Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

  The light grew brighter as he stood there. Looking around, he could find no sign of his guide, but the pool was now surrounded by a great throng. Those he could make out wore the robes and hats of the rhui’auros. He knew by the lifting of the hair on his arms that at least some of them were spirits, though one looked as solid as another, even the ones with the curling black hair and dark skin of Bash’wai. Beyond them, in the thick, night-black forest, something moved—many creatures, and large ones.

  “Welcome, Thero son of Nysander, wizard of the Third Orëska,” a deep voice rumbled from the darkness. “Do you know where you are?”

  Caught off guard by the misnomer, it took Thero a moment to grasp the question. As soon as he did, however, he knew the answer.

  “The Vhadäsoori pool, Honored One,” he replied in an awed whisper. How he knew it was a mystery—there was no sign of the statues, much less the city itself, but the magic that radiated from the black water was unmistakable.

  “You see with the eyes of a rhui’auros, Nysander’s son.”

  The girl who had been his guide stepped from the crowd and offered him a cup fashioned from a hollow tusk. It was as long as his forearm and wrapped in an intricate binding of leather thongs that formed handles on either side. Grasping these, Thero closed his eyes and drank deeply. Beneath his fingers, the cup vibrated with the touch of a thousand hands.

  When he looked up again, he and the girl were alone in the clearing. Her face no longer looked so young, and her eyes were flat disks of gold.

  “We are the First Orëska,” she told him. “We are your forebears, your history, Wizard. In you we see our future, as you perceive your past in us. The dance goes on, and your kind will be made whole.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “It is the will of Aura, Thero son of Nysander son of Arkoniel son of Iya daughter of Agazhar, of the line of Aura.”

  Gentle, unseen hands loosened the fastenings of Thero’s garments and they fell away, shoes and all. A will other than his own guided him to the water’s edge, and on, until he was up to his neck in the pool. The water was winter cold, so cold it robbed the breath from his lungs and burned his skin like fire. Turning back toward shore, he was surprised to see himself still standing there beside the woman. Then he was dragged under.

  The water closed over him, filling his eyes and nose and mouth, and then his lungs, yet he felt no discomfort, no panic. Lost in the formless dark, he floated, waiting. And remembering. The night they’d slept by the dragon pool in Akhendi he’d dreamed of this place and of drowning. The dream itself had raveled to mere fragments since then, yet it resonated with the same surety he’d felt when he’d named this place as the Vhadäsoori.

  “What is the purpose of magic, Thero son of Nysander?” the deep voice asked.

  “To serve, to know—” Thero was unsure whether he spoke aloud or only thought the words; it made no difference, for the other heard him.

  “No, little brother, you are wrong. What is the purpose of magic, son of Nysander?”

  “To create?”

  “No, little brother. What is the purpose of magic, son of Nysander?”

  The darkness pushed in on him. He felt the pressure of it in his lungs, smothering him. The first cold stab of fear hit him then, but he forced himself to remain still. “I don’t know,” he replied, humbled.

  “You do, son of Nysander.”

  Son of Nysander. Sparks danced in front of his sightless eyes, but Thero held on to the image of his first mentor, the plain, good-humored man he’d too often underestimated. He recalled with shame his own arrogance and how it had blinded him to Nysander’s wisdom until it was too late to honor it. He recalled the bitterness he’d felt when Nysander kept him from spells his skill could master but his empty heart could not wisely employ. For an instant he heard his old teacher’s voice, patiently explaining, “The purpose of magic is not to replace human endeavor but to aid it.” How many times had he said that over the years? How many times had Thero ignored the importance of the words?

  The crescent moon wavered into view in front of him, dancing gently over the water’s surface far above. Still mired in darkness, Thero felt the power of it breaking in on him, and his mouth stretched wide with joy.

  “Balance!”

  Like a cork buoy suddenly released, he shot to the surface, shattering the moon’s reflection.

  “Balance!” he shouted up at it.

  “Yes,” the voice said approvingly. “Nysander understood better than any Tír the role of Aura’s gifts. We waited for him to come to us, but it was not to be. The task falls to you.”

