrenched
through him.
"It's not your fault." The words felt like ashes in
Seregil's mouth. His emotional defenses were
beginning to erode, laying bare the first jagged shards of
rage and grief lying just beneath the surface.
"It has begun," Nysander gasped out, his agitation
clear. It took every ounce of will he possessed to go
on shaping the words. "One place and one time-in
Plenimar, beneath the pillar of the sky- The temple-
temple-was
lynn Flewelling
"A temple in Plenimar. Where, Nysander?
Damnation, you have to tell me where!"
"Synodical-was Nysander murmured
regretfully as blackness surged over him again.
"What? Nysander, what does that mean?" Seregil
turned to Valerius. "Isn't there anything you can do?
Alec's life may depend on it!"
Taking Seregil by the arm, Valerius drew him
away from the bed. "Give him a little time. He must
rest or he may never recover. You look like y.cd
use some attention yourself. I'll call for Darbia."
"I don't need anything," Seregil hissed through
clenched teeth, straining to see over the drysian's
shoulder as the larger man urged him toward the door.
"I've got to know what he meant! It may be too
late already."
"If he doesn't rest now he'll never be able
to tell you anything again. A few hours, perhaps less.
Don't leave the tower, I'll come to you as soon as
I've finished here. Now get out!" With a final
none-too-gentle shove, Valerius thrust
Seregil out into the corridor and shut the door in his
face.
Seregil stood there, alone in the corridor,
Alec's dagger clutched in one fist. Smoothing the
lock of hair between his fingers, he spoke half
aloud the words he'd bitten back in the sickroom.
"Tell me, Nysander, can your magic
protect him now?"
Micum felt the roundness of Kari's belly between them
as they embraced. Mag- yana's message sphere
hovered nearby, gleaming greenly in the corner of their
guest chamber at Lord Warnik's keep.
"I'm sorry, love, but something's happened and
Magyana's waiting." Micum gently stroked a
tear from her cheek. How many times had there been someone
waiting, calling him away? How many times had she
sent him on his way with that small, tight-lipped
smile?
"Go on then," she said brusquely, folding her
arms. "Sakor guide you safely back."
Shouldering his traveling bundle, Micum turned
to the sphere. "I'm ready."
A large oval of darkness yawned where the sphere had
been. With a final wave, he stepped through. An
instant later he found himself standing in Nysander's
casting room. A few feet away the wizard sat
on a low stool, looking utterly exhausted. Her
brocade robe was dirty and bloodstained, her long
silver hair in disarray over her shoulders.
"What's happened?" Micum asked in alarm.
Sinking down on one knee in front of her, he
took her hands in his and found them icy
cold.
"The Oreska House was attacked last night,"
she told him, her voice trembling.
J
lyim Flewelling
"Nysander was hurt terribly, and many others are
dead. I'd have brought you in sooner, but I had to rest
a bit first. Oh, Micum, it was terrible, so
terrible."
"Then they were right, after all," he groaned, gathering
the old woman in his arms. "It was the
Plenimarans?"
"Led by Duke Mardus himself. He had
necromancers, and a dyrmagnos."
"Where's Seregil? And Alec?"
Magyana shook her head. "Wethis was sent
to fetch them. They may be here already. Come, I must be
with Nysander."
Downstairs they met a drysian woman coming out of
Nysander's chamber with a basin and stained clothes.
"How is he?" asked Magyana.
"No worse," the woman replied gently.
Valerius was applying compresses to Nysander's chest
and side as they entered. He pulled the sheet back
over him as Micum approached, but not before
he'd seen the terrible burns there. Nysander appeared
to be asleep or unconscious, his face white as
carved marble. Magyana drew a chair to the head of the
bed and placed her hand on NySander's brow.
"He's got a dragon's own constitution,"
Valerius said quietly, stroking his unruly
black beard thoughtfully as he gazed down at
Nysander. "How he fights! He'll heal if I
can keep the infection from him. Have you seen Seregil
yet?"
"No, I only just arrived. But they're here?
They're all right?"
The drysian laid a hand on his arm and Micum's
heart sank. "Seregil burst in about half an
hour ago. He hasn't spoken to anyone except
Nysander, but Alec's not with him. Wethis says he
set fire to the Cockerel. As far as I know,
only the baby-was
"Damnation!" Micum spun for the door. "Where is
he?"
"The sitting room. If you-was
Micum didn't wait to hear more. Dashing the short
distance down the corridor, he found the door open.
Seregil stood leaning against the mantel, dressed in
what appeared to be borrowed breeches and
shirt. A great drift of maps and scrolls lay
spread out around one of the armchairs, as if he'd been
sitting there going through them earlier. There was a wine
cup on the floor beside it, but as he looked up,
Micum knew his friend was far from drunk. His pale
face was nearly expressionless, except for his
eyes. What Micum saw there sent a black stab
of dread through him.

"Did Alec tell you about all this?" Seregil
asked, far too calm for Micum's liking.
"The prophecy? Yes."'8Micum approached him
slowly, the way he would a maddened horse. "Where
is he? What happened at the Cockerel?"
Seregil held up something he'd been holding all
along, a dagger with a long lock of blond hair
knotted around it.
"Is he-?"
"I don't know."
Micum sank into a chair with a stricken groan.
"He was in such a lather to get back. He was
worried about you, I think, but I should've stopped him
from going back."
"Perhaps I can help," Valerius said from the open
doorway. Going to Seregil, he took the
dagger and held it to his brow, murmuring a prayer
or a spell.
"He's alive," he said, handing it back. "That's
all I can tell from this, but he is alive."
"But for how long, eh?" Thin lines of tension around
Seregil's eyes and mouth showed darkly in the
firelight as he took the dagger back, clutching it
against his heart. "We know what these bastards are
capable of. It
was
Mardus after all, you know. Nysander saw him during
the attack. And I think it's safe to assume that
those were his men who came to the Cockerel, too."
"They found you."
Seregil's lips quirked into a parody of his old
grin that sent another chill through Micum. "In a
manner of speaking," he said, his voice nearly
toneless now as he stared into the fire. "Alec walked
into an ambush. I didn't show up until it was
all over." His hands were trembling visibly now as
he leaned against the mantel.
Giving Micum a compassionate nod, Valerius
slipped quietly out.
"They killed- They killed everyone," Seregil
whispered. "In my rooms. Except
Luthas. Wethis has him. It's burning now, the
whole place. Everything."
Micum shook his head as the horror of it sank
in. "But Cilia, Thryis?"
"All of them."
Seregil's face seemed to crumple in on itself like
a parchment thrown on a fire. "I did this,
Micum," he gasped raggedly, clutching his head in
both hands. "I brought this down on them, led the
bastards to them. They were-was
Lynn Rewelling
Micum said nothing, simply put his arms around his
friend and held him tight as Seregil shook
helplessly with harsh, strangled sobs. In all the
time Micum had known him, he'd seldom seen
Seregil weep, and never as violently as this.
Whatever he'd seen at the inn, whatever had been
done there, it had wrenched something from his very soul.
"You couldn't have known," he said at last.
"Of course I should have!" Seregil shouted. Jerking
away, he stared at Micum with wild, desolate
eyes. "All the years they protected me, kept
my secrets. Slaughtered!
Slaughtered,
as if they were animals, Micum! Then the
shit-eating carrion scum- They cut off-was
He sank to his knees, burying his face in his
hands as another fit of weeping rocked him.
Micum knelt, one hand on Seregil's shoulder,
and listened with mounting horror and outrage as he choked
out the details of what he'd found, what had been
done to the bodies of those good people.
When he'd finished, Micum gathered him in again,
unresisting now, and held him until Seregil had
cried himself limp and silent. He remained there,
leaning against Micum, for a moment longer, then sat
back on his heels and wiped his face on his
shirttail. His eyes were red, but he looked calmer
now.
Micum's knees ached from kneeling. Sitting down
among the strewn papers, he stretched one leg, then
the other. "Tell me more about Alec."
Seregil held up the black and silver dagger, which
he'd been clutching through the whole outburst. "It's
his. They left it for me so I'd be sure to know
they had him. From the looks of the room, they killed the
others, and then waited for some length of time, hoping
we'd show up. I found his sword under a table. He
gave them a fight before they brought him down; there was
blood on the edge of the blade." He
took a deep breath, fighting for control. "I showed
this to Nysander when I got here this morning. I think
he knows where they're headed. He was trying to tell
me when he fainted, but I think I may have figured
it out."
Seregil retrieved a map from the scattered pile
by the chair. As he spread it on the floor between them,
Micum recognized the outline of the Plenimaran
peninsula, but the spidery writing that covered it was
unintelligible.
"What is that? I can't read any of it."

"Nysander's own writing system," Seregil
explained. "I learned it back in my apprentice
days. Before he passed out, Nysander spoke of a
temple in Plenimar, saying it was under "the pillar
of the sky." At first I thought it must be a monument
of some sort and didn't have much hope of finding it.
But look here." He pointed to a place on the
northwestern coastline just above the isthmus. "See
that small cross there? It marks the position of
Mount Kythes, only here it's labeled
"Yothgash-horagh." his
Seregil looked up at Micum, the old intensity
rekindling. "In the ancient tongue of
Plenimar, that means Sky Pillar Mountain."
"Under the pillar of the sky." Micum looked at the
map again. "You do realize, of course, that this place
is well behind enemy lines now?"
"Yes, but if I understood what Nysander was trying
to tell me, it's imperative that the four of us be there
at some specific time. "One place, one time,"
he said, and "synodical." his
"What's that?"
Seregil shook his head, frowning. "I don't know
yet, but it's important."
"It's all to do with that damn prophecy of yours,
isn't it?" Micum scowled. "But what in hell
did the Plenimarans attack the Oreska for?"
"They were after that wooden coin I stole from Mardus
back in Wolde. Nysander had it and at least one
other item of interest to them. He'd hidden them down
in the lowest of the vaults. That's where the worst of the
wizard battle took place."
Getting to his feet, Seregil straightened his
ill-fitting clothes and headed for the door. "Come on,
I want to see if Nysander's conscious yet. Then
I'll need a look at the damage down below."
Micum followed, thinking of Mardus, and the fact that
he'd taken Alec instead of killing him
on the spot. This was tied in with what he'd found up
in the Fens, he knew, but it was best not to think of that
just now.
Valerius met them outside the bedroom door.
"Well, you're certainly looking better," he
observed, looking Seregil over with gruff
approval. "Red eyes, flushed cheeks. A good
cry's just what you needed. Damn shame about the inn.
That baby's fine, by the way. I've sent him to the
temple for the time being. I suppose you'll tell me
about the others when you're ready."
Seregil nodded. "Can I see Nysander now?"
Lyra Rewelling
f
"Still sleeping. Magyana and Darbia are watching
him. They'll send for us as soon as there's any
change."
"How soon do you think he'll wake up?" asked
Micum.
"It's difficult to say. These old wizards are
strange creatures; he has his own way of fighting
for life." Valerius cocked an eyebrow in
SeregiFs direction. "I gather you haven't
heard about There?"
"What about There?" Seregil asked
sharply.
"He's gone," snorted the drysian. "They've
searched high and low. He's not among the dead, nor
anywhere in the House or the city. My guess is,
he's with whoever it was attacked here last night."
"That traitorous bastard!" Seregil snarled.
"He knew Nysander's ways, his habits, not
to mention something of the Oreska defenses. There's more
than iron grates guarding the sewer channels under
this place. He let them in! Bilairy's
Guts, he let them still"!"
"We don't know that," Micum warned but Seregil
wasn't listening.
"He knew whenever I was around, and where I lived!"
White with anger, Seregil slammed a fist against the
wall.
"Agrai methiri dos prakra,
he betrayed all of us. I'll feed him his own
balls when I find him.
Lasot arma kriunti-
still"
Micum took the news more calmly. "If he was in
on it, then so was Ylinestra. I suppose she's
gone, too?"
Valerius shook his head. "Her body was
in the vaults, among the enemy's dead."
Seregil loosed another sizzling volley of
Aurenfaie curses. "How many of the Oreska
House were killed?"
"Eight wizards, seventeen apprentices,
twenty-three guards and servants, last I heard.
And there are plenty of others who may not survive
their wounds."
"And the enemy?"
"Twenty-seven dead."
Seregil gave the drysian a questioning look. "And the
others? Wounded, prisoners?"
"Not a one," Valerius replied darkly. "That
dyrmagnos creature saw to that herself. According to those who
witnessed the fight, as soon as Mardus and his
creature had disappeared from the vaults, and I do
mean "disappeared" in a thaumaturgic sense, every
one of the surviving Plenimaran swordsmen there and up
in the atrium

just fell down dead where they stood. I've seen the
corpses; there's not a mortal wound on them."
"I'll need to see themea""said Seregil.
"I rather suspected you would. They've been laid out in
the west garden."
"Good. But first I want to see the vault."
Tiles and rubble grated beneath their boots as
Seregil and Micum crossed the atrium to the
museum chamber. Whatever magic had blasted the
doors from their hinges had carried through and smashed half
the cases in the chamber. The case holding the hands
of the necromancer was among these; the hands lay palm
up among the splinters and shards like huge brown
insects.
There were people everywhere in the vaults now. As they made
their way down one level after another they met
servants and apprentices carrying up rescued
artifacts, and wizards weeping or wandering past in
stunned silence.
A doorkeeper at the final door let them through
without question. Torches and wizard's lights lit the
maze of brick-paved passageways. By their light
Seregil followed the traces of battle: a
bloodied dagger abandoned at the turning of a
hallway, dark smears and spatters on the pale
stone walls, shattered pieces of an ivory rod,
a corselet buckle, the charred remains of a
wizard's robe.
Micum nudged a broken sword with his foot, then
spread his arms to find that he could nearly
touch both walls at once. "Sakor's Flame,
it must have been a slaughter."
The sound of voices guided them the last of the way
to Nysander's long-hidden cache hole behind an
unremarkable expanse of wall halfway down one
of the innermost corridors. A blacked hole a
few feet above the floor led into darkness. Beside it
stood a young assistant wizard Seregil vaguely
recognized, together with several servants:
"You're Nysander's friend, aren't you?" she said.
"Magyana told me you might come."
"This is it, then?" he said, peering into the hole.
"Yes, it's a room of containment, masterfully
done. I don't suppose anyone but Nysander
knew it was here all these years."
"Obviously, someone else guessed," Seregil
retorted humorlessly. "Where did the attack come
from?"
Lynn Flewelng
The girl colored indignantly as she pointed
farther down the corridor. "There's a breach in the
wall at the far end of this passage where a sewer
channel runs within a few yards of the wall. As you
say, they seemed to know just where to look."
She and the others retreated, leaving Seregil
and Micum to their investigation.
"Thero could have known," Micum admitted, watching
Seregil take out his tool roll and select a
lightwand. "He might have guessed. Perhaps Nysander
even told him."
"No. He didn't." Stooping, SeregiJust
inspected the jagged opening. "Illior's Fingers, the
stonework is three feet thick here, but there's no
debris. I see something shiny on the far edge,
though."
The opening was large enough for Seregil to wiggle through.
Reaching in, he ran his fingertips cautiously over
what felt like metallic nodules beading a section
of broken stonework. "It feels like- Of course,
it's silver. And something melted it; it ran like wax
before it cooled. I'm going in for a look."
Micum frowned as he peered doubtfully into the dark,
cramped space. "Do you think it's safe? Nysander
must have had one hell of a lot of magic protecting
whatever he had hidden in there."
"Any safeguards that existed must surely have been
destroyed," the wizard said, placing his palms against
the stone above the hole. "I sense only the
residue."
Holding the lightstone in one hand, Seregil
squeezed in headfirst. It was a tight fit. Jagged
stone scraped at his hands and belly as he crawled
through to the small chamber beyond.
"I'm in," he called back to the others. "It is
a room of sorts, but too small to stand up in."
"What's in there?" asked Micum, peering in at
him.
"Nothing. It's empty. But every surface from floor
to ceiling is all black, and covered with magical
symbols."
Seregil touched his palm to the wall beside him and
recognized the soft, almost velvety texture of the
surface at once; rubbing at a small section of
it with his sleeve, he uncovered gleaming metal.
"It's silver, the whole room is sheathed with it."
He was not surprised; taking all the details
into consideration, he knew it to be nothing more than a
larger version of the silver-lined box Nysander had
given him to carry the crystal crown. "And here at the
back there's a shelf running the width of the wall."
Examining this, he found three areas of bright metal
on the

shelf, as if whatever had sat there had kept it from
tarnishing. The central mark was roughly
circular and about the size of his palm. To the left was
a smallerbut more perfectly round circle. To the
right was a large square of silver, not so bright as the
other two. Seregil recognized the last two
outlines as those of the boxes holding the coin and crown,
but what had the central object been? Judging by the
relative lack of tarnish, it had been there the
longest of the three, proving Alec's supposition that
Nysander had been guarding something long before they had
brought him the disk.
Bending over the mark with his light, he touched the
outline, tracing it with his finger-
-
his vision dissolved into a brief curtain of sizzling
sparks, then darkness.
A single clear, attenuated note broke the
silence surrounding him and for as long as it lasted he
knew nothing else. It pierced him, bathed him,
dancing along on the threshold dividing pleasure from
pain. Gradually other notes joined the first and they
had form, long heavy forms that gradually wrapped together
like the strands of a great rope.
And he was one of those strands, twisted tight and drawn
along with the rest toward some destination. It was not fear that
shot through him now, but an horrific elation.
Other sounds gradually filtered in from beyond the
umbilicus, and these were different.
Removed.
Not of the flow.
Countless black-feathered throats raising a deafening
collective cry that swelled to a roar of diseased
laughter, then faded away as the flow passed on.
Human screams, voices crying out in every
language of the world.
The clash of battle.
Impossible explosions.
He burrowed deeper into the umbilical bundle but
the intrusive sounds followed, rising to an awful
crescendo before they faded as quickly as they had come.
Silence, gravid with a sense of immediacy.
At last another sound crept in between the strands;
Seregil knew this sound and it inexplicably filled
him with a greater dread than all the rest.
Lynn Flewelling
It was the heavy rumble of ocean surf-
"Seregil?"
The sound of Micum's worried voice broke through
the vision, yanking him back to the cramped chamber.
"You all right in there?" Micum called again.
"Yes, yes, of course," Seregil
replied thickly, although suddenly he didn't feel
all right. He felt pissed as a newt.
Rising slowly, he staggered back to the opening and
pulled himself through. Micum helped him to his feet,
but his legs didn't seem to want to support him just
yet. Sliding down with his back to the wall, he
rested his elbows on his knees.
"What happened in there?" Micum demanded, studying
him with apparent concern. "You don't look right."
"I don't know." There had been something, a fleeting
glimpse of-what? Gone, nothing.
Seregil scrubbed his fingers back through his hair
to clear his head. "Must have been some residual
effect of Nysander's magic, or a pocket of
bad air maybe. I just went a little light-headed.
I feel better now."
"You were saying something about a shelf in there," said
Micum. "Did you find something?" -- "Just the
marks. From the coin and the crown and the bowl."
"What bowl?"
Seregil blinked up at Micum. "I don't
know. I just-know,"
For the first time since he'd learned of Nysander's
prophecy Seregil felt the faint, chill brush
of fear, but it was tempered with a sudden burst
of grim anticipation.
The blare of battle horns brought Beka up out of
sleep just after dawn. Grabbing her sword, she ran
from the tent. "To arms! To arms!" a messenger shouted,
riding through the encampment. "An attack from the eastern
hills. To arms!"
Shading her eyes, Beka looked across the small
plain that lay between the camp and a line of hills a
mile to the east. Even with the sun in her eyes she could
see dark ranks of horsemen and foot soldiers in
the distance, perhaps as much as a regiment. The Queen's
Horse was still at half strength; Wolf
Squadron was patrolling the supply route that
stretched back to the Mycenian coast twenty miles
to the south.
Sergeant Braknil rushed up fully armed, his
blond beard bristling. "What is it,
Lieutenant?"
"Look there," said Beka, pointing.
"Damn! The scouts from Eagle troop said those
hills were clear yesterday." The edge of Plenimaran
territory lay more than twenty miles to the east.
The rest of the turma scrambled from their tents in
various-stages of readiness.
"Full armor," shouted Beka, dashing
back to finish dressing. Outside, she could hear
Portus,

Lynn Flewelltng
Braknil, and Mercalle barking at their riders.
"Lances and swords! Come on now, this is it!"
Minutes later all thirty riders were mounted and
ready. Their chain mail, and the white horse and
sword insignia on the fronts of their green
tabards, showed bravely in the early morning light.
Beka gave them a satisfied once-over, then led
the way to where Captain Myrhini and the troop's
standard-bearer were waiting. Lieutenant Koris"
Second Turma galloped up to join them.
Myrhini sat her white charger and barked out orders
in a voice that carried over the general outcry of the
camp.
"Commander Klia wants our troop to hold this far
right end of the battle line. Commander Perns'
squadron will be to our left. Lieutenant Beka,
I want your turma on our right. Koris, you've
got the left. We'll show these sneaky bastards that
you have to get up earlier than this to catch the Queen's
Horse in bed on such a fine morning. Form up!"
Beka turned to her riders. "Sergeant
Mercalle, you've got the center of our section.
Sergeant Braknil, take right; Portus, the
left."
The three decuriae fell into formation, lances waving
like the spines on a sea urchin. Watching their
faces, Beka saw in them a mix of fierceness and
elation.
And fear.
They were a young group, among the youngest in the regiment
and, despite all their hard training, they hadn't
seen any worse action than their skirmish with
bandits weeks ago. This was just as unexpected as that
had been, but a hundred times more daunting.
Thirty-three faces turned to Beka as she
buckled on her white- crested helm. She knew
as she looked at them that no matter how brave they
were or how well they fought, there were bound to be some who
wouldn't live to see the sun set.
"We'll show "em today, right, Lieutenant?"
called Corporal Kallas, giving her a
nervous, cocky grin.
She grinned back. "Damn right we will! Honor,
strength, and mercy, First Turma."
Waving bows and lances, they returned the cry.
The trumpet signal "canter advance"
came down the line. Unsheathing her sword, Beka
brandished it and yelled out, "Blood and Steel, First
Turma!"
"Blood and Steel!" they roared back at her,
shaking their lances.

The rumble of hooves and harness rang out on the
morning air as the line advanced to meet the enemy
cavalry. The trumpets sounded again, and the line
sprang forward at a gallop across the plain.
Spring was creeping slowly up into Mycena and their
horses kicked up clods of half-frozen mud as
they ran.
As the two forces hurtled at each other, closing the
distance to seconds, Beka felt only a deadly
stillness as she marked an oncoming Plenimaran
officer. Both sides set up a blood-chilling
battle cry as the two forces collided-cries
quickly swelled by the screams of horses and
soldiers.
Myrhini's troop was in the thick of it from the
outset. By midmorning they had battled their way behind
the enemy's flank. Regrouping, they wheeled back
to attack the rear guard, only to have the Plenimaran
cavalry fade away like smoke before wind
at their advance, leaving a line of archers and pikemen
in their wake to meet the Skalan charge.
Bloodied to the elbows, Beka and her remaining
riders heard the trumpets sound the advance again and
rode down on the enemy line through a hail of arrows.
As she rode, Beka glimpsed soldiers falling
and riderless horses veering wildly across the field.
Sergeant Portus went down under his own horse, but
there was no time to stop for him.
Plowing into the ranks of infantry, Beka's turma
fanned out, striking left and right with swords as they
pressed their mounted advantage.
Hewing her way through the chaos, Beka caught a
welcome glimpse of regimental standards on the far
side of the melee.
"Look there," she shouted to the others. "Second
Turma's with us. Close the gap!"
She was wheeling her horse for a renewed charge when
an enemy soldier struck at her with a javelin,
catching her a glancing blow across the front of her
left thigh just below the edge of her mail shirt.
He struck at her again, aiming for her throat.
Beka rocked back in the saddle and grabbed for the
shaft, using the man's own forward momentum to pull
him off balance. As he staggered forward she
struck him over the head with her sword. He fell
back and disappeared under the crush of fighters surging
around them.
Lynn Flewelltng
Looking up, she saw Second Turma's standard
tilt drunkenly in the distance, then disappear.
Cursing, Beka called out new orders and spurred
forward to aide Corporal Nikides, who was about
to be skewered from behind.
The battle raged on into early afternoon as the two
forces battered each other in repeated charge and
melee. There was no quarter given to the dead or
dying; those who weren't carried from the field were
trampled into the cold, reeking mud. Combatants
on both sides were so filthy that it was difficult
to tell friend from foe.
Though outnumbered, the Skalans refused to break and
finally the Plenimarans gave way, disappearing back
into the hills as quickly and mysteriously as they'd come.
Beka gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on
other things while the troop surgeon tugged the last
stitches tight, closing the gash in her leg.
The hospital tent was crowded, the air rank with the
stench of the wounded. Moans and cries came from all
sides as the more seriously hurt begged for
help, water, or death. A few feet away, a
man screamed as an arrow was pulled from his chest.
Dark tilde blood bubbled out ominously from the
wound. When he cried out again, more weakly this time, air
from his punctured lung whistled through the hole.
The gash on Beka's thigh was a deep one and it
hurt like hell now, though she'd hardly noticed it
during the battle. No one had been more surprised
than she when she'd fainted across her horse's neck
when the fighting was over.
"There now, that should heal nicely if it doesn't
fester," Tholes assured her, laying his needle
aside and pouring a bit of sour wine over the wound.
"Vinia will bind it up so you can ride."
There was a stir at the door of the hospital tent as
Commander Klia entered, flanked by her three remaining
captains, Myrhini, Perris, and Ustes. All
four officers were covered with the filth of battle and
Beka noted that Myrhini was limping on a bandaged
foot. Captain Ustes, a tall, black-bearded
noble, wore his sword arm in a sling and Perris had
a stained bandage around his brow. Klia alone
appeared to have come off without a scratch, although word was
she'd been in the thick of it the whole time.
Magic,
Beka wondered, or
just charmed skill?
Klia was a

skillful tactician, to be sure, but it was her
preference for leading from the front that made her so
popular with her squadron. After exchanging a word with
one of the surgeons, she moved off among the wounded,
praising and encouraging them, and asking for details of the
battle as the fighters had seen it.
Myrhini spotted Beka and hobbled over. "First
Turma distinguished itself again today. I saw you break
through the line. How's the leg?"
Beka grimaced as Tholes" assistant finished
bandaging her thigh. Hauling her torn breeches up,
she flexed her leg. "Not so bad, Captain. I
can ride."
"Good. Klia wants reconnaissance patrols out
before dawn tomorrow. What state is your turma in?"
"Last I knew for certain, four dead including
Sergeant Portus, and thirteen still unaccounted for.
As soon as I get out of here I'll round up the
rest and let you know." The truth was, she dreaded the
final count. Lying here, she'd been unable to block
the memory of young Rethus' broken body
trampled in the mud. He'd been the first to stand with her
during their first fight with the bandits.
Myrhini shook her head grimly. "Well, you
may be better off than some. Captain Ormonus
was killed in the first charge, along with most of his
second turma. All told, we've lost nearly
a third of the squadron."
Klia came over and squatted down beside Myrhini.
Beka made her commander an awkward salute from where
she lay. Klia looked older than her
twenty-five years today. Tired lines had sunk in
around her eyes and mouth and creased the smooth brow below
her dark widow's peak.
"A force that large-was Klia growled under her breath,
tugging absently at the end of her long brown
braid. "A full regiment of Plenimaran
cavalry and foot soldiers boiling down out of
hills we've been patrolling for a week!"
She pinned Beka with an appraising look. "How
do you suppose they managed that, Lieutenant?"
Beka looked out the tent flap to the distant hills
visible beyond. "There are hundreds of little valleys
up there. Anyone who knew the area could sneak
small groups into them, keep quiet, no fires.
When the time came, they'd send out runners
with orders to mass at some central point."
Klia nodded. "That seems to be the general
opinion. Myrhini
lynn Flewelltng
tells me you're a good tracker. If you learned
any of it from your father and Seregil, then I know you're
better than most. I want your turma to go up
into those hills tomorrow, see what you can find."
"Yes, Commander!" Beka sat up and saluted again.
"Good. I can give you a few more riders if you think
you'll need them."
Beka considered the offer, then shook her head.
"No, we can move faster and quieter if there aren't
too many of us."
Klia clapped her on the shoulder. "All8right,
then. This is like finding adders in the haymow, I know.
Find what you can and send back word. Don't engage
unless you're cornered. Myrhini, who else are you
sending?"
"Lieutenant Koris is taking a decuria
north into the steeper country. The rest of his turma will
go up the central pass with me."
"I've sent word to Phoria that we need
reinforcements here," Klia told them, rising to go.
"With any luck the rest of the regiment will come
up from the coast in a day or so. Good luck to you
both."
"Take care of yourself, Commander." Myrhini grinned,
thumping the toe of Klia's boot with her fist.
"Don't go getting yourself gallantly killed while
I'm gone."
"I'll wait until you get back," Klia shot
back wryly. "I wouldn't want you to miss it."
"Sakor touched!" Myrhini muttered, watching her
friend stride away. "Good luck to you, Beka, and
take care."
"Thanks. I will," Beka said.
When Myrhini was gone, she got up and looked around
for familiar faces among the wounded. She soon
found some-too many, in fact. Ariani, a rider in
BrakniFs decuria, beckoned to her from a back
corner of the tent.
She was wounded but looked able to ride. Some of those with
her hadn't been so lucky. Mikal had taken a
spear in the belly, and Thela had a shattered leg.
Next to her, Steb sat slumped against his friend
Mirn, one hand pressed to a bloody dressing over
his left eye. That wasn't the worst of it, though.
The little group was gathered around the body of another
comrade. It was Aulos, Kallas' twin.
A Plenimaran foot soldier had unhorsed him just
before the retreat, then hacked his lower belly open.
His brother had carried him off the field and now sat
cradling Aulos' head on his lap.

Beka felt her stomach go into a slow lurch. The
surgeon had cut the remains of Aulos' uniform
and chain mail away, only to find that there was not enough of
his abdomen left to stitch back together. White and
panting, the young man lay staring mutely up at his
brother, their faces mirrors of agony. They'd
always been inseparable, Beka recalled sadly,
equally quick to sing or fight.
"They gave him a draught, but he still feels it,"
Kallas said softly as she knelt down beside him.
Tears were coursing down his cheeks, but he remained
motionless, patient as stone. "Tholes says there's
nothing to do but to let him go. But he won't! He
hangs on." Kallas paused, closing his eyes.
"As his kinsman, Lieutenant, I ask
permission-to spur him on."
Beka looked down into the wounded man's face,
wondering if he understood what was going on. Aulos
locked eyes with her and nodded slightly, mouthing
Please.
"Find someone, Mirn. Quickly!" Beka ordered.
Mirn hurried off, returning a moment later with
an orderly who quickly opened an artery in Aulos'
leg. The wounded man's labored breathing slowed almost
at once. With a last long sigh, he turned his
face to his brother's chest and died.
"Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light your
way home," Beka said, speaking the soldier's
brief prayer for the dead. The others echoed it in a
ragged chorus.
"Those of you who can ride, help Kallas bury
him, then find the rest of the turma. The rest of you
stay here and wait for transport to the coast. You
fought bravely, all of you. Captain Myrhini's
proud of you. So am I."
Accepting the murmured thanks of the others, she
limped outside as quickly as her leg allowed, only
to be met by the sight of scores of bodies lined up
on the ground like bundles of harvested grain.
Syrtas was there, and Arna, Lineus, and Sergeant
Portus. They lay looking up at the blue sky
with empty eyes, like dirty, broken dolls discarded
once and for all.
"Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light-was
Beka's voice failed her. How many more
times would she have to say that parting blessing today? Wiping a
hand roughly across her eyes, she whispered the rest.
"Lieutenant Beka?" It was Zir, calling to her
from the next hospital tent. He appeared to be
unhurt, but his face was deathly pale. "It's
Sergeant Mercalle- She's in here."
lyim Flewelltng
Squaring her shoulders, Beka followed him back
into the stinking dimness.
The surgeons must have given Mercalle something for
pain, for she smiled sleepily up at Beka.
Both arms were splinted, and one of her legs. There were
bandages wrapped tightly around her chest and rib
cage, as well, and blood had seeped through these below
her right breast and on her left side.
Beka knelt and rested a hand lightly on the
sergeant's shoulder. "By the Flame, what happened
to you?"
"Damned horse-was Mercalle rasped, shaking her
head slightly. "When I heal up, I'm joining the
infantry."
"She got thrown and trampled," Zir whispered.
"Corbin was carrying her off the field when they both
got hit with arrows. He was killed. I got her
on my horse and brought her in. Tholes
expects she'll live."
"Thank the Maker for that. Where are Kaylah and the
others?" Beka asked.
"She's out looking for the missing ones, Lieutenant.
You saw-was Zir nodded in the direction of the bodies
outside, and she saw tears glistening in his eyes.
"We'd just fought our way into the open, and thought we'd
have a moment to collect ourselves. But there were
Plenimaran bowmen there, too. By the Flame,
Lieutenant, they hit us hard! Arna, Syrtas,
and the others-they were in the lead and didn't have time to turn
their horses."
Beka clasped his hand. "Go on. Find Kaylah
and the rest. I'll be along soon."
"Lieutenant?" Mercalle's eyes were bleary, but
she fixed Beka with a direct look. "You were fine
on the field, Lieutenant. Real fine. And
you're fine with them off the field, too. But you can't
care too much, you know? You've got to care for them, but
not too much. It's a hard thing to learn, but you won't
last if you don't."
"I know." Beka sat a moment longer with her,
realizing how much she was going to miss the older
woman's presence in the turma. "When you get
back to Skala-if you need anything-my father
is Micum Cavish, of Watermead near
Rhiminee."
Mercalle smiled. "I thank you for that,
Lieutenant, but I've got a couple daughters
back home. I'll try and get word to your folks,
though."
There didn't seem to be much left to say after that.
With a final word of thanks, Beka left the tent and
limped past the corpses in search of the living.

The Plenimarans had mown through the encampment,
destroying tents, wagons, and anything else in their
path. Soldiers were at work everywhere now, trying
to salvage what they could from the tangled wreckage.
Beka was just wondering which direction to try first when she
heard her name called again and saw Corporal
Rhylin waving to her from atop an overturned
sutler's wagon.
"Praise the Flame!" he exclaimed, jumping
down. He was taller than she by nearly a head and
had an awkward, storklike quality when on foot
that belied his prowess as a horseman.
"We didn't know what to think when you disappeared at
the end," he told her. "There's been all sorts
of rumors. Someone claimed Captain
Myrhini went down."
"She's fine and so am I," Beka assured him,
though the stitches felt like burning claws in her
skin, "Where is everybody?"
"Just over that way." Rhylin waved a hand back beyond
the line of hospital tents, adding glumly,
"What's left of us, anyway. You'd better
take my horse."
"We'll ride double. I want everyone together."
Rhylin swung up into the saddle and extended a hand.
Gritting her teeth as another hot rope of pain
pulled taut across her thigh, Beka climbed up
behind him and gripped his belt.
"What can you tell me?" she asked as they set off.
"There are about a dozen of us accounted for who aren't
too badly wounded. Sergeant Braknil's in
charge of them. Mercalle's hurt badly and
Sergeant Portus-was
"I saw him go down," said Beka, hearing the sudden
strain in the man's voice. Rhylin had been
Portus' corporal.
"Anyway, Sergeant Braknil sent some of us out
looking for you. The others are scouting up food and
gear," he told her.
Thank the Flame for that at least,
Beka thought gratefully, imagining the stocky,
blunt-spoken sergeant striding through the wreckage
to whip things into order again.
"That's good. Mim, Kallas, and Ariani will be
back later. Steb and Thela are out of it for the time
being-was
"Aulos?" Rhylin asked, and Beka felt him
tense again. He'd come into the regiment with the twin
brothers. They were from the same town.
"Dead," she told him. There was no use glossing
it over, she
Lynn Flewelling
thought, feeling weary for the first time that day. Like
Mercalle had warned, death was something they'd all
better get used to, and quickly.
As expected, Braknil had things well in hand.
Food had been salvaged from somewhere, a few tents
were up and, best of all, a dozen or more horses were
hobbled nearby, a good many of them sporting
Plenimaran tack.
A cheer went up as the others caught sight of them
riding up.
"What's the word, Lieutenant?" Braknil asked
as the others gathered anxiously around.
He
had a bloody rag wrapped around one forearm, but it
didn't seem to be slowing him down.
Beka counted fourteen in all, plus the sergeant.
"The word is we got caught with our britches
down," she replied wryly. "Commander Klia
isn't too happy about that, but she thinks that First
Turma can help make it right. What do you say?"
Another cheer went up, mingled with angry shouts of
"Let's raid the bastards!", "Blood and
Steel!", and "Lead on like you did today,
Lieutenant, we'll follow!"
Beka eased herself down on a crate and motioned for
silence. "It looks like two decuriae will have to do for
now. Rhylin, I'm making you sergeant of Second
Decuria. Who do you have left?"
Rhylin looked around. "Nikides, Syra,
Kursin, Tealah, Jareel, and Tare."
"Braknil, what about First Decuria?"
The sergeant waved at the two exhausted young men beside
him. "Just Arbelus and Gilly, so far."
"And us," called Steb, who'd just arrived with
Kallas, Ariani, and Mirn.
"You're missing an eye!" Braknil said
gruffly.
"I've still got one left," Steb
replied, though it was clear he was in pain. "Come
on, Sergeant. There aren't enough of us left to spare
me. I can fight."
"All right, then," the sergeant said with a shrug.
"Corporal Kallas, you're still sound?"
Still deeply shaken by the death of his brother, Kallas
nodded grimly.
"So that makes seven in each decuria so far,"
Beka observed, counting them up. "All of you who were
with Sergeant Mercalle, step forward. Tobin,
Barius, you go into Braknil's decuria. Marten,
Kaylah, and Zir, you're with Rhylin. As soon

as we've got horses and gear sorted out, we have
orders to head up into those hills as scouts."
"We couldn't make a worse job of it than
Eagle troop," Kaylah muttered. Others
growled angry agreement.
"Never mind that. The Plenimarans pulled a good
trick this morning, it's true. It's up to us
to make sure they don't do it again. We're going
to poke our nose down every gully and snake hole
until we find out where they're hiding. They can't
conceal that many men and horses for long now that we know
what they're up to. Sergeants, see that
everyone scrounges up a decent horse, patrol
gear, and a week's rations. Stow your tabards again,
too. Maybe we can pull a few surprises of
our own, eh? We ride out at dusk."
Beka sat where she was for a moment, watching the
remains of her command bustle about. Most were sporting
minor wounds. It was probably a mistake to take
Steb, but as he'd pointed out, they couldn't afford
to spare anyone who could still ride.
Twelve riders and two sergeants lost in a single
day's fighting,
she thought,
and half of those dead.
It was a lucky thing they had a mission to take up
their thoughts tonight.
A white linen pavilion had been erected for the
Oreska dead. As Seregil and Micum passed
by it the next morning, they heard soft chants and the
weeping of those preparing the bodies for pyre or
grave.
Farther on, the enemy corpses lay under the open
sky. Judged by their clothing, they could have been
laborers or thieves, but most of them had the build
and scars of soldiers. A Scavenger cart stood
ready nearby. Untended and unmourned, they
would be hauled away and burnt without ceremony.
"Valerius said that after the attack was over, any of
Mardus' men who weren't already dead just dropped in
their tracks," Micum mused as he and Seregil
walked around the bodies, seeking faces they'd seen
with Mardus in Wolde all those months ago. "You
figure the dyrmagnos did that?"
"Probably," Seregil said. He was still wearing his
baggy borrowed clothes and looked as if he hadn't
slept in a week. Micum knew for a fact that
he'd sat awake with Nysander all night. They
both had.
"But I doubt they killed all of their own people,"
Seregil went on, taking a closer look at a
ragged, one-handed beggar. "Have you noticed that no one
remembers seeing Mardus

and the necromancers leave? Except Hwerlu,
maybe. He said something about a huge dark shape
rising over the House as he ran toward it. He
didn't get there until it was over, so that may have
been Mardus' exit. A dyrmagnos could have that
kind of power."
Micum felt an unlucky chill go up his back.
"Let's hope we can stay clear of the thing,
then. Anything that can lay Nysander low and then fly off
like a bat is nothing I want to face down."
A swarthy man with a scar through his bottom lip
caught his eye. "I know him. He's one of
Captain Tildus' men," Micum said, pointing
him out to Seregil. "I drank with him a few times
at the Pony in Wolde. He's one of them who
gave Alec a hard time."
"I see an old friend, too." Seregil stood
looking down at a lanky, rawboned man dressed
in a soiled leather jerkin. "Farm the Fish, a
gaterunner who came up missing a month ago.
Tym mentioned him to me just before he disappeared himself.
I don't recognize any of the others.
Probably all Plenimaran soldiers and spies
brought in for the job." He tapped his chin with one long
forefinger as he frowned down at the dead. "You
remember I ran into a Juggler up in Asengai's
dungeon, that night Alec and I first met?"
"The Plenimaran assassins guild, you mean?"
"Yes." Seregil jerked a thumb at die
corpses. "What would you bet there's a guild mark
on one or two of these fellows?"
Micum grimaced in distaste. "Guess there's
wily one way to find out. What's it look
like?"
"Three small blue dots tattooed to form a
triangle. They're usually in the armpit,"
Seregil told him, adding with a wry grin, "At
least this is better than going to the charnel houses."
Even in the scented coolness of the Oreska garden,
however, it was not pleasant work.
Pulling at clothing and cold, stiff limbs,
Micum found no tattoos, but two men did have
suspicious scars about the size of a sester coin under
their arms. The healed tissue was still pink and new.
"I think this might be something," he said.
Seregil came over for a look and nodded. "There are
three more just like it over there. That scar isn't a burn
or a puncture; the skin was sliced away on
purpose. If it wasn't a Juggler's mark they
cut out, then I'll wager'it was something similar."
"That Mardus is a cagey bastard," Micum said
with grudging admiration. "He wasn't taking any
chances. Not that we can prove it now, though."
Lynn Flewelling
Seregil examined the scar. "You know, I've heard
that these skin marks go deep. What do you think?"
Micum sighed. "It's worth a try, so long as
no drysians catch us at it."
Slipping a tiny, razorlike blade from the seam of
his belt, Seregil held the skin on either side of the
mark taut with two fingers and sliced away the
surface of the scar. When he'd pulled back the
flap of skin, he and Micum inspected the livid
flesh beneath.
"See anything?" asked Micum.
"No, they must've cut deep on this one. Let's
try another."
Their second attempt was more successful. Scraping
gently this time, Seregil uncovered the faint
triangular imprint of the Juggler's guild mark still
visible in the flesh.
Seregil rocked back on his heels with grim
satisfaction. "That's proof enough for me."
"Maker's Mercy! What do you think you're doing?"
It was Darbia, the dark-haired drysian who'd
been helping tend Nysander. Bristling with indignation,
she strode up and made a quick blessing sign over the
corpse.
"Enemy or not, I cannot condone such barbarous
behavior," she snapped.
"It's not desecration," Micum assured her,
getting to his feet. "This man and several others
wear the mark of Plenimaran spies. The
Queen should be informed before any of these bodies are
taken away."
c
The drysian crossed her arms, still scowling. "Very
well then, I'll see to it."
"Did Valerius send you after us?" asked
Seregil.
"Yes, Nysander is stirring a bit."
Without waiting to hear more, Seregil and Micum ran
for the tower.
Magyana was still in the armchair by Nysander's bedside
where she'd spent the night, one hand still on his brow.
Seeing her like that, Micum could almost feel her
willing her own energy into her old love, trying
to heal and sustain him with her own life force.
To Micum, Nysander looked worse than ever. His
face was a dull, chalky grey, his eyes sunken
deep in their sockets beneath the

unruly white brows. His breathing scarcely lifted
the sheet covering him but Micum could hear it, rasping
faintly as dry leaves across stone.
The sight of him must have struck Seregil hard as
well. He read a hint of despair in
Seregil's face as he approached
Nysander, and knew it was born of the conflict between
Seregil's great love for Nysander and his desperate
need to learn whatever he could to save Alec.
Seregil paused long enough to cleanse his hands at the
washstand, then knelt beside the bed and took Nysander's
hand between his own. Micum moved around behind
Magyana's chair in time to see Nysander's eyes
slowly open.
"I found your map," Seregil told him, not wasting
any precious time.
"Yes," Nysander mouthed, nodding slightly against the
pillow. "Good."
"The Pillar of the Sky, Yothgash-horagh. It's
Mount Kythes, isn't it?"
Again, a slight nod.
"This temple you spoke of, it's on the mountain?"
"No," Nysander told them.
"Beneath it, underground?"
No response.
Seregil watched the wounded man's face for any
movement, then asked as calmly as he could manage,
"At the foot of it?"
Nysander's throat worked painfully as he struggled
to speak. Seregil bent close, but after a few
desperate efforts, the wizard's eyes
closed.
Seregil rested his forehead against his clenched fists for a
moment. Micum couldn't see Magyana's face from
where he stood, but her hand was trembling as she reached
to clasp Seregil's shoulder. "He's gone deep
within himself again. I know how desperately you need
to speak with him, but he's just too weak."
"Could you make anything out of that last bit?" Micum
asked, refusing to give up hope.
Still kneeling by the bed, Seregil shook his head
doubtfully. "He was trying to tell me something. It
sounded like "late us" or "lead us," but it was so"
faint I can't be certain."
Magyana leaned forward, gripping his shoulder more
forcefully this time as she turned him to face her.
"Leiteus? Could it have been the name Leiteus?"
Lynn Flewelling
Seregil looked up at her in surprise.
"Yes! Yes, it could have been. And I've heard that
name somewhere-was
Magyana clasped her hands together over her heart.
"Leiteus i Marineus is an astrologer, and a
friend of Nysander's! They've been consulting with each
other about some comet for over a year now."
Seregil jumped to his feet and began
searching the floor around Nysander's hearth. At last
he bent and pulled a book from beneath an armchair.
"I noticed this lying open by his. chair yesterday,"
he said, handing it to her.
She opened it and Micum saw that it was full of
tables and strange symbols.
"Yes," she said, "this is one of Leiteus'
books."
"Have you ever heard the word "synodical"?"
Seregil asked her with growing excitement.
"I believe it refers to the movements of the stars and
planets."
Micum looked to Magyana in surprise. "You
mean Nysander really was trying to send us to this
astrologer fellow?"
"So it would seem."
was "One place and one time." That's what he said
yesterday," Seregil reminded them. "A
synodical event, like the advent of this comet. It must
have some bearing on whatever Mardus is up to."
He bent to lay a hand against Nysander's pale
cheek. "I don't know if you can hear any of this,"
he said softly, "but if you can, I'm going
to Leiteus. Do you understand, Nysander? I'm going
to speak with Leiteus."
Nysander gave no sign of consciousness. Seregil
sadly stroked a lock of grizzled grey hair
back from the old man's brow. "That's all right.
I'm the Guide. You just leave it to me for now."
Outside the Oreska walls an early spring wind
had blown up, clearing the sky and whipping corner
whirlwinds out of the dead year's dust and leaves.
Galloping north out of the Harvest Gate, they left
the highroad for a smaller one that wound along the sea
cliffs.
The astrologer's modest walled villa sat perched
on a headland overlooking the sea. Above it, gulls
wheeled gracefully against the morning sky.

