Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

  Beka shook her head, showing that she didn’t understand.

  The young man held out his hand, showing her a bundle of colorful leather thongs. He covered them with his other hand, rubbed his palms together, then presented her with an intricately braided bracelet with loose strands at each end for tying.

  “Chypta,” she said, delighted. She’d watched Seregil do this sort of sleight of hand most of her life.

  He gestured that he was not finished. Taking it back from her, he held it by one end and pulled it slowly through the fingers of his other hand. When he was done, a small wooden frog dangled from the middle of the weave.

  The little girl tied it around Beka’s left wrist, then touched a hand to her scabbard and the bruise on her forehead, talking excitedly.

  “It’s a charm to help wounds heal,” explained Seregil, who’d wandered over with Alec. “She says she’s never seen a woman soldier before, but she can tell you are very brave and so probably get hurt a lot. She’s not old enough to make charms herself yet, so her cousin here obliged, but the gift was her idea.”

  “Chypta!” Beka said again, touched by the gift. “Hold on a minute, I want to give her something, too. Damn, what have I got with me?”

  Rummaging in her pouch, she found a sack of fancy gaming stones she’d bought in Mycena, jasper lozenges inlaid with silver. “For you,” she said in Aurënfaie, placing one in the child’s hand.

  The little girl clasped the piece in her fist and gave Beka a kiss on the cheek.

  “And thank you.” Beka looked up at the cousin, doubtful that he’d be impressed by such a reward.

  He leaned down and touched a finger to his cheek. Beka took the hint and gave him a kiss. Laughing, he led the little girl away.

  “Did you see that performance?” Beka asked Seregil, admiring the bracelet. “It reminds me of tricks you used to do for us after supper.”

  “What you just saw was magic, not sleight of hand. So is the charm, though not a very powerful sort. The Akhendi are known for their skill with charm making and weaving.”

  “I thought it was just a trinket! I should have made her a better gift.”

  Seregil grinned. “You saw her face. She’ll be showing that bakshi stone to her great-grandchildren, a gift from a sword-carrying Tírfaie woman with hair the color of—let’s see, what would the proper poetic simile be? Ah, yes, bloody copper!”

  Beka grimaced comically. “I hope she comes up with something better than that.”

  Just then a young woman touched Alec on the sleeve and performed a similar trick, producing a bracelet with three red beads worked into it. He thanked her, asked some questions, then laughed and pointed to Seregil.

  “What was that all about?” asked Beka.

  “It’s a love charm,” Seregil explained. “He told her that he doesn’t really need one of those.”

  The girl gave some teasing answer, arching a brow coyly in Seregil’s direction, then passed the bracelet through her hand again. The beads disappeared, replaced by a dangling wooden bird carved from pale wood.

  “That’s more like it,” Alec said. “This one warns if someone’s having evil thoughts about me.”

  “Perhaps I should get one of those before I face the Iia’sidra again,” Seregil murmured.

  “What’s this?” Beka asked, noticing what appeared to be a polished cherry pit hanging from a beaded thread in Seregil’s hair.

  “It’s supposed to keep lies from my dreams.”

  Alec exchanged an odd look with his friend, and Beka felt a twinge of envy. There were secrets between these two she knew she’d never share, just as there were between Seregil and her father. Not for the first time, she wished regretfully that Nysander had lived long enough to induct her as a Watcher, too.

  Meanwhile, her riders had gotten into the spirit of things. With Nyal’s help, gifts and questions were still being exchanged and everyone was sporting a charm or two. Nikides was flirting with several women at once, and Braknil was playing grandfather to a circle of children, shaking his beard and pulling coppers from their ears.

  “It won’t all be this easy, will it?” Beka said, watching one of the village elders present Klia with a necklace.

  Seregil sighed. “No, it won’t.”

  10

  THE HEART OF THE JEWEL

  Lady Amali seems to have taken quite a liking to Klia,” Alec observed, watching the two women laughing over some shared exchange as they set out again the next morning.

  “I’ve noticed that,” Seregil replied quietly. He glanced around quickly, no doubt making certain that Nyal was safely out of earshot. “They’re of an age to be friends. She’s much younger than her husband. She’s his third wife, according to our Ra’basi friend.”

