Planning for the long term had never been one of his strengths and he knew it. Certainly he had a talent for gathering facts and implementing tactics; it was his bread and butter, after all. But living by inspiration, seizing the moment for good or bad as it came—that had always been his way in the end.
And what had it brought him this time?
The mysterious mark on his chest. And Alec.
Another twinge of guilt. Nysander’s parting words had not been lost on him. What had possessed him to take on the boy? Alec was talented, gifted even, a delight to teach. But he’d found that out after the fact, hadn’t he? The orphaned boy’s need? His vulnerability? His innate skill?
His pretty face?
Straying again too near truths he didn’t particularly wish to deal with, Seregil put an end to that line of thought as effortlessly as another man might snuff out a candle.
That left the scar. In the cool light of reason he didn’t doubt Nysander’s justification in not telling him more, although that did precious little to assuage his frustration. He’d regretted each bitter word as he’d spoken it; worse yet, the effort had been fruitless.
Oh well, there’s always more than one way to pick a lock. He fingered the little roll of parchment he’d smuggled out of the Orëska House in his pack.
At the precinct, he made his way on foot between the minor temples and shrines that surrounded the heart of the district. Passing the healing grove of Dalna’s temple, he came out into the huge central square. The city was quiet at this hour; chimes rang softly in the breeze somewhere in the Dalnan grove and a dove called mournfully. From across the square came the soft tinkle of water from the Astellus Temple. In the distance to his left, broad bars of firelight were visible between the black columns of the Temple of Sakor.
The paving stones of the square formed patterns of squares within squares that in turn formed a greater pattern symbolizing the eternal unity and balance of the Sacred Four. Never mind that gangs of young initiates from the various temples frequently punctuated their religious disputes with burst knuckles and cracked heads. Never mind that priests occasionally lined their own purses with gold from temple treasuries, or that the small temples of the lesser deities and foreign mystery cults had been multiplying around the edges of the precinct and around the city over the past few decades. The sacred square with its four temples still formed the heart of every Skalan city and town; even the humblest villages allotted a small square of ground to four simple shrines. Reverence for the Four, in all their complex unity, had for centuries given Skala internal harmony and power.
Crossing to Illior’s white domed temple, Seregil strode up the broad stairs. In the portico he paused to remove his boots. Even at this late hour, a dozen other pairs were arranged neatly along the wall.
A girl stifled a yawn in the sleeve of her flowing white robe as she handed him a silver temple mask. Out of habit, he accepted it in such a way that her hand turned palm upward. The circular dragon emblem tattooed there was still only the black outline of the novice. Twelve colors, as well as lines of silver and gold, would be added to that design, marking each of the tests she would have to pass over the coming years in her quest for full priesthood.
“Carry the Light,” she said, fighting back another yawn.
“There is no darkness,” Seregil returned. Fastening on the mask, he walked into the Circle of Contemplation.
Alabaster pillars ringed the room, and between them braziers sent up the sweet, narcotic smoke of dreaming herbs. Only small amounts were burned here—just enough to free the mind for meditation. Anyone desiring prophetic dreams or spirit journeys spent several days in fasting and purification before entering the small chambers beyond the pillars. Seregil occasionally employed such methods, but recent experience had left him leery of dreams of any sort. In fact, he couldn’t recall dreaming at all since waking in the Orëska House.
Other suppliants sat cross-legged on the black marble floor of the central court, anonymous behind the serene silver masks. Others lay on their backs, meditating on the various symbols painted on the dome overhead: the Mage, the Fertile Queen, the Dragon, the Cloud Eye, the Moon Bow.
Leaning over the nearest brazier, Seregil bathed his face in the smoke, then seated himself to wait for an acolyte to notice him. The floor was polished to mirror smoothness and, looking down, his gaze came to rest on the reflected image of the Cloud Eye—magic, secrets, hidden forces, roads to madness. Accepting the symbol, he meditated on it through half-lidded eyes.