The courtyard gate was shut tight, but a servant
soon answered Micum's relentless knock.
"My master is not accustomed to receiving visitors at
this early hour," the man informed them stiffly, eyeing
Seregil's unkempt appearance and ill-fitting
coat with undisguised skepticism.
"We're here on a matter of the utmost interest to your
master," Seregil replied, affecting his most
arrogant tone. "Tell him that Lord Seregil i
Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa and Sir
Micum of Cavish, Knight of
Watermead, require his attendance at once in a
matter pertaining to his friend Nysander, High
Thaumaturgist of the Oreska House."
Duly intimidated by the onslaught of titles, the
man relented enough to escort them to a small sitting
room overlooking the sea, while he went to speak with
his master.
"Prophecies and astrologers," Micum
grumbled, pacing around the tiny room. "Alec's
carried off by crazy butchering bastards and we're
weaving sails out of smoke!"
"It's more solid than that. I can feel it."
Seregil sat down on a bench under the window and
rested one elbow on the sill as he gazed out.
Having a thread to follow, even as tenuous a one as
this, appeared to have restored the inner calm Seregil
needed to function. After all the horror of the
previous day, however, Micum wondered if he
wasn't just a bit too calm.
And what if this astrologer doesn "t have all the
answers?
"How did Kari take you going off like this?"
Micum shrugged. "She's nearly four months gone
with child, Beka's off in the middle of a war, and I
charge off again with you. I swore to her I'd
be there when her time comes."
Still looking out the window, Seregil said quietly,
"You don't have to come, you know. Prophecy or not, the
decision is yours."
"Don't talk like an idiot. Of course I'm
coming," Micum retorted gruffly.
"I've made my choice and I'll stick by it,"
he went on, sitting down next to Seregil.
"Though I'll admit I don't like it. Nysander
talks of a band of four and here we sit, knocked
down to two before we even begin."
"We're still four, Micum."
Micum stared down at the mosaic under his feet for a
moment, then laid a hand on Seregil's thin
shoulder. "I know what Valerius said yesterday. I
want to believe it as much as you, but-was
lyim Flewelling
"No!" Seregil glared at Micum. "Until
I hold his body in my hands, Alec is alive,
do you hear?"
Micum understood the anguish behind Seregil's anger
all too well. If Alec was alive, Seregil
would fight through fire and death to save him. If
Alec was dead, then he'd do the same to track down
his killers. Either road, he blamed himself.
"You know I love the boy as much as you do," he said
gently, "but it won't do him a damn bit of good for
us to let that cloud our thinking. If we're going to come
up with any sort of plan we have to at least take
into consideration that he might be dead. If this
'Shaft" person of yours is really meant to be an
archer, then we'd better-was
Seregil stared out the window, his mouth set in a
stubborn line. "No."
They were interrupted by the arrival of a short,
well-fed man in an enormous dressing gown.
"I beg pardon, gentlemen," he apologized,
yawning as he ushered them into a spacious consultation
room. "As you've no doubt surmised, the nature
of my studies requires that I work at night.
I'm seldom awake at this hour. I've sent for
strong tea, so perhaps you would-was
"Forgive me, but I assume you're unaware of the
attack on the Oreska House last night,"
Seregil broke in, "or that Nysander i
Azusthra has been seriously wounded."
"Nysander!" Leiteus gasped, his robe billowing
around him as he sank into a chair. "By the Light,
why would anyone want to harm that decent old
fellow?"
"I can't say," answered Seregil, his manner now
betraying none of the emotion of a moment before. "He sent
us to you, though he was too weak to tell us why.
Magyana says he'd consulted you on some
astrological matter recently. It could have some
bearing."
"Do you think so?" Leiteus fetched a pile of
charts from a nearby shelf and shuffled quickly through them.
"If only he'd allowed me to do that divination for
him. He was gracious about it, of course, but so-
Ah, here it is!"
He spread a large chart out on a polished table and
peered down at it. "He was interested in the movements
of Rendel's Spear, you see."
"A comet?" asked Seregil.
"Yes." The astrologer pointed to a series of tiny
symbols arcing

across the chart. "It has a synodical cycle of
fifty-seven years. This is the year of its
return. He helped me calculate the date of
its appearance."
Seregil leaned forward eagerly. "And you have it?"
The astrologer referred to his parchments again. "Let
me see, going by the observations recorded in
Yourindai's Ephemeris, as well as our own
calculations, I believe Rendel's Spear should be
visible on the fifteenth night of Lithion."
"That gives us just over two weeks, then," Micum
murmured.
"Of course, it will remain in the sky for nearly a
week," Leiteus added. "It's one of the largest
comets, a most impressive display. Of particular
interest both to Nysander and myself, however, is the fact
that this cycle of the comet coincides with a solar
eclipse."
Seregil shot Micum a meaningful glance, then
asked, "Would that also be considered a synodical
event?"
"Certainly, and one of the rarer variety," replied the
astrologer. "I assumed that's why Nysander was so
curious about it."
"Eclipses are unlucky things," Micum noted.
"I once knew a man who went blind afterward."
"It'll be a doubly unlucky day with the comet in the
sky," Seregil added, though to Micum's ear he
sounded more pleased than alarmed. was "Plague
stars," I've heard these comets of yours called,
bringers of ill fortune, war, disease."
"That's true, Lord Seregil,"
Leiteus concurred. "The College of Divination
has already sent word to the Queen, advising the
suspension of all trade on that day. People should keep
to their homes until the evil influence passes.
Such a conjunction has not occurred in centuries."
"And do you have a date for that?" asked Seregil.
"On the twentieth."
"Was there any other sort of information Nysander
seemed interested in?"
The astrologer stroked his chin. "Well, he did
ask me to calculate if such a conjunction had
occurred before."
"And did you?"
Leiteus smiled. "I didn't have to, actually.
As every Skalan astrologer knows, it was" that very
same conjunction that heralded the beginning of the Great
War six hundred eighty-four years ago. So you
see, Lord Seregil, your talk of unlucky
"plague stars" does have some basis."
Lynn Flewelling
Leaving the astrologer with assurances to send word of
Nysander, Micum and Seregil headed back to the
city.
"I admit, it makes some sense if you accept that
Nysander's right about Mardus aiming for that
conjunction," Micum said as they rode.
"He is right, I'm sure of it. Think about it,
Micum. There haven't been any major incidents
between Skala and Plenimar for twenty years, yet
all of a sudden Plenimar decides to launch another
war of aggression, just as they did in the Great War.
And the old Overlord, who opposed such a war,
conveniently dies just in time for his hawkish son
to take the throne? And there's the same conjunction?
And the attack on the Oreska? And if that whole
business does all revolve around some rite or
ceremony having to do with their Eater of Death, then
what more propitious time could there be than during the
conjunction?"
"But what is it all for?" Micum growled. "Those
odds and ends that Nysander was guarding, what does
Mardus want with them? If the Plenimarans need
them that badly, and now, just as war is breaking out again-was
"That's just it, though. Nysander said he wasn't the first
Guardian. His mentor, Arkoniel, was before him,
and the wizard before him. Who knows how long Oreska
wizards have been watching that same hidey-hole in the
vaults? Those things could date all the way back
to the Great War. You've heard the legends of
necromancers and walking dead from that time, and
everyone knows it was the wizards who finally turned the
tide."
"You mean to say that the Plenimarans are going to use
those things to summon the power of this god?"
"Something like that."
They both rode in silence for a long moment.
"Well, we'd better get moving," Micum said
at last. "If you and Nysander are right, then we've
only got two weeks to find this mysterious
temple, if it exists, and a long way to go to get
there. We'll have to hire a ship."
"I had Magyana send out word to Rhal this morning.
We should be able to set sail by tomorrow or the next day."
He kicked his mount into a gallop toward the city
gate. Micum spurred grimly on behind him.

Returning to the Oreska, they found Magyana and
Valerius in Nysander's workroom. Seregil quickly
outlined what they'd learned from Leiteus.
"So you see," he added, "it's imperative that we
all be at this place together, at the given time."
"Haul Nysander off in a ship over spring seas?
Are you both mad?" Valerius burst out, glaring at
him and Micum. "It's absolutely out of the question.
I forbid it!"
Clenching his fists behind his back, Seregil fought
to remain calm as he looked to Magyana for
support. "There must be some way we could make him
comfortable."
But Magyana shook her head firmly. "I'm
sorry, Seregil, but Valerius is quite right.
Nysander must have solitude and peace to heal. Such a
voyage in his present state would certainly kill
him."
"Not to mention the fact that you're sailing off into the very
teeth of a war," the drysian sputtered. "Even if
he could stand being moved-which he can't-what if you're
boarded or sunk? Bilairy's Balls, man,
he's scarcely conscious more than a few minutes
at a time!"
Seregil ran a hand back though his hair in
exasperation. "Micum, you talk to them."
"Calm down," said Micum. "If Valerius
says Nysander can't survive the voyage, then that's
the end of that. But what about a translocation?"
Magyana shook her head again. "He's too weak
to survive it, and even if he could, it would not be
possible. Since the attack there are only three
wizards left, including myself, who possess the
skill to perform that spell. And it will be some
time before any of us are strong enough to attempt it."
Seregil let out a frustrated growl, but Micum
was still thinking. "Well, assuming that these Illiorans
are on the right track with their prophecies and comets
and all, then we wouldn't necessarily have to move him
for almost-was
"Two weeks," cried Seregil. "Praise the
Flame for hardheaded Sakoran common sense! You
may have just saved us all, Micum. What do you say
to that, Valerius? Would he be strong enough in two
weeks?"
"With his will, it's possible," the drysian admitted
grudgingly. As for the state of his powers, though, only
he could say."
Lynn Flewelling
Seregil gave the wizard a hopeful look.
"Magyana?"
She contemplated her folded hands for a long moment,
then said softly, "By then, yes, I should be able
to assist him with a translocation of that distance. But the
decision must be his."
Micum slapped a hand on the table and stood up.
"Then it's settled. We'll sail without him and he
can catch us up when the time is right."
Reaching into his purse, Seregil took out
a small silver amulet, the twin of the one he'd
given to Rhal.
"This will guide you to our ship, the
"Green Lady"
he told Magyana, giving it to her. "There's no
guarantee we'll still be with her then, but Rhal may
be able to tell you where we've gone. Wait, there's
another way, too."
He took a clean rag from a pile near the
worktable. Pricking his thumb with his dagger, he dabbed
a few spots of blood onto the cloth and knotted
it tightly
"You won't miss me with that," he said. "Micum
should do one, too, just to be safe. If you'll
excuse me now, I want a moment with Nysander."
Magyana looked down at the stained cloth in
distaste when Seregil had disappeared downstairs.
"I abhor blood magic," she said. "So does
Nysander. Oh, Micum, do you really believe all
this is what Nysander intended? Seregil has had so
many terrible shocks."
"I don't know," Micum said quietly, pricking
his own finger and staining another bit of cloth for her.
"But I do know that nothing short of death is going
to stop him from going on with it. If he's
right, then maybe there's a chance of getting Alec
back, and perhaps even stop whatever it is that the
Plenimarans are up to. If he's wrong-was
Micum gave a resigned shrug. "I can't just
let him dash off by himself, can I?"
"And what of your own family?" asked Valerius as
Micum stood to go.
For the first time that day Micum managed a wry
smile. "Kari won't budge from Watermead unless
the enemy's in sight. Wamik's given me his word
to watch over her until I return."
The drysian smiled through his unruly beard. "A
strong- minded woman, your wife. The eldest,
Beka, is no different."

"By the Flame, Beka!" groaned Micum. "I
promised Kari I'd ask Nysander to look for
her."
"Rest yourself, Magyana," Valerius said as the
wizard moved to rise. "Give me your hand,
Micum, and think of your eldest daughter."
Clasping his staff in one hand, Valerius took
Micum's in his other and closed his eyes. After
several minutes he announced, "She is well.
I see her riding with good companions."
"And Alec?" Micum asked, still gripping the
drysian's hand. "Can you see anything of him?"
Valerius concentrated, frowning. "Only that he is
not among the dead, nothing more. I'm sorry."
Alec's teeth rotted and fell loose in his mouth.
Hot bile rose in the back of his throat, made
doubly foul by the feel of the snakes squirming in his
belly. He wanted desperately to curl up,
writhe away from the interminable agony, but the iron
spikes driven through his hands and feet held him
spread- eagled. Blind and helpless, he lay waiting
for release back into the dark dreams where there was only
the sighing of wind and water-
Occasionally faces would intrude on his darkness,
swimming out of the murk only long enough to leer, fading
back out of sight before he could put names to them.
Fevers rose, flaming across his skin to burn out every
memory until nothing remained but the rush of the sea-
Alec felt the chill of a salt-laden breeze
against his bare skin, but no pain. His limbs felt
heavy, too heavy to move just yet, but he ran his
tongue over his teeth and found them sound. How could a
nightmare feel so real, he wondered, or leave
him so drained and confused?
The cold breeze helped clear his mind,
but the world was still rolling under him in a

vaguely familiar fashion. Opening his eyes, he
blinked up at broad, square-rigged sails
bellied out against a noonday sky.
And two Plenimaran marines.
Scrambling up to his knees, Alec reached
instinctively for his dagger, but someone had stripped him
to his breechclout, leaving him helpless. The marines
laughed, and he recognized them as two of the men
who'd pushed him around in Wolde.
"Don't be frightened, Alec."
Alec rose slowly to his feet, too stunned
to speak. Less than ten feet away, Duke
Mardus leaned at his ease against the ship's rail.
He'd been seated the one time Alec had seen him.
He hadn't guessed how tall Mardus was. But
the man's handsome, aesthetic face, closely
trimmed black beard, and scarred left
cheek-Alec remembered those well enough. And the
smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"I trust you slept well." Impeccably
dressed in leather and velvet, Mardus regarded him
with all the solicitude of an attentive host.
How did I get here?
Alec wondered, still at a loss for words. A few
details trickled back to him: the frantic ride
to Watermead, a snarling dog, unlit lanterns,
hoping to find Seregil home. Beyond that, however, there
was only a blank greyness tinged with dread.
"But you're cold," Mardus observed, unpinning the
gold broach that secured the neck of his cloak.
He motioned to the guards, who pulled Alec roughly
forward and held him while Mardus swung the heavy
folds around his bare shoulders.
Holding the brooch in place with one gloved hand,
Mardus slid the long pin through one of the holes
until its blunt point pressed against Alec's
windpipe.
Terrified, Alec fixed his gaze in the buttons
of Mardus" velvet surcoat and waited. The pin
pressed harder against his throat, but not quite hard enough
to break the skin.
"Look at me, Alec of Kerry. Come now, you
mustn't be shy."
Mardus' voice was disarmingly gentle. Without wanting
to, Alec found himself looking up into the man's
black eyes.
k
"That's better." Still smiling, Mardus
fixed the brooch in place. You must not fear me.
You're quite safe under my care. In fact, I shall
guard you like a lion."
Alec felt someone come up behind him.
"Perhaps he does not understand his situation well enough to
Lynn Rewelling
1 bei

be properly grateful," a heavily accented voice
hissed near his ear.
The speaker moved to stand by Mardus, and Alec
recognized him as the silent "diplomat" who'd
been with Mardus at Wolde.
"Perhaps not," Mardus said agreeably. "You must
understand, Alec, that Vargul Ashnazai was all for
gutting you like a fish the moment he laid hands on you.
Not an unjustified reaction, considering the trouble you
and your friend have put us to over the past few months. It
was I who prevented him from doing so. "Why, he's
nothing but an impressionable boy," I sd'many times
as we stalked the two of you through the streets of
Rhiminee."
"Many times," the necromancer said with a poisonous
smile. "Sometimes I fear that the softness of my Lord
Mardus' heart will lead him into harm."
"And yet how else am I to feel when I see such
an intelligent and enterprising young man fallen in with
such company." Mardus shook his head sadly. "A
renegade Aurenfaie spy, outcast from his own people
to whore for the queen of a decadent land, and a wizard
admitted even by his own kind to be a mad fool?
"No, Vargul Ashnazai," I said, "we must
first see if this poor lad can be saved.""
Mardus grasped Alec by the shoulders, slowly
pulling him close enough for Alec to feel the man's
breath on his face. His eyes seemed to go an
impossible shade darker as he asked, "What do you
think, Alec? Can you be saved?"
Trapped in the intensity of Mardus' gaze, Alec
kept silent. Despite'the implicit threat behind
those honeyed words, there was something dangerously compelling
in the man's manner, a force of personality that
left Alec feeling powerless.
"This one has a stubborn nature," the one called
Vargul Ashnazai muttered. "I fear he will
disappoint you."
"Let's not be hasty in our opinion," said
Mardus. "This Seregil of Rhiminee may have some
claim upon his loyalty. You did say, after all,
that you believe young Alec here has
Aurenfaie blood in his veins."
"I am certain of it, my lord."
"Perhaps that's the impediment. There were so many conflicting
rumors around the city. Tell me, Alec, is he
by chance your father? Or a half brother? Age is so
difficult to gauge with these Aurenfaie and they are
by nature deceitful."

"No," Alec managed at last, his voice sounding
faint and childish in his ears.
Mardus raised an eyebrow. "No? But friend,
certainly. He may have called you his apprentice
during that unfortunate masquerade in Wolde, but
your circumstances in Rhiminee belie it. So then,
friend. Perhaps even lover?"
Alec felt his face go hot as the soldiers
snickered.
"I recognize loyalty when I see it,"
Mardus said. "I admit I am impressed to find
it in one so young, even if it is blind loyalty to a
man who abandoned you."
"He didn't!" Alec snarled.
Mardus gestured around them at the ship, the empty
sea stretching away on all sides. "Didn't
he? Ah, well. I suppose it's of
little consequence to me what you choose to believe. Still,
you might wonder why this trusted friend of yours chose
to leave you to your fate when he might have saved you."
"You lie!" Alec was trembling now. He still
couldn't remember anything that had happened after his
arrival at the Cockerel.
"Are you so certain?" Mardus' smile was tinged with
pity. "Well, we'll speak again when you're less
overwrought. Vargul Ashnazai, would you be so kind as
to assist Alec with some calming meditations?"
"Of course, my lord."
Alec tried to flinch away, but the guards held him
still as the other man pressed cold, dry fingers against
his cheekbone and jaw. For an instant Alec was
overwhelmed by a thick, rotten odor, then a terrible
blackness engulfed him, plunging him back into a
morass of illness and pain where he couldn't escape
the mocking echo of Seregil's long-forgotten warning,
Fall behind and I'll leave you, leave you, leave you-
Alec awoke in the dim confines of a tiny cabin.
Still panting from the residual terror of the
necromancer's trance, he sat up in the narrow
bunk and tried to make out his surroundings. There was no
lantern, but the weak light filtering in through a grate
in the cabin door was enough to illuminate the
foot of another bunk against the opposite wall.
Above the rush of water against the hull, he heard the
distant, muffled sound of someone weeping loudly. The
smell of rich broth wafted in from somewhere nearby,
Lynn Flewelltag
i
and he realized that he was hungry in spite of the
lingering effects of the necromancer's magic.
Throwing off the thin blanket, he climbed out of the
bunk, then froze. Now that his eyes had adjusted
to the dim light, he could see that the other bunk was
occupied. A figure lay stretched there under a
blanket, face hidden in the shadows. Clearing his
throat nervously, Alec reached out to touch the
person's shoulder.
"Hello. Are you-was
A hand shot from beneath the blanket, grasping his wrist
in a ferocious, ice-cold grip. Alec lunged
back, but the other man hung on, lurching up as
Alec tried to pull free.
"By the Light," Alec gasped. "Thero!"
The young wizard was as naked as Alec, and a set of
branks had been fastened around his head. Iron bands
encircling the lower part of his face held an iron
gag piece in his mouth, while another
passed tightly over the top of his head between his eyes
to join the first in the back. An opening for his nose had
been left in the vertical band and the whole thing was
secured under his chin by a chain. When Thero tried
to speak around the gag his voice was hardly
intelligible. Saliva dripped from the corners of his
mouth to collect in his sparse beard and Alec
guessed from the look in his eyes that he was either insane
or terrified.
"Ah'ek?" Thero managed, still gripping his wrist with
one hand as he brought the other up to touch Alec's
face. Wide iron bands inscribed with symbols
encircled his wrists.
"What are you doing here?" Alec whispered in
disbelief.
Thero gabbled thickly for a moment, his desperation
clear. Then, releasing Alec, he beat his fists
against his head until Alec had to restrain him.
"No, Thero. Stop it. Stop!" Alec shook him
roughly by the shoulders. There's pale, bony chest
heaved with emotion as he shook his head violently and
tried to pull away.
"You've got to calm down and talk to me," Alec
hissed, caught somewhere between anger and terror himself.
"We're in one hell of a mess and we're
going to need each other to get out of it. Now let me
try and get this contraption off."
But the branks were locked securely in back and he
had no tools to open it. He searched the cabin with the
scant hope of finding something-a nail, perhaps, or a
splinter of wood-to use as a makeshift pick.
He found nothing except a bowl of broth by the
door. Hungry as he was, he left it untouched
in case it was

drugged or poisoned.
Perhaps that's what's wrong with Thero,
he told himself as his stomach rumbled. The drooling
creature cowering on the bunk bore little resemblance
to Nysander's reserved assistant.
Giving up at last, he sat down beside Thero on the
bunk. "There's nothing here. You've got to tell me
what you know. Go slow so I can understand you."
Still wild-eyed, Thero nodded and said slowly around the
gag, was "Eye'ander's 'ead."
"What?" Alec gasped, praying he'd
misunderstood.
was 'ysander dead. Dead!" Thero wailed, rocking
violently back and forth in misery. "My fault!"
"Stop that," Alec ordered, shaking him by the
shoulders. "Thero, you talk to me. What happened
to Nysander? Did you see him killed or did
Mardus just tell you it happened?"
"Carried me 'own, 'lack creatures-through walls,
floors-to " Thero hugged himself, shuddering. was 'tacked
'reska-'sander on the floor, they made me look.
My fault, mine!"
"Why is it your fault?" Alec demanded, shaking
him again. "Thero, what did you do?"
With a low moan, Thero wrenched away and curled
deeper into the corner. There were long, curved
scratches on his back and sides, and little
crescent-shaped bruises along the tops of his
shoulders.
"It was Ylinestra, wasn't it?" Alec asked, a
vague, half-formed memory shifting uneasily at
the back of his mind. "She did something, or you told
her something?"
Thero nodded mutely, refusing to look at him.
Alec stared at him a moment longer, then rage
exploded like a blazing sun in his chest. Grasping the
iron band at the back of There's head, he yanked
the young wizard out of his corner and shook him like a
rat.
"You listen to me, Thero, and you listen
well. If it does turn out that you betrayed us and
got Nysander killed, then by all the Four I'll
kill you myself and that's a promise! But I'm not
sure about anything yet and I don't think you are,
either. They've done something to your mind and you've got
to fight it. Fight their magic and tell me what it
was you said or did. What she did!"
was 'on't know," Thero whispered hopelessly,
spittle running from the corners of his mouth. "She
kep" me with her "at night.
lyrai Rebelling
When black 'uns came, she 'eld me with 'agic.
'en she thanked me and she laughed-She
laughedl"
Releasing Thero in disgust, Alec pressed his fists
against his eyes until fiery stars danced behind his
closed lids.
"Thero, what did they do to you? Why can't you use your
magic?"
Thero held out one arm, showing him the strange iron
band.
"These keep you from using your magic?" Alec reached
out and felt the unnatural coldness of the burnished
metal. Running his hands over them, he could find no
sign of any seam, joint, or hinge.
"Think so-was Thero shifted uneasily, wiping at his
damp beard. "Not 'ertain. So much confused,
nightmares, voices! 'don't dare, A'ek, I
don't dare!"
"You mean you haven't even tried?" Alec grasped
There's arms, bringing the bands in front of his face.
"You've got to try something, anything. For all we
know these may just be a trick, something to cloud your
mind."
Thero shrank back, shaking his head desperately.
"You have to," Alec insisted, feeling his own
desperation creeping back. "We've got to get
away from Mardus. There's a lot you don't know, but
believe me, Nysander would want you to help me.
If you want to make things right, then you've got to at
least try!"
was 'ander?" There's chest heaved as he looked
distractedly around the cabin, as if he expected
to find Nysander there. was 'ander?"
Sensing a chink in whatever madness held Thero,
Alec nodded encouragingly. "Yes, Thero,
Nysander. Concentrate on him, his kindness, There,
all the years you spent with him in the east tower. For the
sake of the faith he placed in you, you've got to at
least try. Please."
Thero twisted the edge of the blanket in his fists as
tears rolled from his mad eyes. "P'rhaps," he
whispered faintly, "p'rhaps-was
"Just something very small," Alec urged. "One of those
little spells. What are they called?"
Thero nodded slowly, still twisting the blanket. was
'an'rips."
"That's right. Cantrips! Just a simple one, a
tiny little cantrip."
Trembling visibly, There half closed his eyes
in preparation for the spell but suddenly looked up again.
"You 'aid there's some'ing I 'on't know," he asked
with a

sudden flash of his customary sharpness. "What? I's
his 'sistant; why didn't he tell me?"
"I don't know," Alec confessed, getting the gist
of Thero's question. "He told us-told me so little
I'm not even sure what it's all about. But he
swore me to secrecy. I shouldn't have said anything
at all, I guess. Maybe later, when we're
out of this-was
Alec trailed off, suddenly wary. Thero was
watching him intently, hanging on every word. "We'll
talk about it later, all right? Please,
try the spell now."
was 'ell me first! Could 'elp!" Thero insisted, and this
time there was no mistaking the feral intelligence in his
eyes.
"No," Alec said, slowly moving away, though there
was nowhere to go. "I can't tell you."
He tensed for some attack, but instead Thero slumped
over sideways on the bunk like a discarded puppet.
The cabin door opened behind him and Alec felt a
wave of terrible coldness roll into the room.
Whirling in alarm, he confronted a walking
horror.
It took a moment to see that the wizened husk had
once been a woman. Lively blue eyes
regarded him slyly from the masklike ruin of her
face.
"That is most ungrateful of you, boy," she
rasped, the cracked remnants of her lips curling
back to reveal uneven yellow teeth, "but I think
that you will tell
me."
Stretched prone on the crest of the hill, Beka and
Sergeant Braknil shielded their eyes from the
drizzle and surveyed the little village below. There were
large granaries and warehouses there, the
walls of which still had the pale gleam of new wood.
Empty wagons of all descriptions stood near
a sizable corral. All this, coupled with the cavalry
troop billeted just outside the wooden palisade,
added up to one thing: a supply depot.
"Looks like you were right, Lieutenant!" Braknil
whispered, grinning wolfishly through his beard.
Satisfied with their reconnaissance, they made their
way cautiously back to the oak grove where the rest
of the turma was waiting.
"What's the word?" asked Rhylin.
"We found Commander Klia's adders," Braknil
told him.
"A good nest of them, too," said Beka. "But
only one nest, and it took us four days to do it. From
the looks of it, I'd say it's just one link in a
supply chain."
"You think we should look farther before we go back?"
asked Corporal Kallas. He was still mourning his
brother and had the look of a man who'd welcome a
fight.
Beka looked around at their dirty, hopeful

faces. The depot was an important
emplacement, enough of a find to go back with now
that their food was running low and the weather had turned
foul.
Her leg ached dully as she shifted her weight.
The gash in her thigh had festered just enough to kindle a
fever. Though it broke her sleep at night with
confused dreams, it seemed to sharpen her wits during
the day, as fevers sometimes did.
"We'll circle wide and see if we can learn
where the wagons are coming from," she said at last.
For two days they followed the supply route as it
wound south into the steeper country above the head of the
Plenimaran isthmus. Beka kept her riders
well up in the wooded hills, sending scouts ahead
and behind as they went. They spotted two separate
wagon trains heading west, but both were too heavily
guarded to attack.
Their seventh day out dawned cold and foggy. Reining
her horse to the side of the steep track, Beka
watched as the remains of her turma rode past; the
fog made it difficult to see more than thirty
feet in any direction and she couldn't afford to lose
any stragglers. The uncertain light and muffling
effect of the mist lent the riders a ghostly,
insubstantial look.
They all rode with growling bellies. Their
food was nearly gone and game was scarce. With the rain
and the plentiful mountain springs they had water enough, but
hunger soon took the edge off a soldier's
strength. It would probably be wisest to turn back
today.
Just as she was about to call a halt, however,
Braknil materialized out of the fog and cantered
over to her.
"The scouts found a way station ahead,
Lieutenant. They report four big wagons
unhitched there and only a handful of guards," he
informed Beka quietly, then added with a knowing wink,
"Quite a manageable gathering, I'd say.
Especially in this weather, if you take my meaning."
"I believe I do, Sergeant."
Leaving Rhylin in command, she followed Braknil
to a stone outcropping where Mirn was waiting with several
horses.
"You can see it from just around the next bend in the
trail," he jold them, his face flushed and eager
beneath his shock of pale "air. Mirn had always
reminded Beka a bit of Alec, though a taller,
more muscular version.
Lynn Flewelling
Proceeding on foot, they found Steb
keeping watch.
"You can see better now," he told them, pointing
down a gap. "This breeze that's coming up should clear
it off before long."
From where they stood, Beka could see a road winding
through the narrow cleft of a pass. There was a way station
there, an old tumble-down log building, but the stable
and large corral next to it were sturdy and new.
Rocky slopes rose steeply on both sides
of the road, making it the only passable route of
attack or escape.
"I've been watching the place," Steb told them.
"I'd say there's no more than two dozen soldiers
and a few wagoneers down there. Nobody's ridden in
or out since we found the place an hour ago."
Judging by the activity in the yard, Beka guessed
the wagoneers were getting ready to move out, though neither
they nor their military escort seemed in any
particular hurry. Many still lounged around the station
door with trenchers and mugs. The breeze coming up the
pass carried the tantalizing aroma of breakfast
fires.
She studied the fog still shrouding the road leading up
to the station. "If we move fast, we might get within
two hundred yards of the enemy before they
catch a good look at us."
"And if we circle by this trail and come in on the
road from the east, chances are they'll think we're
friendly forces anyway,"" whispered Braknil.
"Good idea. The Plenimaran cavalry columns
travel at a canter in ranks of four. We'll
line up in the same formation. Put anyone who's
riding with Plenimaran tack in front in case they
recognize the jingle of the harness."
Sergeant Braknil raised an eyebrow, looking
impressed. "Who taught you to be such a sly
thinker, Lieutenant?"
Beka gave him a wink. "A friend of the family."
Their ruse paid off. The Plenimarans scarcely
looked up from their breakfasts as the turma came
cantering toward them out of the mist. By the time they drew
swords and broke into a gallop, it was already too
late.
They thundered up to the station, whooping and screaming at the
top of their lungs. A few of the Plenimaran
soldiers stood their ground. Most broke and ran for
cover in the station and outbuildings.
Galloping at full speed, the Skalans rode
down the men who
353
stood against them. The Plenimarans put up a
brief, determined fight but were no match for the flashing
swords and iron-shod hooves that mowed them down.
With the station's one line of defense destroyed, Beka
shouted an order and the riders split into decuriae.
Braknil spotted men running for the cover of the stable
and chose that as his target. Wheeling toward the
low-roofed building, he and his riders drove the
would-be escapees into the stable, then tossed the
Plenimarans' own night lanterns into the straw
piled outside the back door. Within seconds,
screams rang out from the panicked horses stabled
inside. Choking and cursing, those who'd taken
refuge there came stumbling out again and were herded at
sword point into the corral.
Rhylin and his decuria attacked the station building.
Dashing up to the door, the ungainly sergeant leapt
from his horse and threw himself against the door, knocking
it open just as the men inside were trying to thrust the bar
into place. His assault was successful, but he was
nearly trampled for his efforts as the rest of his
decuria, led by Kallas and Ariani, stormed in
to his aid. The soldiers and wagoneers inside
surrendered immediately.
Beka and a handful of riders rode off in
pursuit of the Plenimarans who had fled at the first
sign of attack. Most of those on foot were
easily overtaken, but several who'd gotten onto
horses broke away down the east road. Beka
and her group took off in pursuit, but their quarry
had the advantage of fresh horses and a knowledge of the
country. Cursing under her breath, she turned back.
The remaining Plenimarans had been gathered in the
station building.
"I took count, Lieutenant," Braknil informed
her as she dismounted. "Nineteen enemy dead and
fifteen taken, counting the wagoneers and stationmaster.
Sergeant Rhylin's got the prisoners under
guard."
Beka surveyed the bodies scattered between the
buildings and the road. "Any losses for us?"
"Not a scratch," the sergeant replied happily.
"Those little tricks of yours worked!" His
"Good." Beka hoped her relief wasn't too
obvious. "We don't
w
ant to make the same mistake as our friends in there,
so post lookouts on the road. Corporal
Nikides!"
Lynn Flewellfng
"Here, Lieutenant." The young man rode over
to where she stood.
"Get someone to help you check the wagons. Let's
hope we haven't gone to all this trouble for a load of
horseshoes and slop pails."
"Yes, Lieutenant!" Grinning, he snapped a
salute and rode off again.
Inside the station, the Plenimarans sat packed together
at the far end of the building's single narrow room under
the watchful eyes of Rhylin's guards. Six of the
captives were wagoneers; the rest wore black
military tunics displaying a white castle emblem.
Rhylin snapped Beka a smart salute as she
entered. "We've searched the prisoners and the
buildings, Lieutenant. Nothing of note found.
It looks like a routine supply train."
"Very good, Sergeant."
Beka's long red braid fell free over her
shoulder as she removed her helmet. The prisoners
exchanged glances and low murmurs among themselves at
the sight of it. Several stared at her boldly and one
spat sideways onto the floor.
Gilly moved to avenge the insult, but Beka stayed
him with a glance.
"Who's the ranking officer here?" she
demanded, not bothering to sheath her sword. The
prisoners simply stared back at her, silent and
insolent.
"Do any of you speak Skalan?"
Again the blank silence. The Plenimarans" disdain
for female soldiers was legend, but this was her first
exposure to it. A trickle of sweat inched down
her back as all eyes turned to her.
Rider Tare, a young, red-haired squire's son
with the solid build of a wrestler, stepped forward with a
respectful salute. "By your leave,
Lieutenant, I speak a little Plenimaran."
"Go on, then."
Tare turned and addressed the prisoners haltingly.
A few snickered. None replied.
Well, I've got the badger by the hind leg, as the
saying goes. Now what the hell do I do with it?
Beka thought, racking her brain. The thought of
SeregiFs sly, lopsided grin brought her
inspiration.
With a careless shrug, she said aloud, "Well, they
had their chance. Sergeant Rhylin, see that they're
securely bound. Sergeant Braknil, your
decuria is in charge of burning the place."
355
A few of her own people exchanged worried looks, but
the sergeants obeyed without question.
One of the wagoneers whispered excitedly to a
grizzled soldier next to him. The man went an
angry red, then hissed something back. Rising on
one knee, the wagoneer bowed awkwardly to Beka.
"A moment, Lieutenant, I speak your
language," he said in passable Skalan.
"Captain Teratos says he will parley with your
commanding officer as soon as he arrives."
Beka favored the Plenimaran captain with an icy
look. "Wagoneer, first tell this man that I
am
the commanding officer here until the rest of our troop
arrives. When my captain arrives,
she
will have less patience with him than I do. Then inform
him that Skalan officers do not parley with those they have
defeated. I will ask questions. He will answer them."
The wagoneer quickly interpreted Beka's words for the
captain. The man stared at her for a moment, then
spat wetly between his feet. This time Beka made
no move to stop Gilly as he brought the flat of his
sword down on the man's head.
"My men don't approve of his
discourtesy, wagoneer," Beka went on calmly.
"Tell him that we're hungry, and that the roasted
flesh of our enemy is more succulent than pork.
Sergeant Braknil, fetch the torches." Turning
on her heel, she strode outside.
Braknil followed her out. "You don't really mean
to burn those men?"
"Of course not, but we don't want them to know that, do
we? Let's give them a few minutes to consider
their situation."
Syra ran over to her just then, clutching a strip of
salted fish and a cup of beer. "Lieutenant,
Corporal Nikides sends you breakfast with his
compliments," she said, handing them to Beka. "There's
barley meal, too, but he said to tell you "no
slop jars." his
Beka took a swallow of warm beer. "That's a
relief. Spread the word; each rider is to take as
much fish and meal as they can carry. We'll have to leave
the beer. As soon as everyone has what they need,
burn the rest. Sergeant Braknil, see that
Rhylin's riders are relieved as soon as yours
are supplied-was
She was interrupted by the sound of a horse coming in from the
west. It was Mirn, who'd been sent out as
a lookout.
"Enemy riders headed this way!" he shouted to her.
"Cavalry column, two score riders at
least."
"Damn!" Motioning the others to silence, she listened
intently
lyim Flewelling
for a few seconds; no sound of the approaching riders
yet. The mist was still with them, but the smell of the burning
stable would carry for a mile. "Spread the word,
Mirn. Everyone grabs an extra horse and
food and heads east. If anyone gets separated,
they're to circle back and head for the regiment with word
of what we found. Go!"
Rhylin came running out of the station with his people. "What
about the prisoners?"
"Leave them. Get out of here!" The staccato rumble
of the approaching column was audible now.
Leaping onto her horse, Beka galloped to the
wagon and yanked out the first sack her hand fell on.
An arrow sang over her head as she slung the bag
over her saddlebow. Another shaft thudded into the
side of the wagon as she wheeled her mount, galloping
down the eastern road just as the first of the Plenimaran
outriders burst out of the thinning mist.
Hoping the fire at the station would halt at least some
of the enemy, Beka led her riders deeper
into Plenimaran territory.
SgaiES-GO!
It was silent and dark under the water. Seregil could
see the bright silver surface wavering above him as
he struggled, but something in the depths below gripped his
ankle, holding him just out of reach.
A tall, dark figure loomed over him, distorted
by the surface refraction. It saw Seregil
floating helplessly below and beckoned to him.
With a final, frantic kick, he managed to get his
face above water just long enough to fill his bursting
lungs. As he did so, he looked up into the face
of the man standing over him. The lips moved as he
told Seregil what he must do.
He couldn "t understand the words, but they filled him with
such horror all the same that he cried out and water
poured into his mouth as the unseen force below pulled him
under again-
"Seregil! Seregil, wake up, damn it."
Gasping for air, Seregil focused on Micum's
worn, freckled face, the ship, the open sea around
them.
The ship. The open sea.
"Oh, shit, not again," Seregil groaned, pressing
his fingers against his throbbing temples. Over his friend's
broad shoulder, he saw a few sailors gathered
nervously nearby, craning their necks for a glimpse
of him.
lyim Flewelling
"Did I-?"
Micum nodded. "They heard you clear back to the
stern this time. This is the third time."
"Fourth." In the week since they'd set sail, the
dream-whatever it was, since he couldn't recall it
when he woke-had come more often. Worse yet, he was
beginning to nod off at odd times during the day to have it,
this time in broad daylight right here at the foot of the
bow platform.
"Any man with time on his hands can report to me for
extra duty," barked Captain Rhal, scattering
the knot of gawkers as he stumped up the deck.
Reaching Micum and Seregil, he lowered his voice
to a growl. "You said you'd keep to your cabin after the
last time. The men are beginning to talk. What am I
supposed to tell them?"
"Whatever you can," Micum replied, helping
Seregil to his feet.
"Those two who were with you on the
Darter,
can they still be trusted?" Seregil asked.
"I've told them to keep their mouths shut about that and
they will." Rhal paused, still frowning. "But
Skywake's muttering about you being a jinx, a
stormcrow. He knows better than to say it outright but
the others are starting to sense it."
Seregil nodded resignedly. "I'll keep out of
sight."
Micum followed as he headed for the companionway.
"By the Flame, you'll get us pitched over the side
for certain if you don't mind yourself," he muttered.
"These sailors are worse than soldiers when it
comes to anything that looks like an omen."
Seregil ran a hand back through his lank hair.
"What did I say this time?"
"Same as before, just 'no, I can't" over and over
until I got to you. I suppose I shouldn't have
left you when I saw that you'd dozed off." Entering
their cabin, Micum dropped onto his bunk.
"Did you remember any of it this time?"
"No more than before," Seregil sighed, stretching out
on his own bunk with a flask of ale. "I'm
drowning, and I see someone looking down at me through
the water. That's all I can ever recall,
but it scares the hell out of me. The closer we get
to Plenimar, the worse it feels."
"I'm not so happy about it myself," Micum said with a
wry grin.
Since rounding the southern tip of Skala two days
before,

