Luck in the Shadows

by Lynn Flewelling

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Alec shifted nervously. “Is something wrong?”

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

  Distracted as he was by Seregil’s condition, Alec couldn’t help looking out at the passing city now and then. Carts, horses, litters, and pedestrians of all descriptions thronged the streets. The road leading up to the citadel was enclosed in curtain walls on both sides and the stonework seemed to trap the noise and amplify it. This road ended at the broad outer gate of the city. Half a dozen blue-clad guards flanked the entrance, armed with swords and pikes, but traffic passed freely. Once through the gate they slowed, moving through an inner barbican, and then passed under the archway of a second gate, its ancient pediment decorated with carvings of fish. Beyond lay the largest marketplace Alec had ever seen.

  The stone-flagged square stretched away on all sides, jammed with hundreds of wooden booths. Their colorful awnings rippled in the brisk wind. A broad avenue had been left open through the center of the square to allow for traffic, and narrow side lanes branched out from it into the wilderness of shops.

  From all sides came the clamor of the city: voices shouting, animals braying, the pounding of artisans at work, and the rumble of the carts that flowed in a steady line in both directions along the street. Tall, white-plastered buildings, some as much as five stories high, ringed the market square. Everywhere he looked there were people.

  Continuing on, they plunged into the maze of streets and neighborhoods that spread over the hills. Structures of all sorts lined the streets, in some cases even overhanging it with walkways and elaborate solariums. Wagons and riders filled the streets; children, dogs, and pigs darted about underfoot.

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

  The broad avenue they followed opened periodically into broad, stone-paved circles from which other streets radiated like the spokes from the hub of a wheel. Under other circumstances Alec might have asked Nysander about them, but the wizard had grown silent again, watching Seregil’s shallow breathing with apparent concern. Holding his tongue, Alec saw that they were entering an area of larger, more elaborate buildings.

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

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

  Halfway around the circle, their driver veered to the left onto another broad, tree-lined avenue. High walls lined the street on either side, presenting blank faces of smooth stone or plaster except for the broad bands of decoration bordering the tops and gateways. Some patterns were painted, others done in mosaics of colored stone or tile. He would later learn that these decorated walls, screening the elegant villas beyond, were not merely decorative; in the Noble Quarter one might be directed to “the house in Golden Helm Street with the red serpent gate” or “the house with the black and gold circles in a blue border.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The main building was centered around a huge atrium lit by the natural light streaming in through the clear glass dome above. Rising up from a splendid mosaic floor, the inner walls were broken by five levels of balconies and walkways decorated with more elaborate Skalan carving and tile work.

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

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

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

  “I shall explain presently,” Nysander murmured. Leading the way along one of the fifth-floor walkways, he stopped at a heavy door.

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

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

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

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

  Around the room stood three large worktables and a high desk. Two of the tables were hopelessly laden; among the general clutter Alec noticed braziers, pots, covered jars, several skulls, and a small iron cage. On the third table a thick book lay open on a stand surrounded by a collection of fragile glass vessels and rods. The desk was also relatively clear, though a dusty formation of candle drippings cascaded to the floor from one corner of it where, over the years, one candle had been set into the guttering pool of its predecessor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Are the preparations complete?” asked Nysander.

  “I’ve brought extra branches, just to be certain.” Looking down at Seregil again, the young wizard shook his head. “It seems we’ll need them.”

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

  “What is it?” Alec exclaimed in growing alarm. “Nysander, please! Why do people keep doing that?”

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

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

  “I should say so!” Thero concurred wholeheartedly.

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

  “It is time I saw the cause of all this.”

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

  “Place it there, in the center of the small table,” Nysander instructed. “We must work with extreme care. Are you ready, Thero?”

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

  His assistant placed a small crystal jar on the table and Nysander dropped the disk into it. There was a brief flash of light as he set the lid in place and the jar sealed seamlessly shut.

  “That much is done, at least,” Nysander said, dropping the jar unceremoniously into his pocket. “Now we must see to the purification. We shall begin with you, Alec, for we will need your assistance with Seregil. Come now, there is no need to look so apprehensive!”

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

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

  Producing a lump of blue chalk from a wallet on his belt, the wizard drew a circle on the floor around the chair and added a series of hastily scrawled symbols around its perimeter. Meanwhile, Thero poured water from a silver ewer into a silver bowl on the side table, then selected three branches from the bundle on the floor, laying them out neatly beside the bowl. The branches were of three different types: white pine trimmed so that the long needles at the tip formed a sort of brush; a simple birch switch; and a straight branch covered in round green leaves that gave off a sharp, unfamiliar aroma.

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

  “Everything’s ready,” he said, moving to stand behind Alec’s chair.

  Nysander stood over the bowl, hands held palm downward above it, and spoke a few quiet words. Instantly a soft glow radiated up from the surface of the water, followed by a sweet, pleasant fragrance that filled the room. Taking up the small dish and brush, Nysander painted blue symbols on Alec’s forehead and palms, taking special care with the wounded hand.

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

  Laying aside the first branch, Nysander passed the birch switch through the flame and water and struck Alec lightly on his cheeks, shoulders, chest, thighs, and feet, then snapped the stick in two.
Small puffs of brown, foul-smelling smoke rose up from the splintered ends. He uttered a few more, incomprehensible words; the sweet perfume of the water intensified, dispelling the odor.

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

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

  Alec glanced anxiously at Seregil.

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

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

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

  Thero gave his master a respectful nod. “Come along, Alec.”

  A lanky, towheaded youth answered Thero’s summons.

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

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

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