“We meet under a propitious moon,” Elos í Orian observed cheerfully.
Lhaär ä Iriel spared him a cold glance. “The same moon shines on all. As I recall, it was under Aura’s Bow that the vote went against you at the Iia’sidra.”
“Only that the delegation could come, nothing more,” Galmyn í Nemius reminded her tersely. No doubt his thoughts echoed Ulan’s: “Went against you,” she’d said, not “us.” What is the woman doing here?
“Just fifty years ago the Skalans would have been given a flat refusal,” Elos observed. “Now we agree to parley with them—and at Sarikali! That most certainly means something.”
“Perhaps that the western clans are gaining influence,” Ulan said. “Their interests are not necessarily compatible with our own.”
“One might say the same of Lhapnos and Virésse,” Galmyn í Nemius put in dryly. “Yet here I am.”
“Lhapnos stands with the Haman, and the Haman stand against Bôkthersa and the other border clans. There’s no mystery there,” Lhaär ä Iriel stated bluntly.
Ulan smiled. “I enjoy plain speech among friends. Perhaps you would explain where Khatme stands?”
“In the mind of Aura, as always. The Khatme have no love for Tírfaie of any sort, but the Skalans honor Aura, under the name of IIlior. Although they blaspheme by placing the Lightbearer with other gods, their wizards are descendants of our own Orëska and continue to thrive. It presents us with a great quandary, one which neither the Lightbearer nor the dragons have yet clarified to our priests.”
Galmyn í Nemius arched one greying brow. “In other words, you still have a leg on either side of the stile.”
The clan marks on Lhaär ä Iriel’s face seemed to subtly rearrange themselves as she turned to him. “That is not at all what I said, Khirnari.”
The Lhapnosan’s self-important smile died on his lips. For a long moment the others found it more comfortable to return their attention to the moon.
“Who can we be sure of, then?” asked Elos.
“Besides ourselves and Haman, with due respect to you, Lhaär, I think we may also depend on the Ra’basi,” replied Ulan. “The Akhendi remain uncertain, but have more to gain from supporting open borders. A few others must be swayed.”
“Indeed,” the Lhapnosan murmured. “And who better than you to sway them?”
6
LEAVING HOME, GOING HOME
The following day was filled with final preparations for Klia’s voyage. A steady stream of baggage carts and dispatch riders raised clouds of dust along the vineyard road all morning.
Alec went with Seregil and Klia down to the shipyard to inspect the three vessels anchored there. Dressed in plain riding clothes and mounted on scrub horses, they passed unnoticed through the waterfront crowds and onto a long quay where a high-prowed carrack was moored. Sailors swarmed over her like ants on a sweetmeat, wielding ropes and tools.
“This is the Zyria. She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Klia said, leading them aboard. “And those two out there are our escorts, the Wolf and the Courser.”
“They’re huge!” Alec exclaimed.
Over a hundred feet long, each ship was easily twice as large as any he’d been on. Their aft castles rose like houses in the stem. The rudders behind were as high as an inn. Square-rigged with two masts and a bowsprit to carry the red sails, their bulwarks were lined with shields bearing the flame and crescent moon crest of Skala. These shields were bright with new paint and gilt work that did not quite hide the scars of recent battles.
The captain, a tall, white-haired man named Farren, met them on deck wearing a naval tunic stained with pitch and salt.
“How goes the loading?” Klia asked, looking around with approval.
“Right on schedule, Commander,” he replied, consulting a tally board at his belt. “The hold ramp for the horses needs a bit of work, but we’ll have her ready for you by midnight.”
“Each ship will carry a decuria of cavalry and their horses,” Klia explained to Alec. “The soldiers will double as ship’s archers if the need arises.”
“Looks like you’re prepared for the worst,” Seregil remarked, peering into a large crate.
“What are those?” asked Alec. Inside were what looked like large pickle crocks sealed with wax.
“Benshâl Fire,” the captain told him. “As the name implies, it was the Plenimarans who discovered how to make it years ago. It’s a nasty mix: black oil, pitch, sulfur, nitre, and the like. Launched from a ballista, it ignites on impact and sticks to whatever it hits. It burns even in water.”