they'd spotted half a dozen enemy vessels in the
distance, and outrun two of these. This was another point
of contention with the crew; there would be no bounty to divide
up if they didn't engage.
"You don't suppose Nysander could be trying to reach
you this way?" Micum asked without much hope.
"I wish it was, but I think I'd feel it if it
was that." He took a sip of ale and stared
disconsolately up at the cabin ceiling.
"Illior's Light, Micum, what I
do
feel is a wrongness in him not being here. And
Alec."
Seregil reached inside his coat, felt the dagger
hilt there, and the soft lock of hair. If they were
too late, if Alec died, was dead already-
"You never said anything to him, did you?" asked
Micum. "About your feelings for him, that
is?"
"No, I never did."
His friend shook his head slowly. "That's a pity."
Aura Elustri malreis,
Seregil prayed silently, clenching the hilt
until his knuckles ached.
Aura Elustri watch over him and keep him
until I can plunge this same knife into the hearts
of his enemies.
The pounding of feet on deck overhead woke them just
after dawn the next morning.
"Enemy sail off the port bow!" a lookout
shouted.
Snatching up their swords, Seregil and Micum
ran above.
Standing at the helm, Rhal pointed toward the
northeastern horizon, where a black and white
striped sail was just visible. "The bastards must've
sighted us last night and trailed us."
"Can we outrun them?" asked Micum, shading his
eyes. At this distance he could already make out the
vessel itself, running low and fast over the waves.
"From the cut of their sails, I'd say not. Looks
like we'll have to fight this time," Rhal replied with a
certain grim satisfaction. "I know your
feelings on this, Seregil, but it'd be best if we
take the offensive."
Seregil said nothing for a moment, but appeared to be
studying the oncoming vessel.
"The sails on that vessel aren't so different from
ours, are *ey?" he asked.
"No, we're rigged out about the same."
Lynn Flewelltng
"So you could sail this ship with those sails?"
Rhal grinned, catching his drift. "In the proper
navy they'd call that a dishonorable trick."
"Which is why I stick with privateers," Seregil
replied, grinning back. "The closer we get
to Plenimar, the less attention we'd attract, at
least from a distance."
"By the Old Sailor, Lord Seregil, you've the
makings of a great pirate in you. Trouble is, if you
want the sails off her, we can't use our fire
baskets."
"Keep it as a last resort and throw everything else
you've got at her."
"All hands, prepare for battle," Rhal sang
out, and the call was passed down the deck.
The crew of the
Lady
sprang to action with a will. The pilot have the ship around
to meet the Plenimaran challenger. Hatches were
dragged back, the catapults fitted into their bracing
sockets along the deck and on the battle
platforms fore and aft, and baskets of stones, chain,
and lead balls hauled up from the hold. Rhal's
archers took their places and the edge of every sword and
cutlass was given a final touch of the thumb.
"She's showing the battle flag, Captain," the
lookout shouted as they bore down on the enemy ship.
"Run up the same!" answered Rhal.
Micum lost sight of Seregil in the general
confusion, but his friend reappeared moments later with
Alec's bow.
"Here," he said, handing it to Micum without meeting his
eye. "You're better with this than I am."
Before Micum could think of a reply, Seregil
hurried off to join one of the catapult crews.
The Plenimaran ship swooped toward them across the
waves like an osprey, closing the distance rapidly.
"A warship, Captain, and they got fire
baskets lit!" the sharp- eyed lookout called
down.
"How are they set?" Rhal bellowed back.
"Two catapults to a side, fore and
aft! Fire baskets to the fore."
"Keep at her bow, helmsman!"
As the ships closed within a few hundred yards of
each other, archers on both sides took aim.
Standing with Rhal's bowmen along the port rail,
Micum listened to the bowstring song of Alec's
Black Radly as he loosed shaft after shaft at
the enemy. The song was quickly answered. Plenimaran
arrows whined and buzzed

across the water at him like angry dragonflies.
Welken, the faithful lookout, crashed to the deck
with a shaft through his chest. Nettles was hit in the leg
but kept on shooting. Others fell and the shouting and
screams on both sides echoed over the water between the
vessels.
No shortage of arrows,
Micum thought, pulling enemy shafts from the deck and
rail and sending them back the way they'd come.
The heavy thud of the catapults sounded fore and aft as
catapults on both sides let fly. Flaming
balls of a pitchy concoction known as Sakor's
Fire sailed across the
Lady's
bow, narrowly missing her forward sail. The
Lady
responded with double loads of chain that clawed through the
enemy's rigging, collapsing one of her mainsails like
a broken wing. Panicked shouts rang out on the
enemy ship as she slowed.
"Hard about and give her another!" Rhal ordered.
Skywake fought the rudder to port and the
Lady
leaned dangerously into the waves as they wheeled
to press their advantage. A groaning volley from
the port catapults smashed the Plenimarans'
forward mast and the enemy ship yawed, wallowing in the
swells.
Like a wounded dragon, the Plenimarans released a
second volley of Sakor's Fire as the
Lady
passed. This one found its mark, striking the forward
platform. An oily sheet of flame engulfed a
catapult and its crew. Burning men fell writhing
to the deck or leapt overboard. Sailors tore the
covers from sand barrels lashed against the rails, smothering
the flames before they could spread.
Choking on the smell of burning flesh, Seregil
dropped his load of chain and ran up the platform
ladder to help drag the wounded away from the
flames.
"What now?" he called, spotting Rhal on the
deck below.
"Hard around, strike sails and board "em,"
Rhal yelled. "Makewell, Coryis, tell
your group to stand ready with the grapples."
A final volley of stones from a Plenimaran
catapult shattered the
Lady's
main mast as she bore down on them. Dodging the
fallen spars, the grappling crew tossed their
hooks across and hauled the two ships together before the
Plenimarans could cut the ropes. As soon as the
bulwarks were close enough to leap, RhaPs
Lynn Flewelling

fighters boarded the other ship and waded into the black-
uniformed marines massed to repel them.
From his vantage point on the platform, Seregil
scanned the fray for Micum's red mane. As
expected, his companion was already across in the thickest
of the fight.
The gods chose you well for the Vanguard,
Seregil thought, shinny ing down the ladder and elbowing
his way to the rail. Reaching it, he did his
best to ignore the foaming chasm that opened and closed
beneath him as the two disabled vessels wallowed in the
swells. He-made his jump, drew his sword, and
was immediately confronted by a Plenimaran sailor armed
with a cutlass.
The battle soon spread to both ships. Somehow in
the confusion, Micum and Seregil found each other and
fought shoulder to shoulder, back to back, as the
precariously balanced fight raged on.
For a time it seemed that it would go on indefinitely, but
in the midst of the melee one of Rhal's seamen
killed the captain of the Plenimaran ship. At almost
the same moment, Micum struck down the commander of the
marines. Confusion spread among the remaining enemy and
they finally surrendered.
A cheer went up from the
Lady
as the surviving enemy sailors and soldiers threw
down their weapons in surly submission. Whooping and
howling their triumph, RhaPs men surged forward
to loot the vanquished ship.
Exhausted, Seregil and Micum left them to it and
jumped back aboard the
Lady.
"By the Flame, that was a proper fight,"
Micum gasped, nudging a severed hand out of the way with
his foot before collapsing on a bulkhead.
Looking his friend over, Seregil saw that Micum had
come out with no more than a cut over one eye. He'd
taken a shallow cut across the shoulder himself.
Stripping off his tunic and shirt, he glanced at
it, then held a wad of cloth against it to stanch the
bleeding.
"Too close quarters for my taste," he said,
collapsing on the deck with his back to the bulkhead.
Rhal appeared from out of the surrounding confusion and
strode over to where they sat. "Well, we caught
your ship for you but there's still better than twenty of her
crew left standing," he informed Seregil. "I know
we don't want to be weighed down

with prisoners, but I'll tell you straight that I
won't be a party to the execution of beaten men."
"Neitherwd I," Seregil told him wearily.
"I say strip whatever we need off her, take the
sails, and set the crew adrift on her with food
and water. How long will repairs to the
Lady
take?"
Rhal rubbed his jaw, looking around at the
damage. "We'll have to step a new mast and rig the
new sails. No sooner than sunup tomorrow."
"How many days to Plenimar?"
Rhal eyed the sky. "Barring foul weather, I'd
say three days, maybe four. Running with
Plenimaran sails could save us a fight or
two."
Seregil looked to Micum, but the big man merely
shrugged.
"Do it, then," Seregil told the captain. "And
put the Plenimarans to work, too."
Hands. Hands on him, touching, seeking, tormenting.
Alec wrapped his arms around his knees, curling
tightly in the darkness of the tiny cabin as he fought
to block out the memory of being touched and wishing he still
had Thero for company. He'd seen no sign of the young
wizard since that first night on board the
Kormados.
Mardus and his people were subtle in their methods; in all
the terrible time since his capture they hadn't once
broken the skin, or drawn so much as a drop of
blood. But inside he hurt.
Oh, yes. He hurt very much.
The dyrmagnos Irtuk Beshar, a walking
nightmare, had straddled him with her withered
hams, flaking fingers scrabbling over him in a
grotesque parody of lust as she ripped her way
into his mind, raping the memories from him. She'd
kissed him afterward, thrusting a tongue like a ragged
strip of moldy leather against his clenched teeth.
The necromancer, Vargul Ashnazai, assisted her
in these interrogations and Alec soon came to fear him
on a deeper level than he did the dyrmagnos
or Mardus.
The former carried out her hallucinatory tortures
with zest, but as soon as she'd finished,

Alec seemed to cease to exist in her mind. Mardus
was more difficult to read. It was he who directed the
tortures and put the questions to Alec, his eyes flat
and soulless, his voice as gentle as a father's as he
named the next obscenity to be carried out.
Otherwise, however, he treated Alec with a
peculiar mix of distance and solicitude that bordered
on courtliness. In the worst moments of torment,
Alec sometimes caught himself inexplicably looking
to Mardus for rescue.
Ashnazai was different. In the presence of others, the
necromancer maintained an impassive demeanor.
Left alone with Alec, the searing hatred
spilled out like acid.
"You and your vile companion cost me great status that
night in Wolde," he'd hissed in Alec's ear
as the boy lay trembling in the darkness after one of the
dyrmagnos' assaults. "At first I thought only
of killing you, but now, you see, I am given by the
Beautiful One to relish my revenge."
And relish it he did, until Alec came
to dread the sight of him more than any of the others.
Ashnazai's attacks left no marks, drew no
blood. Instead, he salted his spells with lurid
descriptions of the murders he'd helped carry out
at the Cockerel.
"It's a pity you didn't arrive earlier that
night," he told Alec. "The old woman never
said a word, but how that foolish son begged. And the
girl! She stayed proud right up until they hacked
off the old bitch's head, then she screamed, those
great breasts of hers heaving. The men wanted to take
her right there on the bloody floor-was
Held silent and immobile by the magic, Alec
could only shudder as Ashnazai passed a clammy
hand over his chest, then traced a hard line down his
breastbone. "Did you ever take her on that floor,
boy? No? Ah, well, I suppose
other things happened there, eh? But then,
snik, snik, snik,
like so we had the heads off for the mantel decoration.
I must say, your reaction was all that I'd have hoped
for. I nearly added your head to the collection, but then
I thought of a more-how would you say?"
The necromancer traced the line down Alec's chest
a second time with a look of almost dreamy pleasure.
"A more
satisfying
revenge. You shall pay for the difficulties you made,
and be of great use."
The implication was clear enough. Thinking of the bodies
Micum and Seregil had seen, with their chests split
open, ribs
Lynn Flewelling
pulled back on either side like wings, Alec wished
they had killed him that first night.
The rounds of torture continued for several days and when
they'd finished with him, Alec finally understood why
Nysander had told Seregil and him so little. They
wrung everything from him, though it was nothing more than the
fragment of the prophecy.
"There now. Well done, Alec," Mardus said,
smiling down at him when the dyrmagnos had
finished. "But your Guardian is dead, this mysterious
band of four he spoke of sundered, broken. Poor
Seregil. Even if he did desert you in the end,
he must be feeling a bit guilty at having brought
such destruction down on so many of his friends."
Torn loose from any shred of hope or pride,
Alec could only turn his face away and weep.
After the torture ceased, the soldiers became
Alec's chief source of daily misery. Among
them were Mardus' captain, Tildus, and the
men-at-arms who'd bullied him in Wolde. With
Seregil's training to guide him, he looked for a
weak link among them, a man with some fatal streak of
sympathy, but Mardus had chosen his personal guard
with care.
A harsh, brutal lot, they'd crowded to the grate
to listen when he was tortured. Now they were the ones who
dragged him above for the daily airings on deck that
Mardus insisted upon. They stood over him at
meals, sniggered when he begged for a pail to relieve
himself. Few of them spoke any Skalan, but they
managed to get their crude jests and insults across.
A few of them made free with their hands, too, and
laughed when he lashed out at them.
The worst among them was a hairy,
muscular brute called Gossol. During the
brief struggle at the Cockerel the night of his
capture, Alec had smashed him in the mouth with the
hilt of his sword and broken off the man's front
teeth. Gossol held a grudge over it and made
a special effort to torment him at every
opportunity.
On the morning of Alec's sixth day aboard,
Gossol showed up alone to escort him above. One
look was enough to make Alec brace for trouble.

"Come you, man child," Gossol ordered in broken
Skalan. The stumps of his broken front teeth
showed as he leered slyly and held up a cloak, the
only garment Alec was allowed except for his clout.
Alec understood. He'd have to go get it.
"Come quick, not
seshka
Mardus keep wait," Gossol chided.
"Toss it here," Alec said, holding out his hand.
Gossol's grin widened dangerously. Leaning against
the door frame, he gave the cloak a taunting
shake. "No. You come, man child. Now."
Getting to his feet, Alec cautiously reached
for the cloak. Gossol snatched it away and
laughed as Alec jumped back.
"What? You afraid of Gossol, little man child?"
He offered the cloak, pulled it back again with a
sneer, then advanced on Alec, backing him into the
narrow space between the bunk and the wall. "You be
afraid, good. You break mouth of Gossol. Think
whores like this mouth now? Eh? You know whore, I
think." Gossol made a lewd gesture.
"Whores don't like this broken mouth. Maybe you like,
eh?"
Shoving Alec back against the wall hard enough to knock
the breath out of him, he pinned him there with the weight of
his body and kissed him savagely on the mouth.
Alec struggled furiously, but Gossol held him
fast with one hand and ran the other up Alec's belly
to his nipple and gave it a vicious twist.
With a snarl, Alec gave up trying to push the heavy
man off and instead bit him on the lip.
Gossol pulled away and drew back his fist, but
Alec beat him to the punch. The moment his arms were
free, he drove his fist into the startled guard's
face and felt the satisfying crunch of bone as
Gossol's nose splintered.
Maddened, he grappled with Alec again, throwing him
back onto the hard bunk and locking a hand
around his windpipe. As Alec fought for breath he
heard someone else storm in, cursing in
Plenimaran.
Tildus dragged the enraged soldier off and struck
him hard across the jaw before pushing him into the arms of the
other soldiers waiting at the door.
"Hell damn little bastard fool!" Tildus
shouted, seeing blood on Alec's face and chest.
He barked an order to another soldier in the
companionway, then rounded on Alec again. "If
any of this is
lynn Flewelling
,
yours, you dead as Gossol. No good if damaged.
Mardus slice you up like an eel, eat your
rezhari
for dinner!"
Someone fetched a bucket of water and a rag and
Tildus set about sponging the blood off Alec and
looking for wounds.
As the guards pulled him this way and that, Alec
considered what the captain had just let slip;
Mardus wanted him with a whole skin, no blood
spilled. That explained why they'd tortured him in
the manner they had, but not why it was necessary.
When Tildus had finished, he pushed Alec back
onto the bunk and threw him the cloak,.8ally lucky
bastard today. No cuts."
"Very lucky indeed."
Looking past Tildus and the guards, Alec saw
Mardus standing in the doorway with Vargul
Ashnazai.
"There has been some unpleasantness, I understand,"
Mardus continued, giving Tildus an ominous
look.
The captain rattled off a terse reckoning in his
own tongue. Mardus answered curtly in the same,
and motioned to the necromancer.
Smiling thinly, Vargul Ashnazai made his own
inspection of Alec. "The boy remains
unblemished, my lord."
"I'm glad to hear it. It would have been a great pity
to have him come so close to our destination and then go
to waste. Come, Alec, walk with me. There's something
I think you'll enjoy."
Alec doubted it, but there was no choice but to obey.
Under close guard, he followed Mardus above.
It was an achingly beautiful day. The sky arched over
the rolling sea like a deep blue bowl. The ship
cut through the white- capped waves, her
striped sails filled by a sweet following wind that
sang through the yards and seemed to cleanse some of the stench
of captivity from his skin.
A large square of white canvas had been nailed
to the deck just below the forward battle platform.
Irtuk Beshar knelt at the center of it in an
attitude of meditation, her hideous hands curled
on her knees.
For the first time, Alec saw how most of the sailors and
marines gave her a wide berth. Those who had
to pass her kept their distance and averted their eyes.
This was also the first time he'd been able to observe her with
any detachment. As usual, she wore rich,
elaborate robes that contrasted hideously with her
scabrous head and hands. A few wisps of long
dark hair still clung to her scalp, and over it she
wore a sort

of veil fashioned from tiny gold chains and beads.
Kneeling there in the bright sunshine, she looked as
fragile as the dried carapace of a locust, but
Alec knew better all too well. In the
Oreska museum he'd seen the hands of another
dyrmagnos, who'd been hacked to pieces and
scattered. Even after a century, those hands
still moved. Looking down at the small figure still
meditating in front of him, Alec shuddered,
wondering what the true extent of her power was.
Captain Tildus shouted something in Plenimaran and a
contingent of marines lined up in two ranks flanking
the square of canvas. A few sailors drifted
over, but not many. Mardus nodded to Alec's guards
and they moved him in front of the soldiers to the left.
Vargul Ashnazai went below through a different
hatchway. While he was gone, guards brought up
another prisoner and stood with him opposite
Alec.
It was Thero.
Alec's relief at seeing him was short-lived,
however. The young wizard's face was as vacant as before
beneath the iron bands of the branks, and there was the gleam of
madness in his wide, staring eyes. A grizzled man
in nondescript robes stood just behind him; another
necromancer, he guessed.
Ashnazai returned, followed by two marines
carrying a large chest on carrying poles. The box
and poles were both covered with gold and unfamiliar
symbols. This was set down in front of the
dyrmagnos. As the others began chanting,
Ashnazai opened the chest and lifted out a
crystal diadem that glittered in the sunlight.
"Behold the Crown," he intoned reverently,
placing it on the canvas before Irtuk Beshar.
The sight of it wrenched at Alec's heart. This was
the mysterious object Seregil had risked his life
to find for Nysander.
Ashnazai next lifted out a bowl made of
crudely fired clay and placed it inside the
circlet. "Behold the Cup!"
Last came a loop of golden wire on which had
been strung a number of wooden disks. "Behold
the Eyes of Seriamaius!"
Alec let out an involuntary gasp as the
dyrmagnos began Placing them, one by one, inside
the cup.
Mardus turned to Alec. "You recognize those,
I'm sure. Just unnk, if the two of you hadn't
stolen one, you and poor Thero would not be standing here now.
All those lives lost, all that destruction,
Alec, because of that one impetuous act. Ah, but
I'm
lyim Ftewelling
forgetting that it was
Seregil
who committed the actual theft That's what you
told Irtuk Beshar, that you simply helped. But it
all comes out the same in the end, doesn't it. Here
you are with me, and there he is, safely back in
Rhiminee, no doubt thinking himself very lucky. Can you
still be loyal to this faithless friend of yours?"
"Yes." Alec met Mardus' gaze levelly in
a show of bravado he didn't feel. Past
Mardus, past the ship's rail and out over the wide
sea he could see the tiny dot of an island on the
horizon, too far away to be of any use. his
Just like Seregil.
A wave of longing rolled over Alec, bringing the
sting of tears to his eyes. All those days with
Seregil taken for granted-the memory of them made
him ache as he stood stranded among these enemies.
The dyrmagnos placed her withered hands over the crown
for a moment, then called out harshly in her own tongue.
There was a scuffling sound from belowdecks, followed by a
terrified cry. A moment later Gossol was
hauled on deck by several soldiers. Bootless and
stripped to the waist, he looked around wildly at the
gathering before him. When he saw the dyrmagnos,
however, he went ashen, his great barrel chest heaving in
voiceless terror.
"We were debating the choice of victim, but
you have spared us the tiresome inconvenience of a
lottery," Mardus informed Alec pleasantly.
"This is only a preliminary sacrifice, of
course. The blood of this ignorant lump has
neither the power nor purity of, say, a half
Aurenfaie boy or an Oreska wizard, but it's
sufficient for our purposes today."
"That's why I'm still alive?" Alec managed, his
voice scarcely more than a dry croak.
"Certainly," Mardus assured him, as if
promising him some gift. "You and Thero are being
reserved for the supreme moment. The power of your
blood, Alec! The long years sacrificed.
Yours will be deaths of highest honor. You should pay
careful attention to this ceremony. Yours will be very much the
same."
Gossol was thrown down on his back and held by four
marines marked apart from their fellows by white headbands.
A fifth man knelt holding a gag across the
condemned man's mouth.
In the midst of his fear, Gossol suddenly locked
eyes with Alec and shot him a look of pure
hatred. The power of it tightened
Alec's throat and he quickly averted his
eyes, hating the guilt washing through him.
As the incomprehensible chanting went on, he looked
instead at Thero, trying to guess what was going on in
the wizard's addled mind. Thero stood motionless,
locked mute by whatever magicks the necromancers
had placed over him. Only the spasmodic
twitching of his fingers clutching the front of his cloak
suggested that he comprehended anything around him.
Irtuk spoke again and the second necromancer
lifted something from where she sat. As he passed it
to Ashnazai, Alec saw it was a strange axlike
weapon. The heavy, curving head had been chipped out
of black obsidian and bound onto an iron
haft. Despite its obvious weight, Vargul
Ashnazai raised it above his head with practiced
ease. With no other paean than Gossol's
strangled scream, he struck and the black blade
cleaved open the doomed man's breastbone as neatly
as a wood cutter would split an oak stave.
Alec turned his head quickly, squeezing his eyes
shut until his head throbbed. But he could not escape
the sounds that followed. Gossol's screams rose
to a squeal before they choked off to a gurgle. There was
the dry-stick sounds of bones breaking, and the wet
suck of a carcass being opened. Eyes still
closed, Alec remembered the feel of Vargul
Ashnazai's cold finger tracing a line down his
bare chest.
He suddenly felt very light. Opening his eyes, he
saw the sanded planks of the deck rushing up to meet
him.
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Beka's scouts spotted the convoy of horse-
drawn wagons that morning and trailed it as it wended
south through the coastal foothills. There were only ten
of them, Gilly reported, and only one decuria
of cavalry to guard them, a fact that confirmed
Beka's assumption that they were deep in the
Plenimarans' northern territory now.
The country they'd come into was steep and well
wooded. Beka let the scouts keep the wagons in
sight, biding her time until they stopped for the night.
The wagoneers made camp in a little forest hollow
by a stream just before sundown. Leaving her main group of
riders a quarter of a mile down the road, Beka
chose her fastest runners, Zir, Tobin, and
Jareel, to accompany her, and left
Rhylin with orders to disrupt the camp as soon as she
had accomplished her mission.
Darkness fell, and the wagoneers lit cook fires
for the evening meal. Their escort posted a few guards
up and down the road.
Beka and her raiders stole through the darkness toward the
supply wagons, each of them armed with jars of
firestones they'd captured in a similar raid
two days before. Reaching the wagons, Beka looked
underneath the nearest

and saw unsuspecting wagoneers cooking their evening
meal less than twenty feet away.
With Zir keeping watch, Beka and the others split
up and scattered firestones over the crates and
bales in the wagon beds. Ribbons of smoke
curled up quickly, but the wind was in their favor,
blowing it away from the camp.
Rhylin had been watching for it as his signal,
however. Beka's group had hardly finished their work
before a frantic whinnying came from the Plenimaran
horses picketed nearby.
Whooping and waving torches, Rhylin and his decuria
drove the draft animals into the camp, scattering
startled soldiers and drivers. Flames
shot up in the wagons, adding to the confusion.
Before the Plenimaran guards had time to act,
Braknil's decuria charged in with bows and loosed
a hail of arrows to cover me retreat of the others.
Beka and her group skirted the camp to meet
Tealah, who was holding horses for them down the
road.
An enemy shaft nicked Zir in the shoulder as he
swung up into the saddle. Tobin took an arrow through
the heart before he'd reached his horse.
Beka saw him fall but there was nothing she could do but
look after the living.
"Retreat! Come on, before they get their horses
back," she yelled. A Plenimaran swordsman
charged at her, only to fall with a Skalan arrow in
his back.
Leaving the camp in flames behind them, her riders
thundered back down the dark road with victorious
whoops and catcalls. Among the last to leave,
Beka listened to the Plenimaran's angry outcry with
satisfaction.
"Do you know what they called us?" Tare called out
with a wild laugh as they rode away.
"Urgazhi!
Wolf demons."
An eerie chorus of yells and wolfish howls
erupted from the others.
"Well done,
Urgazhi
Turma!" Beka laughed, as elated as the others.
"I say we've earned the honor," Sergeant
Braknil added.
They were like wolves now-traveling by night, employing
stealth and speed to attack any target weak enough to be
taken, then fading back into the darkness before the enemy
could get a
c
"ear look at how few of them there actually were.
Over the past two weeks they'd made nine
raids, harrying
Lynn Flewelling
small convoys, burning barns and way stations, and
fouling wells as they worked their way south through the
hills toward the sea.
Their plan was to strike the coast and follow it north
again in the hope of meeting a friendly force.
What Beka wasn't certain of was just how far south
their raiding had driven them, or where the Skalan
line currently was. Whatever the case, they'd have
to fight like true
urgazhi
to get back.
"It's only me, Lieutenant!"
Beka opened her eyes to find Rhylin's long,
homely face just inches above hers.
"It's almost sundown. You said to wake you," he said,
hunkering down beside her.
Beka sat up and rubbed a hand over her face.
"Thanks. I wasn't sleeping so well
anyway."
Rhylin handed her his drinking skin, then ran a hand
over the brown scruff of beard covering his jaw.
"The fever hasn't come back on you, has it?"
"No, the leg's fine." Beka took a drink and
handed it back.
They'd made camp in a beech grove. Buds were
just breaking out on the branches overhead and through them she
could see the first golden streaks of sunset.
"But you've still got the dreams, eh?" he asked, then
shrugged when Beka glanced up sharply. "You've
been thrashing and muttering some in your sleep."
"Well, I wish you'd tell me what I'm
saying," Beka replied, hoping it was dark enough not
to betray the color that rose in her cheeks. "I
don't remember a damn thing when I
wake up. Any word from Mirn or Gilly yet?"
"That's what I came to report. Kallas and
Ariani just got back from tracking them. It looks
like they've been captured."
"Damn." From what they'd seen so far, the
Plenimarans weren't keeping prisoners alive, and
her
urgazhi
had suffered losses enough already.
Getting to her feet, she glanced around the clearing.
In Braknil's decuria only Kallas,
Ariani, Arbelus, and one-eyed Steb were left.
Rhylin had Nikides, Syra, Tealah,
Jareel, Tare, Marten, Kaylah, and Zir. Of
those, Tealah had suffered a sword cut during the
third raid and couldn't use her left arm. Zir and
Jareel had fes-

tering wounds, and Steb, still recovering from the loss of
an eye, had a bad case of the scours.
Now Mirn and Gilly were gone.
"Who's out now?" she asked.
"Syra has the watch. Arbelus and Steb went
scouting about an hour ago."
"Go wake the others and tell them to eat
quickly. We ride as soon as it's full dark."
Rhylin gave a quick salute and started around the
camp. Beka let out a slow, exasperated breath.
She'd hoped the others hadn't noticed her nightly
struggles. At least it had been Rhylin who'd
brought it to her attention. Despite his ungainly
appearance, he'd proven a good choice for sergeant.
He had a calm steadiness about him that only seemed
to increase under adversity.
Still, the last thing any of them needed right now was an
officer who had bad dreams behind lines; yelling in
your sleep was a good way to bring the enemy down on
your neck. Rubbing her eyes again, she tried
to remember what the dream had been, but nothing would come
except a vague feeling of anxiety.
Giving up, she turned her thoughts to more practical
matters. Reaching for her tucker sack, she dipped
out a cupful of soaked meal and hastily downed it.
Coarse and full of grit, the barley meal they'd
captured in the last raid was hard on both teeth and
stomach. Most of the time they couldn't chance a fire
to boil it into porridge. Instead, they threw it into a
leather bag with some water and fragments of dried fish
for a few hours until it swelled into a gluey
mass Nikides had dubbed "broken tooth
pudding."
They were just saddling up for the night's ride when Steb
came riding back.
"We found Mim and Gilly, Lieutenant!" he
informed Beka.
"Praise Sakor! Where?" Beka demanded as the
others crowded around in uneasy silence.
"There's a Plenimaran column ahead about two
miles. They've just stopped to make camp for the
night. It's big, Lieutenant, fifty
soldiers at least. And maybe twice that in
prisoners marching afoot m chains."
"Prisoners?" Rhylin raised an eyebrow.
"That's the first we've heard of that. And you're sure
you saw Gilly and Mirn?"
Steb nodded, his good eye blazing with grief and
anger. "The whoreson bastards planked them."
Braknil cursed, then spat angrily over his
left shoulder.
lyim Flewelltng
m
I*
"What do you mean, planked?" Beka demanded.
"It's an old Plenimaran soldier's trick,
Lieutenant," the sergeant scowled. "You
take a man, tie a plank across his shoulders, and
then nail his hands to it."
Beka stood silent for a moment, feeling a black
void opening in her heart. They'd been lucky so
far, facing no more than a decuria or two of
fighters and panicked wagoneers. And so far, they'd
left no one behind but the dead. This was different.
She gripped her sword hilt and growled,
"Let's go have a look."
Taking Braknil and Kallas, Beka followed
Steb.
What must this be like for him?
she wondered, stealing a look at Steb's drawn
face; the bond between him and Mirn was strong. The
two were always together, whether it was around the fire at
night, or fighting side by side like twin avenging
furies. They usually took scout duty together,
too. What had happened today?
The young rider remained grim and silent as he led
them to the little hillside gully where Arbelus was
keeping watch. Less than a mile below, the
scattered campfires of the Plenimaran column
winked in the darkness. Beyond the camp, the black
expanse of the Inner Sea glimmered with the light of the
first stars. The wind was coming off the water tonight
and Beka caught a faint, unsettling sound on the
air. After a moment she realized it was only the
distant crash of surf growling like a hound in its
sleep against the rocky cliffs.
"There's an old road that runs along above the
shore," Arbelus told her. "They set up camp
on the landward side of it."
"You're certain our men are still alive?" Beka
asked, squinting down at the pattern of
campfires.
"They were at sundown. I saw the guards prodding
them in with the other prisoners for the night."
Beka chewed at her lip, still glowering at the enemy
encampment. At last she turned to Braknil.
"It's the first real force we've encountered so far.
What do you think? Any chance of grabbing them out tonight?"
Braknil scratched under his bearded chin a moment,
looking down at the fires. "I'd say not much,
Lieutenant. They'll have the perimeter sewed
tighter than a virgin's bodice. Even if we
did manage to slip in, we'd never fight our
way out if they tumbled to us."
Beka let out an exasperated sigh. "Sakor's
Fist, first they aren't
377
taking prisoners, then they've got a couple
hundred. And where in hell did they get that many this
far inside their own borders?" " Braknil
shrugged. "That's a good question."
Arbelus looked up in surprise. "I never thought
of that. But I'll tell you something even stranger."
"What's that?"
"Before they settled down for the night, they were marching
north."
"North!" Beka exclaimed softly. "The
Mycenian border can't be more than fifty miles from
here, and not a single Plenimaran city in between. If
they're going to all the trouble to" take that many
prisoners, why on earth aren't they taking them south
where they could use them?"
She rested a hand on Steb's rigid shoulder.
"Still, it makes our task easier. We planned
to turn north along the coast anyway. We'll
trail them,
haunt
them, by the gods, and watch for a chance to grab Mirn and
Gilly!"
The guards handled Alec with superstitious care after
Gossol's sacrifice, but they clearly blamed
him for the death of their "soldier brother."
Ashnazai came less often, too, although he still paid
occasional visits in the middle of the night. Starting
up out of some nightmare, Alec would smell the
man's unclean odor in the darkness, feel the touch
of cold fingers on his skin as Ashnazai plunged
him into another punishing miasma of torment.
Locked alone in his tiny dark cabin, Alec grew
increasingly despondent. He'd searched in vain for
some means of escape, even if it meant throwing himself
overboard, but there was none. Left with nothing to do, he
slept a great deal, but his dreams were full of
violence and omens. The dream of the headless arrow came
far more often now, sometimes twice in one day.
Under such desperate conditions, he grew to look
forward to his daily walk on deck with Mardus.
Despite his chilling revelation at the ceremony,
Mardus continued to treat him with a strange sort of
solicitude, as if he enjoyed Alec's company.
At midmorning each day Alec was given a cloak
and escorted above under guard. Fair

weather or foul, Mardus would be waiting for him,
ready to hold forth on whatever subject had taken his
fancy that day. To Alec's considerable surprise,
Mardus was a remarkably intelligent,
well- spoken man, with interests as broad and varied
as Seregil's. He was as likely to launch into a
discussion of Plenimaran war tactics or a
detailed comparison of Plenimaran and Skalan
musical conventions, although his discourses often took a
darker turn.
"Torture is an undervalued art form," he
remarked as they strolled up and down with Vargul
Ashnazai one brisk morning. "Most people assume
that if you cause enough pain you will achieve your end.
While this may be true in some cases, I've always
found that outright brutality is often
counterproductive. Consider your own recent
experience, Alec. Without drawing so much as a drop
of blood, we were able to extract every scrap of
information from you."
"Necromancy is a subtle art," Ashnazai
interjected smugly.
"It can be," Mardus amended dryly, "although
"subtle" is hardly how I'd describe many
of the necromantic procedures I have witnessed. But
to return to the subject at hand, I assure you that
had it not been for the prohibition against shedding blood,
I could have accomplished the same result without such
an extraordinary expenditure of
magic."
Giving Alec a poisonous smile, Ashnazai
asked, "I am curious, my lord, as to what your
method would have been?"
Mardus clasped his hands behind him, considering the question as
coolly as if Ashnazai had asked what he thought
the price of grain would be this year. "I often begin
with the genitals. While the blood loss is
negligible, the pain and emotional anguish are
exquisite. Once that level of pain is
established, the prisoner is usually quite easy
to manipulate. In Alec's case, I could leave
him still fit for the slave markets. Only a fool
would destroy such a pretty creature
unnecessarily."
Trapped at sea in such company, Alec nearly
succumbed to despair. By day he was the toy of his
executioners. By night the muffled cries that sometimes
came up from the hold below increased his Sense of
helplessness. The few times he dreamed of better
days with Seregil or his father only made things
worse when he woke up. Lying in the darkness, he
would try to recall the smell of their rooms at the
Cockerel or the color of Beka's eyes.
Mostly,
Lynn Flewelltng

however, he thought of Seregil and cursed Mardus for the
seeds of doubt he'd planted.
"He didn't abandon me. He didn't!" he
whispered into the darkness one night when his spirits were at
their lowest. He forced himself to recall his friend's grin
when Alec had mastered a new skill, the delight
Seregil took in tormenting Thero, the grip of
Seregil's hand when he'd pulled him back from the
edge of the cliff after the ambush below Cirna.
And the way he'd looked that night at the Street of
Lights. Alec suddenly remembered the guilty
pleasure he'd felt that evening, and later at the
casual touch of Seregil's hand resting on his
shoulder or the back of his neck-
His cheeks went warm now at the memory of that touch.
It was too painful to think of, now that he'd never
feel it again-
"Stop it!" he hissed aloud. "He could come. He
could be following right now!"
But not even Micum could track a ship across water.
Foundering in his own misery, Alec pulled the thin
blanket around himself and tried to recall fragments of
conversation he and Seregil had shared, just
to imagine a friendly voice. He dreamed of him that
night, although he couldn't recall any particulars
when he awoke. But something had come back to him,
nonetheless. Seated on the bunk that morning, he chewed
his breakfast thoughtfully, summoning various lessons
Seregil had instilled in him over the long months of
their acquaintance.
Everyone on board considered him powerless, a
prisoner of little consequence beyond whatever fate
Mardus had in store for him. It was time to put
aside fear and begin to pay attention, real attention,
to what was going on around him, and then to ask questions
comsmall, inconsequential ones at first-as he
tested the water. After all, he wouldn't die any
faster for at least trying.
Learn and live,
Seregil's voice whispered approvingly at the
back of his mind.
The soldiers' newfound wariness of him made it
slightly easier to talk to them, though Alec quickly
discovered that all that mattered to them was their unswerving
loyalty to Mardus, a fact which made any
overtures to them pointless. But he did learn that they
were making for some point on the northwestern coast of
Plenimar.
* *
Stalking Darkness

