Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

Alec craned his neck for a closer look at the old man as their two groups converged on the quayside. Torsin’s skin was sallow, his eyes sunk deeply beneath his thick white brows. The skin of his face and neck hung in folds, as if he’d recently lost weight. Even so, the man still cut an imposing figure, austere and dignified. The close-cropped hair showing beneath his plain velvet hat was snowy white, his long face creased with solemn furrows that seemed to sag with the weight of his years. As he approached Klia, however, his stern expression gave way to a surprising smile that immediately disposed Alec in the man’s favor.

  The principal members of the Aurënfaie contingent were easily distinguished by their fine tunics of ceremonial white. Foremost among these were a Gedre man with thick streaks of white in his hair, and a young, fair-haired woman wearing the green-and-brown-striped sen’gai of Akhendi clan. Of the two, she was the more heavily jeweled, denoting higher status. Smooth gems set in heavy gold glowed in the sunlight on her fingers, wrists, and at her throat.

  The man was the first to speak. “Be welcome in the fai’thast of my clan, Klia ä Idrilain Elesthera Klia Rhíminee,” he said, clasping hands with Klia. “I am Riagil í Molan, khirnari of Gedre. Torsin í Xandus has been extolling your virtues to us since his arrival yesterday. I see that, as usual, he speaks without exaggeration.”

  Removing a thick silver bracelet from each wrist, he presented them to her. Among the ’faie, Alec had learned, one gained honor by being able to make a lavish gift to one’s guests as if it were only a trifle.

  Smiling, Klia slipped the bracelets onto her wrists. “I thank you for your welcome, Riagil í Molan Uras Illien Gedre, and for your great generosity.”

  The woman stepped forward next and gave Klia a necklace of carved carnelians. “I am Amali ä Yassara, wife of Rhaish í Arlisandin, khirnari of Akhendi clan. My husband is in Sarikali with the Iia’sidra, so it is my great pleasure to welcome you to Aurënen and to accompany you on your remaining journey.”

  “So lovely,” Klia said, placing the necklace around her neck. “Thank you for your great generosity. Please allow me to present my advisers.”

  Klia introduced her companions one by one, rattling off the lengthy strings of patronymics or matronymics with practiced ease. Each Skalan was greeted with polite attention until they came to Seregil.

  Amali ä Yassara’s smile disappeared. She gave no direct insult but instead treated Seregil like so much empty air as she stepped quickly past. Seregil pretended not to notice, but Alec saw the way his friend’s eyes went hard and blank for a moment, shutting away the pain.

  The Gedre khirnari regarded Seregil thoughtfully for a long moment. “You are greatly changed,” he said at last. “I would not have known you.”

  Alec shifted uneasily; this was not the greeting of an old friend.

  Seregil bowed, still betraying neither surprise nor disappointment. “I remember you well, and kindly, Khirnari. Allow me to present my talímenios, Alec í Amasa.”

  The Akhendi still kept her distance, but Riagil clasped Alec’s hand between his own with evident delight. “Be welcome, Alec í Amasa! You are the Hâzadriëlfaie Adzriel ä Illia told us of when she returned from Skala.”

  “Half, my lord. On my mother’s side,” Alec managed, still rocked by their treatment of Seregil. He hadn’t expected anyone to know of him, much less care.

  “Then this is a doubly happy day, my friend,” Riagil said, patting his shoulder kindly. “You will find Gedre a welcoming clan for ya’shel.”

  He moved on, greeting the lesser aides and servants. Alec leaned closer to Seregil and whispered, “Ya’shel?”

  “The respectful word for ‘half-breed.’ There are others. The Gedre have the most mixed bloods of any clan in Aurënen. See that woman with fair hair? And that fellow there by the boat, with black eyes and dark skin? Ya’shel. They’ve mixed with Dravnians, Zengati, Skalans—anyone they trade with.”

  “Word of your arrival has already been sent to Sarikali, Klia ä Idrilain,” Riagil announced when the introductions were finished. “Please be my guests tonight, and we will begin the journey tomorrow. The clan house lies in the hills above town, only a short ride.”

  While the nobles exchanged their greetings, Beka oversaw the unloading of their remaining horses and riders.