“I’ve seen it,” Seregil said. “You have to use sand or vinegar to douse it.”
“Or piss,” added Farren. “Which is what those barrels under the aft platform are for. Nothing goes to waste in the Skalan navy. But we won’t be looking for battle this time out, will we, Commander?”
Klia grinned. “We won’t, but I can’t vouch for the Plenimarans.”
Excitement left a hollow void in Alec’s belly as he and Seregil joined the others for a final supper in Skala that night. They were dressed once more as Skalan nobility and Klia arched an appreciative eyebrow. “You two look better than I do.”
Seregil made her a courtly bow and sat down beside Thero. “Runcer’s shown his usual foresight.”
Opening their trunks the night before, they’d found the best of the garments they’d worn in Rhíminee: fine wool and velvet coats, soft linen, gleaming boots, doeskin breeches smooth as a maid’s throat. Alec’s coats were a bit tight through the shoulders now, but there was no time for tailoring.
“Will you be meeting the ’faie as Princess Klia or Commander Klia when we arrive in Gedre?” asked Alec, seeing that Klia was still in uniform.
“It’s gowns and gloves for me once we get there, I’m afraid.”
“Any news from Lord Torsin?” asked Beka, noting a stack of dispatches at Klia’s elbow.
“Nothing new. Khatme and Lhapnos are as insular as ever, although he thinks he senses a hint of interest among the Haman. Silmai support is still strong. Datsia seems to be turning in our favor.”
“What about the Virésse?” asked Thero.
Klia spread her hands. “Ulan í Sathil continues to hint that they and their allies in the east would just as soon trade with Plenimar as Skala.”
“With the Plenimaran Overlord openly supporting the resurgence of necromancy?” Seregil shook his head. “They suffered more at the hands of the Plenimarans during the Great War than any other clan.”
“The Virésse are pragmatists at heart, I fear.” Klia turned to Alec. “How does it feel, knowing we set sail at dawn for the land of your ancestors?”
Alec toyed with a bit of bread. “It’s hard to describe, my lady. Growing up, I didn’t know I had any ’faie in me at all. It’s still hard to comprehend. Besides, my mother was Hâzadriëlfaie. Any Aurënfaie I meet in the south will be distant relatives at best. I don’t even know what clans my people came from.”
“Perhaps the rhui’auros could divine something of your lineage,” suggested Thero. “Couldn’t they, Seregil?”
“It’s worth looking into,” Seregil replied with no great enthusiasm.
“Who are they?” asked Alec.
Thero shot Seregil a look of pure disbelief. “You never told him of the rhui’auros?”
“Apparently not. I was only a child when I left, so I hadn’t had much to do with them.”
Alec tensed, wondering if anyone else noticed the edge of anger in his friend’s voice. Here were more secrets.
“By the Light, they’re the—the—” Thero waved a hand, at a loss for words and too caught up in his own enthusiasm to notice the cool reception he was getting from the one person among them who might have direct knowledge. “They stand at the very source of magic! Nysander and Magyana both spoke of them with reverence, Alec, a sect of wizard priests who live at Sarikali. The rhui’auros are similar to the oracles of Illior, aren’t they, Seregil?”
“M
ad, you mean?” Seregil looked down at the food he was not eating. “I’d say that’s a fair assessment.”
“What if they tell me I’m related to one of the unfriendly clans?” Alec asked, trying to draw Thero’s attention.
The wizard paused. “That could create difficulties, I suppose.”
“Indeed,” mused Klia. “Perhaps you should be circumspect in your inquiries.”
“I always am,” Alec replied with a smile only a few at the table fully understood. “But how could the rhui’auros tell who my ancestors were?”
“They practice a very special sort of magic,” Thero explained. “Only the rhui’auros are allowed to travel the inner roads of the soul.”
“Like the truth knowers of the Orëska?”
