Nyal’s flushed face reflected her own elation. “Beautiful Tír,” he said, gazing up at her.
“Beautiful Aurënfaie,” she replied in his own language, no longer contesting his opinion.
“I did not think you would have me. Do all Tír hold back so?”
Beka considered this. “I have duties. What my heart and body want aren’t what my head thinks I should do. And—”
“And?” he asked when she looked away.
“And I’m a little afraid of what you make me feel, afraid because I know it won’t last. I lost someone, too. He died. Was killed.” Beka closed her eyes against sorrow long denied. “He was a warrior, an officer in my regiment. I didn’t have long with him, but we cared a great deal for each other. The pain I felt when he died was …” She stopped again, searching for words that wouldn’t sound too cold but not finding them. “It was a distraction. I can’t allow that sort of thing, not when I have people depending on me to lead them.”
Nyal stroked her face until she opened her eyes again. “I won’t hurt you, Beka Cavish, or cause you any distraction if it’s in my power to avoid it. What we do—” He grinned, waving a hand around at the disordered room. “We are two friends sharing a gift of Aura. There’s no pain from that. Whether you’re here or in Skala, we are friends.”
“Friends,” Beka agreed, even as the little voice from her heart taunted, Too late, too late!
“It’s early yet,” she said, rising. “Show me more of your city. Seems I have an unquenchable appetite for wonders today.”
Nyal sprawled limply and let out a comic groan. “Warrior women!”
They were nearly dressed when something he’d said earlier suddenly struck her. Turning to Nyal, she raised an eyebrow and demanded, “When exactly did you and my ‘almost-brother’ discuss what to do with me?”
Beka’s sudden appearance in the doorway of one of the ruined houses startled Kheeta as much as it did Alec.
“Aura’s Fingers!” the Bôkthersan laughed, reining in. “That’s the first red-haired Bash’wai I’ve ever seen.”
Beka froze for a moment, face reddening behind her freckles. An instant later Nyal stepped from the shadows behind her.
“Well, well, Captain,” Alec said in Skalan, grinning mercilessly as he took in their disheveled hair and dust-streaked clothing. “Out reconnoitering?”
“I’m off duty,” she retorted, and something in the look she gave him warned against further teasing.
“Have you shown her the House of Pillars yet?” Kheeta asked, apparently oblivious to the situation, or why his innocent question should draw such a loud and poorly suppressed snort of laughter from Alec.
“We were just heading there,” Nyal replied, fighting to keep a straight face. “Why don’t you come along with us?”
“Yes, do come!” Beka said, walking up to Alec and grasping his stirrup. In a low voice, she added, “You can keep a closer eye on me that way, Almost-Brother.”
Alec winced. Damn you, Nyal!
The house in question lay several streets away. Thunder cracked again, much closer now, and a sudden gust of wind blew their hair into their eyes.
“There it is,” Kheeta said, pointing out a sprawling, open-sided structure through the gloom. Just then the skies opened up in earnest. Lightning bleached the air white for an instant, then darkness closed down around them with a deafening roll of thunder. Gripping the reins of their nervous mounts, Alec and Kheeta dashed toward shelter through the pelting rain with Beka and Nyal close behind.
The House of Pillars was a pavillion with a flat, tiled roof set on ranks of tall, evenly spaced black columns. Shreds of faded cloth hung here and there, suggesting that walls of a sort had been created by hanging tapestries between the columns.
“Looks like we’ll be here awhile,” said Beka, raising her voice to be heard over the downpour.
A damp wind swept through the outer columns, and they retreated farther to avoid the soaking rain that blew in with it. Alec reached inside his coat for the lightstone in his tool roll, then remembered he’d left both back at his room. Kheeta and Nyal flicked their fingers, and small globes of light snapped into being at their tips.
“What was this place?” asked Alec, speaking Skalan for Beka’s benefit.
“A summer retreat,” said Nyal. “It gets terribly hot here in summer. The roof makes shade and there are bathing pools further in.”
