Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

  There was no panic this time, but he knew where he had to go; he could feel the pull of the place like a hook under his breastbone. With a sigh, he slipped out of bed, wondering if he could make it back before the day’s visitors began to arrive.

  Someone was singing a dawn song from an upper window of the Nha’mahat as Seregil approached on horseback. Flocks of tiny dragons whirled around the building, their drab bodies turned to dusky gold by the first rays of morning.

  “Maros Aura Elustri chyptir,” he whispered, not sure what the reason for the prayer was, except that he suddenly felt grateful for the sight before him and the fact that he was here in this blessed place to witness it.

  Donning a mask at the door, he followed a guide into the main chamber. A few dreamers already lay there. “I’d like to speak with Lhial, if I may,” Seregil told the girl.

  “Lhial is dead,” she replied.

  “Dead?” he gasped. “When? How?”

  “Almost forty years ago. It was a wasting illness, I think.”

  The floor seemed to shift subtly under Seregil’s feet. “I see. May I use a dhima?”

  She prepared a firepot for him and gave him a handful of the dreaming herb. He accepted these with a respectful bow and hurried down to the cavern below. Choosing one of the little huts at random, he stripped and crawled under the door flap, welcoming the steamy closeness this time. Settled on the rush matting, he threw the herbs onto the coals and waved a hand to mix the smoke and steam.

  Taking deep, rhythmic breaths, he slowly relaxed as the mildly narcotic smoke took hold.

  His first thought was the realization that he felt no fear, and had felt none from the moment he’d impulsively decided to come here. He was not choking. He’d come here of his own volition, without fear or resentment.

  Seregil closed his eyes, pondering this as sweat collected inside the mask, tickling his nose. The smoke from the herbs seared his lungs, making him light-headed, but he welcomed the sensations and waited.

  “You begin to understand, son of Korit,” a familiar voice said.

  Opening his eyes, Seregil found himself sitting on sun-washed stone overlooking the dragon pool in the mountains of Akhendi fai’thast. Lhial sat beside him, his eyes golden again.

  “I’m not certain I do, Honored One,” Seregil admitted, shivering a little as a chill mountain breeze blew across his bare skin.

  The rhui’auros picked up a pebble and threw it into the pool below. Seregil followed it with his eyes, then looked back to find Nysander sitting there in Lhial’s place. Somehow, the transformation didn’t surprise him. Instead, he felt a rush of the same inexplicable gratitude the sight of the dragonling swarm had given him.

  Nysander sat cross-legged, looking out over the water, his plain face serene. He wore one of his threadbare old coats, and the toes of his worn boots were wet, as if he’d been walking through dew-laden grass. The curling white hair that edged his bald pate stirred in the breeze, and Seregil could see a smudge of ink in his close-cropped beard. Not once since Nysander’s death had Seregil dreamed of his old friend. When he remembered him waking, no matter how he tried, the sight of Nysander’s bloody, dead face rose in his mind’s eye to obscure any happier memory.

  He looked away quickly, bracing for the vision to shift. A gentle hand cupped his chin, turning him back to face the wizard.

  “Open your eyes, Seregil.”

  He did, and nearly wept with relief to find Nysander, unchanged.

  “You have a stubborn mind sometimes, dear boy,” he said, patting Seregil’s cheek. “You can track a black cat on a moonless night, yet so much of your own heart is still unknown to you. You must pay better attention.”

  Nysander took his hand away, and Seregil saw that the wizard now held one of the mysterious glass orbs. With a careless flick of his wrist, he tossed it up into the air. It glittered a moment in the sunlight, then fell to shatter on the rocks at their feet. For one terrible instant Seregil was back on the windswept Plenimaran ledges, blood—Nysander’s blood—dripping from his ruined blade. Just as quickly, the image was gone.

  “Didn’t it make a lovely sound?” the wizard asked, smiling down at the tiny shards.

  Seregil blinked back tears, trying to make sense of what he was being shown. “The rhui’auros said I have to keep them.”

