Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

  “I will remain here for now,” the old man replied. “I’m not acquainted with some of our party, it seems.”

  As the khirnari and his lady withdrew, Torsin turned and addressed Alec directly for the first time since his arrival. “I have heard many times how you saved Klia’s life, Alec í Amasa. My niece Melessandra also speaks most highly of you. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

  “And I yours, honored sir.” Alec managed to keep a straight face as he accepted the man’s outstretched hand. After a lifetime of complete obscurity, such widespread notoriety was going to take getting used to.

  “I will join you momentarily, if you will excuse me?” Torsin said, entering his chamber.

  “Come along, you two,” Seregil said to Alec and Thero. “I believe you’ll enjoy this. I certainly intend to.”

  Crossing the flower-filled courtyard, they entered a vaulted chamber, the walls of which were painted blue and decorated with more of the whimsical sea creatures Alec had seen on the exterior walls. Sunlight streamed in through several small windows set near the ceiling, the rays dancing off the surface of a small, steaming pool sunk into the floor. Four smiling men of varying ages stepped forward with murmured greetings to help them out of their clothing.

  “Leave it to the Aurënfaie to make a guesting custom of bathing,” Alec remarked to cover his initial discomfort with such attentions.

  “It doesn’t do to tell your visitors that they stink,” Seregil murmured with a chuckle.

  Before Alec had met Seregil, a bath was something undertaken only as an absolute necessity, and then only in the heat of high summer. Daily ablutions struck him not only as absurd but downright unsafe until he’d been won over in Rhíminee by the amenities of heated water and tubs without splinters. Even then, he’d considered Seregil’s devotion to such physical comforts to be just another of his friend’s forgivable quirks. Later, Seregil had explained that bathing was an integral part of Aurënfaie life and the heart of hospitality.

  And now at last, he was going to experience it firsthand—if in a slightly altered version. Separate bathing for men and women was a Skalan custom; Alec wasn’t sure how he could have gotten through a communal bath with Klia.

  Clay pipes brought heated water into the bath chamber from somewhere outside. The steamy air was redolent with sweet herbs.

  Surrendering the last of his clothes to the attendant, Alec followed the others into the bath. After so many days at sea, it was a delicious sensation and he soon relaxed, watching the play of reflected light across the ceiling as the embracing water drew out all the tensions and bruises of their journey.

  “By the Light, I’ve missed this!” Seregil sighed as he stretched lazily, resting his head against the side of the pool.

  Thero’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the arrow wound on Seregil’s shoulder. The skin was still swollen, and an ugly purple bruise had spread darkly across his fair skin, reaching halfway to the small, faded circular scar at the center of his chest.

  “I didn’t realize it was that bad,” he said.

  Seregil flexed the shoulder nonchalantly. “It looks worse than it feels.”

  After a proper soak and scrub, the servants dried them and led them to thick pallets on the floor, where they massaged them from head to toe, kneading aromatic oils into every joint and muscle. Seregil’s attendant took special care with his bruised shoulder and was rewarded with a series of appreciative groans.

  Alec did his best to relax as skilled hands worked inexorably down his back toward portions of his anatomy he generally considered off-limits to anyone but Seregil. None of the others seemed to have any qualms about it, though, not even Thero, who lay growling contentedly on the next pallet.

  Take what the Lightbringer sends and be thankful, Alec reminded himself, still striving to adopt Seregil’s avowed philosophy.

  Torsin joined them during the massage, lowering himself slowly into a chair beside them.

  “And how are you enjoying our host’s hospitality?” he asked, smiling down at Alec and Thero. “We Skalans may consider ourselves a cultured people, but the ’faie put us quite to shame.”

  “I hope they offer it everywhere we stay,” the wizard mumbled happily.

  “Oh, yes,” Torsin assured him. “It’s considered a great disgrace for host or guest to neglect such niceties.”

  Alec groaned. “You mean if I don’t wash or use the proper tableware I’ll cause a scandal?”