  What task? Thero wondered with a thrill of excitement.

  “Balance was lost long ago between your people and our own, between the Tír and the Light. Light balances darkness. Silence balances sound. Death balances life. The Aurënfaie preserve the old ways; your kind, left to dance alone for a time, have forged the new.”

  Thero reached a tentative foot down and found solid ground in easy reach. Wading from the pool, he walked to the lone figure awaiting him, an ancient Bash’wai woman. Her face and skin were black in the moonlight, her hair silver.

  Thero fell to his knees in front of her. “Is that why Klia was allowed to come here, and at this time? Did you make this happen?”

  “Make?” She chuckled, and her voice was deep, too large for such a frail frame. She stroked his head like a child’s. “No, little brother, we only dance the dance with whatever steps we can manage.”

  Confused, Thero pressed a hand over his eyes, then looked up again. “You said the wizards of Skala would be made whole. What does that mean?”

  But the Bash’wai was gone. In her place sat a large dragonling with golden eyes. Before Thero could do more than register its presence, it darted forward between his bare thighs and bit him on the scrotum. Leaping up with a panicked shout, he felt his head connect with something hard and the moon spun away like a dropped ring.

  When Thero came to again, he was sprawled facedown and fully clothed just inside the mouth of a tunnel leading off from the main cavern beneath the Nha’mahat.

  A vision! he thought in dazed wonder. He shifted to stand up, then pressed flat again, squeezing his eyes shut as fiery talons of pain tightened around his balls. The memory of Alec’s bitten earlobe, swelled three times its normal size, presented itself ungraciously, and he let out a groan.

  The sound of movement against stone made him open his eyes again. Through a haze of pain, he saw a seated figure uncoil itself from the nearby shadows and resolve into his young guide.

  “Lissik.” She held a flask down for him to see before disappearing behind him.

  A mark of honor, they call these bites! he thought helplessly as she went about her ministrations. If I survive long enough to heal, how am I ever going to show it off?

  People came and went around him. If the sight of a Skalan wizard cackling hysterically on the ground with his robe tucked up around his waist struck any of them as odd, none were so ungracious as to say so in his hearing.

  15

  DISCOMFORT

  Where’s Thero?” Alec wondered aloud as they set off for a banquet in Bry’kha tupa that evening.

  “Gone to visit the rhui’auros,” Klia told him. “I’d expected him back by now.”

  The rain had slacked off to a warm, sullen drizzle. Everyone rode with hoods pulled up, in little clumps behind Klia and Torsin. Alec and Seregil brought up the rear, the closest semblance of privacy they’d had all day. Seizing the opportunity, Alec confided his encounter with Beka and Nyal in the Haunted City.

  Seregil took the news more calmly than he’d expected. “According to Thero, Queen Idrilain herself encourages such unions as part of the mission,” he said quietly.

  Alec glanced around at their Urgazhi escort. “What? Marrying her soldiers off to Aurënfaie?”

  Seregil smirked. “I don’t think marriage is a priority, but one of the goals of our current mission is to get a healt
hy infusion of Aurënfaie blood to renew that stock.”

  “Yes, but—! You mean she hoped Beka and her female riders would come home pregnant?” Alec exclaimed. “I thought they got drummed out for that?”

  “The rules have been relaxed for the time being. No one is talking openly about it, but Thero heard rumors that a bounty has even been offered. I suppose the men are free to bring home any Aurënfaie bride who’ll have them, too.”

  “Bilairy’s Balls, Seregil, that’s coldhearted, turning the best turma in Skala into breeding stock!”

  “When it comes to the survival of a nation, there’s not much that’s considered beyond the pale. It’s not even that unusual. Remember my sojourn among the Dravnians? I kept up my duties as guest, so to speak. Who knows how many of my own offspring are toddling around somewhere up in the Asheks as we speak?”

  Alec raised an eyebrow at this. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. As for our current situation, it’s all for the greater glory of Skala, which makes it honorable enough. How patriotic are you feeling these days?”

  Alec ignored the jibe, but found himself watching the Urgazhi more closely during the banquet that followed.