“The Aurënfaie don’t have that magic, exactly,” Seregil interjected. “You’d do well to keep that in mind, Thero. The punishment for invading another’s thoughts is severe.”
“My skills in that direction are not particularly strong. As I was saying, the rhui’auros believe they can trace a person’s khi, the soul thread that connects us all to Illior.”
“Aura,” Seregil corrected.
“Being a full half ’faie, Alec, yours should be strong,” said Beka, following the conversation with interest.
“I’m not sure that makes any difference,” said Thero. “I’m generations away from my ’faie ancestors, yet my abilities are equal to those of Nysander and the other old ones.”
“Yes, but you’re one of the few younger ones left who possess such power,” Seregil reminded him.
“If all wizards have some Aurënfaie blood, do they know which clans they’re related to?” asked Beka.
“Sometimes,” said Thero. “Magyana’s father was an Aurënfaie trader who settled in Cirna. My line goes back to the Second Orëska at Ero, with generations of intermarried mixed-bloods. Nysander’s teacher, Arkoniel, was from the same line.
“Speaking of rhui’auros, Seregil, have you thought of visiting them yourself? Perhaps they could discover why you have such trouble with magic. You’ve got the ability, if only you could master it.”
“I’ve managed well enough without it.”
Was it his imagination, Alec wondered, or had Seregil actually gone a bit pale?
7
STRIPED SAILS AND FIRE
By dawn, the Zyria and her escorts were already well out to sea.
Much to Alec’s disappointment, Beka had sailed aboard the Wolf with Mercalle’s decuria. He could see her striding around the deck, red hair shining in the sun. They exchanged shouted greetings, but the distance and rushing sea made conversation difficult.
Thero accompanied Klia on their ship, and although Alec was happy to renew their acquaintance, he soon began to suspect that the wizard had changed less than he’d originally thought. Thero was less abrupt, to be sure, but still a bit distant—a cold fish, as Seregil liked to say. Forced together in close quarters, he and Seregil were soon sparring again, if not quite so bitterly as before.
When Alec remarked on this, Seregil merely shrugged. “What did you expect, for him to somehow turn into Nysander? We are who we are.”
They followed the coastline all day, sailing a few miles outside the scattered islands that edged the western shore.
Standing at the rail, Alec scanned the distant sea cliffs and thought of his first journey here aboard the Grampus, when Seregil lay dying in the hold. The steep land between cliff and mountains showed the first green of spring, and from here it all looked peaceful—except for the red sails like their own that began to appear with greater frequency the further south they traveled.
Alec was at the rail again when they passed the mouth of Rhíminee harbor later that day. Gazing longingly at the distant city, he could make out scores of vessels at anchor on both sides of the moles. Beyond them, atop her towering grey cliffs, the upper city glowed like gold in the slanting afternoon light. The glass domes of the Orëska House and its four towers gave back a burning glare like points of flame, leaving black spots in front of his eyes when he looked away. Blinking, he searched the deck for Seregil and found him leaning against the aft castle wall, arms folded across his chest as he gazed up at the city he’d forsaken. Alec took a hesitant step in his direction, but Seregil walked away.
As Rhíminee slowly slipped from sight behind them, the three ships struck south east across the Osiat with a fresh following wind. A growing air of tension hung over the three vessels as sailors and soldiers alike kept watch for striped Plenimaran sails. As darkness fell, however, conversation grew freer. A waning moon rose above them, spangling the waves with silver.
Seregil and Torsin retired to the bow with Klia to discuss negotiation tactics. Left to their own devices, Alec and Thero paced the deck. They could make out the dark shapes of the escort ships sailing abreast of the Zyria a few hundred feet to either side. It was a calm night, and voices carried easily across the water. Some unseen musician aboard the Courser struck up a tune on a lute.
Braknil and his riders had gathered around the hatchway lantern on the foredeck. Spying Alec and the wizard, the old sergeant waved them over.
“That’ll be young Urien strumming away,” he said, listening to the distant music.
When the song ended, someone aboard the Wolf answered with the first verse of a popular ballad.