  “No, but you will bring dishonor on yourself and the princess,” Torsin replied. “The laws governing the behavior of our hosts are even stricter. If a guest is harmed, the entire clan carries the dishonor.”

  Alec tensed; there was no mistaking the veiled reference to Seregil’s past.

  Seregil rose on one elbow to face the old man. “I know you didn’t want me here.” His voice was level, controlled, but the knuckles of his clenched fists were white. “I’m as sensitive as you to the complications of my return.”

  Torsin shook his head. “I’m not certain you are. Riagil was your friend, yet you cannot have misread his reception today.” He broke off suddenly and coughed into a linen napkin. The fit went on for several seconds, bringing a sheen of sweat to the old man’s brow.

  “Forgive me. My lungs aren’t what they once were,” he managed at last, tucking the napkin into his sleeve. “As I was saying, Riagil could not bring himself to welcome you. Lady Amali will not even speak your name, despite her support of Klia’s cause. If our allies cannot bear your presence, what will our opponents make of it? If it were up to me, I would send you back to Skala at once rather than risk jeopardizing the task our queen has set us.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, my lord,” Seregil replied with the same false composure that had worried Alec earlier. Rising from the pallet, he wrapped himself in a clean sheet and left the room without a backward glance.

  Swallowing his own anger, Alec followed, leaving Thero to sort things out as best he could. He caught up to Seregil in the garden court and reached to halt him. Seregil shook off his hand and strode on.

  Back in their chamber, he tugged on a pair of doeskin breeches and used the sheet to dry his hair. “Come along now, make yourself presentable, my ya’shel,” he said, face still obscured.

  Alec crossed the room and grasped his wrist, pulling the cloth away. Seregil glared at him through a tangled mass of hair, cold fury burning in his eyes. Pulling roughly away again, he grabbed a comb and yanked it through his hair hard enough to pull out several strands.

  “Give me that before you hurt yourself!” Shoving Seregil down into a chair, Alec took the comb and set to work more gently, working out the knots, then settling into a soothing rhythm as if currying a high-spirited horse. Anger radiated from Seregil like heat, but Alec ignored it, knowing it was not directed at him.

  “Do you think Torsin really intended—?”

  “It’s exactly what he intended,” Seregil fumed. “For him to say that, and in front of those attendants—as if I need to be reminded why I have no name in my own country!”

  Alec set the comb aside and drew Seregil’s damp head back against his chest, cupping his friend’s thin cheeks in his hands. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here because Idrilain and Adzriel want you here. Give the rest time. You’ve been nothing but a legend here for forty years. Show them who you’ve become.”

  Seregil covered Alec’s hands with his own, then stood and drew him close. “Ah, talí,” he growled, hugging him. “What would I do without you, eh?”

  “That’s nothing you ever have to worry about,” Alec vowed. “Now, we’ve got a feast to get through. Play Lord Seregil for all you’re worth. Confound them with your charm.”

  Seregil let out a bitter laugh. “All right, then; Lord Seregil it is, and if that’s not enough to win them, then I’m still the talímenios of the famous Hâzadriëlfaie, aren’t I? Like the moon, I’ll hang close to you through the night, reflecting your brilliance by virtue of my own dark surface.”r />
  “Behave yourself,” Alec warned. “I want you in a sweeter temper when we get back here tonight.” He brought his mouth to Seregil’s to underscore his meaning and was gratified to feel the tight lips soften and open beneath his own.

  Illior, patron of thieves and madmen, lend us the guile to survive this evening, he thought.

  Torsin was not in evidence when a young woman of the household arrived to guide them to the feast. Thero was, however, and Alec saw that the wizard was out to make an impression; his dark blue robe was embroidered with silver vine work, and the crystal wand he’d used aboard the Zyria was tucked into a belt embossed with gold. Like Alec and Seregil, he also wore the flame and crescent medallion of Klia’s household.

  The feast was held in a large courtyard near the center of the clan house. Ancient trees overhung the long tables set there, their gnarled trunks and lower branches studded with hundreds of tiny lamps.