  “So you find him useful after all?”

  “I find everyone useful,” Seregil said with a sly grin. “That doesn’t mean I trust them. I haven’t seen him sneak off with her again, though. Have you?”

  “No, and I’ve been watching. She’s civil to him, but they seldom speak.”

  “We’ll have to keep an eye on them in Sarikali, see if they seek each other out. The young wife of an aging husband, and Nyal such a handsome, entertaining fellow—it could be interesting.”

  Reaching a broad, swift river, they followed it south through ever deepening forest for the rest of the day. Villages grew scarcer, and game more plentiful—and at times peculiar. Herds of black deer no bigger than dogs were common in marshy bends of the river, where they grazed on mallow shoots and water lilies torn from the mud.

  There were bears as well, the first Alec had seen since leaving his mountain homeland. But these were brown rather than black, and bore the white crescent of Aura across their breasts. Strangest and most pleasing of all, however, were the little grey tree-dwellers called pories. The first of them appeared just after midday, but soon they seemed to be everywhere, common as squirrels.

  About the size of a newborn child, the pories had flat, catlike faces large, mobile ears, and long, black-ringed tails that gyrated wildly behind them as they leapt among the branches with clever, grasping paws.

  A few miles later, the pories disappeared as abruptly as they’d come. Midafternoon shadows were weaving themselves beneath the trees when the travelers reached a wide fork in the river. As if sundered by the parting of the waters, the forest opened up to either side, affording a clear view across a broad, rolling valley beyond.

  “Welcome to Sarikali,” Seregil said, and something in his voice made Alec turn to look at him.

  A blend of fierce pride and reverence seemed to transform the man for an instant, making the Skalan coat he wore look as ill suited as mummer’s garb.

  Alec saw the same expression mirrored in other Aurënfaie faces, as if their very souls shone in their eyes. Exile or not, Seregil was among his own. Ever the wanderer, Alec envied him a little.

  “Welcome, my friends!” cried Riagil. “Welcome to Sarikali!”

  “I thought there was a city,” Beka said, shading her eyes.

  Alec did the same, wondering if some magic like that guarding the high passes in the mountains was at work. There were no signs of habitation that he could see within the embrace of the two rivers.

  Seregil grinned. “What’s the matter, don’t you see it?”

  A broad stone bridge arched across the narrower of the two branches, allowing riders to cross four abreast.

  The steel helmets of Urgazhi Turma shone like chased silver in the slanting afternoon light, and steel and chain mail glinted beneath their embroidered tabards. Riding at their head, Klia was resplendent in wine-dark velvet and heavy jeweled ornaments. Polished rubies glowed in the large golden brooches that pinned her riding mantle at the shoulders and in the golden girdle of her gown. She also wore all the Aurënfaie gift jewelry she’d received, even the humble warding charms. Though she’d put aside armor for the occasion, her sword hung at her side in a burnished scabbard worked with gold.

  Once across the river
, Riagil led them toward a dark, rambling hillock several miles off. There was something odd about the shape of it, thought Alec. As they drew nearer, it looked stranger still.

  “That’s Sarikali, isn’t it?” he said, pointing ahead. “But it’s a ruins.”

  “Not exactly,” said Seregil.

  The city’s dark tiered buildings and thick towers appeared to draw themselves out of the ground. Masses of ivy and creepers growing thickly up the stonework reinforced the illusion that the place had not been built by hands but erupted from the earth. Like a great stone in the river of time, Sarakali stood steadfast and immutable.

  The closer Seregil came to Sarikali, the more the long years in Skala seemed to fade away. The one dark memory he had of the city, ugly as it was, could not efface the joy he’d always associated with this place.

  Most of his visits had been in festival times, when the clans gathered to populate its streets and chambers. Banners and strings of kites festooned the streets of every tupa, the section of the city each clan traditionally used when visiting. In the open-air marketplaces one could find goods from every corner of Aurënen and beyond. Outside the city, colorful pavilions would sprinkle the level ground like great summer flowers; bright flags and painted poles marked out racetracks and archery lists. The air would be filled with magic and music and the smells of exotic foods to be tracked down and sampled.