Instead of the expected flow of thought, however, he suddenly experienced a dizzying sense of vertigo. The smooth black floor turned to bottomless void beneath him. The illusion was so strong that he pressed his palms to the floor on either side of him and focused on the nearest pillar to clear his head. Soft footsteps approached from behind.
“What do you seek in Illior?” the masked figure asked. His palm, exposed in greeting, showed the green, yellow, and blue detailing of a Third Chamber initiate.
“To make a thank offering,” Seregil replied, rising to present a heavy purse. “And to seek knowledge in the Golden Chamber.”
The acolyte accepted the purse and led him out through the pillars to an audience room at the back of the temple. With a ritual gesture, he bade Seregil be seated on the small bench in the center of the room, then withdrew.
A carved chair stood on a raised dais at the front of the room. Behind the dais an exquisite tapestry hung suspended between two great pillars, the Columns of Enlightenment and Madness. Worked in the twelve ritual colors, it depicted the Fertile Queen driving her chariot through the clouds of a night sky.
Presently a corner of the tapestry was pulled back and a robed figure stepped into the room. Despite the golden mask covering her features, Seregil recognized the mass of grey hair tumbling over the thin shoulders; this was Orphyria ä Malani, oldest of the high priests and maternal great-aunt to Queen Idrilain.
Regarding him impassively through her mask, the priestess sat down and raised one frail hand to display the completed emblem on her palm.
“Lend me your light, Blessed One,” Seregil said, bowing his head.
“What would you ask of me, Seeker?”
“Knowledge pertaining to this.” Drawing the little parchment roll from his pouch, he passed it to her.
On it he’d drawn, to the best of his ability, the symbol from the wooden disk. It was not complete, he knew; from the first time he’d seen the thing it had been impossible to reproduce or even memorize. But perhaps it would be enough.
Orphyria unrolled it on her knee, gazed at it briefly, then handed it back. “A sigla, obviously, but what it obscures I cannot tell. Can you tell me something of it?”
“That’s not possible,” Seregil replied. He had stretched his oath to Nysander far enough for now.
“Then perhaps the Oracle?”
“Thank you, Blessed One.” Rising from the bench, he bowed deeply and headed back to the central chamber of the temple.
Orphyria did not rise until the Seeker had gone. It became more of an effort each day, it seemed. Soon she would have to swallow her pride and allow some young acolyte to assist her. Reflecting sourly on the price of a wise old age, she stumbled as she pulled back the tapestry and barked her knee painfully against the Pillar of Madness.
Seregil had always suspected that the stairs leading down to the Illioran Oracle’s chamber had been designed to test the fortitude of the Seekers who had to descend it. Wedge-shaped steps scarcely wide enough to accommodate a man’s foot spiraled tightly down into blackness below. The steps nearest the top were made of marble, but these soon gave way to speckled granite as the shaft descended into the bedrock beneath the city.
Grasping a ritual lightstone in one hand, Seregil pressed the other firmly against the curved wall of the stairwell as he made his way down in reverent silence. At the bottom a narrow corridor led off into darkness. No light burned there, and it was required that the Seeker leave the lightston
e in the basket at the base of the stairs before proceeding. Before he relinquished it, however, Seregil sat down on the bottom step to arrange the necessary items for the Oracle.
Custom dictated that items for divination by the Illioran Oracle must be presented as part of a collection. The Oracle would separate the item of import without being told which it was.
Fishing through various pockets and pouches, Seregil found a harp peg, a bit of Alec’s fletching, a ball of waxed twine, a bent pick he’d meant to leave on the worktable, and a small amulet. That should be enough of a challenge, he decided.
Flattening the little scroll on his knee, he scrutinized it again with another twinge of guilt. Working surreptitiously with ink and mirror, he’d made this copy of the strange design on his chest before Nysander placed the obscuration spell on it. He knew it was not exactly right, but it would have to do. Nysander’s magic had left his skin unblemished to eye or touch.
With his collection in hand, he dropped the lightstone into the basket beside him and continued on down the chilly corridor.