  Looking over the assembled company, Alec was relieved to see that the Gedre didn’t stand on ceremony. People of all ages were already gathered there, laughing and talking. Growing up in the northlands, the ’faie had been creatures of legend for him, magical and awesome. Standing here in the midst of a whole clan of them, Alec felt like he was back at Watermead, sharing a communal meal at day’s end.

  Spotting Beka at a table near the gate, he cast Seregil a hopeful look, but their guide was already ushering them toward the khirnari’s table beneath the largest tree. Klia and Torsin sat to Riagil’s right, Amali ä Yassara to his left. Alec was chagrined to find himself furthest from the others, seated between two of Riagil’s grandchildren.

  All the same, he found the food and etiquette involved in dining considerably less complicated than what he’d encountered at Skalan banquets.

  Poached fish, a rich venison stew, and pastries stuffed with cheese, vegetables, and spices were served with baskets of bread shaped into fanciful animals. Platters of roasted vegetables, nuts, and several kinds of olives soon followed. Attentive stewards kept his cup filled with a spicy drink his dining companions called rassos.

  No formal entertainment had been arranged; instead, various guests of the feast simply stood up on their benches and started a song or performed some colorful magical trick. As the meal progressed and the rassos flowed, these impromptu exhibitions grew more frequent and more boisterous.

  Too far from the others to participate in their conversation, Alec looked with envy toward Beka’s table. The riders of Urgazhi Turma were mingling sociably with those of the Aurënfaie honor guard. The interpreter, Nyal, was seated beside Beka, and the two looked to be sharing some joke.

  Seregil also seemed to be making the best of things. Amali was still ignoring him, but he’d managed to strike up a conversation with several other ’faie. Catching Alec watching, Seregil gave him an amused wave, as if to say, “Be charming and make the best of things.”

  Alec turned again to his young dining companions.

  “You really knew nothing of your ’faie blood?” asked the boy, Mial, after quizzing him pointedly about his family background. “Don’t you have any magic?”

  “Well, Seregil did teach me a trick with dogs,” Alec said, showing him the left-handed sign. “But that’s about it.”

  “Anyone can do that!” scoffed the girl, Makia, who appeared to be about fourteen.

  “It’s still magic,” said her brother, though Alec had the impression he was merely being polite.

  “I always just thought of it as a trick,” Alec admitted. “None of the wizards we know seem to think I have any real magic in me.”

  “They’re Tírfaie,” Makia scoffed. “Watch this.”

  Furrowing her brow, she scowled down at her plate. Three olive pits slowly rose into the air and hung unsteadily in front of her face for a moment before clattering back to the table. “And I’m only twenty-two!”

  “Twenty-two?” Alec turned to Mial in surprise. “And you?”

  The young Aurënfaie grinned. “Thirty. How old are you?”

  “Almost nineteen,” Alec replied, suddenly feeling a bit strange.

  Mial stared at him a moment, then nodded. “It’s the same with some of our half-breed cousins; you mature much faster at first. You might want to keep your age to yourself once you get over the mountains, though. The purer clans don’t understand ya’shel the way we do here. The last thing your talímenios needs is another scandal.”

  Alec felt his face go warm. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You are to advise Princess Klia on the western clans, I understand?” Amali ä Yassara remarked, addressing Seregil directly for the first time.

  Seregil looked up from his dessert to find her studying him coolly. “I hope to be of service to both our lands.”

  “And you do not think their request was in part motivated by the possibility that your presence would elicit strong reactions in certain quarters?”

  Klia smiled at Seregil over the rim of her cup; blunt speech was considered a sign of goodwill in Aurënen. After all his years of intrigue in Skala, however, it was going to take some getting used to.

  “The thought did occur to me,” Seregil replied, adding pointedly, “However, as Lord Torsin opposed my inclusion for the very same reasons, I doubt that was their aim.”

  “Despite the errors of his youth, I can assure you that Seregil is a man of honor,” Klia interjected calmly. He kept his eyes on his dessert dish as she went on.