A pretty young maid strolled down the shore, with naught but her shadow beside her.
Over in the bushes hid the farmer’s lad and lustfully he eyed her.
One-eyed Steb produced a wooden flute, and his comrades bawled the melody across the water.
Steb’s lover, Mirn, gave Alec a playful jab with his elbow. “You too good to sing with us tonight? You’re the closest thing to a bard here.”
Alec made him an exaggerated bow and took up the next verse:
“Oh, come with me, my sweet pretty maid,” the farmer’s lad said he.
“I’ll make you my wife and keep you for life if only you’ll lie with me.”
Mirn and young Minál hoisted Alec onto a hatch cover and helped lead the interminable randy verses. Thero hung back by the rail, but Alec could see the wizard’s lips moving. When the song was done, cheers and catcalls echoed from the other ships.
“Well now, isn’t this a hard life?” Sergeant Braknil chuckled, lighting his pipe. “We’re like a bunch of nobles off on a pleasure voyage.”
“I don’t suppose it’ll be much harder once we get to Aurënen,” a veteran named Ariani agreed. “As honor guard, we’re just along for show.”
“You’ve got that right, girl. After a few weeks of standing about on guard duty, we’ll be happy enough to get back to the fighting. Still, it’s something to be the first to see Aurënen after all these years. Lord Seregil must’ve told you something of it, Alec?”
“He says it’s a green place, warmer than Skala. There was a song he sang—”
Alec couldn’t recall the tune, but some of the words had stayed with him. “ ‘My love is wrapped in a cloak of flowing green, and wears the moon for a crown. And all around has chains of flowing silver. Her mirrors reflect the sky.’ There’s more to it, all very sad.”
“Magic is more common there, as well,” Thero added with mock severity. “You’d all better mind your manners; the ‘pretty young maids’ might answer an insult with more than clever words.”
A few of the riders exchanged worried looks at this.
“A strange land with strange folk in it,” Braknil mused around his pipe stem. “As I hear it, they’re handy with their swords and bows, too. But you only have to look at Lord Seregil to see the truth in that. Or did, anyway. And perhaps it’s what makes you such a fine archer, eh, Alec?”
“More like having an empty belly if I didn’t shoot true.”
Someone brought out dice, and Alec joined in a friendly game. The soldiers were a gregarious lot and even managed to pull Thero into the circle despite his initial reticence. There was much joking about the wisdom of dicing with a w
izard, but Thero managed to allay their worries by losing every toss. Eventually people began to wander off to find their beds for the night—some alone, some in pairs.
Alec felt a pang of envy as Steb slipped an arm around Mirn on their way below. Seregil had been distracted by other concerns lately, and the lack of privacy here hadn’t helped matters. Stretching out on the hatch cover, he resigned himself to a few more days of abstinence.
To his surprise, Thero joined him. Crossing his arms behind his head, the wizard hummed a few bars of the song, then said, “I’ve been watching Seregil. He seems apprehensive about returning to Aurënen.”
“There are plenty of folks who won’t welcome him.”
“I felt the same, going back to the Orëska House that day we all returned from Plenimar,” Thero said softly. “Nysander saw to it that my name was cleared before he left that last time, but there’ll always be doubts in some people’s minds as to how much my—” He paused, as if the words were as distasteful as the memory. “How much my affair with Ylinestra had to do with the attack on the Orëska House that night. Even I’ll never be certain.”
“Better to look forward than back, I guess.”
“I suppose so.”
They fell silent again, two young men gazing into the infinite mystery of the night sky.
The next few days passed quietly enough. Too quietly, in fact. Bored and at loose ends, Alec found himself missing their lost solitude, just as Seregil had predicted.
Quarters belowdecks were too close for Seregil’s taste, the air too pungent with the smell of oil and horses. Curtained alcoves had been hastily knocked together for the passengers of rank, but these afforded little more than the illusion of privacy. Taking advantage of the fair weather, he and Alec claimed a sheltered section of deck beneath the overhang of the forward castle. It was comfortable enough there—for sleeping.
Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3 Page 7