Of all the many forms of darkness, that found underground—with no faint ray of star or distant lamp to relieve it—had always seemed to him the most complete. The blackness seemed to flow around him in tangible waves. His eyes instinctively strained for sight, aching and creating dancing sparks of false light. Underfoot, a woolen runner deadened the whisper of his cold, bare feet. The sound of his own breathing inside the mask was loud in his ears.
At last, a pale glow appeared ahead of him and he walked forward into the low chamber of the Oracle. The light came from large lightstones, which gave off no crackle or hiss. Only the voice of the seer would break the profound silence here.
Crouched on a pallet, legs drawn up beneath his stained robe, the Oracle stared blankly before him. He was a young man, husky, bearded, and quite insane, but blessed with that special strain of madness that brings bursts of insight and prophecy.
Nearby, two robed attendants sat on benches against the wall, their featureless silver masks framed by the white cowls drawn over their heads.
At Seregil’s approach, the Oracle rose to his knees and began to sway from side to side, a peculiar gleam coming into his muddy eyes.
“Approach, Seeker,” he commanded in a high, hoarse voice.
Kneeling before him, Seregil cast his handful of objects on the floor. The Oracle bent eagerly, muttering to himself as he sorted through them.
After a moment he tossed the pick away with a contemptuous grunt. The amulet was served in the same manner, and then the twine. Taking up the peg, he held it to his ear as if listening, then hummed a few bars of a song Seregil had composed as a child and long since forgotten. Smiling to himself, the Oracle tucked this under the edge of his pallet.
Finally he picked up the parchment scrap and the fletching, holding them in each hand as if to weigh one against the other. Twirling the bit of feather between thumb and forefinger, he stared at it closely and then handed it back, folding Seregil’s fingers tightly around it with his own.
“A child of earth and light,” the Oracle whispered. “Earth and light!”
“Whose child?”
The seer’s mouth broadened into a sly grin. “Yours now!” he replied, tapping Seregil sharply on the chest with his finger. “Father, brother, friend, and lover! Father, brother, friend, and lover!”
The mad rhyme rang off the walls as the Oracle rocked with childish delight, chanting it over and over to himself. Then, as quickly as he had started he ceased, and his broad face grew still again. Holding the parchment between his palms, he stiffened like an epileptic. The silence closed around them, holding unbroken for a matter of minutes.
“Death.” It was hardly a whisper, but the Oracle repeated it, more loudly this time. There was no mistaking it. “Death! Death, and life in death. The eater of death gives birth to monsters. Guard you well the Guardian! Guard well the Vanguard and the Shaft!”
Eyes momentarily sane, the Oracle handed it back to Seregil. “Burn this and make no more,” he warned darkly, crushing it against Seregil’s palm. “Obey Nysander!”
The mystical intelligence drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving the Oracle as blank as an idiot child. Creeping back to his pallet, he retrieved the harp peg from under the blanket. The sound of his contented humming followed Seregil far down the dark corridor.
As he rode back to the Cockerel, Seregil wondered dourly if he was any further ahead than before. The Oracle’s mention of Alec had taken him aback, although the messages seemed clear enough, particularly the reference to earth and light. As for the little rhyme, “father” and “brother” must have been meant figuratively, for such a blood relationship was clearly impossible. But “friend,” certainly.
That left lover. Seregil shifted irritably in the saddle; evidently oracles were not infallible.
Shrugging the matter off, he turned his thoughts to the troubling gibberish elicited by the drawing. How was he to heed what was so obviously a warning unless he knew what the “eater of death” was, much less guard who or whatever the Guardian, Shaft, and Vanguard were?
Under normal circumstances, Nysander would be his first recourse for advice, but that was out of the question now. Cursing in frustration, he let himself in through the kitchen at the Cockerel and went upstairs.
One lamp still burned on the mantel, but the fire had gone out. The room was frigid.
“Damn, damn, damn!” he muttered, crossing to the hearth to lay on more wood. As the flames sprang up, he discovered Alec asleep on the narrow couch behind him.