  “I’ve known him all my life, and he’s been invaluable to my mother. No doubt you have heard that it was he and Alec who found the remains of Corruth í Glamien while uncovering a plot against the Skalan throne? I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you the effect that discovery has had on relations between our two countries. If not for that, I might not be sitting here with you now, nor would Skalan ships be riding at anchor in this harbor again after all these years.”

  Riagil saluted her with his cup. “I begin to see why your mother entrusted you with this mission, Klia ä Idrilain.

  “I do not doubt what you say of him, or disparage his good works,” Amali said, apparently content to speak again as if Seregil were not there. “But if he is still ’faie in his heart, then he knows that one cannot change the past.”

  “Yet may not one’s past be forgiven?” Klia countered. When the question went unanswered, she turned to Riagil. “What do you think his reception will be at Sarikali?”

  The khirnari gave Seregil a thoughtful look, then replied, “I think that he should keep his friends close by.”

  A warning or a threat? wondered Seregil, unable to discern the sentiment behind the man’s bland words. As the evening wore on, he often looked up to find Riagil watching him with that same enigmatic look—not smiling, but not cold, either.

  After the meal people wandered among the tables, sharing wine and conversation.

  Seregil was just looking about for Alec when he felt an arm around his waist.

  “Torsin was right about her, wasn’t he?” Alec muttered, nodding slightly in Amali ä Yassara’s direction.

  “It’s atui,” Seregil replied with a loose shrug.

  “She also fears the effect you’ll have on the Iia’sidra,” Nyal said behind them.

  Seregil rounded on the eavesdropper with poorly concealed annoyance. “It seems to be the prevailing attitude.”

  “Princess Klia’s success means a great deal to the Akhendi,” the Ra’basi observed. “I doubt she would judge your past so harshly if it did not pose a threat to her own interests.”

  “You seem to know much about her.”

  “As I told you, I am a traveler. One learns much that way.” Bowing politely, he wandered off into the crowd.

  Seregil watched him go, then exchanged a dark look with Alec. “Remarkable hearing that man has.”

  The gathering gradually tapered off as restless children disappeared into the shadows beyond the trees and their elders made their farewells to the Skalans. Released from social obligations at
last, Alec had retreated to the company of Beka and her riders. When Seregil rose at last to take his leave, however, Riagil stayed him with a gesture.

  “Do you remember the moon garden court?” asked the khirnari. “As I recall, it was a favorite haunt of yours.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you care to see it again?”

  “Very much, Khirnari,” Seregil replied, wondering where this unexpected overture would lead.

  They walked in silence through the warren of dwellings to a small courtyard at the far side of the enclosure. Unlike the other gardens, where colored blossoms contrasted vividly against sun-baked walls, this place was made for the meditations of the night. It was filled with every sort of white flower, medicinal herb, and silvery-leafed plant, banked like drifted snow in beds along paths paved with black slate. Even under the waning crescent that rode the stars tonight, the blossoms glowed in the darkness. Overhead, tubular paper kites with calligraphy-covered streamers rustled on wires, breathing their painted prayers on the night breeze.

  The two men stood quietly awhile, admiring the perfection of the place.

  Presently Riagil let out a long sigh. “I once carried you sleeping to your bed from here. It seems not so long ago.”

  Seregil winced. “I’d be mortified if any of my Tír companions heard you say that.”

  “We are not Tír, you and I,” Riagil said, his face lost for a moment in shadow. “Yet I see now that you’ve grown strange among them, older than your years.”

  “I always was. Perhaps it runs in the family. Look at Adzriel, a khirnari already.”

  “Your eldest sister is a remarkable woman. Akaien í Solun was glad enough to hand the title to her as soon as she was of age. But be that as it may, the Iia’sidra will still perceive you as a stripling, and the queen as a fool for employing you as an emissary.”

  “If I’ve learned anything among the Tír, it’s the value of being underestimated.”

  “Some might interpret that as a lack of honor.”

  “It’s better to lack the semblance of honor but possess it than to possess the semblance and lack the honor.”