Occasional flashes from outside threw bars of light and shadow across their path as they walked deeper into the forest of pillars.
Alec had assumed they had the place to themselves, but soon heard the sound of water splashing and the echo of voices from somewhere ahead of them.
Emerging into a large chamber, they came to a large round bathing pool fed by underground springs. Channels fanned out from it to smaller pools and what appeared to have been water gardens or fish pools.
A few dozen people were swimming naked in the large pool. Others sat nearby playing some kind of game by the light of hovering light orbs. Alec noted with a twinge of unease that most of those who were dressed wore the sen’gai of Haman or Lhapnos. Judging by their age and clothes, they were young retainers of those delegations, taking their ease while their elders attended the council.
Nyal approached them with his usual openness, but Kheeta hung back warily.
“Nyal í Nhekai!” called a Lhapnosan youth. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, my friend. Come join us.”
His welcoming smile died, however, at sight of Alec and the others. Getting to his feet, the Lhapnosan let one hand rest near the hilt of the knife in his belt. Several of his companions did the same.
“But I forgot,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You’re not keeping the best company these days.”
“He certainly isn’t,” one of the swimmers remarked, climbing from the pool. He strode up to them, his face set in a disdainful frown.
Alec tensed, recognizing him by the dragon bite on his chin. This was no servant. He’d been with the Haman khirnari last night at the Silmai banquet.
The Haman stood a moment, eyeing them with distaste. “A Bôkthersan, a Tírfaie.” His gaze came to rest on Alec. “And the Exile’s garshil ke’menios.”
Alec understood only half the phrase—garshil meant “mongrel”—but that and the Haman’s tone left no doubt that it was a calculated insult.
“This is Emiel í Moranthi of Haman, the khirnari’s nephew,” Nyal warned in Skalan.
“I know who he is,” said Alec, keeping his tone neutral, as if he hadn’t understood the insult.
Kheeta had no such reservations. “You should choose your words more carefully, Emiel í Moranthi!” he snarled, stepping closer.
Alec laid a hand on his arm, then said in Aurënfaie, “He can use what words he likes. It’s of no concern to me.”
His antagonist’s eyes narrowed; none of the Haman had bothered chatting with him the night before and no doubt assumed he did not speak their language.
“What’s going on?” Beka muttered, sensing trouble.
“Just a few insults between clans,” Alec said evenly. “Best to walk away.”
“Yes,” Nyal agreed, no longer smiling as he urged the glowering Kheeta back the way they’d come. But Beka was still eyeing the naked man.
“It was nothing,” Alec repeated firmly, snagging her by the sleeve and following.
“What’s the matter, too frightened to join us?” Emiel jeered.
It was Alec who wheeled around and, against all better judgment, strode back to face him. With the same bravado he’d once used staring down back-alley toughs, he crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side, slowly scanning Emiel from head to foot until his would-be adversary shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.
“No,” Alec replied at last, raising his voice for all to hear. “I see nothing here that frightens me.”
He sensed the attack coming and jumped back as Emiel lunged for him. The Haman’s companions caught at him, dra
gging him back. Alec felt hands on his arms, too, but shook them off, needing no restraint. Somewhere behind him, Beka was cursing pungently in two languages as Kheeta restrained her.
“Remember where you are, all of you,” Nyal warned, shouldering in between them.
Emiel hissed softly between clenched teeth, but fell back. “Thank you, my friend,” he sneered, though his gaze never left Alec. “Thank you for not letting me soil my hands with this little garshil ke’menios.”
With that, he sauntered back toward the pool.
“Come away,” Nyal urged.
The skin between his shoulder blades prickled and he tensed, expecting any moment for the Haman to change their minds and renew the fight. Aside from a few jeers and muttered insults, however, the defenders of the pool let them go in peace.
“What was that he called you?” Beka asked again as soon as they were out of earshot.
“Nothing that matters.”
“Oh, I can see that! What did he say?” Beka demanded.