Later that same morning he made more of an effort
at conversation with Mardus during their daily walk,
allowing himself to be drawn into a discussion of archery.
The next day they spoke of wines and poisons.
Mardus seemed pleasantly surprised and began
sending for him more frequently.
On the fifth day following Gossol's
sacrifice, Tildus came for him at sunset.
The bearded captain said nothing, but Alec didn't
like the smug, secret smile Tildus gave him as
they went above.
On deck Alec saw with alarm that the ritual
space had been prepared again. A line of soldiers
held torches to illuminate the freshly laid
square of canvas where Irtuk Beshar was already bent
over the bowl and crown. Beside her, Vargul
Ashnazai stood ready with the stone ax.
Thero was there, too, standing next to Mardus as
slack-jawed as ever. All eyes seemed to turn
to Alec as he approached.
"O Illior," he whispered hoarsely, feeling his
knees go weak. Mardus had had some
change of heart, his god had sent different
instructions, Alec's questioning had led him into some
fatal misstep-
Tildus gripped his arm more tightly and muttered,
"Easy, man child. Not your time yet!"
"Good evening, Alec!" Mardus said, smiling as he
swept a hand toward the eastern horizon. "Look
there, can you make out the coastline in the distance?"
"Yes," Alec replied, a fresh coil of
apprehension running up his back at the sight.
"That is Plenimar, our destination. Seriamaius
has been kind, guiding us so smoothly along our
course. And now it is time for the second act of
preparation."
As Alec watched with mounting dread, ten men and women
were dragged up on deck by the black-clad marines.
This was the source of the weeping he heard in the night.
This had all been planned in advance, the
sacrificial victims packed away in the hold
as carefully as the wine and oil and flour.
They were not soldiers, but thin, pale,
ordinary-looking souls
w
ho blinked and Wept as they were herded together near the
rail. Most were ragged or dressed as
laborers, just innocent victims, he guessed,
plucked from the darkened streets of whatever ports the
ship had put into before Rhiminee.
Lynn Flewelling
"O Illior," Alec whispered as Mardus came
to stand beside him, hardly knowing that he spoke aloud.
"No, please. Not this."
Mardus slipped an arm around his shoulders and closed
his hand over the back of Alec's neck. Giving him
a playful shake, he purred, "Ah, but you should
savor it. Don't you understand yet how great a part you
played in bringing this about?"
Faint with revulsion, Alec made the mistake of
looking up at Mardus. For the first time he saw the
depths of naked cruelty in his eyes, and in that
awful moment he knew as certainly as he'd ever
known anything that Mardus had.purposefully allowed
him to see behind the mask, was delighting in his fear and
confusion, savoring it the way another man might
savor the first caress of a long-desired lover. And
perhaps worse even than this was the conviction that Mardus
was nonetheless sane.
Some of the prisoners were staring at Alec, mistaking
him for one of their murderers.
He couldn't watch this again. Tildus had
moved away when his master had come over, and the rest of the
soldiers were watching the ceremony. Jerking out of
Mardus' grip, Alec dashed to the rail behind him with
some instinctive, half-formed notion of throwing himself
overboard, swimming as far as he could toward the
shore, giving up if he had to-
He'd gone no more than two paces when a deadly
coldness engulfed him, locking his joints, forcing him
painfully to his knees. Some unseen power forced his
head around to see Vargul Ashnazai holding up a
small vial of some sort that hung around his
scrawny neck on a chain.
"Nicely done, Vargul Ashnazai," said
Mardus. "Move him a bit closer so that he can
see."
Unable to turn his head or blink, Alec had no
choice but to watch as the ten victims were dragged down
onto the deck at Ash- nazai's feet. Ten
times the blade rose and fell with deadly efficiency
and each heart was taken by the dyrmagnos and drained
into the reeking cup.
Thero stood just beyond her and through his own helpless tears
of rage and impotence, Alec saw tears coursing
slowly down There's cheeks. It was an eerie
sight, like watching a statue weep, but it
gave him a sudden thrill of hope in the midst of the
nightmare being acted out before him.
The white canvas was scarlet by the time the
necromancer had finished. He and the dyrmagnos were
smeared to the elbows, their

robes sodden, hair matted with it. Blood had
soaked across the deck to where Alec knelt, staining his
bare knees.
Leaving the soldiers to pitch the bodies overboard,
Mardus took Thero below again.
Vargul Ashnazai walked over to Alec and laid
one bloody hand on his head, breaking the spell.
Alec doubled over retching. Ashnazai snatched the
hem of his blood-soaked gown out of the way with a
grunt of disgust, then gave Alec a shove with one
foot that sent him sprawling in sticky blood and
vomit.
"I look forward to cutting you open," he sneered.
Scrambling back to his hands and knees, Alec
glared defiantly back at him. The necromancer
took an involuntary step back, raising his hand.
Alec braced for some new agony, but Ashnazai
merely turned on his heel and stalked away,
snarling something to Captain Tildus as he
passed.
Dread returned as a pair of soldiers stripped
Alec and washed him down with buckets of cold
seawater. When he was clean, they thrust him into a
soft robe and turned him back to Tildus, who led
him below to a spacious cabin in the stern.
To his amazement, he found Mardus, Ashnazai,
Thero, Irtuk Beshar, and the silent, grey-bearded
necromancer, Hand, reclining on cushions around a
low table. A young serving boy placed another cup
on the table, motioning for Alec to be seated.
"Come, Alec, join us," Mardus said, patting an
empty cushion between himself and the dyrmagnos. He and the
others had also changed clothes and cleansed away all
traces of the murders he'd just witnessed.
It's as if none of that happened,
he thought numbly, too shocked to protest as
Tildus steered him to his place and pushed him
down.
Thero sat on Irtuk Beshar's left. At her
nod, he raised his cup mechanically to his lips.
Wine dribbled down through his beard as he drank, his
eyes locked on some distant point.
The sight filled Alec with a strange guilt, as
if he'd spied on something unseemly.
Looking away, he fixed his attention on his cup as
the servant filled it with pale yellow wine.
"Come now, dear boy, why so shy?" Mardus
coaxed, the mask dgf gentlemanly
solicitude in place once more. "It's an
excellent wine. Perhaps it will put some color back
in those wan cheeks of yours."
Lynn Flewelling
"Strong emotion does so spoil a young man's
beauty," Irtuk Beshar added, her coquettish
tone as incongruous with her cracked, blackened
face as her robes and veil.
The entire situation had such a surreal quality that
Alec found himself replying, "I don't care for
any, thank you," as if he were Sir Alec of
Ivywell dissembling at some noble's banquet with
Seregil.
"Such pretty manners, too," Ashnazai noted.
"I am beginning to see your point, my lord. It will be
a pity to kill him. He would ornament any
gentleman's household."
Alec's sense of dreamlike detachment increased as
the grisly conversation flowed around him in polite
salon tones. If this was the onset of madness, then
he welcomed it as a gift of Illior.
Whatever the case, he suddenly felt a giddy
lightness coming over him. He'd experienced this before,
though never so intensely. When death was your only
option, it made you feel very free indeed.
"My lord," he began. "What is this all about? The
wooden disk, the crown? I know you're going to kill
me as part of it, so I'd just like to understand."
Mardus smiled expansively. "I would expect
no less of a person of your intelligence. As I have
said, you and all your misguided friends have been
instrumental in a grand and sacred quest. At first
even I didn't perceive the significance of it, but
Seriamaius has revealed how you were all simply
instruments of his divine will."
Mardus raised his cup to Alec in a mocking
salute. "You can't imagine the trouble you saved us,
bringing so many parts of the Helm together for us to reclaim
with a single brief stroke. Not to mention the damage
we were able to inflict upon the Oreska in the
process. Why, in one night we managed
to accomplish what might otherwise have taken months,
even years. And we do not have years, or even
weeks, now."
"A helm?" Alec asked, seizing on this new
reference.
Mardus turned to his companions, shaking his head.
"Imagine! This Nysander, great and compassionate
wizard that he is, had his closest friends carry out his
thievery without the least hint of what they were being
embroiled in. Why, he regarded Seregil and
poor young Alec and Thero here almost as sons.
"Yes, Alec, the Helm. The Great Helm of
Seriamaius. The coin, as you so amusingly refer
to it, the cup, and the crown are all elements of a greater
design. When brought together with the

other fragments at the proper time, they will rejoin
to form the Helm revealed to our ancestors
by Seriamaius more than six centuries ago."
"It is the ultimate artifact of necromantic
power," Irtuk Beshar told him. "He who wears
it becomes the
Vatharna,
the living embodiment of Seriamaius."
"The legends from the Great War. Armies of walking
dead," Alec said softly, thinking of the ancient
journal he and Seregil had discovered in the
Oreska library.
"Perhaps we have underestimated this child," the dyrmagnos
observed, cocking her head to regard Alec
more closely. "There may be depths within him still to be
sounded."
Alec shuddered inwardly under the greediness of her
scrutiny.
"Yet these tales of yours said nothing of the Helm?"
Mardus continued. "I am not surprised. At the
end of that war we were betrayed. Aided by traitors,
fawning Aurenfaie wizards, and a pack of ragged
drysians, the wizards of the Second Oreska
managed to capture and dismantle the Helm before its
full power could be invoked. Fortunately, they could not
destroy the individual pieces. Our
necromancers managed to recapture a few of them;
the rest were carried off and hidden. For six centuries
my predecessors have hunted for them, and one by one,
they have been recovered."
"That's what you were doing in Wolde," Alec said
slowly. "You'd been to the Fens, that village
Mi-""
"Micum Cavish?" Ashnazai smiled as he
broke off suddenly. "Don't trouble yourself. You
screamed that name out to us already, just as you did all the
rest of it."
Mardus paused as the serving boy brought in platters
of roasted doves and vegetables.
"Do try to eat something," he said, serving Alec
himself.
Surprised at his own hunger, Alec obliged.
"Now, where was I?" Mardus asked, spearing a
dove for himself. "Ah yes. The three fragments
guarded by Nysander were the last, and of those, the bowl was the
most gratifying discovery. We knew of the others, you
see, both stolen from under our very noses by your friend
Seregil, as it turns out. But all trace of the
bowl had been lost until the two of you led us to it
with the theft of the Eye. And only just in time, too. As
it is, we've only just enough time to complete the ritual
preparations."
"The-sacrifices, you mean?" asked Alec.
Lynn Flewelling
"Yes." Mardus sat forward as the servant brought
in a course of roasted pork. "Each soul taken,
each libation of heart's blood, brings us closer
to Seriamaius, to his great power. No man could be
a vessel for such power, but through the Helm we may
partake of some small portion of it. By "small
portion" you must understand I am speaking in relative
terms. Once restored, the Helm will increase in
power as more lives are fed to it until a single thought
by the wearer can level whole cities,
control thousands. And you, Alec, you and Thero, I
am holding in reserve for the final sacrifice of the
reconstruction ceremony. A hundred people will have
perished before you, allowing you the privilege of watching
every death until your own turns come, two last,
perfect sacrifices. The blood is to a great
extent merely symbolic of the life force given up
to the god. The younger the victim, the more years taken,
the richer the sacrifice."
Irtuk Beshar patted Alec and Thero on the
shoulders. "A young Oreska wizard and a half
"faie boy-the youth of our greatest enemies! What
could be more pleasing to our god than that?"
Alec regarded them a moment in stunned silence,
trying to take it all in.
No,
he thought numbly.
No, I will not be apart of that.
"Thank you," he said finally. "I think I'm
beginning to understand."
There were no guards in the room now. No spells
or chains held him. Forcing himself to give no leading
hint of his intentions, Alec suddenly lashed out across
the table and snatched up a carving knife lying next
to the platter of fowl. Clutching it in both
hands, he drove the blade at his own ribs,
praying for a quick kill.
To his horror and astonishment, however, he twisted
around instead and plunged the blade into the chest of the young
servant. The boy let out a single startled cry and
collapsed.
"Really, Alec, where are your manners tonight?"
Mardus exclaimed regretfully. "I've owned
him since he was a child."
Alec stared down at the body, horror-struck at
what he had done.
"Did you think us so lacking in imagination that we would
not anticipate such a noble action on your part?"
Irtuk chided. "You forget how intimately I know
you, Alec. One of the first wards I placed upon you was
one to guard against such ridiculous heroics. Anytime
you try to hurt yourself, you shall only end up hurting
another, like this poor innocent."

"O Illior!" Alec groaned, covering his face
with his hands.
"Perhaps I am somewhat to blame," Mardus sighed.
"My explanation may have given the boy the
impression that he and Thero are necessary for the final
realization of our plans."
Mardus" hands closed over Alec's, squeezing
painfully as he pulled them aside to fix Alec
with a look of sardonic pleasure.
"Understand this. The presence or absence of either one of you
will not make the slightest difference to the god. It
merely pleases me, and Vargul Ashnazai as
well, I am certain, that the two of you should be the
final victims. Just imagine, dear Alec-watching
all those others die, and you quite helpless to save them.
And then, as your chest is split and your heart pulled
free, your final thought will be that after all your meddling,
all that extraordinary effort, it
is your
life bringing the Helm back into being! I'm only
sorry that your friends will not be there to share in your reward.
Now do try to eat something more. You're looking quite
pale again."
@lgara
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caret equals equals F
Seregil
woke drenched in sweat, still caught in the nightmare's
grip. Squeezing his eyes shut, he
tried to hang on to the images of the dream, but as
usual could recall nothing but the vague memory of a
tall figure towering over him and the terrible sensation of
drowning.
Micum had already gone above. Seregil lay a
moment longer, half dozing as the first faint light of
dawn brightened the cabin's single window. Was Alec
awake, seeing that same light? he wondered, as
he'd wondered every morning of the voyage. Was Alec
alive at all? Would he be when the sun set?
He rubbed at his eyelids and felt the wetness
seeping through his lashes. Early morning was the worst.
During the day he could keep busy, bury his fear in
the semblance of doing something useful. At night he
simply closed his eyes and escaped into dreams and
nightmares.
But here, in the half world of dawn, he had no
defenses, no diversion. The longing for Alec's
presence, the guilt and remorse at having brought
him to this, the shame at never having told the boy how
much he cared for him-it was all as raw as a wound that
refused to heal.
And there was nothing to do but go on to
the end. Rolling out of the bunk, he threw
on a surcoat over his shirt and went above without
bothering to fasten it up.
On deck he turned his face to the wind and spread
his arms. The cold salt breeze lifted his hair
from his neck and blew his coat open, whipping his shirt
against his ribs. Tilting his head back, he inhaled
deeply, trying to cleanse away the sense of
oppression. As he did so, he noticed a new
scent on the wind, the smell of land.
Going to the starboard rail, he saw a dark, uneven
line of mountains looming through the morning mist like a
promise just out of reach. His sail-changing ploy had
worked. They'd sailed within sight of Plenimar's
northwestern coastline without challenge.
Rhal called put sharply somewhere to stern and
Skywake barked an order. Looking around the deck
for Micum, Seregil spotted him sitting on the
forward bulkhead. He had a small mirror
propped on one knee and was shaving his chin with the aid
of a knife and a cup of water.
Micum looked up as he approached, then frowned.
"Another bad night, eh?"
"Worst yet." Seregil combed his fingers back through
his windblown hair. "It feels like someone's trying
to tell me the most important thing in the
world in a language I can't understand."
"Maybe Nysander can make something of it when he
gets here."
"If he
gets here," Seregil replied listlessly. He
felt as if they'd been on this ship for years instead
of weeks; Rhiminee, Nysander, Alec, the deaths
they'd left behind, perhaps it was just all part of the same
bad dream.
Micum gestured with his knife at a lonely peak
to the north. "Rhal says that's Mount Kythes there.
He thinks we can put ashore tonight. There's
a-Bilairy's Balls, you're bleeding!"
Setting his knife and cup aside, he stood and
tugged at the loose ties of Seregil' s shirt.
"Damnation, it's that scar. It's opened up again,"
he whispered, touching a finger to Seregil's chest and
showing him the blood.
Using Micum's shaving mirror, Seregil
inspected the small trickle of blood oozing from the
raised outline of the scar. He could even make out the
faint whorls left by the disk, and the small square
mark of the hole at its center. He also caught a
glimpse of his own face, looking sallow and
hollow-eyed in the early light. Pulling his
coat shut, he fastened the top buttons.
Lynn Flewelling
"What does it mean?" Micum asked.
"Don't you remember what the date is today?"
Seregil replied grimly.
Micum's jaw dropped. "By the Flame, I'd
lost track being on a ship so long."
"The fifteenth of Lithion," Seregil said,
nodding. "If Leiteus and Nysander were right in their
calculations, Rendel's Spear should be in the sky
tonight."
Seregil saw awe and concern mingle in his friend's
eyes as Micum took a last look at the bleed
on his fingers before wiping them on his coat.
"You know I came along on this trip mostly
to look out for you, don't you?" Micum said
quietly.
"Yes."
"Well, I just want you to know that as of now, I'm
beginning to be a believer. Whatever it was that left its
mark on you there, it's working on us now. I just hope
Nysander is right about Illior being the immortal
who's leading us around."
Seregil grasped his friend's shoulder. "After all these
years, maybe I'll finally make an
Illioran out of you."
"Not if it means waking up looking like you do this
morning," Micum countered.
"Still no dreams?" Seregil asked, still puzzled by the
fact that of the four of them, Micum was the only one
who hadn't had a premonition of some sort.
Micum shrugged. "Not one. Like I've always told
you, I do my fighting when I'm awake."
The mountain loomed steadily larger ahead of them as
they followed the coast north through the day. From a distance
it seemed to rise directly up from the sea itself, its
summit lost in a mantle of cloud.
"Pillar of the Sky, eh?" Rhal remarked, standing
with Seregil and Micum at the rail that afternoon.
"Well, they sure named it rightly. How in hell
are you going to find this temple of yours on something that
big?"
"It's somewhere along the water," Seregil replied
softly, rubbing unconsciously at the front of his
coat; Micum had tied a wadded bit of linen over
the raw circle of skin. Oddly enough, the wound
hardly hurt at all.

"Well, it'll take some doing to put you ashore."
Rhal shaded his eyes, peering landward. The
weather had remained clear through the day but-a wind was
blowing up out of the west, piling up the waves and lashing
the foam from their white crests. "I see breakers
against the rocks all up and down there. Most of it's
cliff and ledge. You'll just have to coast along until
you see a likely landing place."
"Is the boat ready?" asked Seregil.
Rhal nodded, his gaze still on the distant coastline.
"Water, food, all that you asked for. I saw to it
myself. We can cast you off as soon as you've packed
in your gear."
"We'd best get at it then," Micum said.
"It's been a while since either of us has sailed.
I don't want to try this sea without some daylight
ahead of us."
When the final pack and cask had been lashed into the
Lady's
starboard longboat, Seregil and Micum took
leave of Rhal.
"Good luck to you," the captain said solemnly,
clasping hands with them. "Whatever it is the two of you
are up to over there, give those Plenimaran bastards
merry hell for me."
"Nothing will make me any happier," Micum
assured him.
"Lay off the coast as long as you can," said
Seregil. "If we're not back in four or five
days, or if you get run off yourself, head north and
put in at the first friendly port you find."
Rhal gripped Seregil's hand a moment longer.
"By the Old Sailor, when this whole thing is over,
I'd like to hear the tale of it. You look out for
yourselves, and find that boy of yours."
"We will," Seregil promised, climbing into the
boat. Crouching down beside Micum, he wrapped his
hands around one of the ropes securing the boat's
small mast.
"Hold tight!" Rhal called as his men set to work
lowering it over the side. "Wait until we're
well away before you put up your sail. Good luck,
friends!"
The little boat swung precariously from the halyards
as it was lowered down the side of the pitching ship.
Waves slapped at it as they neared the water, then
rolled in over the side. Clinging on as best they
couldea"Seregil and Micum waited until they'd
cleared the
Lady,
then unfurled the triangular sail.
The little boat yawed sharply, catching
another wave over the side. Micum took the
tiller and turned her into the wind while
lyim Flewelltng
Seregil hauled on the spar rope. As soon as
they got her headed properly into the waves, he
looped the spar rope over a cleat and set about
bailing the craft out.
"You're the Guide," Micum said, shrugging out of his
sodden cloak and settling himself more comfortably at the
tiller. "What do we do now?"
Seregil gazed toward the distant shore. "Like
Rhal said, get in close and coast along until
we spot a landing place."
"There's a lot of coast there, Seregil. We could
end up miles from wherever this temple of yours is."
Seregil went back to his bailing. "If I am
the Guide of Nysander's prophecy, maybe
I'll know the right place when I see it."
The words sounded weak and half-convinced even to him, but
he didn't know what else to say. This certainly
didn't seem like the proper moment to confess that
except for a few fragmentary dreams and the bleeding
scar on his chest, he was painfully unaware of any
feelings of divine guidance.
As Rhal had observed, much of the coastline
was ledge or cliff. The boom of the surf echoed
back at them across the water and they could see the
spume thrown up by the breakers. Great blocks of
reddish granite shot through with bands of black
basalt lay in tumbled disorder between the water and the
trees above.
As far as the eye could see the land looked desolate
and uninhabited. Dark forest blanketed the hills.
Higher up, the stark, stony peak of the mountain rose
forbiddingly against the evening sky. The setting sun behind
them cast a thick golden light over the scene,
enhancing briefly the color of water, sky, and
stone. Great flocks of sea ducks and geese
floated on the swells just beyond the pull of the
breakers. Overhead, gulls uttered their whistling
calls as they circled and dove.
"I never thought I'd be setting foot on
Plenimaran soil," Micum remarked, steering them
closer in. "I've got to admit, it's
nice-looking country."
The sun sank lower. Kneeling in the bow, Seregil
squinted intently at the harsh shoreline.
"I think we may be spending the night out here,"
Micum said, steering them past a rocky point.
"You may be- Wait!"
The forest was thick here, but he caught the distinct
yellow flicker of firelight in the shadow of a
cove. "Do you see that?"

"Could be a campfire. What do you say?"
"Let's have a look."
Steering into the cove, they discovered a tiny, sheltered
beach at its head. Above the tide line, a large
fire crackled invitingly, illuminating the thick
tangle of evergreens that edged the shingle.
"It looks more like a signal fire," whispered
Micum, tacking just off shore. "Could be fishermen
or pirates."
"Only one way to find out. You stay with the boat."
Slipping over the side into the hip-deep water,
Seregil drew his sword and waded ashore.
The beach lay at the head of a deep cleft in the
surrounding ledge, making an oblique approach
impossible, and the slanting evening light lit it like a
stage. The shingle was made up of small,
wave-polished stones that crunched and rattled under his
boots as he continued up toward the fire.
still
might just as well tie a bell around my neck,
he thought uneasily, picturing archers
tracking him from the ledges and swordsmen in the
thickets.
But the cove was peaceful. Standing still, he listened
carefully. Over the sigh of the wind, he heard the
mournful music of doves and white throats in the
woods, the clacking croak of a heron stalking the
shallows somewhere nearby. No one was disturbing them.
Encouraged but wary, he crunched up the shingle to the
fire. There was no sign of habitation, no packs
or refuse. As he came nearer, he realized with a
nasty start that the flames were giving off no heat. It
was an illusion.
A branch snapped in the forest and he crouched,
bracing for ambush. A tall, spare figure
stepped from the trees.
"Here you are at last, dear boy," a familiar
voice greeted him in Skalan.
"Nysander?" Still wary, Seregil remained where he was
as the wizard pushed back his hood. Dressed for
traveling, Nysander wore an old surcoat and
loose breeches, and his faded cloak was held at
the throat with the worn bronze brooch he always used.
As he came forward into the light, Seregil let out
a startled gasp. Even in the ruddy light of
sunset, Nysander looked ghostly. His
face was the color of bone and more deeply lined than
ever. Worse yet, he looked shrunken in on
himself, diminished, like the gnarled caricature of an
old man carved in fresh ivory. Only his
Lyim Flewelling
bright eyes and the familiar warmth in his voice seemed
to have come back to him intact.
The surprise of their unexpected meeting left
Seregil wary of illusion, however. Quelling the
impulse to embrace his old friend, Seregil kept
his distance and asked, "How did you find us?"
Nysander made a sour face. "That blood charm you
left with Magyana, of course. It took some
managing and magic, but here lam."
Sheathing his sword, Seregil gave the old man a
joyous hug. "I knew you'd do it, but by the Light,
you look awful!"
"As do you, dear boy," Nysander chuckled.
Micum hauled the boat in and ran up the shingle
to join them.
"You mean to say you were here waiting for us?" he cried,
looking Nysander over in wonder. "How did you know?
And why didn't you send us a message by magic?"
"All in good time," the old wizard sighed, sinking
down on a driftwood log and waving the
illusory fire out of existence. "I must admit,
I am equally relieved to see you. I feared I
might have missed you after all."
"Do you know anything about Alec?" Seregil asked
hopefully, sitting down beside him.
"No, but you must not despair," Nysander told him,
patting his shoulder kindly. "If he were dead, I
would know it. The force of the prophecy is binding us
closer with every passing day."
Micum kicked together a pile of driftwood
sticks and fished a firechip from a pouch at his
belt. "Well, I haven't had any great visions
or dreams, but the more I see of this business, the more
I believe it. By the Flame, Nysander, look at
you. How can you have gotten here at all?"
"Look at me, indeed," Nysander replied rather
ruefully. "One does not return from such a
journey as the dyrmagnos sent me on without showing a
bit of wear. But there was some value to it. While my
body healed, my mind floated free among dreams
and visions. I believe I know how to find the
temple we seek. It is marked by a large white
stone surrounded by black ones. And it is near the
sea."
Disappointment settled in Seregil's
belly like a bad dinner. "That's it? You're telling
me in all the hundreds of square miles around that
mountain we have to find
one
rock?"
"That's not much to go on," Micum noted, echoing his
skepticism.

Yet Nysander appeared perfectly complaisant.
"We will find it," he assured them. "It does not
guarantee our success, but we will find it."
"I've been having dreams of my own," Seregil
told him.
"You've done more than that," Micum snorted. "Show
him your chest."
Seregil peeled off the bandage and showed Nysander the
crusted yellow scab that had formed around the scar. "It
must be some kind of sign. Leiteus claimed this was
the night the comet would appear."
"Undoubtedly," Nysander agreed. "Whether it is
an omen of good or ill remains to be seen. What
was your dream?"
Seregil picked up a knife-shaped stone and rubbed
it between his hands. "I can never remember much of it, just
the image of a figure with a misshapen head
looking down at me through water while I drown.
Isn't there something you could do to sort of pull more of it
out of me?"
Nysander shook his head. "I must conserve both my
strength and my magic. What little I have was hard-won
and will be needed for what lies before us now. Even the
fire I used to signal you was from a spell
Magyana made for me. As for the dream, it must be
some sort of preparation for the task ahead."
Micum ran his hands back through his thick red hair
and sighed. "Do you think you could be a bit more
specific?"
Nysander nodded. "Before the attack on the Oreska
I hoped I would never have to tell you. Afterward, I was
unable to.
"As Seregil has told you, there is a prophecy
which names four persons, the Guardian, the Shaft, the
Vanguard, and the Guide. I am the Guardian, and
have been since the days of my apprenticeship with
Arkoniel. What we have guarded, there below the
Oreska House, was a fragment of a necromantic
object called the Helm of Seriamaius."
"The bowl," Seregil interjected.
Nysander glanced at him in surprise. "How on
earth did you learn that?"
"More visions," said Micum, tossing wood on the
fire. The sun was disappearing into the western sea,
leaving the stars spread like a diamond veil above
them.
"Yes, it was a bowl," Nysander went on. "And then
Seregil and Alec brought me the wooden disk. Just
before the Festival of Sakor, I sent Seregil
after a third object, a crown which had been
lynn Flewelling
hidden deep in the Ashek mountains. He knew at
once, both by the condition of the bodies of
sacrificial victims he found there and the evil
magic that surrounded it, that it was related to the disk.
However, I told him nothing and swore him
to secrecy. Not even Alec knew."
"I still don't see how you'd get any sort of
helmet out of those odds and ends," said Micum.
"Their appearance hides their true form. A powerful
protective glamour was placed on them by the
necromancers who created them. Who would guess,
even having alj the pieces in hand, that a lopsided
clay bowl, a crystal crown, and a handful of wooden
disks could be parts of a common whole?"
"What does it do, when it's all put together?"
"It was created to channel the power of the dark
god. No one knows how long it took to forge the
different elements, or what magicks were used. It
first appeared near the end of the Great War, when it was
assembled and placed on a man they called the
Vatharna,
or chosen one. Fortunately, the wizards of
Skala and Aurenen overcame the first
Vatharna
before he had the opportunity to fully manifest the
magic of the Helm."
"You mean to say that this
Vatharna
of theirs would eventually have all the powers of their death
god?" asked Micum.
"No one knows what the extent of its abilities
might have been, but there is evidence that even in the
short time it existed, the Helm granted its wearer
terrible necromantic power. If it had not been
dismantled when it was, I doubt anyone could have
overcome it."
Seregil shook his head slowly. "Then those old
tales of walking dead, armies of them, were true?"
"It is likely there is at least a kernel of
truth in them."
"You said dismantled, not destroyed,"
Micum noted.
"So it was, to the great sorrow of subsequent
generations. The wizards managed to reduce it to its
component parts, but before they could learn how to destroy
them, Plenimaran forces attacked to reclaim them.
When it was clear that the Skalan position would be
overrun, six wizards were chosen to flee with the
pieces and hide them. Only one was ever seen
alive again."
"The one who took the bowl," said Seregil.
"Reynes
i
Maril Syrmanis Dormon Alen Wyvernus.
It was he who eventually created that chamber in the
lowest vault of the Oreska, and he who passed the
onus of Guardianship down to his

successor, Hyradin, who passed it
to Aikoniel, who passed it to me. Neither the Queen
nor the Oreskan Council ever knew of its
existence there. Any who tried to learn their secret
were killed."
"These Guardians didn't even trust the other
wizards?" said Micum.
"Who could be trusted with such knowledge? The Empty
God understands nothing better than the dark corners
of a mortal heart. Fear, pity, remorse,
greed, the lust for power-these are the Eater of Death's
most potent weapons."
"Did Thero know?" asked Seregil.
"No, he was not ready for such knowledge." Nysander rested a
hand on Seregil's shoulder. "Part of my grief in
losing you as an apprentice was the knowledge that you would have been
such a worthy successor. From the day

took you on, I knew in my heart that you were capable
of assuming the burden. When you could not learn the
magic, I was devastated. But now I see that I
was not mistaken about your worthiness, only about the
role which you were destined to play. What you learned after
leaving me, the life you went on to, it all
prepared you to be the Unseen One."
Seregil scowled. "You think the gods made me a
thief and a spy, just so I could steal the disk from
Mardus? You think my whole life means nothing more
than this one task? I refuse to believe that!"
"No, not entirely," Nysander said. "You recall
me telling you that there is always a Guide somewhere, and
all the others of the prophecy? Perhaps your life would
have been no different if the Helm never
existed, but being what you are, you are the Guide. I
have speculated on it many times over the years, but it
was only after you brought me the disk that I truly
began to believe. When you were also able to snatch the
crown away from the Plenimarans, I prayed that it was
simply good fortune, that by being vigilant I could
keep all the fragments out of Mardus" hands and
prevent the restoration."
"Then you knew about Mardus already?"
"Only that he was a bastard relation of the old
Overlord, a noble of tremendous ability and
ambition, and one of Plenimar's most formidable
spies. Now I suspect he means to make himself
Vatharna."
"He sounds like the right man for the job," Micum said,
scowling. "But you still haven't told us where this
prophecy of yours came from, or what it says."
lynn Flewelling
"No one but the Guardians have ever heard it, or were
ever meant to," Nysander replied solemnly.
"While still a young man, the second Guardian had
a dream vision which has been passed down from one
Guardian to another ever since as our greatest source
of hope. "The Dream of Hyradin" is this:
"And so came the Beautiful One, the
Eater of Death, to strip the bones of the world. First
clothed in Man's flesh it came, crowned with a
dread helm of great darkness. And none could stand against
this One but a company of sacred number.
was 'First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light
in the darkness. Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall
fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen
One, goes forth." This same prophecy names the
Pillar of the Sky, and speaks of a temple there."
"That gives us about as much to go on as your rock
dream," Micum grumbled.
But Seregil felt a sickening chill pass through
him, recalling the visions he had experienced when in
contact with those pieces-the scenes of death and
choruses of agony. "Then everything Mardus has
done since Alec and I ran into him up in
Wolde-the disk, Rythel and the sewer plot, the
attack on you- it's all leading to him bringing all the
pieces together again?"
"Of course, and bringing them together at the correct time
and place. The time is during a solar eclipse
five days from now."
"We'd guessed that already, after talking to your
astrologer friend," said Seregil.
"Well done. Now that the three of us are
together again, we must find the temple and see where the
gods lead us from there. This time the Helm
must
be destroyed completely, and to accomplish that we must
allow it to be reassembled-was
"What? his
Seregil sputtered.
"It is the only way we can be certain that every
fragment is accounted for," Nysander went on.
"Arkoniel himself believed it was the only possible
course of action and I believe he was right. If the
knowledge passed down from Reynes i Maril is
correct, then it takes a certain amount of time for the
power of the Helm to gather itself, and more time for it
to increase to its full potential. Therefore, once it
has been reassembled we will have some brief moment of
opportunity to strike. As the Guardian, I
charge you both by your life and honor to strike whatever
blow necessary to destroy the power of the Helm. Will you
swear to that?"

"You have my oath on it." Micum extended his hand.
Nysander took it and they looked to Seregil.
He hesitated, still toying with the beach stone, as an
inexplicable ripple of misgiving went through
him.
"Seregil?" Nysander raised an eyebrow at him.
Shrugging off his apprehension, Seregil tossed the
stone aside and covered their hands with his own. "You have
my word-was
As soon as his hands touched theirs, a sharp stab of
pain lanced through his chest like an arrow shaft. Gasping,
he pressed a hand over the scar.
Pushing Seregil's hand aside, Micum opened his
coat and gently pulled the bandage off. "You're
bleeding again," he said, showing Seregil and Nysander
fresh blood on the linen dressing.
"It's nothing," Seregil rasped. "It must have
broken open when I moved."
"Look there!" Nysander exclaimed, pointing up at
the night sky.
A distant streak of red fire had appeared against the
white band of stars to the east.
"Rendel's Spear!" Micum exclaimed.
They gazed up at the comet for a moment in silence, then
Nysander said softly, "The necromancers call it
by a different name."
"Oh? What?"
"Met 'ar Seriami,"
the wizard replied. "The Arm of
Seriamaius."
his:,:
et'ar Seriami!"
Framed against the last light of sunset as he stood
on the forward battle platform, Mardus swept a
hand toward the fiery scintilla just visible above the
eastern horizon. A victorious cheer went up from
his men.
The throng assembled on the nearby shore echoed the
cry, waving torches and shooting flaming arrows into the
air over the cove. Drums throbbed out in the
darkness.
Even before being brought on deck, Alec was
uneasily aware of changes in the ship's routine.
First, Mardus had foregone their walk that morning.
Then the guards had brought Alec a long tunic, the
first clothing he'd had since his capture. As the
interminable day wore on, he felt the motion of the
ship change and guessed that they were nearing the
Plenimaran coast. He was proven correct that
evening. When he and There were finally brought on deck,
the
Kormados
was riding at anchor off a desolate shore.
Desolate, but not uninhabited. There was
an encampment of some sort, and he could see black
uniformed men hailing the ship excitedly.
On board, Alec sensed an air of expectation.
Everyone seemed to be watching the

eastern horizon as the sun set. Finally, the comet
appeared with the stars, a red point of light clearly
visible below the waxing moon, and the great shout went up.
Standing under guard on deck, Alec leaned closer
to Thero and whispered, "Look there. A plague star!
Do you see it?"
"Plague star for you, maybe!" Captain Tildus
scoffed disdainfully. "For us great sign. Lord
Mardus and
voron
had say there should be such sign tonight."
"What did Mardus say just now-'Mederseri"?"
Alec asked.
"Met "ar Seriami. his
Tildus searched for the words in Skalan to explain.
"It is 'The Arm of Seriami." A very great
sign, I tell you before."
"Seriami? What I call Seriamaius?" A
vague sense of dread gripped Alec as Tildus
nodded.
"Aura Elustri mal-was
"Shut that," Tildus growled, seizing Alec
roughly by the arm. "Your madness gods don't be here.
Seriami eat hearts of the false ones."
No other prisoners remained. Alec and Thero had
been given proper clothing before being brought on deck,
and their hands were bound securely behind their backs.
Thero moved like a sleepwalker, obeying simple
commands, moving when ordered. Otherwise he remained
motionless, his expression betraying nothing of what
thoughts, if any, were going on within. The seamless iron
bands on his wrists glinted softly in the torchlight
as he moved, the unreadable characters incised into their
burnished surfaces lined black with shadow.
That's the secret,
Alec thought, convinced that these, rather than the branks, were
the source of their enemies' control over Thero. If
he could get those off somehow-
There was considerable activity on deck. Irtuk
Beshar and the other necromancers stood together at the
base of the platform, talking quietly among themselves
as their traveling trunks were brought up from below and
stacked by the rail.
Captain Tildus and a few of his men went ashore
in a longboat, returning quickly with some
news. Although Alec couldn't understand what they were
saying, it was clear that Mardus was pleased with
Tildus' report. When they'd finished, the
captain shouted out
a
command and the sailors hurried to ready the rest of the
ship's longboats for departure.
Mardus crossed the deck to where Alec and Thero still
stood with their guards. "We'll be continuing our
journey by land from
Lynn Flewelling
here," he told Alec. "There is suitably
restrained and I expect no difficulty from him.
You, however, are another matter." He paused, and the
scar beneath his left eye deepened as he smiled.
"You've already proved yourself a slippery customer and
once ashore you will no doubt be tempted to escape.
I promise you, it would be a futile effort, and the
consequences would be extremely unpleasant, but not
fatal."
"More unpleasant than having my chest hacked open
with an ax?" Alec muttered, glaring up at him.
"Immeasurably so." Mardus' eyes.were
depthless as the night sky, and as enigmatic.
Turning on his heel, he strode away
to oversee his men.
Shivering in spite of his warm clothing, Alec
looked back at the comet glimmering on the lip of the
world. This might not be the night for the final ceremony,
but it couldn't be far off now. Whatever schedule
Mardus was following, this comet was clearly a
significant indicator.
Somewhere on that dark shore lay their destination, and his
death.
It was only a short dash to the rail, he thought.
If he moved quickly he could dodge the guards,
take them by surprise. leap over.
And then what?
Alec could almost see Seregil frowning
impatiently at him from the shadows.
Assuming that you could swim with your hands tied, there are
probably only about two hundred soldiers over
there, not to mention at least one necromancer. Or were you
just planning to take a nice deep breath down there in
the blackness?
And where, by the way, would any of that leave Them?
Alec clenched his fists as desperation threatened
to overwhelm him again. He wasn't ready to die, and
he knew he couldn't abandon Thero. He had no
idea how much of this whole business, if
any, was actually the young wizard's fault; There's
garbled confession had been too enmeshed in Irtuk's
manipulations for Alec to give it full credence,
though the doubt in his own mind was real enough. But
guilty or not, he wouldn't leave him behind.
"You go now," one of his guards ordered, prodding him
toward the last longboat.
It was too late to do anything but obey.
Illior and Dalna, gods of my parents, I
beg your aid,
he prayed silently, moving forward.
As he neared the rail, he caught sight of something
lying half

hidden in the shadow of a bulkhead in his path, something
he'd long since given up all hope of finding.
A nail.
Two inches long, square forged and slightly bent with
use, it lay in plain view less than five
feet from where he stood.
For one awful moment Alec was certain the guards had
seen it, too, that someone was sure to snatch it away
if he so much as glanced back at it. Perhaps
Mardus himself had dropped it there, as a last cruel
test.
There was only one way to find out.
The guard pushed him again, less gently this time.
Alec pretended to stumble, then fell flat on his
face.
He landed hard, but when he opened his eyes the nail
was within an inch of his nose. Shifting as if he were
struggling to get up, he quickly rolled over the
nail, caught it with his lips and teeth, and had it
safely stowed in his cheek by the time the guards pulled
him to his feet.
It was as simple as that.
"What's all the fuss about down there?" Beka
asked, joining the scouts on the crest of the hill
overlooking the Plenimaran camp.
The Plenimaran column had headed steadily north
since Beka and her riders began shadowing them. After
three days they'd stopped on this lonely stretch of
plain overlooking the Inner Sea. Beka and her people
kept their distance, using their Plenimaran- shod
horses for closer scouting so as to leave no enemy
hoofprints to betray their presence.
For the past two days the Plenimarans had remained
there with no apparent purpose. Just before sundown,
however, a Plenimaran warship had sailed in from the
west and dropped anchor.
"Looks like someone from the ship is putting ashore,"
Rhylin said, squinting into the last glare of sunset.
"I don't know what all the hoorah is, though.
They're all yelling and waving torches back and
forth."
"Maybe that's it," Kallas whispered suddenly,
pointing to the sky.
Looking up, the others saw a fiery streak of light
moving slowly up the sky from the eastern horizon.
Lynn Flewelling
"Maker's Mercy, a plague star!" Jareel
muttered, making a warding sign.
"I'd take that for an omen if ever there was one,"
Rhylin said, making a sign of his own. "If that's
what they're cheering about down there, then I don't like
it."
Beka had never seen a comet, yet the sight of this
one brought with it a strange feeling of recognition
similar to the one she'd experienced when she'd first
heard the sound of the surf a few nights before. This time
it was stronger, more unsettling. There was also a vague
impression of-tightness.
"Lieutenant?"
Beka turned to find the others regarding her
solemnly in the failing light.
"Could you make out any insignia on the ship?" she
asked.
"She was running without colors," Rhylin replied.
"We didn't see any cargo come off her, either, just
people. What do we do now?"
"We could go down for a closer look once it gets
dark," Steb suggested hopefully.
"Urgazhi
style, quick in, quick out," urged Rhylin, taking his
part.
Beka considered their limited options carefully before
answering. She shared their frustration, knew how
badly they wanted to make a move. More than once
in the days since they'd been dogging the column they'd
caught glimpses of Gilly and Mirn among the
crowd of prisoners, staggering along under the weight
of the planks nailed across their shoulders, hi the end,
however, it still boiled down to the fact that they were just
fourteen against a hundred or more.
She shook her head slowly. "Not yet. If they
don't move out tomorrow I'll reconsider, but I
can't afford to lose any more of you. For now we wait
and if they move north again tomorrow, we'll follow."
Steb turned away angrily, and several others
groaned.
"I guess nobody'll be going by ship!"
exclaimed Rhylin, gesturing toward the sea again.
The anchored vessel was on fire. As they watched
in amazement, the rigging caught fire and sheets of
flame spread to the sails.
"Bilairy's Balls, they scuttled her!"
Jareel gasped. "A fire couldn't spread that
quickly unless someone meant for it to. What the hell
are they up to?"