  Today the only signs of habitation were a few flocks of sheep and cattle grazing on the plain.

  “You’d think the Iia’sidra would come out to meet the princess,” Thero remarked disapprovingly in Skalan.

  “I was just thinking the same.” Alec eyed the place dubiously.

  “That would give status,” said Seregil. “They retain it by having her come to them. It’s all part of the game.”

  • • •

  Their Aurënfaie escort dropped back when they reached the city’s edge, and Urgazhi Turma formed up into two mounted ranks, flanking Klia.

  Turning to Riagil and Amali, Klia bowed in the saddle. “Thank you both for your hospitality and guidance.”

  Amali nudged her mount forward and clasped hands with Klia. “I wish you success. The blessings of Aura be with you!”

  She and Riagil rode off, disappearing from sight with their respective riders among the dark buildings.

  “Well, then,” Klia said, squaring her shoulders. “It’s up to us to make an entrance, my friends. Let’s show them the queen’s best. Seregil, you’re my guide from here.”

  No curtain walls shielded the city; it had no gates, no guards. Instead, open ways paved with springy turf cut into the jumbled mass of the place like rambling fissures weathered through a mountain by a thousand years of rain. Its street were empty, the arched windows of it towers blank as dead eyes.

  “I didn’t expect it to be so empty,” Alec whispered as they continued along a broad, winding concourse.

  “It’s different when the clans gather for the festivals,” Seregil told him. “By the Light, I’d forgotten how beautiful it is!”

  Beautiful? Alec thought. Eerie was more like it, and a little oppressive.

  Evidently he was not the only one to feel it. Behind him, he could hear the Urgazhi plying Nyal with questions, and the steady murmur of the interpreter’s replies.

  Smooth walls of dark green stone etched with bands of complex designs rose on all sides. There were no recognizable figures; no carved animals, gods, or people. Instead, the intricate patterns seemed to fold and knot themselves into greater interconnected patterns that drew the eye to a single central point or away along lines of rhythmically repeated shapes and symbols.

  The turf gave beneath their horses’ hooves, sending up the scent of crushed herbs and deadening the sound of their passing. The deeper they rode into the city, the more muted sounds became, underscoring the strangeness of the place. The wind brought the occasional distant crowing of a cock or the sound of voices, but just as quickly whipped them away.

  Alec gradually became aware of an unsettling sensation creeping over him, a sort of tingling on his skin and the hint of a headache between his eyes.

  “I’ve come over all strange,” said Beka, feeling it, too.

  “It’s magic,” Thero said in an awed voice. “It feels like it’s seeping from the very ground!”

  “Don’t worry; you’ll get used to it soon,” Seregil assured them.

  As they rounded a corner, Alec saw a lone robed figure watching them gravely from the lower window of a tower. Beneath the red-and-black sen’gai and facial tattoos that marked him as a Khatme, the man’s expression was aloof and unwelcoming. Alec uneasily recalled a favorite saying his father had had: How you come into a place is how you go out.

  Seregil’s initial joy at seeing Sarikali did not entirely cloud his perception. Clearly the isolationists still held the upper hand. Nonetheless, his pulse quickened as he felt the quicksilver play of exotic energies across his skin. Childhood habit made him peer into the shadows, hoping for a fleeting glimpse of the fabled Bash’wai.

  Rounding a familiar corner, they came into the open again, at the center of the city, and the breath caught in Seregil’s throat.

  Here lay the Vhadäsoori, a clear pool several hundred yards wide and so deep that its waters remained black at high noon. The magic was said to radiate from this spot, the most sacred ground in Aurënen. Here, at the heart of the Heart, oaths were given, alliances forged, wizardly powers tested. A pledge sealed with a cup of the pool’s clear water was inviolable.

  The pool was ringed by one hundred and twenty-one weathered stone statues that stood a hundred yards or so back from the water’s edge. Neither the reddish-brown stone nor the carving style was to be found anywhere else in the city, or in Aurënen beyond. Thirty feet tall, and vaguely man-shaped, the statues were said to be a relic of some people older than the Bash’wai. They towered and tilted now above the crowd gathered outside the circle. Expectant faces and sen’gai of every description formed a colorful mosaic against the muted backdrop of dark stone.