  Seregil was eating breakfast with Klia and Torsin in the hall early the next morning when Thero came shuffling in. His face was grey and he held himself as if his insides were made of glass and poorly packed.

  “By the Light!” Torsin exclaimed. “My dear Thero, shall I send for a healer?”

  “I’m fine, my lord, just a bit under the weather,” Thero replied, coming to a halt behind an empty chair and grasping the back of it.

  “You’re not fine,” Klia retorted, turning to look at him.

  “It could be river fever,” Seregil offered, suspecting it was no such thing. “I’ll send for Mydri.”

  “No!” Thero said quickly. “No, that’s not necessary. It’s just a slight distemper. It will pass.”

  “Nonsense. Take him back to his room, Seregil,” Klia ordered.

  Thero’s skin felt hot and clammy, and he leaned heavily on Seregil’s arm as he limped back upstairs. Reaching his room, he laid down but refused to undress.

  Seregil stood over him, frowning. “So, what happened?”

  Thero closed his eyes and ran a hand over his unshaven cheek. “A dragon bit me.”

  “Bilairy’s Balls, Thero! Where in Sarikali did you find one big enough to make you this sick?”

  The wizard managed a sickly smile. “Where do you think?”

  “Ah, of course. You’d better let me have a look.”

  “I’ve used lissik on it already.”

  “Lissik won’t do for large bites. Come on now, where is it? Arm? Leg?”

  With a sigh, Thero pulled up the front of his robe.

  Seregil’s eyes widened. “You said Alec’s ear looked like a grape when he got bitten by that little one. This looks more like—”

  “I know what it looks like!” Thero snarled, covering himself.

  “This needs attention. I’ll get something from Mydri. No one has to know the details.”

  “Thank you,” Thero rasped, staring up at the ceiling.

  Seregil shook his head. “You know, I’ve never heard of anyone getting bitten on the—”

  “It was an accident. Just go!” Thero pleaded.

  An accident? Seregil thought, hurrying next door. Not if the rhui’auros had anything to do with it.

  To his considerable relief, Mydri asked few questions. He described the injury in general terms, and she mixed several infusions and a bowl of poultice. Eyeing the latter, Seregil hoped Thero was up to treating himself.

  16

  AN EVENING’S ENTERTAINMENT

  Thero kept to his bed through the next day. Having been bitten himself, Alec couldn’t share Seregil’s amused attitude and was happy enough to keep Thero’s secret.

  He was thankful when Klia decided that he was of more use wandering at large than at the Iia’sidra. Aurënfaie deliberation was conducted at a glacial pace, every issue seemingly tied to centuries of history and precedent. Except for occasional visits to stay abreast of developments, he found other ways to occupy himself.

  As a result, he saw little of Seregil during the day, and the evenings were taken up by a seemingly endless number of banquets with clans major and minor, each fraught with unspoken undercurrents of influence and will.

  When they finally did reach their room again, sometimes only a few hours before dawn, Seregil either fell asleep immediately or disappeared up to the colos to pace in the dark. Alec had seen enough already to know the rejection Seregil faced each day. In public, all but a few avowed friends kept their distance. Members of the Haman clan made no secret of their animosity. As always, however, Seregil preferred to battle his demons alone. Alec’s love might be welcome; his concern was not.

  Adzriel noted her brother’s withdrawal one night during a visit with Klia, and Alec’s muted pain. Putting an arm about his shoulders, she hugged him and whispered, “The bond is there, talí. For now, let it be enough. When he’s ready he will come to you.”

  Alec had no choice but to heed her advice. Fortunately, he had work of his own to do. As he became more familiar with his surroundings, he went more often alone and soon formed a few alliances of his own—and among the class he’d always been most at home with.

  While the Iia’sidra and influential clan members spent their days in solemn debate, the lesser members of the various households frequented the city’s makeshift taverns and gaming houses. Alec’s bow was as good as a letter of introduction in such company. Unlike Seregil, most Aurënfaie were consummate archers and loved to argue makes and weights as much as any northland hunter. Some favored longbows; others carried gracefully reflexed masterpieces of wood and horn. But none had seen anything quite like his Black Radly, and curiosity almost always led to friendly shooting contests.