Beka settled cross-legged on the grass,
watching the reflection of the flames dancing across the
water. "I guess we'll just have to stick with them
until comwe find out."
The following morning Alec's guards woke him at
dawn and led him to an iron cage mounted in the back
of a small cart, the sort strolling players used
to transport their trained animals. A thick
mattress covered the floor of it, and there was a
canvas awning over the top, but it still stank faintly
of its former occupants.
Thero was already inside, seated cross-legged in the far
corner. Like Alec, his hands were no longer tied, and
he'd been allowed to keep his tunic and cloak.
"What a mangy pair of bear cubs,"
Ashnazai sneered, coming up to the bars behind Alec.
Alec moved away from him, although there wasn't really
anywhere to go; the cage was only ten feet on a
side.
"Lord Mardus is very busy now that we have landed, so
I will be looking after you now," the necromancer went
on.
He wrapped his hands around two of the bars, and Alec
saw blue sparks dance over the iron, as if the
cage had been struck by lightning. He jumped in
alarm, and Ashnazai smiled his thin, unpleasant
smile. In the clear light of the morning sun, his
skin had a damp, unhealthy look, like the flesh of a
toadstool.
"Don't you fear, dear Alec. My magic
won't hurt you. Not unless you try to get out. And of
course, you are far too intelligent to do anything so
foolish."
Still smiling, he walked away. He looked like a
winter scarecrow as the wind off the sea tugged at his
dusty brown robe.
Hatred boiled in Alec's veins. Never in his
life had he wanted so badly to kill a man.
When Ashnazai disappeared beyond a row dgf tents,
Alec turned his attention to the camp around
him.
The back of the cart afforded a good view. From up here
he could see the ranks of small white tents
belonging to the soldiers and the herd of horses staked out
beyond. The column that had met them on shore had at
least fifty riders, as well as a crowd of People who
were not in uniform and had the look of prisoners, although
he was too far away to be certain. They had slept
in we open under the watchful eye of swordsmen and
archers. Mardus had brought at least a score of men
of his own, making it a
Lyim Flewelling
formidable force, all in the black uniforms of the
marines. Going to the other side of the cage, he could
see the smoking remains of the
Kormados
lying in the shallows like the skeleton of some wretched
leviathan.
What happened to her crew?
he wondered. They'd even burned the longboats.
He didn't recognize the pair of soldiers who
brought him breakfast a short time later. He
spoke to them in the hope that they spoke some
Skalan. If they did, they didn't let on.
Giving him a scornfully direct look,
they passed some remark between them, spat on the ground,
and walked off a few paces to join the other guards
assigned to watch him.
Alec hadn't really expected better from them.
Sitting down beside Thero, he put a bit of bread
in the young wizard's hand. When Thero did nothing,
Alec said, "Eat."
Thero raised the bread to his mouth and took a
bite. Crumbs fell into his beard as he slowly
chewed and swallowed. Alec brushed them off and gave
him a cup of water.
"Drink," he ordered wearily.
The column formed up at midday and set off north
along the coast. The northwest coast of Plenimar was
wild, rugged country. The track they followed wound
in and out of swamps, meadows, and forests of pine and
oak, always with the shadow of mountains on their right and the
sea in sight on their left. The farther north they
moved, the more forbidding the coastline became. Rocky
shingle gave way to red granite ledges and cliffs.
A cold, constant wind sighed through the trees,
stirring the twisted branches of the jack pines and
bringing Alec the sweet scents of the forest. It was
colder here than in Skala, but he guessed that it
must be sometime in mid-Lithion by now.
The nail was his talisman, his one remaining secret
and symbol of hope. It was too large to keep in his
mouth without attracting notice, but he didn't dare
let it out of his possession, even to hide it in the
mattress tick. Instead, he pierced it
securely into the folds of his clothing. Recalling the
incident on the ship, he was careful to keep it hidden
from Thero, in case the necromancers or dyrmagnos
decided to use the wizard to spy on him again.
So, keeping it hidden as best he could, Alec bided
his time, waiting for some opportunity to present itself.
Guards surrounded the cart day and night, but even
without their presence he'd have

hesitated to attempt picking the lock;
Ashnazai's little warning demonstration with the bars
suggested that such an effort would be futile and
probably dangerous. It was a frustrating
situation. He recognized the type of lock
securing the door and knew the nail would have been more
than adequate for the job.
It was clear from the first that Vargul Ashnazai was
relishing his new commission. He had none of
Mardus' deceptive smoothness, but contented himself with
riding along beside the cart like a dour
specter.
Alec did his best to ignore him as the bear cart
rolled and jounced northward along the rutted
coastal trail. Nonetheless, he was often aware of the
necromancer's gloating gaze.
Their first night on the road the column camped in the
shelter of an ancient pine grove. The sound of
surf was loud. Looking west past the huge,
straight trunks, Alec could see the white spume
of the waves as they thundered against the ledges. It
reminded him of the sea sounds of his dreams, but it was not
quite the same.
As darkness fell, another cheer went up and he
guessed that the comet must be visible again, although he
couldn't see up through the branches. Much later, he
heard agonized screams in the darkness and knew that the
sacrificial ritual was being carried out again somewhere
nearby. Even the guards around the cart shifted
uneasily and several made warding signs.
The cries went on longer this time. Feeling cold and
sick, Alec moved closer to There's sleeping form
and covered his head with his cloak.
Less than a year before, a younger, more innocent
Alec had lain awake all night in Asengai's
dungeon, trembling and weeping at every
fresh cry that echoed from the torturer's room.
Weeks of death and torture in Mardus' company
had almost emptied him of such emotion. Pressing his
hands over his ears, he drifted into a restless doze
with the survivor's uneasy prayer of relief:
This time, at least, it wasn "t me.
In his nightmare there was no invisible pursuer this time,
only the hoarse screams leading him on, faster and
faster. With tears of Jrustration coursing down his
cheeks, he gripped the useless
iytiti Flewelling
arrow shaft and ran until his chest ached. Rounding a
corner, he staggered to a halt, his way blocked by a
section of collapsed wall.
A thrill of hope shot through him at the sight of the
ray of sunlight streaming in through a jagged break high
in the stonework. From outside came the familiar rush
and rumble of surf.
Clambering up the pile of broken stone, he
squeezed out through the hole-
comand found himself standing alone on a granite ledge
surrounded by thick fog that shrouded the view on all
sides. Overhead, the faint disk of the noonday
sun burned through the mist.
The crash of the surf was loud now, so loud that
he couldn 't tell which direction it was coming from. If
he moved too far, went the wrong direction in the
mist, he'd surely fall off the ledge. Crouching
low, he moved slowly along on all fours until
his hands touched water. The waves surged around him
suddenly, flipping him on his back and tumbling him
across the rocks. When the foaming waters receded again,
the ledges were covered for as far as he could see with
corpses of drowned men and women, their blue-white
skin gleaming in the shadowless light.
The sea sound was fainter now, and over it Alec could
hear harsh grunts and heavy, wet tearing sounds coming
toward him in the fog. Terrified, naked, unarmed,
he crouched among the corpses. Even the headless
arrow was gone, carried off by the sea.
Soon he caught sight of weird, humped forms
moving among the dead. The grunting and snuffling grew
louder, closer.
Suddenly something grabbed him from behind in an icy
grip, pulling him to his feet. Alec couldn't
turn his head far enough to see what it was, but the
putrid stench that rolled off it made him gag.
"Join the feast, boy, was a gloating, clotted
voice whispered close to his ear.
Struggling out of that loathsome grasp, Alec
whirled to see what the creature was, but there was
nothing there.
"Join the feast!" the same voice said again, still behind
him no matter how fast he turned.
Stumbling backward, he fell into a heap of
bloated corpses. No matter how he struggled
he couldn't get up; every move enmeshed him more in a
tangle of flaccid limbs.
"Aura Elustri malrei!"
he screamed, flailing wildly.
"Join the feast! was the voice howled
triumphantly.
Then the sun went black.

Alec jerked awake, still smelling the terrible death
stench of the dream. A plump slice of moon visible
through the branches told him it was still" far from morning.
Hugging his knees miserably, Alec took a
deep breath, but the air smelled fouler every moment.
"Oh, Alec, I'm so frightened!"
Looking up in amazement, Alec saw Cilia
crouched a few feet away. Illuminated by some
ghostly inner light, she looked imploringly at
him. Ghost or not, he was too relieved to see her
whole again to be frightened.
"What are you doing here?" he asked softly, praying
she wouldn't disappear as suddenly as she'd come.
"I don't know." A tear slid slowly down her
cheek. "I've been lost for so long! I can't find
Father or Grandmother anywhere. What's happened,
Alec? Where are we?"
She looked so real that he took off his cloak and
placed it around her shoulders. She pulled it around
herself gratefully and leaned against him, feeling very
solid and real. For a moment he simply knelt
next to her, trying hard not to question her presence. At
last, however, he pulled back a little and looked
down at the top of her head resting against his chest.
"Why did you come?" he asked again.
"I had to," she whispered sadly. "I had
to tell you-was
"Tell me what?"
"How much I hate you."
Her voice was so soft, so gentle, that it took a
moment for the import of her words to sink in.
As his heart turned to lead in his chest, she said, "I
hate you, Alec. It was your fault, even more than
Seregil's. They saw you, followed you. You led them
to us. I'm glad you're going to die."
"No! Oh, no, no, no,
no backslash was
Scrambling away, Alec flung himself into the farthest
corner. "That's not true!" he cried. "It can't be
true."
Cilia raised her head slowly, her eyes black
hollows in the dim light of the moon. She smiled,
and the fetid stench rolled through the cage again. Her
smile widened to a grimace, a snarl, a silent
scream, then a black arm shot from her mouth,
lengthening impossibly as it reached for Alec.
Locking black talons around his arm, it dragged him
over There's limp body and back to her. For a moment
his face was inches from hers, her wild eyes boring
into
Lynn Flewelling
his, mouth stretched obscenely around the arm
protruding from it. Then her whole body swelled
into a black, man-shaped form.
"Are you so certain?" the thing asked in the voice from
Alec's nightmare. "Are you so very certain?"
Releasing him, it wavered, then flowed out through the bars
like smoke.
"Damn you!" Alec screamed, knowing Vargul
Ashnazai was close by, watching. "Damn you, you
blood-swilling son of a whore! You lie!
You lie!"
A single harsh, mocking laugh answered him from the
darkness beneath the trees.
randSsffandffi'More
s'33aret s'13aret 2S backslash
caret caret equals T
The wind whipped Seregil's cloak around his knees
and pulled at the bow case and quiver strapped to his
old pack as he stopped to wait for Micum and
Nysander. Looking back along the ledges to the
north, he could just make them out, Nysander leaning on
Micum and a stout staff as they picked their way over
an expanse of tumbled stone. Over them loomed
Mount Kythes, its jagged peak thrusting above the tree
line like an elbow from a worn green sleeve.
Seregil shook his head in wonder. Despite
Nysandcr's fragile appearance, the wizard had
managed to keep up a steady pace over the past
two days. Seregil and Micum took turns
supporting him while the other scouted ahead. They were
at the foot of the great mountain now, toiling south
along the edge of the forest that flanked the coastline for as
far as they could see. The area was rough and
uninhabited, but there was the faint line of an
overgrown road through the woods that followed
the ledges.
Looking ahead, he shaded his eyes against the afternoon
sun and scanned the forest and ledges.
How in the name of Illior were they supposed to find
one stone, white or otherwise, in
Lyim Flewelling
this wilderness? For all they knew they'd passed it
somewhere yesterday. Yet Nysander insisted on pressing
forward, the light of hope growing brighter daily in his
eyes as they moved southward. Micum said little, but
Seregil suspected he was as daunted by the
unlikely nature of their quest as he was.
What if Nysander is wrong?
Seregil fought a daily battle against that question, and
others. What if by losing the battle at the
Oreska, Nysander had failed in his
Guardianship? What if the wounds he'd received in
that fight had addled his brain and he was leading them a
fool's errand while Alec was carried off to some other
part of Plenimar?
Yet each night the comet blazed ever closer in the
night sky and the mark on Seregil's breast grew
clearer as the skin healed, so he could not voice his
doubts. Rational or not, in his heart he believed that
Nysander was right. Clinging to this, he pressed
on each day, scanning the coastline along the forest's
edge until his eyes burned and his head ached,
feeling his heart leap into his throat every time a patch
of sunlight or the reflection of a tide pool
tricked his eye.
Nysander and Micum had almost caught up. Sitting
down on a slab of red granite, Seregil
watched a flock of sea ducks bobbing on the
waves beyond the breakers. Gradually his gaze wandered
to the greenish-brown beards of bladder wrack clinging
to the damp rocks below. Scattered patches of it
marked the high tide line. Farther down, where disthe
tide was nearly out, it blanketed the wet rocks in
thick, slippery beds. He'd noted the difference the
day before and the fact had been nagging at the back of his
mind ever since, though he wasn't quite certain why.
Micum and Nysander climbed slowly up to where he
stood. The wizard sank down on an outcropping,
wiping his brow on his sleeve.
"My goodness," he panted, "I believe I must
sit for a moment."
Seregil uncorked his water skin and handed it to him.
"We only have a few hours of daylight left,"
he said, suddenly restless. "I'll go on ahead.
If I'm not back by dusk, light a
fire and I'll backtrack to it."
Micum frowned and held up a hand. "Hold on,
now. I don't like the idea of us getting split up
again."
"Not to worry," Nysander assured him. "I shall
only need a short rest, and then we can follow. I
agree with Seregil; there is no time to lose."

"It's settled," Seregil said, setting off again
before Micum could protest.
A quarter of a mile farther on a broad cove
cut into the shoreline like a bite from a slice of
bread. An expanse of smooth ledge several
hundred feet wide sloped gently up to the base
of steeper layers of sea-weathered granite that
embraced the cove like ruined battlements. Gulls
picked their way through the rock pools and seaweed near
the water's edge, spying out a meal left behind by the
tide. It was a rather pretty place, Seregil
thought, climbing up the rocks to stay near the edge of the
forest.
Looking through the trees, he saw that the disused road
curved to follow the upper ledges. He was just
wondering if he should follow it for a while when something
white caught his eye in the edge of the
undergrowth across the cove.
Clambering over rocks and fallen trees, he
braced for another disappointment; an equally
promising flash earlier that morning had turned out
to be the shoulder blade of an elk. Another had
been nothing more than sunlight striking a spring-fed
pool. As he came closer, however, he saw that it
was a boulder of milky white stone nearly four
feet high.
Dropping his pack, he pushed his way through the
thicket of leafless bushes and dead fern that partially
obscured it.
It was real-a great chunk of white quartz that had no
business being in this type of country. He circled
it, looking for carvings or marks, then reached down through
the dry bracken until his fingers found a small,
smooth stone. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a
piece of polished black basalt the size and
shape of a goose egg. Digging in farther, he found
more of the black stones, as well as a tiny clay
figure of a woman and an ornament of carved shell.
Clutching his finds, Seregil bounded back the way
he'd come until he saw Micum and Nysander
heading his way.
"I found it!" he shouted. "I found your
white rock, Nysander. It's real!"
Micum let out a happy whoop and Seregil
answered with one of his own.
"What do you say for Illioran mysticism now,
Micum?" Seregil demanded breathlessly as he
reached them.
Micum shook his head, grinning. "I'll never
understand it, but it's surely led us well so far."
"There were black stones around the base of it, and I
found
Lyim Flewelling
these, too," Seregil told Nysander excitedly,
showing him the clay figure and the carved bit of shell.
"Illior's Light!" the wizard murmured,
examining them. "Come along," he urged, grasping
them both by the arm. "Carry me if you have to, but get
me to that stone before the sun goes down."
But they didn't have to carry him. Swinging his staff
ahead of him, Nysander strode over the ledges with much
of his old energy. It was as if his news had
revitalized the wizard, Seregil thought. Perhaps
Nysander had needebled this solid affirmation of his
visions as much as the rest of them.
"Oh, yes, this is the one," Nysander said as they
reached the stone. Placing both hands on it,
he closed his eyes.
"It is old, so old," he said almost reverently.
"It was placed here long before the first Hierophant
landed on Plenimaran soil, but the echo of ancient
worship is still so strong in it."
"You mean this is some ancient shrine?" asked
Micum, examining it more closely.
"Something of the sort. Those objects Seregil found
have been here for over a thousand years. They should be put
back."
Seregil replaced the figure and shell ornament as
he'd found them. "I looked the big stone over, but
I didn't see any markings. Still, if this was a
shrine, maybe it's the temple the prophecy
meant."
Nysander shook his head. "No, this is only a
marker. Of that I am certain. Before the forest grew
up it would have been visible from the sea. From the trail,
too, if it existed whenever this was placed here."
"Then the temple must be back up in these woods
somewhere," said Micum. "You rest here, Nysander.
Seregil and I'll take a look."
The forest here was old virgin growth, Micum saw
with a certain degree of relief. The huge,
wind-twisted pines were widely spaced, with
little undergrowth beneath them. Despite the good
visibility, however, after an hour's searching neither
he nor Seregil had found anything remotely
resembling a temple or any other structure.

Returning to the shore, they found Nysander down on the
ledges. It was late afternoon by now, and the tide was nearing
its lowest ebb.
"Nothing, eh? That is very puzzling." Leaning on his
staff, Nysander frowned out at the sea. "Then again,
if we are not finding what we seek, then perhaps we
are not looking for the right thing."
Micum sank down on a rock with a discouraged
groan. "Then what should we be looking for? We've
only got three more days before this eclipse of yours."
Seregil scanned the cove pensively, then set
off toward the waterline. "All it means is that it
isn't a building."
"I know that look," Micum said, watching him cast
back and forth along the ledges like a hound seeking a
scent.
The wizard nodded in bemusement. "So do I."
"What are you looking for?" called Micum.
"Don't know yet," Seregil replied absently,
poking through the seaweed floating in one of the
larger tide pools.
"See how the formation of the stone forms a natural
amphitheater?" Nysander pointed out. "You try those
higher ledges. I shall take the right."
Micum scrambled diligently up and down the
rocks, but found nothing but bleached shells and bird
droppings. He was just wondering if Nysander ought
to spare a bit of magic after all when Seregil
let out a triumphant cackle below.
"What is it?" Micum demanded.
Seregil lay sprawled on his belly, his arms
plunged nearly to the shoulder into one of the long, narrow
fissures that ran down the lower ledges to the sea.
"Come see for yourself."
Climbing down, Micum and Nysander knelt and
peered into the cleft in the stone.
"Look here," said Seregil, pushing aside a
clump of rock weed. Beneath it, they saw rows of
crudely carved symbols cut into the rock six
inches below the top of the crack. Moving along on
hands and knees, they found that the symbols formed a
continuous band spanning both sides of the fissure
all the way down to the sea. A second crevice
near the other side of the cove was filled with the
sa
me sort of carvings.
"What are they?" asked Micum.
Nysander's pale face lit up with excitement as
he studied the
Lynn Flewelling
whorls, circles, and cross-hatching that formed the
patterns. "Such carvings have been found all round the
inner seas, but no one has ever deciphered them. Like
that stone up there, they were placed here before our kind
arrived."
"Another sacred spot," Seregil said, sitting
up. "I found the crown in a cave the Dravnians
called a spirit chamber. I felt their spirit after I'd
gotten the crown. Micum, you remember that underground
chamber you found in the Fens?"
"Of course." Micum grimaced, recalling the
scene of slaughter.
"You said there was an altar stone of some sort there,"
Nysander said, exchanging an excited glance with
Seregil. "That chamber could have been some sort of
holy place, too, before the wooden disks were hidden
there." He waved a hand at the carvings they'd found.
"And now this place, this ancient temple site.
All this suggests that the necromancers use the power of
such places to enhance their own magic.
Assuming that this is the case, then there must be some
significance in Mardus' choice of this rather obscure
location."
"I was just thinking the same thing," Seregil said,
sighting down the right-hand fissure. Waves surged
up the cleft with the gentle heave of the tide, churning
up white foam as they lifted the seaweed. After a
moment he began pulling off his boots.
"Fetch a rope, would you, Micum?" he asked,
stripping off his tunic and shirt as well.
"What are you up to?"
"I just want a look at where these cracks in the
rock lead."
Seregil tied one end of the rope around his waist and
handed the rest to Micum, then waded into the icy water.
He was thigh deep when the undertow knocked him off his
feet. Micum tightened his grip on the rope, but
Seregil surfaced and motioned for nim to slack up
again. Struggling against the waves, he swam farther out
and dove beneath the surface.
"What is it he's after?" Micum muttered
nervously, paying out more line.
"I cannot imagine," Nysander replied, shaking his
head.
Seregil dove twice more before shouting for
Micum to haul him in.
Pale and blue-lipped with cold, Seregil staggered
up the rock and flattened himself against its sun-warmed
surface. Nysander unfastened his cloak and laid it
over him.
Micum squatted down beside him. "Find anything?"

"Nothing. I had thought maybe, with the gift tide
coming-was Seregil broke off. Sitting up, he
smacked a hand across his forehead. "Illior's
Fingers, I've had it all backward!"
"Ah, I think I see!" For the first time in days a
little color stole into Nysander's bleached cheeks.
"How could I have overlooked such an obvious
factor?"
"A gift tide?" Micum asked, wondering if
he'd heard right.
Seregil's teeth clattered like bakshi stones in a
leather cup as he exclaimed, "It's the last
piece of the puzzle. Now the rest falls
into place."
"What in the hell are you-was
"Twice each month, the moon causes the tide
to rise and fall to unusual extremes," Nysander
explained. "The fishermen call it a gift
tide. On the day of the eclipse there will be such a
tide."
"It was the seaweed," Seregil went on, as if that
explained everything. "It grows thickest around the low
tide line. Last night I noticed that an
unusually thick band of it was laid bare at low
tide."
"But you just said there was nothing out there," said Micum.
"That's right." Seregil jumped to his feet and
headed up the ledges. "And I might have saved myself
a swim just now. Leiteus said the eclipse would
occur at midday, which is when the tide will be
unusually
high backslash
That's the other half of the cycle!" Water dripped
from the tip of his nose as he scrutinized the
fissure again, following it up toward the high ground.
Suddenly he stooped over a collection of stones
jumbled together near one of the parallel fissures, then
began tossing them aside.
"Look, a hole," he said, showing them a round
hole a hand's span wide bored deep into the stone.
Scrabbling along on his knees he soon found
another, and then a third.
With the help of the others, he uncovered a
total of fourteen of the holes, spaced evenly to form
a half circle around a broad, shallow
depression in the stone just above the high tide mark.
It was an unremarkable looking spot, littered with
driftwood, shells, dried seaweed, and other
debris, but both of the mysterious crevices in the
rock ran through it.
"Here's your temple," Seregil announced.
"I think you may be'correct," Nysander said,
looking around in amazement.
"It's above the normal tide line now, but from the
looks of the debris, the highest tides reach it.
It's a sort of natural basin."
Lynn Flewelling
"It must have been used by the people who left the writing we
found carved there," Nysander speculated. "I
wonder what the holes represent?"
"So the eclipse and the high tide that fills this thing will
happen at the same time," observed Micum,
helping Seregil cover the holes as they had found
them.
"The highest point of the tide will lag some minutes
behind the completion of the eclipse," the wizard replied.
"Which means Mardus will have only a few moments in which
to complete whatever ritual he plans before
the sun returns. It is generally believed that the more
rare the conjunction, the more powerful its effect. With the
added factor of the comet, I should say this conjunction will
be an extraordinarily potent and dangerous one.
That it is so focused on a specific locale
makes it all the more so."
"By the Flame!" Micum muttered. "And the three of
us are supposed to take on that, with however many
Plenimarans thrown in?"
"Four," Seregil amended darkly, shooting
Nysander a pointed look. "When the time comes, there
are supposed to
be four
of us."
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Time passed like a slow nightmare
for
Alec.
By day
the cart bumped and jolted over the rough coastal
track the column followed. His mounted escort
ignored him for the most part, talking among themselves in
their own language. With
only
Thero for company, Alec spent the daylight hours
dozing and watching the mountainous countryside go by.
And dreading nightfall. At night the bear cart was
stationed somewhat apart from the camp. Alec quickly
learned to fear the moment when his guards faded away
into the shadows; this was the signal for Vargul
Ashnazai's festival of nightmares to begin.
Later, when the final horror was over and Alec had
been reduced to terrified fury, the guards would
reappear and whatever was left of the night would pass in
relative peace.
The second night Diomis and his mother materialized
in the cage, heads clutched beneath their arms as they
cursed and accused him. Alec knew they were only
illusions, but their accusations stabbed at enough of his own
doubts to bring real pain. Turning his back on them,
he.stuffed his fingers in his ears and tried to ignore the
prodding and buffeting of their cold, ghostly hands. It
was pointless to fight back-they had no more substance
than air.
Lynn Flewelling
Curling tighter in his misery, he waited for
Ashnazai to tire of the game.
When it was over, Alec lay listening to the
small sounds of the night-an owl's hunting call, the
distant nickering of horses, the low murmur of the
guards, who'd come back as soon as Ashnazai had
gone.
Where did they go? he wondered, letting his mind wander
where it would.
A better question: why do they go?
His eyes widened as he stared up into the night sky.
Every time Ashnazai had tormented him, on the ship and
now, he did it without witnesses. This seemed
to verify something Alec already suspected. Vargul
Ashnazai did not want anyone, especially
Mardus, to know what he was up to.
The following night there was no sign of Ashnazai.
Huddled close to There's sleeping form, Alec stared
out into the shadows, bracing for whatever new horror was
to come.
The moon rose. The stars wheeled slowly past the
branches, but nothing disturbed the surrounding stillness.
A sweet spring breeze swept through the boughs,
carrying to him the scents of resin, damp mosses, and
tender green herbs sprouting from the forest loam.
Closing his eyes, he imagined himself walking through those
wooded hills with his bow as he had with his father. In
spite of his fear, he drifted off and
dreamed of hunting and forest trails and freedom.
He was awakened by someone whispering his name. A dark
figure stood next to the cart, beckoning him to the
bars.
Alec crouched warily. "What do you want?"
"Alec, it's me," the man replied softly. He
pushed his hood back and the moonlight struck his
face.
"Seregil!" Alec managed a choked whisper.
Scrambling over, he thrust his hand out to his friend.
Seregil clasped it and pressed it to his lips.
He was real, solid, warm. Alec clung to him,
heedless of the tears of relief rolling down his own
cheeks. "I never thought- How did you find us?"
Reaching through the bars, Seregil cupped Alec's
face in his hands. "No time to explain,
tali.
I've got to get you out of there." Releasing Alec
reluctantly, he went to the back of the cart
to examine the lock.

"Be careful. Vargul Ashnazai put some kind of
magic on it."
Seregil glanced up. "Who?"
"The necromancer who was with Mardus in
Wolde. And he's not the only one around, either.
They've got a dyrmagnos with them."
"Bilairy's Balls! But there's got to be some
way. I'm not leaving you here!"
Alec's heart hammered in his chest as he watched
Seregil inspect the lock. It was torture, being
this close but still separated.
"Ah, here's something-was Seregil began, but just then
torchlight flared behind him.
"Seregil, look out!"
Turning, they found Vargul Ashnazai leering up
at them, flanked by a half-dozen armed soldiers.
"How clever of you to have found us," the necromancer
gloated. "I much appreciate your effort. And your
boy played his part very convincingly, no?"
Seregil shot Alec a startled look.
It was the cruelest blow yet, that accusing look. It
froze Alec's throat, so that he could only shake
his head imploringly.
Seregil drew his sword and sprang from the wagon,
away from Ashnazai's men. But others were waiting for
him in the shadows.
Flinging himself against the bars, Alec watched with
horror as Seregil fought for his life. He ran a
guard through and slashed another across the neck
before the others leapt at him from behind, knocking him to the
ground and pinning him.
The necromancer barked an order and they yanked
Seregil to his feet. His face was bloody, but
he held his head high and spat at the necromancer,
eyes blazing with hate.
Ashnazai gave another order. This time Seregil
was dragged up into the bear cart and lashed hand and foot
to the bars facing Alec.
"I didn't help him, I swear," Alec
whispered hoarsely. "Oh, Seregil, I-was
"It doesn't matter much-now," Seregil growled,
turning his face away.
"Not in the least," Ashnazai agreed, climbing into the
cart behind him with Seregil's sword in his hand.
"It's a pity you were cut, but then I'd hardly dare
chance putting the two of you together again." He grabbed
Seregil by the hair, pulling his head back. "Who
knows what mischief you'd make, eh?"
Lyra Rewelling
Stepping back, he placed the point of the sword
against the small of SeregiFs back and pushed
slowly, twisting the blade.
Seregil let out a strangled cry and grasped the
bars. Alec reached through, grappling for the
sword, but one of Ashnazai's men pulled him
away, holding him back as the necromancer drove
the blade out through Seregil's belly and then yanked
it free.
Seregil let out a harsh scream and sank to his
knees. Struggling free, Alec caught at him,
trying to hold him through the bars. He felt hot
blood under his hands. More ran from the corner of
Seregil's mouth.
Alec wanted to speak, but no words would come.
Seregil looked at him, his wide grey eyes
full of sorrow and recrimination.
Pulling the dying man's head back again, Ashnazai
drew the blade across Seregil's throat. More
blood pumped from the severed arteries, spattering
Alec's face and chest.
Seregil struggled weakly for a moment, his last breath
gurgling horribly through the gaping wound. With a final
spasm, he went limp, eyes open and vacant.
Sobbing, Alec clung to his friend's body until
the soldiers cut it loose from the bars and dragged it
from his grasp.
Ashnazai looked down at him with disdain. "That was
most enjoyable. Your turn comes soon, but not so
mercifully. But then, you know that, I think."
It had been an illusion, just another of
Ashnazai's tricks.
Alec repeated this over and over to himself as the cart
rumbled north the next day.
But the dried blood on his hands and clothing was real
enough. So were the stains on the canvas ticking of the
mattress and the wood at the back of the cart where
Seregil had fallen.
Seregil is dead.
It was an illusion.
Seregil is dead.
It was-
His grief was too deep for tears. It was so vast that
it blotted out everything else. He couldn't eat or
sleep or take in his surroundings. Hunched in a
corner of the cage, he clasped his hands around his
knees and rested his head on them, shutting out the world.
Seregil is dead.

As the flat, empty day wore on, Alec often
felt Ashnazai's gloating gaze on him, sipping
at his anguish like wine. He kept his eyes
averted, unable to bear the sight of that smug,
satisfied smile. The necromancer bided his time,
keeping his distance until the afternoon.
"The guards tell me you eat and drink nothing all
day," he said, riding beside him.
Alec ignored him.
"Too bad not to keep up your strength," Ashnazai
went on airily. "Perhaps a diversion will cheer you.
The scouts found a cave where we will make camp.
After so many days of this cage- so drafty, so many
eyes looking-a snug cave will be nice for you, eh?
It will be most, how do you say-
T
He paused. "Most cozy."
His parting laugh left no doubt that something
particularly unpleasant was in the offing. Alec
shivered, partly out of dread, partly from a sudden burst
of excitement. This could be his final chance for escape.
He gazed out over the ocean, trying to imagine how
many miles lay between him and Rhiminee.
Nysander was dead.
Seregil was dead.
Cilia. Diomis. Thryis. Rhiri.
The names fell like stones against his heart. If he
couldn't get away tonight, then he'd just as soon die
trying.
Sometimes total despair was the best substitute for
hope.
The column halted for the night at the base of a
small cliff surrounded by forest. Below the road, the
ground fell way sharply to sea-washed ledges.
By this point, Alec had taken stock of his limited
options. Somewhere to the north lay the Mycenian
border. If he did manage to get free tonight, it
was the only direction worth going. If he followed
the coast, it improved his chances of meeting friendly
forces. It meant fleeing with Thero in tow and Mardus
close behind, but if he could elude him, stay concealed
and some distance ahead, then maybe they had a chance.
If not, he'd put up a fight.
When the column showed signs of stopping for the night
he
Lynn Flewelltng
quickly transferred the precious nail from the seam of
his tunic into his mouth and stood at the bars,
watching. The wagoneer drove the bear cart some way
apart from the main camp as usual, trundling to a
halt at the ledges on the seaward side of the
trail. Their position, Alec noted with growing
hope, had the added advantage of being to the north of the
main camp, which meant fewer pickets between him and
freedom.
Ashnazai was taking no chances. Half a
dozen armed guards came to escort the prisoners
to their new quarters. The cave was a rough, deep
fisslire beneath a shelf of ledge overlooking the
sea. It was damp, but large enough for a man to stand up
in. A stout iron staple had been driven into a
crack in the back wall and two lengths of heavy
chain hung from it.
One of the guards asked something in Plenimaran. The
necromancer answered at some length and his men
laughed, then looped the end of a chain around Alec's
neck and secured it with a padlock.
"He asked if I wished you shackled by the leg,"
Ashnazai told Alec. "I told him, "An
animal will chew off a limb to escape a trap but
I think even this clever young thief cannot chew off his own
head." his
Still chuckling darkly at the
varan's
little joke, the guards chained Thero in the same
fashion while Vargul Ashnazai looked on with
obvious satisfaction.
"That should hold you nicely," he said, giving the
staple a final tug. "I suggest you waste no
effort in trying to free yourself from these bonds. Even
if you did somehow manage to do so, you would
find your way blocked by things more dangerous than
chains or guards. Rest now, while you can."
Favoring Alec with another sly, repulsive
smile, he added, "Our time together grows short. I
look forward to making this a memorable evening for us
all."
Hatred welled up in Alec's throat like bile.
Ashnazai was only a few feet away, well within
the reach of the chain-Alec clenched his fists at his
sides and mumbled, "I won't forget you anytime
soon."
Ashnazai followed the guards out through the low opening,
then turned and wove a series of symbols in the
air in front of it. He walked away out of
sight, but Alec could see at least two guards
stationed outside. They spoke among themselves in low,

bantering voices, their shadows passing across the
entrance as they kindled a watch fire and settled
down to the night's vigil.
With one eye on the entrance, Alec spat the nail
out into his hand and set to work. First he examined the
lock they'd used on There's chain. It was large and
sturdy, but he recognized the design as one of
only moderate complexity.
With the proper tool,
he amended mentally. The nail was not a particularly
delicate instrument for such work, but it did fit
inside the keyhole. Closing his eyes, he gently
worked it in against the wards until he felt them give
way. There were four in all; it took several tense
minutes to jigger them, but at last the lock fell
open in his hand. He left the curved link holding
There's chain in place. Anyone coming in for a quick
look would be none the wiser so long as it was turned
around to the back of his neck. He did the same with his
own, then turned his attention to There's other
restraints.
The lock at the back of the branks was too small
for his crude pick. Shifting Thero into the faint
light from the watch fire, he inspected the iron
wristbands.
They were seamless, presumably put on by magic.
Though too snug to slip off over Thero's hands,
they turned easily on his bony wrists. Alec
could easily slip a finger into the space between arm and
band.
Perhaps, he smiled darkly to himself, the bands had been
tighter before two weeks of abuse and scant rations
had taken their toll. Apparently no one,
not even Mardus, had taken that into account.
Looking up, he found Thero staring at him. It sent
a chill over his heart. Irtuk Beshar had made a
speaking puppet of the wizard before; who was it now,
looking at him out of those foggy eyes?
"Thero," he whispered, taking one of the man's cold
hands in his own. "Do you know me? Can you understand what
I say?"
Thero gave no sign of understanding, but his gaze did
not waver.
Alec shook his head, hardening his resolve. They
had nothing to lose and everything to gain. If the
dyrmagnos was spying on him through There's eyes and
alerted Mardus, then he'd just shed a little of his own
blood and force their hand tonight.
"I've had enough, Thero. I'm done going along like
a sheep to slaughter," he went on softly, tearing
a strip from his tunic and
Lynn Flewelling
I IK'.
tucking it around the mouth plate of the branks. Thero
offered no resistance as Alec moved the crude gag
into place.
"You need to keep quiet no matter what happens
next, all right? You hear? No matter
what, don't make a sound."
Alec stood up and grasped Thero's thumbs
firmly. Placing his foot against the young wizard's
chest, he took a deep breath and yanked the thumbs
with all his strength, twisting sharply as he pulled.
He'd seen Seregil do this trick, but had never had
the nerve or opportunity to try it himself.
To his mingled relief and amazement, both joints
dislocated cleanly on the first attempt. Thero's
thin hands folded in on themselves with sickening ease,
allowing Alec to work the bands off. There was no time for
gentleness; fortunately whatever magicks kept
Thero dazed held until the second band was off.
As it slipped free, he gave a soft, strangled
groan and curled forward against Alec's knees,
holding his limp hands to his chest.
Resetting the joints proved less easy. Alec
could feel the bones skating around under the skin as he
pulled and strained, trying to seat the bones back in
their sockets. He could hear Thero's breath whistling
harshly around the gag as he fought not to cry out. Both
of them were drenched with sweat by the time the job was done.
"Damnation!" Thero whimpered, still biting down on the
mouth plate.
"Not so loud," Alec pleaded, holding
Thero's head against his chest to muffle any cries.
His own stomach was doing a slow lurch of its own.
"I'm sorry, it was the only way. Are you free
of it?"
Thero nodded. "Saw, "card everythin". Couldn't
move- Saw every-was
"So did I," Alec told him, patting his
shoulder. "We've got to forget that for now, while we
figure out how to get away from here. What about these,
though?" He pointed to the wristbands, unwilling to touch
them again. "Can the necromancers tell you're not wearing
them?"
Thero sat up. "Don' know, "magos work."
"What about your magic?"
Before Thero could answer, they heard the warning sounds
of the guards moving around outside. Alec's heart
sank as he listened to their footsteps fading away.
Thero hid the wristbands in the shadows behind him.
Alec moved a few feet away, out of the light.

This is it,
he thought coldly, rising to his feet.
Whatever happens, this is it.
A moment later Ashnazai entered carrying a small
lantern. The sudden light stung Alec's
eyes and he looked away, noting as he did that
Thero sat half-turned to the wall, wrists out of
sight in his lap.
Ignoring the young wizard, Vargul Ashnazai
closed in on Alec. "I trust you're prepared
for the evening's entertainment?"
There was a mad possessiveness in his manner; not
even the fear of Mardus was going to get in the way of
whatever obscene pleasures he intended to grant
himself tonight. The man's raw hatred was a palpable
force in the confines of the cave. Trapped in the gaze
of those hungry black eyes, Alec suddenly
felt his plans of escape turning to dust in his
hands.
"What about the guards?" Alec managed, his voice
a hollow whisper. He was grasping at straws and
they both knew it.
Ashnazai set the lantern on the floor beside him and
pulled off his gloves. "They're of no concern.
No sound will be heard beyond these walls until I
choose to allow it. And even if it did, who would
rush to your aid? Duke Mardus, perhaps? How fond
he is of you! Almost as fond as I, but distracted just
now by practical concerns. Fortunately, I have no
task at the moment except you.
"Ah, I have been patient," he crooned, raising
one pale hand to stitch a spell pattern on the
air. "How I have waited for such a moment as this."
"So have I, necromancer!"
Alec scarcely had time to realize that the harsh,
ragged voice was There's before he was blinded by a
brilliant explosion of light. A screech of
rage or pain rang out, but Alec couldn't tell which
of them it came from.
Blinking away the black spots dancing across his
eyes, Alec saw the twisted remains of the branks
lying on the ground at There's feet. He also saw
with alarm that whatever spell Thero had cast, it had
only wounded Ashnazai, and not nearly enough.
Bloodied but still standing, the necromancer rounded on
Thero, hands raised for another attack.
Tearing the open lock off, Alec pulled chain from
around his neck. Grasping a length of it in both
hands, he sprang at Ashnazai, got the chain
around the necromancer's throat, and yanked it tight.
Vargul Ashnazai writhed like a huge serpent,
tearing at the chain. Alec pulled it tighter and
dragged him to the ground. He'd
Lynn Flewelling
never strangled anything before, but rage
proved a willing teacher. Nothing existed except the
feeling of power coursing through his body as he braced a
knee against the necromancer's back and hauled the
chain tighter until it cut into the flesh of his hands
and the necromancer's throat.
"This is for Seregil, you son of a bitch!" he
snarled. "For what you did to Cilia and Thryis and
Rhiri and Diomis and Luthas and Thero. And
me backslash was
He yanked the chain back and heard bones snap.
Ashnazai went limp under him, head lolling.
Alec pushed him onto his back and stared into the hated
face. Ashnazai's tongue protruded from his
foam-flecked lips. His bulging eyes were wide with
agony and surprise.
Satisfied, Alec pulled the ivory vial from the
necromancer's neck and hung it around his own.
Whatever this was, no one was going to use it against him
again.
"We've got to get out of here now," Thero warned,
still weak and breathless. "That spell, the attack-
We've got to go before the guards come back!"
"What about the warding spells he cast on the
entrance?" Alec asked, helping the wizard to his
feet.
Thero was shaky, but determined. "They were dispelled when
you killed him."
"Good." Vargul Ashnazai was nothing more to him than
forgotten carrion now. Turning his back on the
body, he extinguished the lantern, then crept to the
mouth of the cave.
The guards were still off minding their own business somewhere,
leaving their master to his pastimes, but the fire they'd
built was still bright. The minute he and Thero stepped
out, they'd be visible to anyone lingering nearby.
"Can't you translocate us or something?" Alec
whispered, surveying the scene.
"I'd have done that already if I could!" Thero replied
with a welcome hint of his customary brusqueness.
"Get me away from here and I may be able to do something
else, though."
"You'd better be praying for Illior's luck,
then." Alec pointed north into the darkness. "We're
going that way, understand? We'll have to keep low and
follow the ledge below the road until we get away
from the main camp."
Alec left unsaid the fact that any number of
guards could be within fifty feet of them and they wouldn't
know it until it was too
429
late; he was trying hard not to think of that himself. With
Thero at his side he sent up one last silent
prayer and hurried past the fire into the darkness beyond.
There didn't seem to be anyone around, but peering up
over the ledges they could see men hunkered around a
campfire less than a hundred feet way.
Their bare feet made no sound as they stole along
the rocky shore to the edge of the forest just north of the
camp. The open ground between the stunted trees was
treacherously laced with exposed roots jutting out of the
thin soil. Alec clutched Thero by the arm, pulling
him along as he stumbled.
They soon spotted several men on picket duty
ahead of them. The guards were watching for trouble coming from
outside the camp, however, and Alec skirted around
their position with no trouble. Gauging their direction
by the moon, he led the way north.
They'd been going for less than half an hour when
Thero suddenly pulled Alec to a halt in a
small, moon-washed gully.
"Look, I'm tired, too, but we can't afford
to rest," Alec urged.
"It's not that," Thero whispered. "They know we're
gone. I just felt something, a searching, I think. It
won't take Irtuk Beshar any time
to find us."
"Oh, gods!" Alec gasped, looking back the
way they'd come. "We can't get taken, Thero.
They'll sacrifice you and now that I've been
bloodied there's nothing to stop Mardus from-to "
"Shut up," Thero interrupted, giving him an
abrupt shake. "Kneel down."
"You've got your magic back!" Alec breathed,
relief washing over him. "Can you translocate us
now?"
"No, I don't have the power." There's lean,
bearded face was lost in shadow as he laid cold
hands on Alec's shoulders. "Clear your mind and
relax. This spell will only last until
sunrise; remember that if you can. Sunrise.
You'll have to run hard, go as far as you can before-was
They both froze as a weird, preternatural
howl burst out from the direction of the camp. It rose
to a mad, sobbing cackle, fell away, only
to erupt again, closer this time.
"Too late!" hissed Alec, then winced as Thero
grabbed him by both arms and forced him back to his
knees.
"No it's not!" Thero held him down, speaking
urgently. "Clear your mind, Alec,
relax. This takes only a moment."
Lynn Flewelling
Another gibbering howl floated to them through the night.
Alec bowed his head, wondering what it was that There
intended, and why it suddenly seemed so familiar.
"That's good, very good," whispered There. "Alec i
Amasa Kerry,
untir maligista
- his
It was the unaccustomed sound of his full name that
triggered Alec's memory. He opened his mouth
to protest, but the magic had already taken hold.
"Untir maligista kewat,
Alec i Amasa Kerry." There continued, pouring
out all his disremaining power as he pressed down hard
on Alec's shoulders. Whatever horror Irtuk
Beshar had unleashed was crashing through the trees toward
them, bellowing its lunatic hunting call.
Throwing back his head, There cried out, "Let thy
inner symbol be revealed!"
The change was nearly instantaneous. One moment
Alec was kneeling before him, the next a young stag was
shaking the remains of the tattered tunic from its
antlers. Nostrils flaring, it leapt away from
There, then looked back in confusion. A
ghostly residue of magic still glimmered faintly
around it, but that would soon fade.
There took a tentative step toward it, though he
knew Alec was probably past understanding human
speech.
"I didn't intentionally betray the Oreska," he
told him. "Let this be the atonement for my blindness.
Go on. Run!"
The stag lowered its head, lashing its antlers from
side to side as if refusing to leave him.
"No, Alec, go."
A greedy snarl from the shadows settled the issue;
the stag turned and bolted.
The last thing There saw was the white flash of its
tail.
f caret *andness-S caret from less-than
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caret
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BjilSJ-III caret SV
They'd had time now to learn the pattern of the
Plenimaran camp. Pickets were stationed
along the landward perimeter a quarter mile out, with a
second line closer in. It made a tight net
but, like any net, it was also a pattern of holes.
Silent and deadly as true
urgazhi,
Beka and her raiders quietly killed four
pickets, stripped them of their tunics and weapons,
then worked their way toward the mass of sleeping
prisoners.
The clearness of the night was against them. The moon was
nearing full and by its light they could make out the
details of each other's faces as they gathered for the
raid. By that same betraying light, they also saw that
Gilly and Mirn had again managed to keep themselves as
close as possible to the outside edge of the group.
Stripped to the waist, they lay on their backs,
heads resting on the plank.
Just then, angry shouts burst out somewhere on the far
side of the camp. Whatever was going on, it was
attracting the attention of the whole camp. Several
of the sentries stationed among the prisoners moved off
in the direction of the noise. From somewhere nearby came
the snort and bellow of a bull.
lyim Flewelling
"By Sakor, we'll never have a better
chance than this!" Beka whispered.
Her plan was simple, direct, and fraught with the
possibility for complete disaster. The others understood
this, but had been unanimously in favor of the
rescue.
Bows at the ready, Beka and the others watched from the
cover of the trees while Steb, Rhylin,
Nikides, and Kallas pulled on the stolen enemy
tunics and strode casually out in the direction of the
prisoners.
Still focused on the outcry, none of the sentries
challenged the four raiders as they quickly lifted the
planked prisoners and rushed them into the shelter of the
trees. The whole act was accomplished in a
moment's time.
The raiding party ghosted back the way they'd come
until they reached Jareel and Ariani, who'd been
left behind to guard the horses well outside the
Plenimaran perimeter.
"Knew you'd come," Gilly said faintly as
Kallas and Nikides lowered him gently to the ground
on his back beside Mini.
Their hands were swollen and purple where the long
spikes pierced their palms. Their shoulders had
rubbed raw against the rough planks. Looking
more closely at them now, Beka saw from the numerous
other bruises and abrasions that covered both men that
they must have often stumbled and fallen beneath their awkward
burdens.
"Rest easy, riders," she said, kneeling next
to them. At her nod, several of the others held their
legs and shoulders. Nikides bent to cut the ropes
lashing their arms to the wood, but Sergeant Braknil
stopped him.
"Best leave those on 'til we're done," he
cautioned. "Give them both a belt to bite down
on and let's get this over with."
Using a pair of farrier's pliers, he set his
foot against the plank and wrenched the first spike from
Gilly's hand.
It was an excruciating process. The flesh had
swollen and festered badly around the spikes and
Braknil had to dig into the skin to get a proper
grip.
Gilly fainted as the first spike pulled free.
Mirn gnawed doggedly at the belt between his teeth
while tears of pain streamed down into his ears.
"Easy now," Beka murmured, trying not to let the
rage and revulsion she felt show in her voice as
she pressed her hands down on his shoulders.
"It'll be over soon."