  “That’s him,” he heard someone whisper loudly, and guessed they were talking of him.

  The crowd parted quietly as he led Klia and the others to the edge of the stone circle. Inside, he saw the eleven white-clad members of the Iia’sidra waiting for them at the water’s edge, flanking the Cup of Aura on its low stone pedestal. Its long, crescent-shaped bowl, carved from milky alabaster and set on a tall silver base, glowed softly in the late-afternoon sunlight.

  With a sudden sharp pang, he recalled his father bringing him here as a small child; it was one of the few positive memories he had of the man. Legends differed as to the Cup’s origins, Korit had explained. Some said it was the gift of Aura’s dragon to the first Eleven; others claimed that the first wandering band of ’faie to discover the city had found the Cup on its pillar already. Whatever the case, it had been here time out of mind, unmarred by centuries of use and weather, a symbol of Aura’s connection to the ’faie, and of their connection to one another.

  A connection I was cut away from like a diseased branch from a tree, Seregil thought bitterly, focusing at last on the faces of the Iia’sidra. Nine of this Eleven had spared his life, but they had also sealed his humiliation.

  His father had been khirnari then, and ready enough to see atui served by his only son’s execution. Adzriel stood in his place now, though Seregil could not meet her eye yet. The other new member of the council was the khirnari of Goliníl, Elos í Orian. Ulan í Sathil stood nearby, dignified and staid, his lined, angular face betraying nothing.

  Beside Adzriel stood Rhaish í Arlisandin of Akhendi. His long hair was whiter than Seregil recalled, his face more deeply lined. Here was one dependable ally, at least, if not a powerful one.

  With an effort, Seregil forced himself to look back at his sister, who stood closest to the Cup. She saw him but looked quickly away. —know that it is circumstance that prevents me, not coldness on my part. As he stood here, outside the circle, the assu
rance she’d sent him could not fill the void in his chest. Fighting down the choking sensation that suddenly gripped him, he hastily looked away.

  At Klia’s signal, Seregil and the others dismounted. Unbuckling her sword belt, Klia passed it to Beka and strode into the stone circle with the assurance of a general. Seregil followed a few paces behind with Thero and Torsin.

  The magic of Sarikali was strongest here. Beside him, Seregil saw Thero’s pale eyes widen slightly as palpable waves of it enfolded them. Klia must have felt it as well, but did not hesitate or break her stride. Halting before the Iia’sidra, she spread her hands, palms up, and said in perfectly accented Aurënfaie, “I come to you in the name of great Aura the Lightbearer, revealed to us as Illior, and on behalf of my mother, Idrilain the Second of Skala.”

  Ancient Brythir í Nien of Silmai stepped forward, thin and dry as a dead willow branch. As the eldest member of the Iia’sidra, he spoke for all.

  “Be welcome, Klia ä Idrilain Elesthera Corruthesthera Rhíminee, Princess of Skala and descendent of Corruth í Glamien of Bôkthersa,” he replied, lifting a heavy necklace of gold and turquoise from his own neck and placing it around hers. “May the wisdom of the Lightbearer guide us in our endeavors.”

  Klia returned the gesture, giving him her girdle of golden plaques enameled with the Dragon of Illior. “May the Light shine in us.”

  Adzriel took up the Cup of Aura and filled it at the water’s edge. Graceful in her white tunic and jewels, she raised it toward the sky, then presented it first to Klia, then Lord Torsin, Thero, and finally, to Seregil.

  Seregil’s fingers brushed his sister’s as he accepted the Cup and raised it to his lips. The water was as cold and sweet on his tongue as he’d remembered. As he drank, however, his eyes met those of Nazien í Hari of Haman, grandfather of the man he’d killed. There was no welcome for him here.

  Alec sat on his horse and listened as Nyal quietly named the various khirnari; all eleven wore white clothing and sen’gai for the ceremony, making it impossible to distinguish one clan from another.