  Rhylin’s decuria had fared better than the others, despite the fighting they’d done. Counting them over, Beka was relieved to see that all were accounted for and none seriously wounded. There were long faces among the survivors of the ill-fated Wolf, however. Less than half of Mercalle’s decuria had escaped unscathed.

  “Bilairy’s Balls, Captain, I haven’t understood a word since we got here,” Corporal Nikides muttered nervously, eyeing the crowd. “I mean, how would we know whether someone wanted a fight or was offering us tea?”

  Before Beka could answer, a deep, amused voice just behind them drawled, “In Aurënen, the brewing of tea does not involve weapons. I am certain you would soon discern the difference.”

  Turning, she saw that the speaker was a dark-haired man dressed in a plain brown tunic and worn riding leathers. His thick brown hair was tied back beneath a black-and-white-patterned sen’gai. By his stance, Beka guessed him to be a soldier.

  He’s as handsome as Uncle Seregil, she thought.

  The man was taller than Seregil, and perhaps a bit older, too, but had the same wiry build. His face was darkly tanned and wider through the cheekbones, giving it a more angular cast. He met her questioning look with a disarming smile; his eyes, she noted for no good reason, were a particularly clear shade of hazel.

  “Greetings, Captain. I am Nyal í Nhekai Beritis Nagil of Ra’basi clan,” he said, and something in the lilting timbre of his voice stirred a warm flutter deep in Beka’s chest.

  “Beka ä Kari Thallia Grelanda of Watermead,” she replied, extending a hand as if they were in some Rhíminee salon. He took it, his callused palm warm and familiar against her own for the instant the handclasp lasted.

  “The Iia’sidra has charged me to act as your interpreter,” he explained. “Am I correct in assuming that most of your people do not speak our language?”

  “I think Sergeant Mercalle and I know enough between the two of us to get into trouble.” She felt a self-conscious grin threatening and quickly quelled it. “Please give the Iia’sidra my thanks. Is there someone I can speak to about horses and weapons. We ran into some trouble on the way across.”

  “But of course! It wouldn’t do for Princess Klia’s escort to enter Sarikali riding double, no?” Giving her a conspiratorial wink, he strode off toward a group of Gedre nearby, speaking rapidly in his own tongue.

  Beka watched him for a moment, caught by the way his hips and shoulders moved beneath his loose tunic. Turning back, she caught Mercalle and several riders doing the same.

  “Now, there’s a long-legged bit of joy!” the sergeant exclaimed appreciatively under her breath.

  “Sergeant, see that your people get their gear packed for riding,” Beka snapped rather more sharply than she’d intended.

  The Ra’basi was as good as his word. Though many of Mercalle’s decuria still lacked proper weapons, they set off for the khirnari’s house on horses each worth half a year’s pay back home.

  Klia’s famous black stallion had weathered the voyage well and pranced proudly at the head of the procession, shaking its white mane.

  “That’s a Silmai horse,” Nyal noted, riding at Beka’s side. “The moon-white mane is their gift from Aura; it occurs nowhere else in Aurënen.”

  “He’s carried her through some fierce battles,” Beka told him. “Klia cares as much for that horse as some women do for their husbands.”

  “That is clear. And you handle an Aurënfaie mount as if you were born to it.”

  His slight, musical accent sent another odd little shiver through her. “My family has Aurënfaie stock in our herd, back home at Watermead,” she explained. “I was riding before I could walk.”

  “And here yo
u are, in the cavalry.”

  “Are you a soldier?” She’d seen nothing that looked like a uniform, but Nyal had the air of someone used to command.

  “When necessary,” he replied. “It is the same with all the men of my clan.”

  Beka raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t see any women among the honor guard. Are they not allowed to be soldiers?”

  “Allowed?” Nyal considered this for a moment. “There is no allowance necessary. Most simply choose not to. They have other gifts.” He paused, lowering his voice. “If I may be so bold, I had not expected Skalan soldier women to be so pretty.”

  Normally Beka would have bristled at such a statement, but the words were said with such earnestness and obvious goodwill that it took the edge off. “Well—thanks.” Anxious to change the subject, Beka looked around at the white buildings that lined the streets. They were topped with low domes instead of a pitched roof; the shape reminded her of a bubble clinging to a block of soap. None were more than two stories high and most were unadorned, except for a piece of dark, greenish stone set into the wall by the front door.