When it was over, Braknil bathed their wounds with
seawater and bandaged them with strips of sweat-stained
linen and wool each rider had cut from their clothing.
"Neither of them is in any condition to ride," said
Beka. "Rhylin, you and Kallas are the strongest
riders so you'll take them. Nikides, see that those
planks come with us, and the spikes. Don't leave the
bastards any more sign than we can help."
As the rest of the turma mounted for the retreat, a new
cry came from the direction of the camp, one that brought
gooseflesh up on every arm.
The mad, unnatural howl rose and fell, then
burst out again, quavering as if some monstrous throat
was about to burst with the effort. The horses tossed their
heads, nervously scenting the wind.
"Bilairy's Balls! What was that,
Lieutenant?" gasped Tealah.
"Let's hope we don't find out," Beka
muttered. The awful cry came again. "No, it's
headed away from us. Let's move on before it
changes its mind."
"Which way?" Rhylin asked, shifting his hold around
Mirn, who'd finally fainted.
"Inland, out of their path," Beka replied as another
faint howl floated back to them through the trees.
"And away from whatever
that
is!" someone muttered as they spurred away.
Alec?
Nysander's brow creased as he stared unseeingly into the
darkness. It had been There's essence he felt first;
now there was only Alec's, glimmering in his mind like
a distant beacon.
It took no expenditure of power to sense it-the
energy was clear, perhaps due to the strong magic fused
with it. Nysander recognized the familiar imprint
of the spell.
Well done, Them!
But why had the young wizard's own essence disappeared so
suddenly?
Feeling Alec's fleeting tremor again, he
focused the slightest burst of magic on it,
silently mouthing,
Come to us, Alec. We need you.
They'd taken "shelter beneath an old salt pine in the
forest above the temple site. The tips of the tree's
lower limbs swept nearly to the ground, forming a low,
tentlike space inside.
Stretched out on the thick fragrant bed of fallen
needles,
Lynn Flewelltag
Micum snored softly. Beside him, Seregil
tossed restlessly, muttering in Aurenfaie.
The wizard had felt little need for sleep since his
arrival in Plenimar. The quiet hours of the night
were too precious to waste. Instead, he kept watch
and wove his meditations, nurturing his returning
strength. He only hoped it would be enough when the time
came.
Seregil shifted again, uttering a low moan.
Nysander considered waking him, sharing this first sign of
hope, but it was too soon; if Seregil believed
Alec, was nearby, then he would strike off on his
own after him. Alec was still too far away.
Leaning back against the pine's knobby trunk, he
resumed his lonely vigil.
The Four was whole again; they would find each other.
Beka's raiders pushed due east until the moon
set. At dawn they found themselves on a rocky
highland overlooking the misty blue sea in the distance.
Mim's and Gilly's hands looked like bloated
gloves, mottled with angry shades of purple,
red, and yellow. When Braknil had
finished with the new dressings, Beka drew him a little
apart from the others.
"You've seen this before. What do you think?" she asked,
keeping her voice low.
"I'd give a year's bounty for a drysian." The
sergeant was careful to keep his back to the others.
"Even then I don't know if the hands could be saved.
As it is here, field dressing's the best I can do
and I've got no simples to work with but brine. That
might be enough to draw the pus off, but if they take the
blood poisoning -" He gave a small,
expressive shrug. "Well, it'd be kinder
to speed them on."
Looking back to the others, Beka watched Tare
coaxing the wounded men to drink.
"Thirty-four of us rode out of Rhiminee together, a
green lieutenant and green troops, except for
you," Beka said grimly. "Now look at us."
"It was that attack on the regiment that cleaned us out,"
Braknil reminded her. "You led us well there.
What happened wasn't your fault. Every one of us that
fell went down with honor. We've fared damn
well with all the raiding we've done since and that
is
your

doing. All that counts now is getting back to our own
lines with what we've learned."
Beka gave her sergeant a weary half smile.
"So you keep telling me. Let's see if Mirn
and Gilly have anything to add."
"Some of the other prisoners spoke some Skalan,"
Mim told them weakly, his head resting on Steb's
leg. "One of them said the general's name is
Mardus, a lord of some degree. He's got
necromancers with him, too."
"Necromancers," snorted Gilly, staring down at
his useless hands. "One of them looked more demon than
wizard. Black as something raked out of the fire, but
alive as you or me! No one knew where we were
headed, but everyone knew what was going on at night
and it was her doing it!"
"It was some kind of sacrifice," explained
Mirn. "The guards came every night at sundown and
you could see everyone trying to shrink down out of sight
any way they could, hoping they wouldn't be the ones
chosen. We were on the other side of camp from the
ceremony most nights, but we could hear well enough
to know that they were cutting up the poor buggers alive-was
He broke off, shuddering. "Afterward the other
wizard, the man, would conjure up a black fetch
to take away the bodies. The next day we'd march
right over the spot where it happened and I swear to you,
there wouldn't be so much as a drop of blood anywhere."
"A black fetch?" several riders murmured
uneasily.
"By the Flame! You suppose that's what we heard
howling in the woods last night?" Tare asked.
"Go on," Beka urged, ignoring the others.
"What I'll never figure is why they didn't do
us," Gilly groaned, his voice suddenly
unsteady. "By the Flame, Lieutenant, we were
enemy captives. They planked us, all right, but
nothing more. All the rest of the lot were plain folk:
sailors taken by press gangs, Skalans,
Mycenians. Women and children, too. But most of them
were Plenimarans. Their own people!"
Both men fell silent, then Mirn sighed.
"Sorry, Lieutenant, that's about all there is
to tell."
Beka shook her head. "Don't apologize. You
rest easy now."
Getting to her feet, she looked around at the others.
"I figure we can't be more than four or five
days ride from Mycena. If we're
lucky, our side's made some headway south by now.
Ariani, I'm sending you back to the regiment with a
verbal dispatch. Take the
Lynn Flewelling
two best horses, ride as hard as you can, and get
word back to Commander Klia about what we've seen."
Ariani snapped a proud salute. "I will,
Lieutenant."
"Corporal Nikides, you're in charge of taking
back the wounded. We'll rig up drag litters for
Mirn and Gilly here. Steb, you'll go with them. The
rest of us will dog the column for a few more days."
Steb looked down at Mirn, clearly torn in his
loyalties. "With all due respect,
Lieutenant, that only leaves twelve of you. I
can shoot and fight as well with one eye as ever I
did with two."
"That's why I need you to protect the wounded," she
told him, and saw his look of relief. "That goes
for you, too, Nikides," she added, seeing that the
corporal was about to object. "Head north as fast
as you can. You're my secondary couriers in case
Ariani doesn't make it. The rest of us are
staying to spy, not fight."
Leaving Braknil in charge, Beka made
a wide circuit of the camp, coming to a halt at
last on a west-facing outcrop downhill from the
others. She could hear them grumbling among themselves.
Those being sent away were none too happy about leaving
the others behind; those staying wondered what more there was to be
learned.
Beka sighed heavily. She'd already wrestled with the
decision to further fragment what was left of the
turma. None of her superiors would fault her for
turning back now.
But what would they say about her reasons for staying? As
her eye wandered north up the coastline she again felt
the strange impression of familiarity and lightness that
had come over her the night they'd first seen the comet.
Whoever this Lord Mardus was, whatever he was up to with
his necromancers and pointless marches to nowhere, newly
honed instincts told Beka that she was too close
to learning his secrets to leave off now.
caret from" f caret caret sgg caret a
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Cries rang out behind him as Alec fled the little
clearing. The voices of the Man and the Other mingled for a
moment, then were silent. An inchoate sense of
confusion stirred again, but his animal
consciousness drove him on, deeper into the forest and
away from the carrion reek. He scented other Men
in the forest around him but they were easy enough to evade.
The first time Nysander had cast the spell of intrinsic
nature on him, all those months ago in the
safety of the Ore'ska garden, Alec's conscious
identity had been so totally overwhelmed by that of his
beast form that Nysander had hastily changed him back
before he could harm himself or anyone else in the
resulting confusion.
It was the same this time, and it had been his overpowering
animal flight instinct that had undoubtedly saved his
life.
The wind was alive with scent as he dashed headlong
through the darkness. Heeding the warnings that came to his
nose, he avoided the Plenimaran pickets,
bounding through thickets and over gullies and deadfalls
with unthinking ease. As he fled, his mind slowly
recovered from the shock of the change, blending with
Lynn Rebelling
that of the stag into a state of heightened awareness that was
neither animal nor human.
Emerging from the trees onto a rocky sea cliff,
he stopped for a moment, muzzle dark with foam. Below
him the tide crashed against the rocks, sending
up great fans of spray.
The comet was burning across the sky and sight of it sent
a fresh wave of panic through him. Every muscle
trembled and twitched, every instinct screamed flight.
But he remained still, long sensitive ears sharply
forward, nostrils wide. As his strange blood
slowly cooled, something new caught at his senses.
Pawing the rock with one cloven hoof, he uttered a
plaintive bellow, then stood motionless, listening.
The answering call was nothing more than the faintest of
whispers in the silence of his mind. There was no voice
or scent or image, only the summoning of
instinct.
North, still north. Follow and trust.
Like a bird that suddenly recalls the route south after
the first frost, Alec gave himself up to the pull of that
faint glimmer, his mind still too clouded by the stag's
to question or doubt.
With another deep-throated cry he set his face
to the wind and bounded onward.
Moon shadow patterns slid across his broad back
as he ran and his human mind gradually began
to marvel at the sensation of this startling new body.
He could feel the strain and bunch of the stag's
muscles as he sprang, the pumping of its
great heart, the weight of the heavy rack that it bore
with no more thought than he'd ever given to a hat.
The familiar scents of sea and forest took on a
new richness beyond human perception. Pausing to drink
at a flowing spring, he couldn't resist the aroma of
young mallow shoots growing around it. The wet green
taste of them filled his mouth like honeycomb. A little
grey owl winged across his path with a soft rush of feathers
as he set off again.
The coastline grew more desolate as he moved
north, and in the distance he could see a solitary peak
jutting up against the stars. The ledges were broader
here, extending out into the sea and cleft with crevasses
and bands of darker stone. Farther up, where rock met
grassland, mats of crowberry and lichen sent up a
sweet aroma as he trampled across.
The sea slowly retreated down the rocks toward the
low mark, leaving behind glistening tide pools that shone
like black mirrors

in the darkness. The moon sank into the sea and the stars
danced toward home. As the wind shifted and night
scents began to fade he smelled horses.and men.
Picking his way down into a gully, he stood
motionless, sniffing the breeze, until
they'd passed him and disappeared to the north.
Alec sensed the coming dawn long before the first tinge of it
appeared in the sky. The pellucid light of the
false dawn welled up behind the mountains, waking
flotillas of gulls and ducks that had ridden the
waves out beyond the pull of the breakers. Something in the
change of light tugged at his memory, but consumed
by the irresistible pull of instinct and the summons, he
could not recall what it was.
The first ray of true dawn touched him as he
sprang across a foaming cleft in the rocks. The
stag form blurred in midair, leaving in its place
a thin, naked youth.
Sheer momentum carried Alec across. He landed
awkwardly, skinning his knees and elbows. Still
reeling from the transformation, he sprawled on his
back and blinked up at the marbled gold sky,
wondering dully where he was and how he'd come to be
there.
Waves surged up the cleft he'd just jumped,
flinging glittering white spray across his bare skin.
As Alec struggled to his knees, he realized he
was still wearing the ivory vial he'd taken from Vargul
Ashnazai. Prying it open, he emptied the contents
into his palm, a few dark slivers of
wood.
A blinding flash of memory rocked him-Ashnazai
toying with the vial as he wove his tortures aboard
the
Kormados,
the look of satisfaction on his face when he cut
Seregil's throat, There's last despairing cry
as it mingled with the howl of whatever had been unleashed
against them after their escape. With a choked sob, he
flung the pieces into the sea and screamed his sorrow
after them.
But even as he mourned, the summons was still there,
fainter somehow but still clear enough.
North.
The first Plenimaran scouts reached the temple site
just after "awn. Micum was on watch and heard their
horses in time to hide in the underbrush next to the
track. He waited until they passed
Lynn Flewelling
him, heading toward the white stone, then hurried back
to the pine shelter to warn the others.
"They're on their way," he whispered, crawling under
the screen of branches. "Two Plenimaran scouts
just went by on the road, headed north."
"It is fortunate that they keep to the
road," Nysander murmured, stroking his chin
absently.
"Why is that?" asked Seregil.
Nysander sighed heavily, then looked up at his two
companions. "Alec is on his way toddus. He
is keeping to the shoreline, so it is fortunate that the
Plenimarans take the road."
"He's on his way?" Micum gasped,
incredulous. "How do you know?
When
did you know?"
Seregil said nothing, but Micum saw the sudden
tension in him, and the hectic spots of color that
leapt into his sunken cheeks.
"I sensed him just after midnight last night,"
replied Nysander.
"You
knew
he was out there and you didn't tell us?" Seregil
hissed. "Illior's Light, Nysander, why not?"
"You would only have charged off in the darkness with very little
hope of accomplishing anything but damage to yourselves.
He was too far away for you to reach on foot. Thero
seems to have had a hand in his escape-was
"That traitorous bastard?" Seregil's
eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Stop it, Seregil!" Nysander ordered, finally
giving rein to his own anger. It flashed across his
face, startling as lightning from a clear sky.
"Whatever There's past actions may have been, it would
appear that he used his own magic to aid Alec's
escape, quite possibly at the expense of his own
life. Alec is alone. This has brought him
closer to us than losing either of you would have. If
Mardus" scouts have reached us already, then the man
himself cannot be far behind."
Seregil opened his mouth to protest but Micum
spoke first.
"I don't like it either, but he's right and we both know
it," he said grudgingly.
"Well, what about now, then?" demanded Seregil, still
boiling. "We can't just sit here hoping he finds us
by sheer luck! Bilairy's Balls, Nysander, if
you're so certain of where he is, magick him in!"
"You know I cannot expend that kind of power now.
However, I was able to send a summoning and place some
protections around him, as well. Mardus will not find
him by magic."
Seregil reached for his boots and sword
belt.
"But you knew about him last night," Micum said,
frowning. "How did you do that, if not with magic?"
"I did nothing. The knowledge simply came to me."
"Then why don't Micum and I sense him?"
Seregil demanded.
"Who knows? Go to him now; help him He is coming from
the south."
"Ah, that's one of my titles, isn't it? The
Guide?" Seregil growled, grabbing up a water
skin and pushing out through the branches.
Micum moved to follow, but Nysander laid a hand
on his arm.
"Let him go."
Seregil's anger quickly gave way to cautious
joy as he loped along over the rocks. During the
long days on the
Lady,
hope had dwindled to a stubborn refusal to imagine
the worst. Now it seemed Nysander's faith in the
prophecy had been proven. Against all odds, the
four of them were being brought together again on this hostile
shore.
The tide had just turned past low, leaving tide
pools and treacherous masses of bladder
wrack gleaming in the morning sun. Great green
swells rolled in from the open sea, wave upon wave
smashing to geysers of glistening spume against the
rocks. A freshening wind off the water carried the
spray up the shore; Seregil turned his face to it
as he stalked along, tasted salt on his lips.
Nothing else mattered. Alec was alive.
He kept one eye on the trees as he went. One
patrol had shown up already; there would be others. Within
the hour he spied the glint of sunlight off metal.
Taking cover in a rocky cleft, he listened as a
group of riders passed at a gallop. From the sound
of it, there were at least a dozen of them. Waiting
until the last sound of their horses had faded away
to the north, he continued on his way.
Another hour passed and he began to worry that they'd
somehow missed each other. Alec could have taken
refuge, as he his
a
d, under an outcropping or in the forest. Or had an
accident or been recaptured. Reining in these dark
thoughts, Seregil sat down on a damp block of
stone to catch his breath.
His arrival dislodged a small nation of striped
periwinkles,
Lynn Flewelling
which clattered and rolled away like a cascade of
marbles into the tide pool at his feet. A gull
circled down to drink on the opposite side.
"I'll find him," Seregil sighed aloud, resting
his head in his hands. "He's here and I'll find
him."
The gull regarded him with one skeptical yellow
eye, then flapped off with a derisive jeer.
Turning his head to watch it, Seregil froze in
disbelief. A wan, battered spector stood
looking down at him from a shelf of rock not twenty
feet away.
"Alec!"
Thin, bruised, and naked, Alec swayed visibly
as the wind buffeted him. Despite his obvious
exhaustion, however, he was poised for flight.
"Alec, it's me," Seregil said more gently,
watching hope and fear warring in those dark, narrowed
eyes. What had put such deep distrust there?
"What's wrong, to?"
"What are you doing here?" Alec croaked, and the
wariness in his voice went through Seregil like a
knife.
"Looking for you. Nysander's here, too, and
Micum. They're back that way."
"Nysander's dead," Alec said, taking a step
backward.
"No, he almost died, but he's alive, I
promise you. We know what Mardus is up to now.
We were right, Alec. We are the Four-you, me,
Nysander, and Micum. We're all here to stop
him."
Alec shivered miserably as the wind whipped his
hair across his pale face. "How do I know it's
you?" he mumbled faintly.
"What are you talking about?" Seregil asked in
growing confusion. "What did they do to you, to? It's
me! I'm coming up to you now, all right? Don't be
afraid."
To his amazement, Alec turned and fled.
Scrambling up the rocks, Seregil dashed after him
and caught him in his arms, holding Alec tightly as
he struggled.
"Easy, now! What's wrong?" He could feel
Alec's heart hammering beneath his ribs.
Panting, Alec twisted around and gripped the side
of Seregil's face in one hand. Fighting back his
own sudden fear, Seregil loosened his hold.
Alec gingerly touched his hair, shoulders,
and arms, his expression almost feral in its intensity and
distrust. After a moment,

however, the look disappeared, replaced by the most
wondrous look of relief Seregil had ever seen.
"O Illior, it
is
you. You're alive," Alec gasped, tears welling
in his eyes. "That bastard! I should have guessed, but the
blood, your voice, everything- But you're alive!"
Shuddering, he grabbed Seregil in a fierce
embrace.
"Last time I looked," Seregil rasped, his
throat tight with emotion as he hugged Alec to him.
The boy was trembling badly now. Releasing him just
long enough to get his cloak off and swing it around
Alec's bare shoulders, Seregil helped him down
in the lee of a large rock and held him close as the
boy trembled and wept.
"I thought you were dead," Alec exclaimed
hoarsely, still clinging to Seregil as if terrified that
he'd disappear. "It was Vargul Ashnazai. He
made me think you'd come to rescue me, and he
killed-was Alec let out a harsh sound between a sob
and a laugh. "But I killed the son of a
whore!"
The story that spilled from him was broken and confused, but
Seregil was able to piece enough together to begin to guess
what kind of torture Alec had been subjected
to. Tears of helpless rage stung behind his own
eyes as he stroked Alec's hair, murmuring
softly to him in Aurenfaie.
Coming to the end of his tale, Alec rested his head
wearily on Seregil's shoulder and drew another
shuddering breath. "The worst of it- When Ashnazai
killed you, tricked me into thinking he had-he said
things-was Alec squeezed his eyes shut. "I thought
you died believing I'd betrayed you."
Seregil stroked a strand of hair back from
Alec's forehead and kissed him there. "It's all
right,
tali.
If it had really been me, I wouldn't have believed
him. I know you too well for that."
"And I never told you-was Alec's pale face
flushed crimson. "I don't understand it, but I-was
He faltered and Seregil pulled him closer. "I
know,
tali.
I know."
It was Alec who brought their lips together.
Seregil's first reaction was disbelief. But Alec
was insistent, clumsy but determined. It lasted an
instant, an eternity, that one awkward kiss, and it
spoke silent volumes of bewildered honesty.
-The moment that followed was too fragile for words.
He's exhausted, confused. He's been tortured
past the point of endurance,
Seregil warned himself, but for once, the doubts
refused to take root.
Lynn Flewelling
Father, brother, friend.
Lover.
He closed his eyes, knowing that whatever grew up between
them, it would be enough.
Alec was the first to break the silence. Wiping his face
on the corner of the cloak, he said, "We'd better
keep going. If I fall asleep now I don't
think you'd be able to wake me again. Mardus is on his
way."
"You'd better get some clothes on." Seregil
stood to pull off his tunic and felt the weight of the
black dagger he'd carried inside it.
"I almost forgot, I've been saving this for you."
Taking the knife out, Seregil unwrapped
the scarf he'd wound around it. He held it a
moment, his symbol of both defeat and hope through the
long days of their separation. At last he tugged the
knotted hank of hair loose from the hilt and let
the wind snatch the golden strands from his fingers,
scattering them over the rocks and into the sea.
be,
"disif-
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Irtuk Beshar rode to the front of the column and
fell in beside Mardus. Captain Denarii, leader
of the land force that had met them upon landing, gave place
with a barely concealed shudder.
Mardus greeted her with a gracious nod. "Good
morning, Honored One."
"And to you, Lord Mardus. Have your scouts
returned?"
"Yes. They report no interference. We'll
make camp by late afternoon today and be well in place
for the final ceremony tomorrow."
"The will of Seriamaius is with you, as always,
my lord." Irtuk studied the dark man's comely
profile. "I must say, you seem remarkably
sanguine, given the death of Vargul Ash- nazai
and the escapes last night."
Mardus shrugged eloquently. "Ashnazai brought his
death on himself, despite all my warnings. Losing
Alec was regrettable, though. What a remarkable
young man."
"But the prisoners?"
"My trackers say the Skalan raiding party
numbered less than a dozen riders and that they fled
east. No, the Helm will be restored and I shall serve
Seriamaius as the
Vatharna."
Mardus' cold smile broadened perceptibly.
Lynn Flewelling
II
"Not a shabby attainment for an Overlord's
unacknowledged bastard, eh?"
"I have foreseen this day since you were a child at my
knee," the dyrmagnos said fondly. "Even now the
young Overlord suspects nothing. When the time comes he
will be forced to give place to you, his trusted half
brother. With the Helm on your brow and the hand of
Seriamaius over you, no one can contest your
claim to the throne."
"And how is young Thero this morning?"
Irtuk Beshar gave a dry, whispery laugh.
"Subdued. Most subdued."
The second scouting patrol was larger. Watching from
the shelter of several large boulders, Micum counted
a dozen Plenimaran riders moving up the track
toward the temple site.
Stealing back to the salt pine, he found Nysander
listening calmly to the scouts calling back and forth
to one another as they spread out through the trees behind the
site.
"What are they saying?" whispered Micum.
"From the sound of it, they are looking for a place for an
encampment."
Before long the Plenimarans backtracked to a sloping
meadow a quarter of a mile back the way they'd come.
Micum and the wizard followed cautiously.
"Looks like they're settling in," Micum said,
watching as several soldiers set to work felling
trees at the edge of the clearing. "And right in
Seregil's path, too. You can see the ledges from
there."
"He must have seen them earlier," Nysander replied,
heading back to the pine shelter.
"Let's hope so," Micum muttered. "I
didn't like the way he stormed out of here. You know,
there's nothing to do here just now. Maybe I should head out
looking for him. Will you be safe?"
Nysander smiled. "From that lot? Oh, yes. You go
on."
Keeping behind the underbrush along the road, Micum
passed the Plenimaran camp without being seen. From the
cover of a fallen tree, he counted ten soldiers in
the clearing. That left two unaccounted for.

When he was well away from the camp he moved out
onto the ledges and looked south for some sign of
movement. Nysander had not been specific on how
far away Alec was. Checking the sun, he
guessed Seregil had been gone a little better than
an hour.
The incoming tide boomed against the rocks as he
continued south. Another hour passed before he finally
caught sight of two figures moving toward him in
the distance. Though too far away still to make out
details, he could see that Seregil was supporting
Alec as they made their way unsteadily over a
rocky stretch of shore.
Seregil drew his sword at the sight of
him, then sheathed it again as he recognized Micum.
"By the Flame, we found you after all!" Micum
exclaimed joyously as he reached them. Throwing an
arm around Alec, Micum gave him a welcoming
hug and helped him to a seat on a driftwood
log. The boy was hollow-eyed with exhaustion, and
dressed in Seregil' boots, tunic, and cloak.
"Are you all right? Where's Thero?"
"Dead or captured," Alec told him, and
Micum heard the strain in his voice.
Seregil gave Micum a quick warning look.
"Thero helped him escape. He's had a rough time
of it these last few weeks. We've still got a
ways to go, Alec. Do you want to rest before we go
on?"
"No, let's just keep going," Alec replied.
"Where's Nysander?"
"Don't you worry about him. He's safe. And by the
Flame, so are you!" Micum said warmly, clasping
Alec's shoulder. "Bilairy's Balls,
Alec, I was afraid we'd lost you."
"Have the second group of scouts reached the place
yet?" asked Seregil.
"Two hours ago, I'd say. They staked out a
camp just below the temple. I didn't
want the two of you running into them by accident, so 1
came out to meet you."
"Thanks. I'll need you to get him the rest of the
way." Seregil glanced down at Alec with concern.
"He doesn't have much left in him. I'm
surprised we made it as far as we did."
"I'll be all right," Alec insisted, swaying as
he got to his feet again.
"We'd better stick to the woods," Micum said,
slipping an arm under Alec's. "It's too
exposed out here and I don't know where they've posted
guards. How far behind would you say Mardus is?"
"I lost all track of distance last night,"
Alec confessed. "If the
Lyim Flewelltng
scouts have reached you, he can't be much more than half a
day behind."
"What kind of force does he have with him?"
"I'm not certain, but I think he has at least
forty soldiers, plus a gang of
prisoners-maybe a hundred. And there's the
necromancer and a dyrmagnos."
Micum's eyes widened in alarm. "Damnation!
He's got one of those things with him? And
prisoners?"
"I imagine it takes a lot of blood to make this
Helm of theirs," Seregil said bitterly. "Alec
claims there were sacrificial murders on the ship
as they came over, and more since they landed and met up
with another force. That's where this bunch of prisoners
came from."
"And the four of us are here to stop them?" Micum shook
his head as they climbed up to the forest and started back.
With the help of Micum and Seregil, Alec
managed to make it to the salt pine.
"Here you are at last, dear boy!" Nysander
whispered, embracing Alec as he collapsed onto
the carpet of dried needles. "I knew you would come
back to us. And only just in time."
"Seregil told me about the eclipse tomorrow," said
Alec, yawning as he settled with his back to the
trunk.
"I know how weary you must be, but you must tell me
all that you've learned. Then I promise, you shall
rest. And you must eat!"
Seregil passed him some biscuit, cheese, and a
skin of fresh water. Alec took a long gulp
before he began.
"You were right, both of you," he said, looking ruefully
at Micum and Seregil. "I should've
stayed at Watermead that night, but I was worried
about Seregil. When I got back to the
Cockerel-was
He paused, blinking back fresh tears.
"They know," Seregil told him, moving closer beside
him. "I got there at dawn and saw everything. What
happened after that?"
"They jumped me as soon as I came in,
Ashnazai and his men. I managed to wound a couple
of them before they took me down."
"Vargul Ashnazai?" asked Nysander. "Ah,
yes, I have heard of him."
Alec smiled bitterly. "You won't anymore.
I killed the bastard last night. That's how Thero
and I got away. At least I did."

He looked around at the others earnestly. "He
saved my life. Whatever else he did, he
saved my life and he's probably dead now because of
it. He used his magic to help us escape, then he
changed me into a stag the way you did, Nysander."
Alec's chin trembled but he didn't stop.
"I-I ran away. He chased me off and I
ran. I can still hear-was
The wizard clasped Alec's hands between
his. "I won't tell you not to grieve, dear
boy, but you mustn't blame yourself. Please, continue
with your story. You were speaking of the inn."
Alec wiped at his nose with a dirt-streaked forearm.
"I don't remember much after that, until I woke
up aboard the ship. Mardus was there, and Ashnazai,
another necromancer I didn't see much of, and a
dyrmagnos woman called Irtuk Beshar."
Steeling himself, he related his treatment aboard the
Kormados.
Nysander listened in silence until he reached the
nightmarish dinner with Mardus. "Mardus himself told
you that the Helm must be given lives to build its
power? You are certain of this?"
Alec nodded grimly. "He said the younger the
victim, the more power the death gives. It was
Mardus' idea of revenge to have Thero and me be the
last sacrifices at the final ceremony."
Seregil looked up sharply at this. "That's the
key! If we strike quickly, before they complete the
sacrifices, maybe we have a chance against this thing."
"Perhaps, but we must not underestimate its initial
capabilities," warned Nysander. "It may well
have some degree of power from the moment of completion. Very
well. Go on, Alec."
Too tired to be anything but matter-of-fact about the
nightly horrors Vargul Ashnazai had visited
on them, Alec quickly outlined the details of the
overland journey.
Seregil went pale as he described the visitation
by Cilia and the invectives she'd hurled at him.
"Phantasms, nothing but illusions conjured up by this
terrible man," Nysander assured him. "Such
spells turn your own fears and imaginings against you."
"But what about when I saw Seregil?" Alec
asked. "That was real. I touched him, felt him
bleeding. There was blood on my hands the next day."
"More Hlusion," said Nysander. "He created
Seregil's image using some poor victim so that the
death would be convincing. Someone certainly died in
front of you that night. I imagine Ashnazai
meant to break your spirit once and for all."
lynn Flewelling
Alec glanced guiltily in Micum's direction.
"I enjoyed killing him. I know that's wrong, but I
did."
"Don't fret over it," Micum said with a grim
smile. "I'd have felt the same in your place.
There's no dishonor in killing a mad creature like
that."
Seregil chuckled blackly. "I plan to enjoy
killing Mardus just as much."*
"Vengeance is not our purpose," Nysander reminded
them firmly. "Never allow yourselves to forget that their
god can use our own emotions and weakness against us.
Now allow Alec to finish his account so he can rest."
"There's not much to tell. After we got away from the
camp Thero used the same spell you showed me the day
you turned us into animals. I didn't know what he
was doing until it was too late to stop him. Once
he'd turned me into a stag, I ran. If he'd
just given me a chance maybe I could have helped him,
but something happened to my mind, just like the last time."
"There was nothing you could have done against anything conjured
up by the likes of Irtuk Beshar," Nysander said.
"There's decision was wise and honorable."
"As I see it, the real question is how to get at the
Helm in the first place," Micum interjected.
"Alec says Mardus has at least two score
soldiers with him. They're not just going to stand
flatfooted while we waltz in."
"We'll have to see how they distribute themselves at the
temple tomorrow," Seregil said, going to his pack.
"Assuming Mardus wasn't lying to Alec, then the
prisoners will have to be close at hand during
the ceremony. If we could get them loose, they could
provide a diversion." Turning, he handed Alec
his bow case and sword.
"You brought them!" Alec exclaimed, pulling the
limbs of the Radly from the case and fitting it together.
"And your quiver," Seregil told him. "If
Nysander's right about this prophecy of his, then you'll
be needing these."
"There's plenty of high ground overlooking the
temple site," Micum noted. "Alec could
pick off some of the guards around the prisoners, start
a panic. If the prisoners have any spirit left in
them at all, they'll fight or run. Either way, it
would give the rest of us a chance to make a dash for it
in the confusion."
"There are only a score of arrows here," Alec
said, opening the quiver to check his fletching. "Even
if I made every shot, that still

leaves a lot of armed men to deal with. These are
Plenimaran marines we're talking about."
"We'll have our hands full, all right, but I doubt
we'll have to take them all on at once," said
Micum. "My guess is Mardus will post
sentries and leave some others on guard at
their encampment. It's the dyrmagnos I'm most
worried about. Tell me more about her."
"She's pure evil," Alec answered bitterly.
"What she did to me, and to Thero-I don't even
know how to tell you. By the time she was finished with me,
I'd told her every damn thing she wanted to know.
Nysander was right not to tell us very much. Once she
started in on me, there was nothing I could do to stop
her."
"I feared as much," murmured the wizard.
"When we finally did escape, she sent something after
us. I didn't see it, but just the sound of it was enough
to freeze your blood!"
"This is all excellent news," Nysander
exclaimed, rubbing his white hands together in
satisfaction. "The sacrifices, the spells she
used on Alec and Thero, the creature. From the sound
of things, she has allowed herself little respite since
her attack against me at the Oreska House. No
one, not even a dyrmagnos, can expend so much power
over such a short period of time without it exacting a
toll. Once she has finished with the Helm, she should
be at least somewhat weakened. If we attack her
then, perhaps we can disable her long enough to carry out our
mission. And now, Alec, you should get what
sleep you can. The greatest trial of all still lies
before us."
"That's for certain," Micum muttered. "Four against
forty. I'm going back down the road to keep an
eye out for Mardus."
But Alec felt no dread as he stretched out under
Seregil's cloak. No matter what happened, it
couldn't be worse than what he'd already been through.
Micum found an outcropping that overlooked the
coastal track and settled down to wait.
The weather had held fair; the sun felt warm against
his back as he lay in his hiding place, listening to the
sound of the birds in the woods around him. Looking out
through the trees on the west side of the road, he could
see the green waves rolling across the Inner Sea
and the flocks of sea ducks that rode them.
Lynn Flewelling
What little he'd seen of Plenimar didn't look
all that different from Skala. In fact, it appeared
to be a pretty fine place overall- except for the
Plenimarans.
It was midafternoon before he heard the first horses
approaching. A vanguard of riders passed at a
gallop. Soon after he saw more riders coming on at
a walk at the head of a column of
marines.
Micum had seen enough of Mardus up in Wolde the
previous autumn to recognize him now, riding at
the head of it. He wore military dress and the way
he sat his mount told Micum this man was accustomed
to command.
A woman in rich riding apparel rode at his
side, her presence puzzling until Micum
caught sight of her face and realized what she
was. Flattening lower, he lay scarcely breathing,
until the dyrmagnos had ridden past.
Behind them came more riders and marines. Micum
spotted a few familiar faces among them,
Captain Tildus and several of the soldiers who'd
been with him in Wolde. The dispassionate calm that
had kept him alive through so many battles settled
over Micum as he silently marked men for death.
A line of wagons followed, including the bear cart
Alec had described. As it came abreast of
Micum's hiding spot, he saw a thin,
half-naked man sprawled face down in the
bottom of it. He couldn't make out the face, but from
the build he guessed it was Thero. Another wagon
was loaded with small wooden cages, and a black
bull was tethered to this one.
Next came a long procession of prisoners
stumbling along in chains. Women, men, and children, some
hardly older than Illia, marched in dispirited
silence beneath the watchful eye of their mounted guards.
Behind them came wagons, servants, and livestock.
Micum's heart sank as he watched the last of the
column pass. Alec had missed his guess; there
were closer to a hundred soldiers.
By the Flame,
he thought.
We've got our work cut out for us this time.
While Micum was gone, Seregil spent some time
spying on the Plenimaran camp, then went back
to check on Alec.
He was still asleep, curled on his side beneath the
cloak. A pained frown furrowed his brow, and his
fingers twitched rest

lessly as he fought his way through whatever dreams still
haunted him. Sitting down next to him, Seregil
gently stroked Alec's tangled hair until the
shadow left his face.
Nysander sat with several arrows across his lap. He'd
produced a small dish of paint from somewhere and was
painting symbols on one of the shafts with a
fine brush.
Watching Alec sleep, Seregil shook his head with
concern. "Do you really think he'll be up to fighting
tomorrow?"
"He is young, and not badly hurt," the wizard
assured him, not looking up from his work. "All he
needs is rest."
Seregil rubbed absently at his chest. The last of the
scab was peeling away and it itched. As his fingers
brushed across the scar, he felt the tiny raised
whorls of the disk's imprint.
It felt different.
Reaching for Micum's pack, he dug out the shaving
mirror and held it out to see the scar. The round
shape of the disk and the small square mark left by the
hole at its center were still outlined in shiny new skin,
but the imprint of the design had changed. What had
originally been a cryptic pattern of lines and
whorls had somehow transformed into a circular
device of stylized knives, eyes, and
necromantic runes.
"Nysander, look at this!" He pulled the neck of
his tunic wider.
Nysander's bushy white brows shot up in
surprise. "Do you recall me telling you
that the design on the wooden disk concealed another?
This is one of the siglas of the Empty God."
Seregil inspected it again. "I can read them. The
runes, I mean. They're right way around in the
mirror. I hadn't thought of it before, but since this is
a brand, the whole design is backward."
Nysander tugged thoughtfully at his beard. "If this
sigla is intrinsically magical rather than merely
symbolic, such a reversal would have a
significant effect on its power. It may even
have helped protect you from the effects of the crown."
He smiled ruefully. "I should have guessed it
sooner, I suppose, but I had been putting your
survival down to your magical dysfunction. This
may well have been an ameliorating factor."
Seregil, hoping to get a little sleep stretched out
beside Alec. "I'd call that left-handed luck, but
I guess I'll tak get-1 just hope it works for
us tomorrow."
Nysander took up his brush again. "As do I, dear
boy."
I take any kind I can
Alec slept on through the night while Nysander and the
others listened to the Plenimarans at work preparing the
temple site. They also heard the chanting,
and later the screams and moans that drifted to them on
the wind from the encampment. Micum wanted
to investigate, but the wizard forbade it.
"We know well enough what they are doing. The
dyrmagnos is more dangerous than ever during such
ceremonies. If not for the protective magic I
have placed around us, she would have sensed us already. We
are safe enough for now, but we must wait for morning before
we move. You should rest while you can. I fear there will
be little opportunity to do so tomorrow."
Scratching a circle around the base of the pine, he
seated himself against the opposite side of the trunk and
closed his eyes.
Alec woke just before sunrise the next morning and was
surprised at how rested he felt. He had a
few scrapes and aches from the previous day's
journey, but he scarcely noticed them.
Seregil was asleep close beside him, one