“I didn’t get all of it.”
“He called you a mongrel boy whore,” Kheeta growled.
Alec could feel his face burning and was glad of the shadows.
“I’ve been called worse,” he lied. “Let it go, Beka. The last thing Klia needs is the head of her bodyguard getting into a brawl.”
“Bilairy’s Balls! That filthy son of a—”
“Please, Beka, you mustn’t say such things aloud. Not here,” said Nyal. “Emiel’s behavior is understandable. Seregil murdered his kinsman, and by our reckoning, Alec is kin to Seregil. Surely it’s not so different among your own people?”
“Back home you can knock somebody’s teeth in without starting a war,” she snapped.
Nyal shook his head. “What a place this Skala must be.”
Alec caught a hint of motion out of the corner of his eye just then and slowed, peering into the darkness between the pillars. Perhaps the Haman hadn’t been put off so easily after all. He caught a hint of an unfamiliar scent, heavy with musk and spice. Then it was gone.
“What is it?” Beka asked softly.
“Nothing,” he said, though instinct warned otherwise.
Outside, it was raining harder than ever. Curtains of mist anchored the clouds to the rooftops.
“Perhaps you should ride back with us,” Kheeta suggested.
“I suppose so,” Beka agreed. Accepting the Bôkthersan’s outstretched hand, she swung easily up behind him.
Alec kicked a stirrup free for Nyal. The Ra’basi reached to accept a hand up, then stopped to examine the Akhendi charm dangling from Alec’s wrist. The little bird carving had turned black.
“What happened to it?” Alec asked, peering at it in surprise. A tiny crack he hadn’t noticed before marred the tip of one wing.
“It’s a warning charm. Emiel ill-wished you,” Nyal explained.
“A waste of good magic, if you ask me,” Kheeta muttered. “It takes no magic to read the heart of a Haman.”
Alec pulled out his dagger, intending to cut the charm free and toss it into the bushes.
“Don’t,” Nyal said, staying his hand. “It can be restored so long as you don’t destroy the knots.”
“I don’t want Seregil seeing this. He’ll know something happened and I hate lying to him.”
“Give it to me, then,” the Ra’basi offered. “I’ll get one of the Akhendi to fix it for you.”
Alec plucked the lacings free and handed it to him. “I want your word, all of you, that Seregil won’t hear about this. He has enough to worry about.”
“Are you sure that’s wise, Alec?” asked Kheeta. “He’s not a child.”
“No, but he does have a temper. The Haman insulted me to get at him. I’m not going to play their game for them.”
“I’m not so sure,” Beka said, more concerned than angry now. “You keep your distance from them, especially if you’re alone. That was more than bluff and bluster just now.”
“Don’t worry,” Alec said, forcing a grin. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Seregil, it’s how to avoid people.”
14
MYSTERIES
Thero envied Beka the headache that had released her from the day’s duties. As negotiations rambled on, the wizard grew increasingly restless. Most of the day’s speeches were hollow posturing, currying favor with one side or the other. Stories and grievances from centuries past were trotted out and argued. Apparently there was no shame in napping during these interludes; a number of onlookers up in the gallery were snoring audibly.
Thunderstorms descended on the city soon after midday, throwing the Iia’sidra chamber into lamp-lit gloom. Cold winds swept in through the windows, carrying rain and leaves. At times thunder drowned the voice of the speaker on the floor.
Chin on hand, Thero watched the lightning illuminate rippling sheets of rain lashing down outside. It brought back memories of his apprentice days in Nysander’s tower. Sitting at the window of his chamber on summer afternoons, he’d watched the barbed white bolts spike down over the harbor and dreamed of capturing that power, channeling it through his hands. To control something that could destroy you in an instant—the thought had made his pulse race. One day he’d blurted out his idea to Nysander, asking if it could be done.
The older wizard had merely given him a look of kindly forbearance and asked, “If you could control it, dear boy, would it be as beautiful?”
The response had seemed nonsensical to him at the time, he thought sadly.