  “What are those?” she asked.

  “Sacred stone from Sarikali, a talisman to protect whoever lives within. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you are pretty?”

  Facing him this time, Beka pursed her lips into a stern line. “Only my mother. It’s not the sort of thing that matters much to me.”

  “Forgive me, I meant no offense.” Nyal’s eyes widened in dismay and the way the slanting light struck the irises made Beka think of pale leaves lying at the bottom of a clear forest pool. “I know your language, but not your ways. Perhaps we can learn from each other?”

  “Perhaps,” Beka told him, and to her credit, her voice did not betray the undisciplined pounding of her heart.

  The Gedre horsemen formed an honor guard for Klia and the Aurënfaie dignitaries as they rode out from the town and up into hills scattered with farms, vineyards, and deep-shaded groves. Drifts of fragrant purple and red flowers grew thickly in the coarse, pale grass along the roadside.

  Alec and Seregil rode with Thero and the other aides just behind Lord Torsin. It felt good to have Windrunner under him again after so many days at sea. The glossy Aurënfaie gelding tossed his head, scenting the wind as if he recognized his homeland. Seregil’s black mare, Cynril, was doing the same. Both horses drew admiring glances, and Alec, who seldom gave thought to such things, was suddenly glad of the impression they made.

  “Who’s the Ra’basi, I wonder?” he murmured, nodding toward a man riding beside Beka at the head of the column. What Alec could see of the fellow’s face from this angle made him curious to see the rest.

  “He’s a long way from home,” said Seregil, who’d also taken note of the stranger. “Beka seems rather taken with him, don’t you think?”

  “Not really,” Alec replied. The Ra’basi was obviously trying to make conversation, but her responses came mostly in the form of terse nods.

  Seregil chuckled softly. “Wait and see.”

  In the distance ahead, snow-covered peaks gleamed against the flawless blue of the spring sky. The sight brought Alec an unexpected pang of homesickness; “The Asheks look a lot like the Ironheart Range around Kerry. I wonder if the Hâzadriëlfaie felt the same when they first saw Ravensfell Pass?”

  Seregil pushed a windblown lock of hair out of his eyes. “Probably.”

  “Why did those Hâzad folks leave Aurënen?” asked Sergeant Rhylin, riding on his left. “Even if this is the dry edge of the place, it’s better country than anyplace I’ve seen north of Wyvern Dug.”

  “I don’t know much about it,” Seregil replied. “It happened over two thousand years ago. That’s a long time, even for the ’faie.”

  The Ra’basi stranger appeared out of the press and fell in beside them.

  “Forgive me for intruding, but I could not help overhearing,” he said in Skalan. “You are interested in the Hâzadriëlfaie, Seregil í Korit?” He paused, looking abashed. “Seregil of Rhíminee, I meant to say.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Ra’basi,” Seregil replied with a sudden coldness that sent a warning shock through Alec. “You know the name taken from me, but I don’t know the one you carry.”

  “Nyal í Nhekai Beritis Nagil Ra’basi, interpreter for Princess Klia’s cavalry. Forgive my clumsiness, please. Captain Beka ä Kari speaks so highly of you that I wished to meet you.”

  Seregil bowed slightly in the saddle, but Alec could tell he still had his guard up. “You must have traveled. I hear the accents of many ports as you speak.”

  “I hear the same in yours,” Nyal replied with an engaging smile. “Aura gifted me with an ear for languages and restless feet. Thus, I’ve spent most of my life as a guide and interpreter. I am most honored that the Iia’sidra considered me worthy of this commission.”

  Alec watched the handsome newcomer with interest. From what he’d heard, the Ra’basi clan had everything to gain if the borders were reopened, yet they were also closely tied to their northern neighbors, Virésse and Golanil, who opposed any altering of the Edict of Separation. So far, their khirnari, Moriel ä Moriel, did not openly support either side.

  It was a moment before Alec realized the man was also studying him.

  “But you’re not a Skalan, are you?” he said. “You have neither the look nor the accent—ah, yes, I see it now! You are the Hâzadriëlfaie! What clan are you descended of?”