arm under his head, the other stretched out toward Alec.
His face was wind-burned and there were pine needles
tangled in his long dark hair, but that only seemed
to enhance his strange beauty.
still
kissed him!
Alec thought in a sudden agony of embarrassment.
In the midst of all the horror they had faced, and
all they'd face today, he had kissed Seregil.
His teacher. His friend. His- what? Worse yet,
if Nysander hadn't been sitting a few feet
away, he might have been tempted to do it again.
still
can't think about that now,
he groaned inwardly, cheeks flaming. It wasn't
that he regretted it. He just didn't know yet what
it meant, or what he wanted it to mean.
Sitting up, he saw that Micum had gone out already.
Nysander was sitting on the other side of the tree and
didn't stir or look around when Alec went over
to the pile of packs. He found a spare set of
breeches and some low boots in Seregil's, then
turned his attention to his bow.
Stringing it, he ran careful fingers up and down the
braided string, looking for any frays or weak
spots. After so many weeks of disuse, it needed
waxing.
There was a tack pouch in his quiver, but he didn't
see it with the rest of the gear. Looking around, he spied
it lying on the ground next to Nysander. In with his
red-fletched arrows were four newly fletched
with white swan feathers. Taking up the quiver, he
touched one of the crisp white vanes and felt a sharp
tingle of magic against his finger. He jerked his hand
away, then gingerly pulled the arrow from the quiver for a
closer look. The shaft was covered from point to nock
with tiny, intricate symbols painted in blue ink.
"No spell can improve on the skill of your hand
and eye," Nysander murmured, eyes still closed, "but
those four arrows carry magic that will pierce the skin
of the dyrmagnos. She must be your first target once
the Helm is complete. See no one else, aim
for nothing else until one of these has struck her.
Even my magic cannot kill her, but it will weaken her
while we attack. Strike her in the heart if you
can manage it."
"You can depend on it," Alec replied stonily.
The boy who'd wavered taking first aim at a man was
long gone. He touched the nock, imagining the feel
of it on the string just before he let it fly.
still
hope I see her face when it hits her.
Seregil sat up and brushed pine needles from his
hair. "Any sound from our neighbors?"
Lpn Flewelling
"Not for some time now," Nysander told him,
opening his eyes and stretching. "Micum went out a
short while ago to check their camp."
Seregil peered out through the pine boughs. "I think
I'd like a look at the temple again before too many people
are stirring. What do you say, Alec. Fancy a
walk before breakfast?"
They kept a sharp eye out for sentries as they made
their way down to the north side-of the cove.
"So that's what those holes were for," Seregil
muttered, looking across to the temple site through the
underbrush.
Sturdy wooden posts had been set upright in the
mysterious holes surrounding the dry basin at the
head of the ledges. A few men were still at work clearing
debris from the area.
"There are plenty of good vantage points up on
those rocks, but I bet they'll have men up there,"
Alec whispered.
"We'll manage something. Beshar will most likely be
up there, behind those posts. Look for a place that will
give you the best shot at her."
"Don't worry, I'll hit the bitch."
Seregil glanced at Alec in surprise and saw
a hardness in his expression that had never been there before.
Soon more men began to wander up from the camp.
Hurrying back to the pine, they found Micum there
ahead of them. He held a finger to his lips as they
entered, then pointed to Nysander kneeling in the center
of a dancing circle of white sparks. Inside the
circle he'd scraped back the pine needles and
scratched a complex pattern of symbols into the
packed earth beneath.
Eyes half-lidded, Nysander was calmly weaving
shining figures in the air. He had stripped to his
breeches and covered his arms, chest, and face with
designs drawn in blue ink. A horizontal
band of black paint across his eyes gave him an
uncharacteristically barbaric appearance. In front of
him, Alec's bow and quiver lay amid a clutter
of bowls, wands, and parchments.
Alec and Seregil hesitated at the edge of the
light circle, but Nysander motioned for them all
to enter. Once inside, they smelled the scent of
magic mingling with the aroma of the pine like the faint, rich
odor left behind in a cupboard where spices had
once been stored.
"The eclipse will begin soon," said Nysander, taking
up a brush
and a bowl of black paint. "This band across
your eyes will ward off the blinding effects of it, even
at the full. Unless the Plenimarans take
similar precautions, it may work to our
advantage."
Ny sander painted a heavy band across each of their
faces, then set the bowl aside. "Now, if you would
hand me your weapons."
Using several colors of pigment, Nysander painted
a few small sigils on each blade. He
took the longest over Seregil's sword, covering
it from hilt to tip with a line of tiny figures that
flickered and disappeared as soon as they were completed.
"What's all this?" Micum asked.
"Just some necessary magicking. The dyrmagnos is not the
only one with protective magic. Kneel with me
here, close together, and hold out your hands."
Gathering them in a small circle, Nysander painted
their palms with concentric circles of black, red,
brown, and blue, then instructed them to press their
raised palms to those of the person on either side of
them. Seregil was on the wizard's right, Alec
to his left, with Micum closing the chain.
The moment the circle of hands was complete they were
enveloped in a sudden sensation of tingling warmth that
raised the hairs on their arms and made their
eyes water. A collective shudder ran through them
as the feeling swelled and faded away.
Nysander was the first to lower his hands. "It is done."
The paint was gone. In its place each of them bore
a complex pattern of red and gold on each palm.
"The great sigla of Aura," Seregil murmured,
touching his left palm.
"What is it, some kind of protection?" asked
Alec.
"It will not keep you from being wounded. It is to protect
your soul," Nysander explained. "If any of us are
killed today, the Eater of Death will not have us. The
design will fade from sight in time, but the protection
is permanent."
Seregil regarded his hands with a humorless, lopsided
grin. "Well, that's one less thing for us to worry
about."
At that moment, less than two miles to the north,
Beka Cavish shivered suddenly when a sharp tingle
passed through her as she tethered her horse with the others.
"You all right, Lieutenant?" asked Rhylin,
who'd been out scouting the Plenimaran camp with her.
lyim Flewelling
"Guess a snake must've crawled across my
shadow." The strange sensation passed as
quickly as it had come, except for a slight tingling in
her gloved hands. Flexing them, she walked over
to where Braknil and the others sat waiting in the shadow
of a gully.
They had preparations to make.
An hour before noon a tiny, curved paring disappeared
from the lower edge of the sun.
"There it goes," Seregil whispered as he and
Micum lay in a brush thicket overlooking the
temple.
The dry pool near the head of the cove had been
cleared of all debris and painted with white
symbols neither he nor Micum had ever seen before.
More symbols had been outlined between each of the fourteen
posts set into the rock and a large square had been
painted to contain the entire site.
The sacrificial victims huddled under close
guard on the rocks above the pool. Slightly apart
from these, Thero stood between two of Tildus' men.
He was dressed in wizard's robes, but below its
full sleeves Seregil caught a glimpse of
metal on There's wrists.
"Well, he's alive but they've got him under
control again."
"Too bad," muttered Micum. "My
guess is we could use his help before this is over."
Twenty soldiers stood formed up in ranks before the
captives, unlit torches piled at their feet.
A brazier stood nearby, filling the air with
fragrant smoke.
Mardus sat on the white marker stone, studying a
parchment. He was dressed in ceremonial splendor
for the occasion; beneath his sweeping black cloak, his
burnished cuirass and gorget glinted with gold
chasing.
As Seregil and Micum watched, the dyrmagnos
stepped from the trees and the failing sunlight glinted from
the jewel work on her veil and gown.
"Don't they just make a handsome pair." Micum
glanced up at the sun again. "Nysander said the
eclipse would take about an hour. Looks like you were
right about it matching the tide. It's already as high as it
was yesterday and still coming in."
"Come on then, time to get started."

Irtuk Beshar laid a wizened hand on Mardus'
sleeve. "The conjunction has begun, my lord."
Mardus glanced up from the document he'd been
studying. "Ah, yes. Tildus!"
"Yes, my lord?" Never far from his master,
the bearded captain stepped forward.
"Pass the word, Tildus; the eclipse has
begun. Remind the men to avoid looking at it,
particularly once it's complete."
Tildus snapped a quick salute and strode off.
The tide was climbing steadily toward the pool and with it
came a warm breeze smelling of rock weed and
salt.
Soon enough it would smell of blood, Mardus thought with
satisfaction.
When all his men were in position, he strode down
into the temple, his black war cloak sweeping out behind
him. The waves were surging close to the dry basin
now, and lines of foam ran ahead up the two narrow
fissures that contained the carvings. He paced a slow
circuit around the declivity, then moved to stand on the
landward side of it and raised a hand. Trumpeters
at the head of the ledges blew a blaring fanfare.
Irtuk Beshar stepped from the trees above at the head
of a small procession. First came silent Harid
Yordun bearing the carved chest containing the elements
of the Helm. Behind him, soldiers led four
unblemished white heifers with the symbol of Dalna
painted on their brows and four young black bulls
bearing the sign of Sakor. These were
followed by large wicker cages containing four gulls
and four large brown owls, symbolic of Astellus
and Illior.
Harid placed the chest reverently at the landward edge
of the dry pool and the animals were divided, one of
each sort at the four corners of the great square.
Irtuk Beshar moved slowly from one group to another,
laying hands on the beasts. They sank dead beneath her
touch and were immediately gutted and piled in reeking heaps.
Lifting her arms to the sky, she threw back her
head and shouted in the ancient necromantic tongue,
"Agrosh marg venv Kui gri bara kon
Seriami. Y'ka Vatharnaprak'ot!"
Tongues of shimmering, unnatural fire flared up
from the piles of carrion. The assembled soldiers
cheered at the sight of it.
The sun was a thin, inverted crescent now against the
leaden
Lyrai Flewelling
purple sky. Beneath it, the long tail of the comet
hung like an evil, slitted eye. Shadows
blurred and faded in the uncertain light, lending a
strange flatness to the landscape. Birds that had
been singing noisily since dawn gradually faltered
to silence except for the occasional puzzled
hooting of doves and the rasping croak of a lone
raven.
Water surged up the fissures and spilled into the
rock basin. Mardus signaled to the guards standing
over the prisoners. Ten frightened men were dragged
fotward, stripped, and tied to the posts. With Irtuk
Beshar chanting tonelessly behind him, Mardus drew his
dagger and slit their throats in quick succession. They
died quickly, these first ones, their blood flowing down
to stain the swirling waters of the salt pool.
As the last sliver of sun narrowed to an edge, a
raucous clatter suddenly came from all sides.
An immense flock of ravens appeared out of the
surrounding gloom, croaking and sawing in a cloud of
black wings as they settled on tree and ledge and
post top. At the same moment, crabs of every size
and color came boiling up out of the water. Sidling
up the rocks, they swarmed over the piles of dead
animals and the corpses, feeding greedily.
Cries of terror burst out among the remaining
prisoners. Tildus barked orders and the
torchbearers lit their brands at the brazier. The
whole ghastly scene leapt into sharper relief.
No one, not even the dyrmagnos, noticed when the
three guards stationed on the northern
promontory were jerked back out of sight. Any
sound they may have made was lost in the general outcry
below.
Carrion eaters. Eaters of the dead,
thought Seregil as he, Alec, and Micum shoved the
men they'd just killed into the undergrowth behind them. The
black stripes across their faces gave them all a
deadly, feral look as they belly-crawled back
to the edge of the overlook where Nysander was keeping
watch.
The moon overtook the last curve of the sun and a
hazy corona burst out around it. The black disk
hung framed in light, like a baleful, glaring eye.
The burning arc of the plague star, visible now in the
darkened sky, glowed just below it.
With every surge of the surf, water foamed into the stone
hollow at Irtuk Beshar's feet.
The dead men were cut from the posts and thrown onto the

offal pile. Ten women took their places and
Mardus' knife flashed again, severing their cries.
Seregil winced. It was agonizing to watch and not
act. Beside him, Alec clenched his hands around his bow,
eyes wide with horror.
"How can we just lay here and watch them
die?" he hissed.
Nysander was on Alec's other side and Seregil
saw him close a hand over Alec's. "Think of
how many will die if we fail," the wizard reminded
him. "Be strong, my boy. Let nothing distract
you."
Raising her hands toward the sky, Irtuk Beshur
began to chant again, her cracked, dry voice loud
above the rush of the sea. More victims were dragged
forward to the edge of the pool and beheaded by swordsmen,
who then held the bodies so that the blood still pumping
from the severed necks fell into the water.
Mardus opened the chest and lifted out the crystal
crown. Taking it from him, Beshar held it up to the
sky a moment, then cast it into the surging waters of the
pool. Next came a plain iron hoop, then the
crude clay bowl.
"It is almost time," whispered Nysander.
Seregil gripped Alec's arm. "Shoot true,
tali. his
Alec pressed a white-fletched arrow to his
lips. "I will,
tali,"
he whispered back, blue eyes glinting fiercely
under the black paint.
Holding that image in his heart, Seregil hurried
away after the others.
Alec gripped the arrow in his fist, feeling the power
in it. The sound of the sea now was the sound from his
nightmares, but this time the arrow had a head.
Looking down, he saw the dyrmagnos scatter the
handful of wooden disks into the water. As the last one
sank from sight the face of the pool went still and
glassy. The tide still surged and thundered to its edge,
but the power of the dyrmagnos kept any more water from
flowing into the pool, which was now full. Like a dark
mirror, it reflected the black eye of the sun.
The dyrmagnos raised her hands above it and began a
new chant. A man was brought forward and thrown down
on his back at her feet. Soldiers held him
by the hands and feet and Hand Yordun came forward with the
black ax.
lyrai Flewelling
Alec wanted desperately not to watch as he
hacked the man's chest open, but he knew he must not
look away for an instant.
Harid cut out the heart and threw it into the water.
Quick, skirling ripples appeared and faded on its
glassy surface as if a flock of swallows had
darted past. Another heart was thrown in,
and the ripples reappeared, more numerous this time.
Alec felt a silent tremor roll through the stone
he was lying on. It came again as the ax rose and
fell, growing to a steady rhythm like the pounding of a
labored heart.
The pool went black; and dull as tar. Tendrils
of mist rose from it, and with them came disembodied
moans that echoed softly on all sides.
Seregil recognized those ghostly voices,
remembered standing over the crown as his blood fell
into ice and crystal while they whispered around him.
Crouched with the others now behind a fallen tree near the
waterline, he saw shifting, half-formed shapes
gathering out of the gloom beyond the torches, mingling
restlessly with the vaporous exhalations of the pool. The
black water began to swirl as if stirred with a
dyer's paddle. The spirit voices grew louder,
sighing and shrieking. Wraiths buffeted them, plucking
at their clothing and weapons, twitching strands of
hair. The air thickened perceptibly, muting what
little light remained. Nysander sketched a quick sigil
on the air and the wraiths retreated.
Working their way into the woods without being seen by the
sentries, they followed the road to the head of the
cove.
"Be ready," the wizard whispered. "It is nearly
time."
Something slipped coldly across Alec's back beneath
his tunic. The weird disturbances in the air were
worse now, tenuous but too insistent to be denied.
Spectral forms, half-seen from the corner of the
eye, brushed light as cobweb against his face,
only to flit out of sight when he tried to look at
them directly.
The soldiers' torches flared green and spit off
fragments of flame that skittered like rats around the
edge of the pool before being sucked up into the column of
ghostly mist that was forming over the roiling pool. Up
and up it rose, thrusting a twisting grey pillar
flecked with tongues of fire into the burnt sky. It
stood over the pool for a long moment, spirit forms darting
around and

through it, then a single blue-white bolt of lightning
forked down through its center with an apocalyptic roar,
blasting the pool into an explosion, of steam and rock
fragments.
Soldiers fell to their knees, covering their faces
in terror. The ravens rose in a screaming cloud,
adding their raw voices to the din. From the
direction of the road came the frenzied screams of the
horses tethered there, and the clatter of carts being
dragged off as the panicked beasts bolted. The mist
slowly rolled back, revealing a shattered, steaming
hole where the pool had been.
With a shout of triumph, Irtuk Beshar climbed
down into it and retrieved something from the water and rubble.
Straightening again, she raised a helmet in both
hands with a screech of sheer triumph.
The bulging, peaked top and nasal of the helm were
fashioned of dull iron but it was circled at the
brow with a wide circlet of ruddy gold. This band was
set around with eight dull blue stones and surmounted
by a bristling crown formed from eight twisted black
horns. A curtain of black mail hung down from
the back of the Helm and skeletal, long-taloned
hands served as the cheek guards.
Climbing out, she held it up before Mardus and
launched into an invocation of some kind. Although Alec
did not understand her language, he recognized two
words: "Seriamaius" and "Vatharna."
Alec drew the bowstring to his ear.
Before he could loose the shaft, however, shouting broke
out in the forest to the south. All eyes turned to see the
bright glow of fire above the tops of the
trees in the direction of the camp.
Mardus drew his sword and shouted an order, sending
half the guards off in the direction of the disturbance.
Still clutching the helm, Irtuk Beshar gabbled
urgently at him.
Time slowed to dreamlike unreality as Alec rose
to his feet and took aim again at the dyrmagnos.
Ghostly forms imposed themselves between him and his target,
swirling around him to buffet and natter but he ignored
them, concentrating on his shot.
Shoot true, tali.
"Aura Elustri malreil, his
he whispered.
The black bow quivered like a live thing under his hand as
he drew it, calling on every ounce of power the
Radly possessed. When the nock was level with his
ear he released it. The fletching
Lynn Flewelling
nicked his cheek as it flew, carrying a drop of his
blood away with it.
The arrow sped straight and true as any shaft he'd
ever loosed, and made a sound like a sudden crack of
summer thunder when it struck Irtuk Beshar in the chest
just below her throat. The impact spun her like a
broken doll. The Helm fell from her
hands, tumbling back into the blasted pool.
"And now you, you bastard!" Alec yelled, taking
aim at the startled Mardus.
But an arrow buzzed by his head, spoiling the shot.
Another whined past and he dropped for cover as
pandemonium broke out below. Still clutching his bow, he
scrambled to the edge of the outcropping to see what was
going on.
Arrows flew from all directions, but most found
targets among the Plenimarans. By the wavering light
of the fallen torches Alec could just make out a
small group of archers on the high ground opposite
where he lay. They were shooting down at the exposed
men below. In the melee, he saw Seregil and
Micum dashing down over the rocks with their swords
drawn, closing in on the wounded dyrmagnos.
Mardus was nowhere to be seen, so Alec turned his
attention to the soldiers, shooting two in rapid
succession before he was momentarily blinded by a
brilliant flash of light that flared among the
prisoners.
As his vision cleared, he saw Thero standing over the
smoking bodies of several dead soldiers, but
apparently unaware of the armed man coming at his back.
The wounding of the dyrmagnos must have weakened
her hold on the wizard, Alec thought. "Look
out," he whispered, sending a red-fletched shaft at
the guard. The man fell and Thero was lost from sight
as the other prisoners surged forward in rebellion
or panic.
"Got her on the first try!" Seregil exclaimed
under his breath, watching from the ledges above as Irtuk
Beshar whirled suddenly, clutching at the shaft
protruding from her chest. The Helm fell from her
hands, tumbling back into the hole it came from.
Mardus dove after it.
Ignoring the sudden arrow storm that erupted around them,
he and Micum left Nysander in the shelter of the
rocks and charged

down. Irtuk Beshar's spells on the pool were
already unraveling. Water surged back into the basin,
washing corpses and entrails down into the hole, and
sweeping the Helm out of reach as Mardus bent
to grab it.
Praying to Sakor that Nysander was right about her powers
being exhausted, Micum charged the wounded
dyrmagnos. She saw him and raised one gnarled
hand. He swung, severing the arm, then struck again,
taking her between the neck and shoulder. Her
body split under his blade like a dry gourd. She
screamed curses at him as her head and remaining arm
tumbled away from her torso.
Despite the warnings of Seregil and Nysander,
Micum hesitated for an instant, transfixed with
horror as the severed parts writhed on the ground at his
feet. Then a hint of motion caught his eye and he
turned in time to deflect Tildus' sword.
Sakor's smiling today,
he told himself as he sidestepped another blow and
caught the Plenimaran captain a solid blow to the
neck.
Other marines leapt forward to avenge their captain's
death. Micum crippled two and killed a third.
A fourth pressed in on his left side but fell
before Micum could strike at him, an arrow through his
back. Micum scarcely had time to register that the
fletching color was not Alec's before more Plenimarans
rushed at him. He doggedly stood his ground, aware
of the clash of swords behind him but too closely
pressed to look.
As hoped, the revolt of the prisoners, together with the
mysterious fire at the encampment, had drawn off
many of the soldiers. Micum made short work of the
few who remained.
He was just looking around for Seregil when a searing
bolt of pain shot through the back of his right thigh.
Staggering, he twisted around to find Irtuk Beshar
clinging to him, eyes shining like a wildcat's as she
tore at his leg with nails and teeth. Too late
he realized his mistake; she was whole again.
The lower portion of her gown had fallen away and
Micum could see both the livid, uneven line of the
joining and the splintered end of the arrow shaft still
protruding between her shriveled dus. Her legs,
black and withered as those of a burned corpse, kicked
spasmodically as she tightened her grip and sank
her teeth nto his flesh. A deadly coldness
spread slowly out from the founds.
lyim Flewelling
Micum hacked awkwardly at her. One withered leg
flew off, then he managed the cleave her in half
at the waist. Determined not to make the same error
twice, he grabbed the lower torso by its remaining
leg and flung it with all his strength into the sea, then
kicked the other limb into the shadows beyond the torches.
But Irtuk Beshar was still horribly alive and
clung on to him like a curse. The coldness of her
bite spread up through Micum's vitals, stopping
his ears, darkening his vision, numbing his
fingers. His sword fell from his hand and he tore
clumsily at her. Dried bone collapsed beneath his
fists, strips of dusty scalp pulled away like
rotten cloth, but still Irtuk Beshar hung on,
plunging her poison into his veins with the last of her
strength.
Micum's deadened leg folded under him and he felt
her grip change as she slowly pulled herself up his
body. He could hear Seregil shouting nearby.
Micum's throat worked soundlessly, choked with the
vengeful hate of the dyrmagnos.
Alec was down to the three white arrows when he saw
Micum thrashing on the ground just above the pool. His
belly went cold as he realized what the monstrous
thing clinging to him must be. It was pointless to shoot from
here; there was no way to hit the dyrmagnos without
killing Micum at the same time. Gripping the arrow
like a dagger, Alec bounded down over the rocks,
praying he wasn't already too late.
Looking back over her shoulder, Beka saw that
Braknil's decuria had succeeded in setting
fire to the Plenimaran camp. At this signal, she
and Rhylin's decuria opened fire on the
Plenimaran soldiers massed in the natural
amphitheater below. From where they stood on the
ledges, it was like shooting pigs in a sty.
They were not the first to fire, however. Even as she
loosed arrow after arrow, Beka wondered how
Braknil had gotten back here so quickly and what his
group was doing on the opposite side of the cove.
One of them had managed to hit the sorceress before
Beka could give the order for her group to fire.
Whatever the case, the prisoners were breaking free
below, just as she'd hoped.
"That's got them moving," she growled, turning to the
others. "Come on,
urgazhi,
let's leave them to it."

"Hold on, Lieutenant," whispered Rhylin.
"It looks to me like we're not the only ones who were
after them!"
The frantic prisoners were pushing their captors
back toward the cliffs, but a smaller knot of
fighting was concentrated near the water's edge.
Torchlight glanced off steel in the shadows of the
natural basin that lay in the embrace of the two
ridges of high ground. General Mardus was nowhere
in sight, but the Plenimaran's sorceress was still
alive and wrestling with a large swordsman.
Beka's heart skipped a beat.
"It can't be!" she gasped. Then Alec bolted
into view from behind a jumble of rocks, splashing
wildly through the shallow water toward the struggling
pair with nothing but an arrow in his hand.
Dropping her bow, Beka began scrambling down the
steep rock face.
"What are you doing?" Rhylin cried, catching her
by the wrist.
Beka pulled free so violently that she nearly
dragged the startled man over the edge.
"My father's down there!" she snapped over her
shoulder as she plunged on.
"Riders," barked Rhylin behind her, "follow the
lieutenant's lead! Attack!"
Micum was still struggling weakly beneath the dyrmagnos
when Alec reached him. Grasping Beshar by what was
left of her hair, Alec plunged the arrow into her
neck. The resulting blast knocked him over onto
his back, ears ringing.
Releasing Micum with a wild screech, Irtuk
Beshar dragged what remained of herself at Alec and
locked a hand around his ankle.
"I'll have you after all," she rasped, pulling herself
along his leg with both hands like some nightmare
lizard.
Alec saw his own death in her eyes. In his haste
to aid Micum, he'd left the last two white
arrows behind with his bow.
"Aura Elustri!"
he panted, struggling to wrest his sword from the
scabbard pinned beneath his leg. Before he could shift it,
another blade flashed down, sending the dyrmagnos'
head spinning into the surf.
Shaking off the clinging hands, Alec lurched to his
feet and
Lyim FleweUtag
stared in disbelief as Beka Cavish hacked
furiously at the flailing
arms and trunk.
"Get away from it," he warned. "You can't kill
it."
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, backing away
from
the twitching remains.
"No time for that. Where's Micum? Go see to him."
Beka found her father lying motionless where he'd
fallen, eyes shut as he fought for breath. Sweat
ran down his face in rivulets, carving trails in
the black strip painted across his eyes.
"Father, it
is
you!" Beka exclaimed, kneeling to inspect the
terrible wound in his leg. The dyrmagnos had torn
away skin and muscle in her frenzy, and the raw
flesh was already going dangerously dark.
"Beka?" he gasped, opening his eyes. "Scatter
the parts, scatter-it won't die."
"Alec's doing that," she assured him. She pulled
off her gloves to take his hand and saw for the first time the
strange designs that had somehow appeared on her
palms. Her father's hands bore the same device.
"First I find you here and now this," she said,
bewildered. "What in Sakor's name is going on?"
Micum held his hand next to hers. "So you're a
Vanguard, too. Things have come together in a strange
way, Beka. You don't know the half of it." He
closed his eyes and drew a wheezing breath.
She pulled open his tunic and laid an ear to his
chest. His heart was pounding too hard and his skin was
too cold. Looking around for help, she saw
Alec and Rhylin hurrying toward her, supporting
another man between them. This thin one with his matted
black hair and young beard looked vaguely
familiar. He'd been wounded, too; the
side of his face was bloody and he had a sword
cut across his ribs. Nonetheless, his pale green
eyes were sharp and alert as he sank down beside
Micum.
"Help him, Thero. There must be something you can do,"
Alec pleaded. "I've got to find Seregil!
Has anyone seen him? Or Nysander?"
"I am here, dear boy," a hollow voice
replied from the shadowed rocks above them.
Mardus crouched opposite Seregil in the uneven
basin, the surge of the tide rushing around their
ankles. They sloshed through icy water as they
circled, vying for possession of the Helm that lay
partially submerged between them, the newly awakened glow
of the blue eye stones casting a pale
phosphorescence up through the water. The blast that had
formed it had deepened the shallow basin into a broad
pit deeper in places than the height of the two men
who fought there. Strewn with bodies, lit only by the
dead glow of the eclipse that still stood overhead, it was
like a place from a fever dream.
"I should have killed that whelp of yours when I had the
chance," snarled Mardus.
"Yes, you should have," Seregil retorted through
gritted teeth, sizing up his opponent.
Mardus was not a brawny opponent, but he did have
the protection of his cuirass. "You missed
Nysander, too, you know. He's alive and the Four
remains unbroken."
a
"Yet you failed all the same," Mardus
gloated, pointing to the Helm with the dagger clutched in
his left hand. "I am the
Vatharna,
the Chosen of Seriamaius. Do you think you can stand
against me now?"
"I was chosen, too, you fatherless son of a
Lynn Flewelling
whore." Seregil tugged open the neck of his tunic
with one hand to show him the reversed symbol pulsing there.
"But it's my people at the Cockerel that I'll kill
you for, and for what you did to Alec. For the runners and
keeks you used and betrayed, the innocents who've
died at your order. Hell, I'll kill you for the
sheer fun of it. Come on, Lord Eater of Shit.
Let's get this over with."
He lunged at Mardus and their swords locked in
a resounding parry that sent a shock up both their
arms. Seregil ducked Mardus' guard and tried
for a stab below his cuirass. He missed his
footing and the tip of his blade glanced off metal, but
the point cut the man's left arm and fresh blood
spotted the already stained waters of the pool; neither of the
combatants had time to notice how the bleary light
of the Helm brightened as it rolled in the wash of the
tide.
Fighting for purchase on the broken stone underfoot,
Seregil quickly realized that he was overmatched. On
better ground his speed would have evened the odds, but
trapped here in this watery pit he could only stand
firm and fend off the taller man's bone- jarring
swings. Mardus slapped his blade back and nicked
Seregil's left shoulder. Seregil got his guard
back up, made a lucky sidestep, and repaid him
with a slash across the right forearm.
For the first time it occurred to Seregil that his role in the
prophecy had been fulfilled, that he was expendable
now. That he might lose.
Sensing his doubt, Mardus pressed the advantage
and scored a shallow cut across Seregil's thigh.
More blood spotted the water and the Helm, brighter now
with this and every death that occurred in the fight that was still raging
above them, shone more brightly still.
It was Mardus who finally noticed the light,
understood its significance. Redoubling his
attack, he beat Seregil back against the rocks.
Pinned off balance in an indefensible position,
Seregil decided to take a desperate chance.
Springing past Mardus, he dove for the Helm. He
hadn't gotten two steps when his foot lodged in a
hidden crevice and he stumbled painfully.
Mardus struck at his back, slashing him across the
ribs. Just as he drew back for the killing stab,
however, a wave surged in over the shelf of rock,
knocking them both off their feet with a blinding wall of
spray that slammed them against the rocks.

Mardus was the first to recover when it subsided. Still
gripping his sword, he looked around to find
Seregil sprawled stunned and unarmed against the
seaward rocks. Blood trickled down over one
closed eye from a cut on his forehead.
A look of dark triumph spread across Mardus'
face as he stalked toward him through the knee-deep
water. Long experience had taught him where to strike
to cripple and give a lingering death.
It was the glow of the Eyes that distracted him. As the
foaming surge of waves cleared for an instant,
Mardus found the Helm shining up through the water at his
feet.
"It seems I'll have the pleasure of offering you to the
Beautiful One after all," he gloated. "Wounded
or not, you're still an admirable sacrifice."
Gripping the Helm by one of the twisted black
horns, he raised it over his head.
"Adrat Vatharna, thromuth-was
caret not
Seregil chose his moment. Opening his eyes, he
reached underwater, yanked the poniard from his boot, and
threw it.
Mardus froze, the Helm still poised over his head
as he stared down in amazement at the knife buried
between his ribs where the edge of the cuirass left his
side exposed.
"You should've killed
me
when you had the chance," Seregil snarled, trailing
blood as he waded unarmed toward his adversary.
"You played a brilliant game until now, but you
should always finish your enemy off before you reach for the
spoils. Arrogance, my lord. It's a deadly
vice. It makes you predictable."
Mardus' lips stretched in the parody of a smile.
"Tricks. Always your tricks," he whispered.
Clutching the Helm in one hand, his sword
in the other, he turned woodenly and began to stumble
toward the edge of the pool.
Seregil followed and blocked his way. Mardus was
dying, but still he looked down at Seregil with searing
disdain.
"The Eater of Death-was he began thickly, gouts
of blood spilling down over his chin from his mouth.
hisbe-will eat
your
heart today, not mine," Seregil finished, glaring up
into his enemy's dark eyes.
He grasped the hilt of the poniard and twisted it,
tearing
Lynn Flewelling
through muscle and sinew until the long blade lodged
fast in bone. A hot, bright freshet of blood
poured out over his clenched fist.
Mardus dropped the Helm and toppled backward
into the water. A ribbon of red bubbles streamed up from
his nose and mouth, then ceased. His eyes, already
vague with death, mirrored tiny dual reflections
of the sun's first, bright edge as it emerged from the
moon's dominance.
Seregil spat into the water. A smaller wave
surged over the edge of the pool, hiding
Mardus for a moment beneath a rushing sheet of foam.
When it cleared again, the long reflection of another
man had interposed itself across the surface of the water
in front of him. Seregil looked up to find
Nysander standing above him at the edge of the pool, the
sound of scattered fighting still audible from beyond.
"Well done," the wizard said gravely. "Now the
Helm must be destroyed once and for all. Give it
to me, then find your sword."
Reaching down, Seregil grasped the glowing Helm
by two of its black horns, just as he had grasped
the crystal points of the crown months before. And as
before, invisible voices and insubstantial spirits
coalesced around him as he touched it, trying to stay his
hand.
The blue eye stones set in the band had taken on the
appearance of flesh now and swiveled accusingly in their
lidless sockets as he passed the Helm up
to Nysander.
The wizard drew a fold of his cloak around the
Helm, screening it from view. "Your sword," he
said again, his voice gentle but firm. "I must have your
help in this, Seregil. You are the only one who can
aid me."
Seregil scarcely felt his wounds as he
splashed back across the pool to find his weapon.
"Here it is," he called. "But what about-?"
The words died in his throat. With the foam of a fresh
wave boiling in around his legs, he looked up at
the tall figure from his nightmares towering over him.
But this time he knew the face beneath the spiked brim
of the misshapen Helm.
It was Nysander's.
The skeletal hands that formed the cheek guards clenched
inward against Nysander's face, sinking their talons
into his cheeks until the flesh dimpled. The
unnatural blue eyes blazed, sending out rays of
light. Nysander stood unmoved, waiting.
"Nysander, why?" Seregil rasped.the skin around the
brand on

his chest crawled and tingled, the sensation growing as it
crept down his right arm. Sparks flickered over the
quilions of his sword and along the shining blade.
But Seregil was aware of nothing except the
sorrowful determination he read in Nysander's eyes.
Nysander-oldest friend, wisest teacher, second father.
Some sane part of Seregil's mind screamed for him
to throw the sword away into the sea, but he couldn't
move or look away.
"Nysander, I can't!" he pleaded, echoing the
forgotten words of his dreams.
"You must." Nysander's voice was already thin and
strained. "I have accepted this burden freely.
"First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in
the darkness. Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall
fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen
One, goes forth. And at the last shall be again the
Guardian, whose portion is bitter, as bitter as
gall."
"You must strike now, dear boy. Too much blood
has been spilled and I cannot hold back its power
for long. If you fail, I shall become their
Vatharna,
the anathema of my life's work. Strike now, I
beg you. There is no other way, and never has
been."
Seregil's body felt weightless as he climbed
up the broken rock, sword naked in his hand.
Lock away grief,
a voice whispered deep in his heart.
Lock away horror and fear and outrage and pity-
I understand. Oh, yes!
The Eyes of the Helm rolled to focus on him as
he took his place in front of Nysander;
this was a blow that could not be struck from behind. Hideous
moans split the air around them, blending with the cries
from mortal throats nearby as he raised his arm
to strike. Some part of him recognized Alec's
voice among the others but he did not turn.
Nysander staggered, sank to his knees, arms
extended on either side. Orbs of light burned in
the hollow of each palm, illuminating the symbols
that still showed on his skin.
comto protect your soul-
The orbs flared and began to fade as the Helm
blazed brighter. Even then Seregil might have
hesitated if Nysander hadn't raised his head and
looked up at him with eyes that glowed already with the same
horrible light as the Helm. Something broke inside
Seregil at the sight of those alien eyes staring up
at him from that familiar, beloved face.
Lyim Flewelling
Raising his sword in both hands, he brought it down
with all his strength.
The symbols Nysander had painted on the blade
flashed out like lightning as it cleaved through iron,
horn, and gold, shattering the great Helm of
Seriamaius into a thousand ragged fragments that
dissolved into shreds of shadow in the milky
light of the returning sun.
A sudden wind filled with a thousand tortured voices
roared down out of nowhere, smashing the waves against the
rocks. Flinging the twisted, blackened sword
away, Seregil fell to his knees and lifted
Nysander's ruined head onto his lap, cradling the
dead man in his arms. Another wave crashed in against
the ledges, foaming around his knees, tugging at the
dead man's legs.
You knew,
Seregil thought as he gazed down into Nysander's
face, plain and kind again in death.
You knew.
All along you knew.
youknewyouknewyouknewyouknew-
"You knew!" he screamed against the raging wind, blind
to the friends gathered in horrified realization around him.
Bowed over Nysander's limp body, Seregil
waited for the next wave to drag them both from the
rocks and down into the trackless depths beyond.
Seregil watched the smoke from Nysander's pyre
rise against the brilliant red and gold of the sunset
and wondered why he couldn't weep.
Alec was crying softly beside him and Micum, too,
as he lay supported by Beka, one
broad hand over his eyes. Thero stood a little apart,
tears streaming down his pale cheeks as the flames
crackled up through the carefully stacked tinder and
driftwood.
Seregil longed to join them. His grief was a dry,
sharp-edged stone lodged in his chest; he could scarcely
draw breath around it.
Rhal's sailors and Beka's soldiers stood in
respectful silence on the opposite side of the
pyre. Patrolling loyally off the coast, Rhal
had seen the fire at the camp and taken it as a
signal. Braving the crashing surf, he'd come
ashore with twenty of his men in time to help Beka's
raiders clear out the last of the Plenimarans. As word
spread of Mardus' death, however, most of the remaining
soldiers simply scattered into the hills to fend for
themselves.
Afterwards, Beka and Rhal had marshaled their people together,
clearing away the dead and all trace of the ceremony.
When the site was cleansed, they stacked a funeral
pyre on the ledges below the basin, then stood aside
as
Lynn Flewelling
Seregil and Thero placed Nysander on the bed of
oil-soaked kindling and sweet herbs.
Standing here now, watching unflinchingly as the flames
blackened Nysander's skin and clothing, Seregil
forced himself to recall the old wizard kneeling
calmly among his paints and symbols, speaking words
of encouragement.
But still the tears would not come.
Stars appeared overhead in the darkening sky and with them the
comet, robbed now of its dread significance. The
pyre began to settle in on itself and Nysander's
corpse sank out of sight in a whirling cloud of
sparks. Several of Rhal's men came forward and
added more wood and oil, stoking the blaze until the
heat of it pressed the onlookers back into the
surrounding shadows.
With the solemnity of the funeral circle broken, people
began to drift away. The fire would burn long
into the night, reducing skin, bone, and wood alike
to a fine ash for the tide and winds to scatter.
Turning, Seregil limped slowly up to the white
stone and sat there waiting for some release.
None came; the emptiness he'd been plunged into from
the moment he'd accepted Nysander's final charge still
enveloped him, leaving him isolated, deadened
inside. He could see Alec and the others gathered
around Micum, a knot of shared comfort against
the oncoming night.
He should be with them, he knew, but somehow he couldn't
move. Sinking his head into his hands, he remained
where he was, alone in the shadows where Nysander had
stood awaiting his moment just hours before.
Some time later, he heard the sound of someone climbing
up the rocks toward him. Looking up, he was
surprised to see that it was Thero.
Worn and battered, dressed in borrowed clothes,
he bore little resemblance to the prim young wizard
Seregil had sparred withfor so many years. Thero stared
down at the pyre below for a moment before speaking.
"I wasted too many years being jealous of you," he
said at last, still not looking at Seregil. "It
hurt him, and I'd take it back if I could."
Seregil nodded slowly, sensing that there was more to be said
between them but not knowing how to begin. Instead, he asked,
"Will Micum be all right?"