He lay curled up in a tight ball, one arm bent beneath his head, the other hanging down to the floor and pale with cold. Ruetha had tucked herself up against his belly, tail folded around her nose.
What’s he doing out here? Seregil frowned down at the two of them, irked to think that Alec would be too bashful to take advantage of a proper bed. As he bent to spread his cloak over the boy, he was surprised to see the traces of dried tears on Alec’s cheek.
Something to do with his father? he wondered, mystified and somewhat distressed at the thought of Alec crying.
Retiring to his own chamber, he undressed in the dark and slipped gratefully between the fresh sheets.
But sleep didn’t come with its usual ease. Lying there in the darkness, Seregil rubbed absently at the hidden scar and reflected that, on the whole, his life seemed to be in greater disarray than usual.
21
SWORDS AND ETIQUETTE
Seregil stored away the mystery of the Oracle’s words and launched back into Rhíminee life. News that the Rhíminee Cat had reappeared spread quickly, and intrigue jobs for various nobles—together with inquiries on Nysander’s behalf—were plentiful enough to keep him out most nights.
Alec clearly resented being left behind, but Seregil was not ready to expose the boy to the dangers of the city just yet. Instead, he did his best to make it up to him during the day, showing him wonders and drilling him endlessly in the myriad skills necessary for survival in their precarious profession.
Swordplay was paramount, and they spent most mornings practicing in the upstairs sitting room, bare feet scuffing softly over the rush matting as they circled slowly, moving through the basic blocks and parries with wooden practice battens.
Unfortunately, these proved to be the most grueling lessons. Alec was old to be just starting and, hard as the boy worked, progress was discouragingly slow.
The only other subjects Seregil pursued on any regular basis were reading and lock work. Otherwise, he tended to proceed in whatever direction caught his fancy at the moment. One day they might spend several hours poring over scrolls of royal lineage or sifting through the gems in the chest from the mantelpiece, Alec wide-eyed as Seregil extolled their properties and how to value them. Another day they might traipse off in disguise to practice with a band of market acrobats who knew Seregil as Wandering Kall. Dressed in gaudy tatters and besmudged with dirt, Alec watched gleefully
as Seregil juggled, walked ropes, and mugged for the crowd. Alec’s own clumsy first efforts were greeted as inspired clowning.
Often they simply walked the labyrinthine streets of the city, exploring its various wards and markets. Seregil had small bundles of necessities stashed in disused attics and sheds all over Rhíminee, kept against the event that he should have to go to ground quickly.
Gradually, Seregil introduced Alec to more clandestine procedures—a little innocent housebreaking, or making a game of evading the notice of the Harbor Watch in the rough byways of the Lower City.
As the weeks passed, Alec realized that aside from certain rapidly diminishing ethical qualms, he had never been happier. The dark days in Mycena were quickly fading to uncomfortable memories and Seregil, healthy and back in his favorite setting, was once again the wry, dashing figure who’d first captured his imagination.
In spite of the odd hours they kept, Alec found it difficult not to break the habit of rising with the sun. Seregil was seldom awake that early, so he’d slip quietly downstairs to break his fast with the innkeeper’s family.
The kitchen was an agreeable place at that hour. Whatever misgivings Thryis might have had about him that first night, she had soon taken to Alec and made him welcome in the group that gathered around the scrubbed oak table each morning.
Savoring the fragile peace that lingered before the onset of each day’s work, Diomis, Cilla, and Thryis planned the day’s meals while Cilla suckled her baby. The sight of her round, bared breast made Alec blush at first, but he soon came to regard it as one of the simple pleasures of the day.
As far as Seregil’s “lessons” went, there seemed to be an inexhaustible variety of unrelated matters to master. Reading, lock work, and so forth all made sense, but his insistence on Alec’s mastery of such things as etiquette was something of a surprise.
One night, after the shutters were up and the day servants dismissed, Seregil dressed them both in voluminous formal robes and took him down to the kitchen for supper.
Luck in the Shadows Page 31