  Alec had fashioned a few shatta from Skalan coins, and these were much sought after, but he generally won more than he lost and he soon had a respectable collection dangling from his quiver strap.

  Such pastimes bore other fruit, giving him access to that most useful of resources, the careless chatter servants exchange out of their masters’ hearing. Gossip was gold to any spy, and Alec quietly took note. In this way, he learned that the Khatme khirnari, Lhaär ä Iriel, had taken an interest in Klia’s occasional evening rides with the young Silmai horseman, Täanil í Khormai. Alec even managed to sow a few rumors about that himself, though the truth was that Klia found the man something of a bore.

  Alec also picked up reliable rumors that the khirnari of several key minor clans supposedly aligned with friendly Datsia had been seen visiting Ra’basi tupa under cover of night.

  Perhaps his most important discovery, however, was that the khirnari of Lhapnos had quarreled with his supposed ally, Nazien í Hari, over support for Skala, and that several of the Haman’s own people had taken the Lhapnosan’s side. Principal among the dissenters was Alec’s nemesis, Emiel í Moranthi.

  “This is a new development,” Lord Torsin remarked as Alec made his nightly report to Klia.

  The princess gave Alec a wink. “You see, my lord? I told you he’d earn his keep.”

  • • •

  Their tenth night in Sarikali brought a welcome respite. For the first time since their arrival they had no outside obligations, and Klia sent word for the evening meal to be a simple, communal affair in the main hall.

  Alec was in the stable yard passing the time with some of Braknil’s men when Seregil returned from the Iia’sidra alone.

  “Had a good day, did you, my lord?” Minál called out.

  “Not especially,” Seregil snapped, not slowing as he disappeared into the house.

  With an inward sigh, Alec followed him up to their chamber.

  “Aura’s Fingers, I was never meant to be a diplomat!” Seregil burst out as soon as they were alone. A button flew across the room as he yanked off his coat. He flung it into a corne
r and the sweat-soaked shirt beneath quickly followed. Grabbing the ewer from the washstand, he stalked out onto the balcony and emptied it over his head.

  “You might have been a bit more pleasant to poor Minál,” Alec chided, leaning against the doorframe. “He thinks a lot of you, you know.”

  Ignoring him, Seregil slicked the water from his eyes and pushed past him into the room. “No matter what Klia or Torsin says, someone manages to twist it around into a threat. ‘We need iron.’ ‘Oh, no, you want to colonize the Asheks!’ ‘Let us use a northern port.’ ‘You would steal Ra’basi’s trade routes?’

  “Ulan í Sathil is the worst, though he seldom speaks. Oh, no! He just sits there, smiling as if he agrees with everything we say. Then, with a single well-chosen comment, he throws everyone into an uproar again and sits back to watch the fun. Later, you see him gathering the uncertain ones around him, whispering and wagging his finger. Bilairy’s Balls, the man’s smooth. I wish to hell he was on our side.”

  “What can you do?”

  Seregil snorted. “If it were up to me, I’d challenge the whole damn lot of them to a horse race and settle the matter! It’s been done before, you know. What are you laughing at?”

  “You. You’re raving. And dripping.” Alec tossed him a cloth from the washstand.

  Seregil gave him an apologetic grin as he toweled off. “And how did you do today? Anything new?”

  “No. It seems I’ve gleaned all I can among the friendlier folk, and I still haven’t found a way to wiggle in among the Haman or Khatme.” He decided not to share how often his presence had drawn challenging stares and whispers of “garshil” in certain quarters. “In Rhíminee, all I had to do was change clothes and blend into the crowd. Here they mark me as outlander and guard their words. I think it’s time I did a little nightrunning.”

  “I’ve broached the subject to Klia but she says to wait, honorable woman that she is. Be patient, talí.”

  “You counseling patience? That’s a first!”

  “Only because I don’t see any other choice just now,” Seregil admitted. “At least we have a night off. However shall we pass the time?”