"I think I've stopped most of the poison," Thero
replied, sounding relieved to speak of practical
tilings. "Still, even if he doesn't lose the
leg, I doubt it will ever be much use to him."
"He's lucky to be alive at all. And the
dyrmagnos?"
"She's finished. Alec saw to that."
"Good."
Another uncomfortable pause raveled out and Thero
turned to leave.
"Thank you," Seregil managed, his voice thin and
strained. "For helping Alec and all."
With a curt nod, Thero moved off through the shadows
along the road.
Micum saw There leave.
"You go up to him," he croaked, looking up at
Alec with fever- bright eyes.
"He's right," Beka said, raising a cup of
drugged wine to her father's lips. "It's not proper,
him being alone now."
"I know. I've been thinking that all afternoon," Alec
whispered miserably. "But I don't know what to do
for him, what to say. We all loved Nysander, but not
like he did. And then he had to be the one to-was
Reaching out, Micum closed a hot, dry hand over
Alec's. "His heart is broken, Alec.
Follow your own."
Alec let out a heavy sigh and nodded. Climbing the
rocks, he walked over to where Seregil still sat on
the rock, face lost in shadow.
"It's turning cold. I thought you might
need this," Alec said, taking off his cloak and
draping it over his friend's shoulders. Seregil mumbled
a thank you, but didn't move.
Feeling desperately awkward, Alec rested a
hand on Seregil's shoulder, then slid an arm around
him. He'd half expected Seregil to shrug it
off, or finally weep, but not the black waves of
emptiness he felt, leaning there beside him. Something
intrinsic in Seregil had fled or died; it was like
touching a statue, a scarecrow.
A fresh trickle of tears inched down Alec's
cheeks, but he didn't move, just stayed there, hoping
Seregil would draw some comfort from his nearness. His
tongue felt like a dead thing in his mouth. Words were
dead leaves lodged in his throat. What was there
to say?
Lynn Flewelling
A breeze stirred, sighing through the forest at their
backs, mingling its sound with the rhythmic surge of the
waves. An owl sailed by close enough for Alec
to hear its wings cutting the air. Its hooting call
drifted back to them through the darkness.
They remained like this for some time before Seregil finally
spoke, his voice barely audible.
"I'm sorry, Alec. Sorry for
everything."
"Nobody blames you. You did what you had to, just
like the rest of us."
Seregil-"s short, angry laugh was startling after
such silence. "What choice did I have?"
They sailed the following morning, heading north along
the coast. Still running with stolen canvas, the
Green Lady
again raced unchallenged through enemy waters, though she
caused something of a stir at Nanta until Rhal
showed his commissioning papers.
They lay in port for two days while Rhal
refitted the sails and took on fresh stores.
Beka found a drysian to tend Micum's wounds and
Seregil's, then set about making her own preparations
for departure. She and her riders were duty-bound
to find their regiment. By the second day Braknil and
Rhylin had rounded up sufficient horses and
supplies, as well as word that their regiment was stationed
a few days ride to the north.
Rhal had given over his cabin to the survivors of
Nysander's Four and Micum lay on the narrow
bunk, his leg swathed in linen bandages. Sitting
down beside him, Beka pushed her long braid back
over her shoulder.
"Word around the city is that the Plenimarans have been
pushed behind their own borders for the moment," she told
him. "We'll ride northeast until we find
Skalan troops, then start asking directions from
there."
Micum clasped her hand. "You take care of yourself,
my girl. This war is far from over."
Beka nodded, her throat tight. "By the Flame,
Father. I don't like to leave you, but I have to get
back. I sent some of my people on ahead before we met
up with you and I've got to see if they made it."
Micum waved aside her concern with a smile.
"I've been talking with your Sergeant Braknil and
some of the others. From

what they say, you're a good officer and a brave
fighter. I'm proud of you."
Beka hugged him tight, feeling the familiar
roughness of her father's cheek against her own. "I had the
best teachers, didn't I? I just wish-was
"What?"
Beka sat back and wiped a hand across her eyes.
"I always thought, once I had some experience on my
own, that maybe Nysander would, you know, find use for
me the way he did with you and Seregil."
"Don't you worry about that. There'll always be enough
trouble in the world to keep our kind busy. None of that
dies with Nysander. I'll tell you, though, it's
Seregil I'm worried about."
Beka nodded. "And Alec, too. You can see what
it's doing to him, having Seregil so silent and sad.
What's happened with them?"
Micum lay back against the bolsters with a sigh.
"Poor Alec. He cares so much for Seregil he
doesn't know what to do about it, and now this. And
Seregil's hurting so deep I don't know if
any of us can help him."
"Perhaps he has to help himself." Beka rose
reluctantly. "You get Valerius to see to that
leg when you get back. I still don't like the look of
it. And take my love to Mother and the girls. Send
word of my new brother when he's born."
"You keep yourself in one piece, you hear?"
Beka kissed him a last time, then hurried above.
Seregil was standing alone by the rail.
As they clasped hands, he turned her palms up
to look at the faded traces of the symbols there.
"You've got your father's heart as well as his
hair," he said with a ghost of the old smile. "Trust
either one of you to show up when you're least
expected and most needed. Luck in the shadows,
Beka Cavish, and in the light."
"Luck to you, too, Seregil, and the Maker's
healing," Beka returned warmly, relieved to see
even this small break in his sorrow. He'd
scarcely spoken since they'd set sail. "Bring
Father safe home again."
Alec was waiting for her by the longboat. Putting her
arms around him, Beka squeezed him tight and felt
the embrace returned.
"Take them to Watermead, both of them," she
whispered against
lynn Flewelling
his cheek. "Stay there as long as you need to. Poor
Nysander, I can't believe he'd ever have wanted
things to turn out like this."
"Me neither," Alec said, still holding her by the arms as
he stepped back.
He looks so much older,
Beka thought, seeing the depths of sadness in his
eyes.
When Nanta had slipped away to the horizon
Alec went below. Seregil was sitting on the end of
Micum's bunk.
"I found something for you in Nanta before we
sailed," Alec said, handing Seregil a
cloth-wrapped parcel. Inside was a small harp,
like the one he'd carried in Wolde.
"It's nowhere near as good as yours, I know," Alec
went on quickly as Seregil folded the wrappings
back and touched the strings. "But I thought it might-
Well, Micum is still in pain and I thought maybe
if you played for him it might give him some ease."
A white lie, perhaps, but it did the trick.
Micum gave Alec a knowing wink as Seregil
propped the instrument on his knee and plucked out a
few tentative notes.
"It's a fine instrument. Thank you," Seregil
said, not looking up. He plucked out a few searching
chords, then swept the strings, releasing a glissando
of plaintive notes.
Thero came in to tend Micum's leg and stayed
awhile to listen. Seregil didn't sing, but plucked
out tune after tune, the music mournful and soothing.
Micum slipped into a peaceful doze and Alec
sat quietly in the corner, watching Seregil's
face as he played on through the afternoon. His expression
betrayed little. The mantle of silence remained in
place.
Seregil's spirits seemed to rally somewhat
during the voyage back to Rhiminee. He spoke
more freely, though not of Nysander or the Helm.
Never of those. He walked the deck with Alec and
Thero, ate sparingly with neither relish nor complaint,
and played the harp by the hour, covering his own pain a
little by easing Micum's.
Micum and Thero took heart at these small
changes but Alec, who shared a pallet with
Seregil on the floor of Rhal's cabin, knew
how he trembled and groaned in his sleep each
night. An intuition uncomfortably like the one that had
dragged him back to the

Cockerel that fateful night kept him
by Seregil's side as much as possible. The man
he'd known for so long was gone, leaving in his stead a
quiet stranger with distance behind his eyes.
Alec sat alone with Micum the afternoon of their fifth
day out from Nanta. Micum was dozing, his face
pale and haggard against the bolsters. The harp lay at
his feet where Seregil had left it after soothing him
to sleep. There's continued ministrations had kept rot
from setting into Micum's leg, but the little cabin was
stifling with the flat, heavy odor of unhealthy flesh.
Moving quietly so as not to disturb
Micum, Alec opened the cabin window and propped
the door open with a pack. Just as he was about to steal out
again, however, Micum opened his eyes.
"That's a long face you've got on," he rasped,
motioning for Alec to sit by him. "Out with it. What's
wrong?"
Alec shrugged unhappily. "It's Seregil.
He's like a shadow. He doesn't talk, he
doesn't smile. It's like he's not really here at
all. I don't know what to do for him."
"I think you're doing right by just standing by him for now, just as
you did when he ran afoul with that wooden coin. It
made all the difference to him then. He's told me
so himself."
"That was magic and he was fighting it, too. But
killing Nysander-was Alec fiddled with the edge of the
blanket, searching for words. "It's like he killed
part of himself."
"He did. We have to give him time to sort out
what's left."
"Maybe." But in his heart Alec feared that the
longer they waited for Seregil to come around, the farther
away he drifted.
Magyana was waiting for them on the quay the day they
sailed into Rhiminee harbor. Alone and
unattended, she wore a dark mourning veil over
her silvery hair.
Seregil placed a little bundle containing Nysander's
few belong- mgs in her arms, his voice failing him
when he tried to speak.
"I know, my dear," she murmured, embracing him.
"Nysander
an
d I said our farewells the day I sent him across
to find you. He suspected that he would not return, and
asked me to tell all of you not to grieve for him, but
to forgive him if you can."
"Forgive him?" gasped Thero, standing rigidly beside
Micum's 'itter. "What could there be to forgive?"
Lynn Flewelling
is;!
:
were',
Magyana did not answer, but her gaze stole
briefly back to Seregil, who'd turned away.
Alec's eyes locked briefly with hers and in that
instant the mutual understanding ran deep.
"It was also Nysander's wish, Thero, that you should
complete your training with me," she continued.
The color fled from the young wizard's thin
cheeks as he sank to his knees before her. "I
can't go back to the Oreska, not after what happened that
night. The attack, the Plenimarans getting in,
it was my fault. If I hadn't told Ylinestra
about Nysander's walks, his studies- Looking back
now, I see what all her questions were leading to, but
at the time-I just didn't know! But the Council would
never allow me back."
Magyana laid a hand on his bowed head. "You
forget that I, too, am a member of the High
Council, as was Nysander. He spoke with them one
last time before he left. There is no impediment to your
return. His last words to me on the matter were that he
hoped I would see to it that you completed what you have
begun so well."
Cupping his chin, she gently raised his anguished
face. "I would be honored if you would accept me as
your teacher, Thero. In truth, it would be a great comfort
to have you with me, and to see the education of my friend's last
pupil completed. It would be the greatest honor to his
memory."
Thero rose and bowed. "I'm yours to command."
Magyana smiled gently. "You will learn that, like
Nysander, I seldom command anything. I hope the
rest of you will accept my hospitality
tonight?"
"I thank you, Magyana, but I don't think-was
Seregil broke off, unable to meet her gaze.
"I understand." She touched his cheek. "Later then.
Tell me where you plan to stay and I'll send word for
Valerius to see Micum."
"Wheel Street tonight, then out to Watermead."
"I will see that he comes to you at once.
Aura Elustri mdlreis, Seregil tali."
Clasping hands with Alec, she bid him farewell,
then bent over Micum. "Shall I send word to Kari?"
Micum took her hand with a meaningful look and said
softly, "Maybe we'd better wait until
Valerius has had a look at me, eh?"
Magyana pressed his hand. "Very well. May
Dalna speed health to you, Micum, and peaceful
hearts to you all." With Thero

at her side, she walked away through the dockside
throng to a waiting carriage.
"If you've no further need of the ship, the men are
anxious to put out again," said Rhal, coming over
to take his leave of them. "We've made two
crossings with an empty hold and there are enemy
ships to be plucked."
"The ship is yours to command, Captain," Seregil
told him. "And the luck of Astellus go with you. I
expect the
Green Lady
will be the scourge of both seas."
Moving Micum into a hired cart, Alec and
Seregil set off for Wheel Street. The house was
just as they'd left it. Evidently Mardus had been
well apprised enough of their movements not to waste time
on unnecessary destruction.
Old Runcer greeted them with his usual lack of
surprise, as if they'd been gone for a day or two
instead of months. Seregil's white hounds, Zir
and Marag, showed equal equanimity toward their
master, padding softly on ahead as Seregil and
Alec helped Micum up the stairs to Seregil's
chamber.
Valerius arrived soon after, dour as ever, but
subdued. His scowl deepened as he inspected
Micum's wound.
"You're lucky to be here," he exclaimed,
wrinkling his nose. "Who's been looking after you?"
"Thero, mostly," Alec told him. "He was there
when the dyrmagnos attacked him, and he tended him
all the way home."
"He may have saved your leg, Micum. He
certainly saved your life. There's still a great deal
of healing to be done, though." He turned to Seregil
and Alec. "Runcer can help me. I suggest you
both go out for a while."
"I'm not leaving," Seregil protested with a flash of
his old fire.
"You heard him, Seregil. You'd just be in the way.
Get out," Micum said from the bed, making a passable
job of sounding cheerful. "Come see me in the
morning."
"Come on," said Alec, taking him by the arm. "I
could do with a walk after all that time at sea."
Valerius closed the door firmly behind them.
Seregil glared at it for a moment, tight-lipped and
grim, then followed Alec downstairs without another
word.
Seregil hadn't worn a sword since the day of
Nysander's death, but Alec hastily buckled on his
own as they headed out into the cool spring evening.
Lithion had passed into Nythin since he'd been
gone and flowering trees scented the air.
Lynn Rewelling
They both still wore their rough traveling clothes and, with
his sword swinging against his leg with no cloak
to cover it, Alec worried fleetingly that the Watch
might stop them to ask why two such ill-dressed
strangers were hurrying through the streets of the Noble
Quarter.
But Seregil soon took the lead, heading into poorer
courtyards and alleyways. He was still limping
slightly, but seemed not to feel it as he strode
silently along. Along the way they passed
Lazarda's Black Feather brothel. The door
stood open and, glancing inea.alec saw that the
carved ship on the mantelpiece was facing west,
signaling that a message had been left there for the
Rhiminee Cat. If Seregil saw this, he
ignored it and they wandered on like ghosts through the
familiar shadows of their city.
A slender moon stood high over the rooftops before
Seregil finally broke his silence. Stopping
suddenly in a weed-choked courtyard, he turned
to Alec as if they were in mid conversation.
"He thinks he might die, you know?" he said, his
face half-lost in shadow. The part Alec could see
was a mask of misery.
"Micum? I don't think he will," Alec
replied, adding without much conviction, "Valerius
wouldn't have made us leave if he thought he
would."
"I don't think I could stand to lose him, too,"
Seregil said, betraying more emotion than he'd shown
in days. But before Alec could respond he was off
again, heading west.
They'd gone several blocks in silence before Alec
realized where it was that they'd been headed all along.
One scorched brass cockerel remained to guard the
courtyard gate, its upraised claw empty. Beyond
the low wall lay nothing but a gaping foundation hole
choked with charred timbers. Everything had burned-the
inn, the stables, the wooden gate of the back court.
The stink of rain-soaked ashes hung rank on the
air.
"O Illior!" Alec whispered in stunned dismay.
"I knew it was gone, but still-was
Seregil looked equally bereft. "It was just starting
to burn when I left. Cilia was only two years
old when I bought it."
Alec shuddered, hating Vargul Ashnazai all the
more for giving him such memories of her and the others.
"Do you think their ghosts are here?"
Seregil kicked at a bit of cracked stone.
"If they did linger, you gave them peace the moment you
strangled that bastard."
"What about Luthas?"

"I suppose the drysians at the temple will
foster him out or make a priest of him-was
Seregil broke off as a small form bounded up out
of the cellar hole with a loud, familiar trill.
Purring frantically, Ruetha went back and forth
between them, twining herself around their ankles and arching to have
her ears scratched.
They stared down at the cat for a moment in mutual
amazement, then Seregil scooped her up with shaking
hands. She butted him under the chin with her head.
"By all the gods! Thryis used to complain about the
way she'd disappear until I came back."
Burying his fingers in the sooty fur of her ruff,
he muttered huskily, "Well, old girl, you'd
better come with us this time. We're not coming back."
"Not ever." Alec rested a hand on Seregil's
shoulder as he reached to stroke Ruetha. "Not ever."
When they returned to Wheel Street a few hours
later, Seregil and Alec found Valerius just
finishing a hearty late supper in the dining room.
"Cheer up, you two. Micum will be fine," the
drysian told them, brushing crumbs from his beard.
"What about his leg?" asked Seregil.
"Go see for yourself."
Elsbet was at her father's side, holding his hand as
he slept. Weariness made her look older than
her fifteen years; with her smooth dark hair bound
back in a thick braid over the shoulder of her
simple blue gown, she was the image of Kari as
Seregil had first known her.
"He's going to be all right," she whispered.
The room smelled of healing herbs and fresh air.
Bending over Micum, Seregil saw with relief the
faint flush of healthy color that tinged the sleeping
man's cheeks. Fresh blood had soaked through the
lines wrapped around his thigh, but the leg was still
intact.
"Valerius says he'll be able to ride again in
time," she told them. "I've already arranged for a
carriage to take him home tomorrow. Mother's been so
worried!"
"We'll come out with you," Seregil replied,
wondering what sort of reception he'd have from her
mother.
@l
"1
other, Mother! A carriage is coming, and riders,"
cried Illia from the front gate. "It
must be Father coming dishome!"
Shading her eyes against the slanting afternoon sun, Kari
joined her at the gate and watched the covered
carriage make its way slowly up the hill toward
them. She recognized the riders as Seregil and
Alec. Micum wasn't with them.
She unconsciously pressed a hand across her
belly as she set
off
down the road to meet them. Catching her mother's
mood, Illia hurried solemnly along behind her.
Seregil cantered on ahead to meet her and Kari's
sense
of
dread deepened as he came near. She had never
seen him so pale and worn. There was something in his
face,
a shadow.
"Where's Father, Uncle Seregil?" demanded
Illia.
"In the carriage," he told her, reining in beside
them and dismounting. "He's wounded but he'll be fine.
Elsbet's with him, too, and Alec."
"Thank the Maker!" Kari exclaimed, embracing
him. "Oh, Seregil, I know about the
Cockerel. I'm so sorry. Those poor good people."
He returned the embrace stiffly and she
3f backslash t5Cl
caret So caret tf caret More

stepped back to look into his face again. "What is
it? There's something else, isn't there?"
"You've had no news, then?"
"Magyana sent word at dawn that you'd returned,
that's all."
Seregil turned away, his face disturbingly
expressionless as he looked out over the new green
of the meadow. "Nysander's dead."
Kari raised a hand to her mouth, too stunned
to speak.
"That nice old man who did magic tricks for
me on Sakor's Day?" asked Illia. She
danced around them impatiently, her face puckering
to cry. "Why is he dead? Did a bad man
kill him?"
Seregil swallowed hard, his face still grim. "He
did something very brave. Very difficult and very brave.
And he died."
The others drew up and Seregil straightened, his
face betraying nothing but a strained
composure.
Too composed, it seemed to Kari as she hurried to the
carriage door. But then all her thoughts turned
to Micum.
Haggard as he was, he greeted her with a rakish
grin as she flew into his outstretched arms.
"I may be home for good this time, love," he said
ruefully, patting his bandaged leg propped before him
on the carriage seat.
"Make me no idle promises, you wandering
scoundrel!" Kari gasped, wiping away tears of
relief. "Where's Alec?"
She leaned out the window and took his hand as he sat his
horse. "Are you well, love?"
"Me? Hardly a scratch," Alec assured her,
though he looked as drawn and careworn as the others.
Kari held his hand a moment longer, seeing what
Beka had seen; he was no longer the boy he'd
been when he first came to Watermead. Whatever had
happened to him through these past weeks, it had stripped
the innocence from him, and who knew what else besides?
The household hounds leapt around the carriage and
horses as they entered the courtyard. A loud
answering hiss issued from somewhere near Kari's
feet. She looked down to find a pair of
green eyes shining out at her from a crack in a
wicker hamper.
"What in the world-?"
"Seregil's cat," Micum told her. "I bet
there'll be some slashed snouts among the dogs before
she's through. Poor creature, she's the last
survivor of the inn."
Kari smiled to herself, but held her peace until
Alec and Seregil had helped Micum into the main
hall. When he was settled comfortably in front of the
fire, she drew Elsbet aside, then whispered
Lynn Rewelling
to Illia. The little girl disappeared into the kitchen,
returning a moment later with a plump, curly-headed
baby in her arms.
"Father, look what Valerius brought us. Isn't
he pretty?"
Alec was the first to react. Jumping to his feet
again, he lifted the child from Illia's uncertain grip
and held him up, looking him over with a mix of
wonder and joy.
"Cilia's baby?" Micum asked.
Kari took his hand. "Valerius brought him to me a
few days after you left and asked if I'd foster the
child. I knew Cilia would want him here,
rather than raised by strangers who knew nothing of his people.
I didn't think you'd mind."
"Of course not," replied Micum, watching in
bemusement as Luthas tugged at Alec's hair,
crowing with delighted recognition. "But with the new one
coming, do you think you're up to it?"
"Up to raising the orphaned child of a friend? I should think
so!" Kari scoffed. "With the older girls gone,
I've got far too much time on my hands. And
Illia adores him."
She looked up at Seregil, standing alone by the
hearth. "When he's old enough, I'll tell him
how you saved his life," she added.
"It might be better if he didn't know,"
Seregil replied, watching Alec and Illia
fussing over the child.
"I'll leave it to you, then," Kari said, catching
another glimpse of the desperate unhappiness she'd
sensed in him on the road.
Ill
Lying close to Micum that night, she listened in
silence as he slowly explained the manner of
Nysander's sacrifice and death.
"No wonder Seregil's so lost," she whispered,
stroking her husband's strong, freckled
arm. "How could Nysander have demanded such a thing of
him?"
"I don't completely understand it all myself,"
Micum admitted sadly. "But I do believe
Nysander was right in thinking that no one but Seregil would
have the heart to strike him down when the time came. I
couldn't have done it, and I don't think Alec could
have, either."
"We forget sometimes how cruel the gods can be!"
Kari said bitterly. "To turn love to murder like
that."
"You'd have to have been there," Micum said, staring up
into the shadows cast by the fire on the hearth. "If you
could have seen Nysander's face- It wasn't murder.
It was an act of mercy, and love."

During the weeks that followed mixed reports came
of the war; for the time being the Plenimaran army was held
back in eastern Mycena, but their black ships
ruled the seas, raiding the eastern coast of Skala
as far north as Cirna, though they hadn't yet won
control of the Canal.
Except for the absence of the young men who'd gone off
to war, life at Watermead continued on largely
unchanged. Gorathin followed Nythin, and
then Shemin, bringing with it the lushness of high summer.
Gentle morning rains nourished the fields and strong
spring lambs and colts bounded after their dams in the
meadows.
Kari flourished with the land and her great belly swayed
proudly before her as she went briskly about her
daily work and the welcome tasks of summer. But she
continued to worry about Seregil, though the only
outward sign of trouble was his unusual quietness.
She knew Micum and Alec felt the same
concern, yet none of them could see a way to help
him.
He sought no solace from any of them, to be sure,
but kept himself busy around the estate. Micum had
made it clear that he and Alec were welcome to live
at Watermead for as long as they wished, and Seregil
seemed content to do so. From Alec, Kari learned that
he'd sworn never to set foot in Rhiminee again.
If he'd been morose or self-pitying, she
might have tried to cajole him out of it, but he
wasn't. When asked, he would tell tales and
play the harp. He worked with the horses, helped
build a new stable, and spent his evenings devising
clever devices to help Micum cope with his
crippled leg, including a specially
designed stirrup that let him ride again. Of late
he'd even been able to bring himself to hold Luthas
again, but left to himself he sank again into that inner
stillness.
Alec, who'd endured the most abuse of any of
them, was the quickest to recover. Farm labor agreed with
him and he quickly grew brown and cheerful again. Kari
saw him watching Seregil, however, trying to gauge
the inner turmoil that underlay his friend's long silences
and distant eyes.
At night they shared the bed in the guest chamber, but
Kari could tell that no comfort was being found there either.
Lynn Rewelling
One morning in mid-Shemin Kari awoke just before
dawn, too uncomfortable to sleep. No matter how
she turned, her back ached. Not wanting to wake
Micum, she threw a shawl on over her shift,
checked Luthas, who lay asleep in the cradle
by their bed, then went off to the kitchen to make tea.
To her surprise, the kettle was on the hook over
the fire already. A moment later Alec came in
carrying a basket of pears from the tree in the
backyard.
"You're up early," he said, offering her the fruit.
"It's this wretched child." She frowned
comically, kneading her lower back. "He- kicks his
mother and puts his knees and elbows in all the wrong
places. What woke you so early?"
"Seregil was tossing around in his sleep again. I
thought maybe I'd go hunting."
"Sit with me a moment, won't you? It's so
peaceful this time of the day." Kari sat on the hearth
bench to warm her back while Alec made the tea.
"Seregil isn't getting any better, is he?"
"You and Micum both see it, too, don't you?"
he said wearily, pulling up a stool beside her. He
held out one tanned, callused hand. "He hasn't
once told me to wear gloves. He was always after
me about it. Before."
He looked up at her and Kari saw the depth of
unhappiness in his young face. "Now he goes out at
night or sits up writing. He hardly sleeps
at all."
"Writing what?"
Alec shrugged. "He won't talk about it. I
even thought of stealing a look at his papers, but he's
got them hidden somewhere. It's like he's fading
inside, Kari, leaving us behind without going away. And
I keep thinking about something he told me once, about
when he was exiled from Aurenen."
He spoke of that to you?
thought Kari. Even Micum knew almost nothing of that
part of Seregil's life.
"Another boy was sent away with him then, but he
threw himself off the ship and drowned," Alec went
on. "Seregil says most Aurenfaie exiles
end up suicides because sooner or later they fall
into despair living among the Tirfaie. He said it
hadn't happened to him. But the way things are now, I
think maybe it has."
Kari watched his hands tighten around the mug he was
holding. There was something else going on behind those blue
eyes, something too painful to share. She reached
to stroke his cheek.
"Then keep good watch over him, Alec. You two
share the same blood. Perhaps in his sadness he's
forgotten that."

Alec sighed heavily. "He's forgotten more than
that. The day he found me again in Plenimar, something
happened, but now he won't-was
Kari flinched suddenly as a sharp stab of pain lanced
down one leg.
"What it is?" he asked, concerned.
Kari gasped through her teeth again, then
grasped his arm to raise herself. "It's only the
eight-month pains. A walk in the meadow will ease
them and we can keep talking." The pain passed and she
gave him a reassuring smile. "Don't look so
worried. It's just the Maker's way of preparing me
for the birth. You know, I've got a craving for some of
that new cheese. Run and fetch us a bit from the
dairy, would you?"
"Are you sure? I don't like to leave you."
"Maker's Mercy, Alec, I was bearing children before you
were even thought of. Go on, now." Pressing her fists
into the small of her back, she went outside by the
kitchen door so as not to waken the servants still
sleeping in the hall.
Alec was halfway to the dairy before he realized
he'd forgotten to bring a dish for the fresh curds.
By the time he found one, Kari was already out of sight
around the corner of the house. Going around to the
courtyard, however, he saw that the postern was still
barred.
A deep groan came from behind him, and he turned
to find Kari sagging against the stone watering trough near
the stable. Her face was white, and the front of her
shift was wet to the hem.
"Oh, Dalna!" he gasped, dropping the
cheese as he hurried to her. "Is it the baby?
Is it coming now?"
"Too early and too fast! I should have realized-was
Kari grabbed his arm, digging her fingers painfully
into his wrist as another spasm took her.
She was a tall woman and too heavy with child for him
to carry. Getting an arm around her waist, he
supported her as best he could to the front door.
It was still barred and he kicked at it, shouting for
help.
The door disopened at last. Elsbet and several
servants helped bring her inside.
Beyond them, Micum limped from his bedchamber. "What
is
Lynn Flewelling
?"'
u
it:

I!
it?" he demanded anxiously, catching sight of Kari
in the midst of the commotion.
"It's the baby," Alec told him.
"I'll go for a midwife!" Seregil offered,
halfway to the door already.
"No time," Kari gasped. "My women can help
me. We've delivered a whole house full of
babies between us. Stay with Micum, you and Alec
both. I want you with him! Elsbet, Illia, come
to me!"
Arna and the other woman helped their mistress into her
chamber and closed the door firmly, leaving the men
stranded in the hall.
"She's not so young as she was," Micum said, lowering
himself shakily down into a chair by the fire. Kari
let out a cry of pain in the next room and he went
pale.
"She'll be all right," Seregil told him, although
he was looking a bit green himself. "And it's not so
early for the child. She was due in the next few weeks
anyway."
They sat exchanging uneasy glances as her cries
echoed through the house. Servants drifted in and out,
listening nervously. Even the hounds refused to be
put out and lay whining at their feet. At last
Seregil fetched his harp and played to soothe them
all.
A final straining groan rang out just before noon,
followed by a thin wail and exclamations of delight from
the women. Micum pushed himself up as old
Arna emerged beaming from the birthing room.
"Oh, Master Micum!" she cried, wiping her
hands on a towel. "He's the sweetest little
redheaded mite you ever saw. And strong, too, for an
early babe. He's sucking already, nice as you
please. It was Dalna's own mercy she brought him
out early or she'd have had a worse time of it than
she did, poor lamb. Give us a moment to clear
up the bed and then come in, all of you. She wants you
all!"
"A son!" shouted Micum, wrapping his arms around
his friends" shoulders. "A son, by the Four!"
"He's all wrinkled up and red and covered in
muck!" squealed Illia, bounding out to hug him.
"And he has red hair like you and Beka. Come and
see. Mother's so happy!"
Kari lay tucked up in the wide bed with a tiny
bundle laid to her breast. To Alec, the least
experienced in such matters, she looked

dreadful, as if she'd been ill, but the serene
smile she greeted him with belied it.
Micddum kissed her, then took the child in his arms.
"He's as lovely and strong as all the others," he
whispered huskily, gazing down into the
wizened little face beneath the damp shock of coppery
hair. "Come on, you two, and greet my son."
"I'm so glad you were there this morning, Alec."
Kari reached for his hand and laughed. "You should have seen
your face, though."
Seregil peered over Micum's shoulder for a better
look at the child, and Alec saw a smile of genuine
pleasure soften his friend's drawn features for the first
time in months.
"What will you call him?" Seregil asked.
"We'd thought to call him Bornil, after my father,"
Kari replied, "but looking at him now, it
doesn't seem to fit. What do you think,
Micum?"
He laughed and shook his head. "I'm too fuddled
to think."
Kari looked up at Seregil, who was still smiling
down at the child. "Then perhaps you can help us again, as you
did with Illia. As the oldest and dearest friend of this
family, help us name our son."
Micum handed the baby to Seregil. Gazing at him
thoughtfully, he said, "Gherin, I think, if you'd have
another Aurenfaie name in the family."
"Gherin?" Kari tried the sound of it. "I like that.
What does it mean?"
was "Early blessing," was Seregil replied
quietly.
Thank the Maker,
Alec thought gratefully, watching Seregil with the child.
That's the most peaceful I "we seen him since we
got back. Maybe his spirit is finally healing after
all.
*
A warm night breeze sighed in through the open window.
The sound of it seemed to echo Seregil's inner
loneliness.
It was ironic, really. The first time he and Alec
had stayed in this room, Alec had kept stiffly
to his side of the bed; these past weeks Seregil
often woke to find him lying close beside him, as he was
now. Alec had thrown one arm across Seregil's
chest, his breath softddagst his bare shoulder.
Why can't I feel anything?
Lying there in the moonlight, Seregil stroked
Alec's fair hair
Lynn Flewelling
i
and summoned the memory of the kiss they'd shared that day
in Plenimar.
Even that had been sucked pale and flat.
Since Nysander's death all his emotions seemed to have
fled to a distance, felt dimly, as if through a pane
of thick glass.
It was too late now, too late for anything. He
was too empty. Covering Alec's hand with his own,
he watched the stars wheel toward morning, thinking of
Gherin.
His mind had ranged far these last weeks, turning
round and round on itself as he struggled to reach some
decision that would bring him peace. Looking down into the
face of Micum's tiny new son today, he'd
suddenly felt that the sign he'd been waiting for had
been given at last. With this last thread of the past
tied off, he could go.
An hour before dawn, he slipped out of bed and
pulled on his clothes. Throwing his old pack over
one shoulder, he took a small bundle from its
hiding place behind the wardrobe, then closed the
shutters to keep out the morning light. Alec mustn't
waken until he was well away from here.
Moving with his natural silence past the sleeping
servants in the hall, he went to Micum's
chamber. A night lamp still burned there, and by its
light he watched his old companion sleeping so
peacefully in his wife's arms. Micum was
home.
Seregil laid a rolled parchment at the foot of the
bed, along with small packets of jewels for each
of the children. On his way out, he paused beside Gherin's
cradle.
The infant lay on his back, arms flung over his
head. Seregil ran a fingertip lightly over one
tiny fist, marveling at the fragility of the silken
skin. Gherin stirred, sucking contentedly in his
sleep.
In twenty years you 'II be the young man your father was
when I met him,
Seregil told him silently, touching the infant's
fuzzy red hair.
What would it be like to see you then?
Seregil pushed the thought away and stole hurriedly
away. He wouldn't be back, not in twenty years,
not ever. He owed them all that much.
Leaving Alec was even harder than he'd feared.
Against all better judgment, he went back to the
open doorway of the room they'd shared so chastely,
knowing full well that if Alec so much as opened an
eye, he was lost.
Alec lay curled on his side now, blond hair
tumbled over the pillow. A dull ache
gripped Sergil's heart; all the nights he'd
been

lulled by that soft breathing, all the things that might have
been, seemed to come together at once in a tight knot
at the base of his throat.
If only Nysander hadn 't-
Seregil placed a thick roll of parchments on the
doorsill: the letter, too painful to be anything but
brief; documents making Alec of Ivywell
heir to all Lord Seregil's holdings in the city;
the lists of names and secrets and money holders. It
was all there, carefully set down. When Alec
sorted them out he'd discover that even minus what
Seregil had deeded to Micum and a few others, he
would be one of the wealthiest young men in Skala.
Good-bye,
tali.
The stars were dying as he led Cynril down the road
below Watermead. When he judged he was far enough away
to ride without waking the house, he swung up into the
saddle and nudged the horse into a brisk trot. It
was a little easier now, riding along at first light, the
air already warm and redolent with the scent of the wild
roses blooming in the meadow.
A flight of wild geese rose from the river. He
could almost see Alec on the bank below, trying
to coax Patch out of the stream with a scrap of leather.
The boy had been all innocence and good intentions then;
why had he worked so hard to sully that?
He rode up onto the bridge and reined Cynril
to a halt. Mist was rising from the stream's surface,
coiling up to turn gold with the first touch of dawn. It
looked, Seregil thought, like some magical pathway
leading up to unexplored realms. Pulling the
poniard from his boot, he tested the well-honed
edge, then looked up the shining stream again.
It was as good a direction as any.
Something brushed Alec's hand and he opened one eye,
expecting to see Illia or one of the dogs.
Nysander was standing beside the bed.
"Go after him," Nysander whispered, his voice faint
as if it came from a great distance.
Alec lurched up, his heart pounding. Nysander had
disappeared, if he'd-ever been there at all.
Worse yet, Seregil was gone. Alec slid his
hand over the sheets where Seregil had slept. They
were cold.
Lynn Flewelling
Whether dream or vision, the urgency of
Nysander's warning grew stronger by the second.
Just like that other night, riding back to the inn
-
Scrambling out of bed, Alec hauled on breeches
and a shirt and headed for the door. His bare foot
struck something as he crossed the threshold. It was a
thick roll of parchments bound with plain string.
Untying it, he quickly scanned the familiar flowing
script covering the first page.
"Alec
tali,
Remember me kindly and try- his
"Damn!" Pages scattered in all directions as
Alec ran for the stables.
Too much to hope that Seregil had gone on foot;
Cynril was missing from her stall. Mounted bareback
on Patch, Alec searched for and quickly found
CynriFs tracks, the distinctive print of the
slightly splayed right hind hoof plain in the dust
of the road outside the courtyard gate.
Kicking Patch into a gallop, he rode down the
hill and across the bridge, reining in where the two
roads met to see which way Seregil had gone.
But there was no sign of Cynril here. Cursing
softly to himself, Alec dismounted for a closer
search, then walked back onto the bridge and
scanned the hillside, looking for telltale lines
across the dewy meadow. Nothing there either, or on the
hill trail. He was about to ride back for Micum
when a patch of freshly turned gravel on the
stream bank above the bridge caught his eye.
You went up the streambed, you sneaky bastard!
Alec thought with grudging admiration. The bridge was
too low to ride under and there were no other signs
downstream. Upstream lay Beka's otter pond,
and the ill-fated pass that Alec had crossed
to Warnik's valley.
And beyond that, the whole damn world.
Mounting again, Alec rode up the trail. The
streambed grew steeper and he soon found where
Seregil had been forced to come up onto the trail.
Judging by the tracks, he'd traveled quickly from
here.
Heedless of the branches that whipped at his face and
shoulders, Alec kicked Patch into a gallop again.
When the clearing around the pond came into view ahead,
he was both relieved and surprised to see Seregil
there, sitting motionless in the saddle as if admiring the
morning.
Alec's first reaction to Seregil's letter
had been only the des

perate desire to find him. He realized now that there
had also been a generous leaven of anger mixed in.
When Seregil raised his head now, looking disback
at him with an expression of startled wariness, the
anger took over. It was the look you'd give an
enemy.
Or a stranger.
"Wait-to " Seregil called, but Alec ignored
him. Digging his heels into Patch's sides, he
charged Seregil, bearing down on him before he could
turn his own horse out of the way. The animals
collided and Cynril reared, throwing Seregil off
into the water. Alec leapt down and waded in after him.
Grabbing Seregil by the front of his tunic, he
hauled him to his knees and shook the crumpled
note in his face.
"What's
this
supposed to be?" he yelled. was 'All I have in
Rhiminee is yours now"? What is this?"
Seregil struggled to his feet and pulled free, not
meeting Alec's eye. "After everything that's
happened-was He paused, took a deep
breath. "After all that, I decided it would be better
for everyone if I just went away."
"You decided.
You
decided?" Furious, Alec grabbed Seregil with
both hands and shook him. The wrinkled parchment
drifted across the pool, hung a moment against a
stone, and spun away unnoticed down the stream. "still
followed you over half the earth to Rhiminee for no
other reason than you asked me to! still saved your
damn life
twice
before we even got there and how many times since? still
stood with you against Mardus and all the rest. But now,
after moping around all summer,
you
decide you're better off without me?"
Color flared in Seregil's gaunt face. "I
never meant for you to take it that way. Bilairy's
Balls, Alec, you saw what happened at the
Cockerel. That was my fault. Mine! And it was
only thanks to Ashnazai's twisted vanity that you
didn't end up dead with them. Micum's crippled
for life, in case you didn't notice, lucky
to be alive. Do you have any idea how many
times I've almost gotten him killed before? And
Nysander-4et's not forget what I did for him!"
"Nysander
sent
me!"
Seregil went ashen. "What did you say?"
"Nysander sent me after you," Alec told him. "I
don't know if it was a dream or. a ghost or what,
but he woke me and told me to go after you.
Illior's Hands, Seregil, when are you going
to forgive yourself for just doing what he asked you to?"
He paused as
lyim Flewelling
another thought dawned on him. "When are you going
to forgive Nysander?"
Seregil glared at him wordlessly, then pushed
Alec's hands away. Sloshing up to the bank, he
sank down on a log overlooking the pond. Alec
followed, settling on a rock beside him.
Seregil hung his head and let out an unsteady
breath. After a moment he said, "He knew. He
should have told me."
"You would have tried to stop him."
"Damn right I would have!" Seregil flared, clenching
his fists on his knees. Angry tears
spilled down his cheeks, the first Alec had ever seen
him shed.
"If you'd done that, we'd have failed," Alec said,
moving to sit beside him on the log. "Everything Nysander
worked for would've been lost. The Helm would have taken
him over and he'd have ended up as their
Vatharna"
For an instant Alec thought he felt the wizard's
touch against his hand again. "I think he must be grateful
to you."
Seregil covered his face, giving way at last
to silent sobs. Alec wrapped an arm around him,
holding him tightly. "You were the only one who loved
him enough not to hesitate when the time came. He knew
that. In the end you saved him the only way you could.
Why can't you let yourself see that?"
"All these weeks-was Seregil shrugged helplessly.
"You're right, right about everything. But why can't I
feel it? I can't feel
anything
anymore! I'm floundering around in a black fog.
I look at the rest of you, see you healing, going
on. I want to, but I can't!"
"Just like I couldn't make myself jump that time at
Kassarie's keep?"
Seregil let out a small, choked laugh. "I
guess so."
"So let me help you, the way you helped me then,"
Alec persisted.
Seregil wiped his nose on his sodden sleeve.
"As I recall, I threw you off the roof into a
gorge."
"Fine, if that's what it takes to show you that I'm not
about to let you slink away like some old dog going off
to die."
The guilty look that crossed his friend's face told
Alec his worst fears had been correct. "I'm
not letting you go," he said again, gripping Seregil's
sleeve for emphasis.
Seregil shook his head miserably. "I can't stay
here."
"AH right, but you're not leaving me."
"I thought you'd be happy at Watermead."

"I love everyone there like my own family, but not-was
Alec broke off, feeling his face go warm.
"But not what?" Seregil turned and brushed a
clump of damp hair back from Alec's face,
studying his expression.
Alec forced himself to meet Seregil's questioning
gaze squarely. "Not as much as I love you."
Seregil looked at him for a moment, grey eyes still
sad. "I love you, too. More than I've loved
anyone for a long time. But you're so young and-was He
spread his hands and sighed. "It just didn't seem
right."
"I'm not
that
young," Alec countered wryly, thinking of all they'd
been through together. "But I am half'faie, so I've
got a lot of years ahead of me. Besides, I've
only just begun to understand Aurenfaie, I still don't
know one style of snail fork from another, and I can't
jigger a Triple Crow lock. Who else is
going to teach me all that?"
Seregil looked out over the pond again. was "Father,
brother, friend, and lover.""
"What?" A coldness passed over Alec's
heart; Mardus had spoken almost those same words when
asking about his relationship to Seregil.
"Something else the Oracle of Illior said that
night I asked about you," Seregil answered,
watching an otter slip into the water. "I kept
thinking I had it all sorted out and settled, but I
don't. I've been the first three to you and
swore that was enough, but if you stay on with me-was
"I know."
Catching Seregil off guard, Alec leaned forward
and pressed his lips to Seregil's with the same mix of
awkwardness and determination he'd felt the first time.
But when he felt Seregil's arms slip around him
in a welcoming embrace, the confusion that had haunted
him through the winter cleared like fog before a changing wind.
Take what the gods send,
Seregil had told him more than once.
He would, and thankfully.
Seregil drew back a little, and there was something like
wonder in his grey eyes as he touched Alec's
cheek. "Anything we do,
tali,
we do with honor. Before all else, I'm your friend and
always will be, even if you take a hundred wives
or lovers later on."
Alec started to protest but Seregil smiled and
pressed a finger
Lyim Flewelling
across his lips. "As long as I have a place in your
heart, I'm satisfied."
"You always have to have the last word, don't you?" Alec
growled, then kissed him again. The feel of
Seregil's lean body pressing against his own
suddenly felt as natural and easy as one stream
flowing into another. His last remaining worry was that he
had very little idea about how to proceed from here.
The sound of a horse coming up the trail at a
gallop forestalled the issue for the moment.
"I can guess who that is,".js-eregil groaned,
standing up.
Micum burst into the clearing. "So here you are!" he
exclaimed, glowering down at Seregil. "By the
Flame, the whole house is in an uproar because of
you!"
He pulled a rolled letter from his coat and held it
up angrily. "You gave us a scare with this, you
idiot. I don't know whether to kiss you or kick
your ass from here to Cirna!"
For the first time in months, Seregil summoned a
cocky, crooked grin. "Don't strain your leg
on my account. Alec already done both."
Micum took a second look at the two of them
and returned this'. grin knowingly. "Well, it's about
time!"
Two days later Micum and his family gathered in
the courtyard to wish Alec and Seregil a proper
farewell.
"Will you be heading to Mycena from here?" asked Micum
as they made a final check of their horses and gear.
"I imagine the queen will have some use for a couple of
trustworthy spies."
Seregil shrugged noncommittally. "Winter's not that
far off. Idrilain is supposed to be somewhere above
Keston now. There won't be much to do once the snow
flies. Maybe in the spring."
Kari shifted Gherin in her arms and embraced him
tightly, then Alec. Blinking back tears, she
whispered, "Take care, both of you."
Micum rested a hand on Seregil's shoulder,
looking at him as if he didn't expect to see
him again. "By the Flame, it's hard not riding out with
you. I wish you'd take my sword."
Seregil shook his head. "That blade belongs with you.
I'll find another if I ever feel the need of one
again. In the meantime, Alec'aa keep an eye on
me."
"You see that you do, Alec, or you'll answer to us,"
Micum

said with gruff affection, exchanging a quick look with
Kari. They'd both noted the new light in
Seregil's eyes whenever he looked at
Alec, and how that same warmth was returned.
After all their farewells had been said, Seregil and
Alec swung up on their Aurenfaie mounts and
rode out the gate.
"What if the Queen doesn't want us for spies
in the spring?" Alec asked as they cantered down
toward the bridge.
Seregil shrugged again. "Well then, we're still some
of the best damned thieves I know of. Never any
shortage of work there."
Kicking their mounts into a gallop, they raced down the
hill side by side, and swung north to the open
road beyond.
X.
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 western
New York with her husband, two sons,
and other assorted mammals.