An especially long, bright flash lit the Iia’sidra just then, transforming the window he’d been staring at into an oblong of weird blue-white brilliance. Thero saw the black outline of a woman framed there, as if in a doorway.
The window went dark again, and a clap of thunder shook the building, driving in a fresh gust of wind. The figure had been no fleeting vision, however. A young rhui’auros stood there, resting one hand lightly against the stone frame as she stared across the chamber at him. Her lips moved and he heard a voice whisper in his mind, Come to us afterward, my brother. It is time.
Before Thero could even nod, she had faded away in a blur of color.
Thankfully, the council adjourned early that day. Thero doubted he could have told anyone what had been said. Following Klia and the others out into the storm, he found the woman waiting for him by his horse. She was very young, with grey-green eyes that seemed overly large beneath her ridiculous hat. Her soaked robe clung to her thin frame like a wrinkled second skin, and the wind had whipped her wet hair into lank strands against her cheeks. She should have been shivering, but she wasn’t.
Klia gave her a surprised glance.
“With your permission, my lady, I would like to visit the rhui’auros,” he explained.
“In this weather?” Klia asked, then shrugged. “Take care. I’ll need you first thing tomorrow.”
Thero’s strange companion did not speak as they set out, nor would she accept his cloak or an offer to ride. He was soon glad to have a guide. In this weather, one broad, deserted street looked no different from another.
Reaching the Nha’mahat at last, the girl motioned for him to dismount, then led him by the hand along a well-worn path to the cave beneath the tower. Clouds of vapor issued from the low opening, crawling low across the ground to disappear in wisps on the wind. Mineral secretions coated the rock here, white and yellows shot through with wavering bands of black. Untold pairs of feet had worn a smooth path inside.
A sudden rush of wonder brought a lump to Thero’s throat as he followed it into the large natural chamber beyond. If Nysander had been correct, this was the very womb of mysteries, the source of the magic that had come to his own people through the blood of Aurënen.
The place was humid and primitive, its rough walls unaltered except for a few scattered lamps and a broad staircase that curved like a ram’s horn at the center of the room, its even stonework out of place in such a setting. Light shone down from some upper room, and Thero sme
lled the sweet reek of incense as they passed. Down here there was nothing of ritual or decoration. Steam curled up from a network of fissures and small pools in the floor. Rhui’auros and ’faie moved among the shadows, quiet as ghosts.
The girl gave him no time to get his bearings but continued down one of several passageways that branched off from the main chamber. There were no lamps here and she did not strike a light. The darkness posed no problem for Thero, either; when his eyes failed other senses took over, showing him his surroundings in muted shapes of black and grey. Was this a test, he wondered, or did she simply assume that, sharing a similar magic, Tír wizards could see in the dark?
Sweltering air closed in around them as they went on, and Thero was aware of the downward slant of the tunnel floor beneath his feet. Small, hive-shaped structures stood here and there along the way, large enough to hold a person or two. Brushing his fingers across one as he passed, he felt thick, sodden wool. Leather flaps covered a small door and an opening at its top.
“Dhima, for meditation,” she told him, speaking at last. “You may use them whenever you like.”
Evidently this was not the point of the current expedition. The passage took a sharp jog to the right and the air grew cooler, the way more steep and narrow. There were no dhima here.
In places they had to duck their heads as the overhanging stone dipped low. In others, they grasped thick ropes strung through metal eyelets driven into the stone, lowering themselves over short drops. He lost track of time in the darkness, but the feeling of magical energy grew stronger with every step.
At last they reached level ground again, and Thero heard a sound like wind in branches. After a few yards the tunnel curved again, and suddenly he was blinking in the relative brightness of clear moonlight. Looking around in surprise, he saw that they were standing at the edge of a forest clearing under a clear night sky. The ground sloped gently to the edge of a glassy black pool. The crescent moon’s reflection floated motionless on its still surface, undisturbed by any ripple.
Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3 Page 22