  “I never knew my people, or that I was one of them until quite recently,” Alec told him, wondering how often he’d have to give this explanation. “It seems to mean a great deal here, though. Do you know anything of them?”

  “Indeed I do,” Nyal replied. “My grandmother has told me their story many times. She’s a Haman, and they lost many people to the Migration.”

  Seregil raised an eyebrow. “You’re related to the Haman?”

  Nyal grinned. “I’m from a wandering family. We’re related to half the clans in Aurënen one way or another. It’s said to make us more—what’s the word—forbearing? Truly, Seregil, even with a Haman grandmother, I bear you no ill will.”

  “Or I you,” Seregil replied rather less than convincingly. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  Without waiting for reply, he wheeled his horse and rode toward the rear of the column.

  “It’s a bit overwhelming for him, being here,” Alec apologized. “I would like to hear what you know of the Hâzad. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Tomorrow, then, to pass the time during our long ride.” With a juanty salute, Nyal rejoined the line of Skalan riders.

  Alec rode back to rejoin Seregil. “What was that all about?” he demanded under his breath.

  “He’ll bear watching,” Seregil muttered.

  “Why, because he’s part Haman?”

  “No, because he overheard what we were talking about from twenty feet away, over the noise of the horses.”

  Looking back over his shoulder, Alec saw the interpreter chatting with Beka and her sergeants. “He did, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he did.” He lowered his voice and said softly in Skalan, “Our long holiday is truly over now. It’s time to start thinking like …” Lifting his left hand, Seregil briefly crossed his thumb over his ring finger.

  A chill ran up Alec’s backbone; it was the hand sign for “Watchers.” This was the first time since Nysander’s death that Seregil had used it.

  The clan house Riagil had spoken of turned out to be more like a walled village. White, vine-raddled walls enclosed a sprawling maze of courtyards, gardens, and houses decorated with painted designs of sea creatures. Flowering trees and plants filled the air with heavy fragrances, underscored by the smell of fresh water close at hand.

  “It’s beautiful!” Alec exclaimed softly, though that hardly came close to expressing the effect the place had on him. In all his travels, he’d never seen anything so immediately pleasing to the eye.

  “A khirnari’s home is the central hearth of
the fai’thast,” Seregil told him, clearly delighted with his reaction. “You should see Bôkthersa.”

  By the Four, I hope we both do someday, Alec thought.

  Leaving the escort riders in a large courtyard inside the main gate, Riagil led his guests to a spacious, many-domed house at the center of the compound.

  Dismounting, he bowed to Klia. “Welcome to my home, honored lady. Every preparation has been made for your comfort and that of your people.”

  “You have our deepest thanks,” Klia replied.

  Riagil and his wife, Yhali, led the Skalan nobles through cool, tiled corridors to a series of rooms overlooking an inner courtyard.

  “Look there!” Alec laughed, spying a pair of small brown owls roosting in one of the trees. “They say owls are the messengers of Illior—Aura, that is. Is it the same here?”

  “Not messengers, but a favored creature all the same, and a bird of good omen,” Riagil replied. “Perhaps because they are the only predatory bird that does not feed on the young of the dragons, Aura’s true messengers.”

  Alec and Seregil were given a small, whitewashed room to themselves at the end of the row of guest chambers. The rough-textured walls were inset with numerous well-blackened lamp niches. The furnishings were elegantly simple, made of pale woods with little ornamentation. The bed, a broad platform surrounded by layers of an airy cloth Seregil called gauze, was a particularly welcome sight after their cramped public quarters at sea. Looking around, Alec felt urges held firmly at bay during the sea crossing making themselves known and regretted they were only spending one night here.

  “Our bath chamber is being prepared for you and your women,” Yhali told Klia as she and Riagil took their leave. “I’ll send a servant to escort you.”

  Riagil spared Seregil a cool glance. “The men will use the blue chamber. You remember the way, I’m certain?”

  Seregil nodded, and this time Alec was certain he saw a flicker of sadness in his friend’s grey eyes.

  If the khirnari saw it, he gave no sign. “My servants will conduct you to the feast when you have refreshed yourselves. And you, Torsin í Xandus?”