  But Nysander was gone, and Lhial sat in his place again, shaking his head. “I said they were yours, son of Korit. But you know that. You knew it before you ever came to me.”

  “No, I don’t!” Seregil cried, but with less conviction now. “What am I supposed to do?”

  The wind blew colder. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, trying to warm himself. He felt movement next to him and saw that Lhial had been replaced this time by a young dragon the size of a bull. Its eyes were gold, and kind.

  “You are a child of Aura, little brother, a child of Illior. The next step in your dance is at hand. Carry only what you need,” the dragon told him, speaking with Lhial’s voice. With that, it spread leathery wings with a sound like summer thunder and rose to blot out the sun.

  Seregil was drowned in darkness. The hot, acrid atmosphere of the dhima closed around him like a fist. Fighting for breath, he found the door flap and scrambled out, then collapsed gasping on the warm, rough stone outside.

  There was something beneath his left hand. Even without the faint light filtering down to him from the main cavern, he knew what it was; recognized the curve of cool, slightly rough glass under his fingers. Swaying to his feet, he weighed the sphere on his palm for a moment; it was heavy, too heavy for something no bigger than a raven’s egg. It was precious, loathsome; his to do with as he wished.

  Carry only what you need.

  With sudden vehemence, he flung it against the far wall. There were no visions this time, just the sharp, satisfying chink of breaking glass.

  The sun was still low over the eastern horizon when he emerged from the Nha’mahat. His body hurt and he was as tired as if he really had journeyed to the mountains and back on foot.

  Back at the guest house, he found Alec still abed, a pillow over his head. He woke as Seregil closed the door, emerging sleep-tousled and yawning.

  “There you are,” he said, raising himself on one elbow. “Out early again? Where’d you go this time?”

  No words would come. Seregil sat down on the edge of the bed and ruffled Alec’s tangled hair. “Just wandering,” he said at last. “Come on. We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

  The Haman were among the last to pay their respects to Klia. Warned of Nazien í Hari’s arrival, Seregil tactfully withdrew with Alec to a side chamber, where they could watch the proceedings from behind the door.

  The khirnari was accompanied by ten of his clan, including Emiel í Moranthi.

  “Suppose Nazien knows where his nephew was last night?” whispered Alec.

  Seregil found himself hoping in spite of himself that Nazien did not. Proud and arrogant the Haman might be, but Klia had clearly taken a liking to the man and it seemed to be reciprocated.

  Nazien and the others laid their little cedar bundles on the brazier and bowed to Klia.

  While Nazien chatted quietly with her, Seregil watched his nephew’s face for some betraying expression. Emiel merely looked distant, and a bit bored.

  When the initial greetings had been dispensed with, Klia leaned forward and regarded the old man earnestly. “Tell me, Khirnari, will the Iia’sidra vote soon on my petition? I long for my homeland, and to do proper honors at the grave of my mother.”

  “It is time,” Nazien agreed. “You have been most patient, though I wonder if you will be pleased with the outcome.”

  “Then you think it will fail?”

  Nazien spread his hands “I cannot speak for all the others. For myself, regardless of my feelings toward your kinsman, the Exile, I wish you to know that I have never supported the stringent measures the Edict of Separation have forced on us.”

  Standing behin
d his uncle, Emiel said nothing, but Seregil thought he saw him tense.

  “I’m an old man, and perhaps a wishful one,” Nazien went on. “Now and then I almost think I see a glimpse of my friend Corruth in you, my lady, as I last saw him. You are like him in many ways: patient, forthright, and quick of wit. I think perhaps you possess his stubbornness, as well.”

  “How strange,” Klia said softly. “Corruth í Glamien is a figure of legend to me. His body, before it was destroyed, was a preserved relic of ancient days. Yet to you he will always be the friend of your youth, unchanged, as Seregil is to me. What is it like, I wonder, to be ’faie or wizard, to live long enough to span such memories? My life is so brief in comparison, yet it doesn’t seem so to me.”

  “Because you use it well,” Nazien replied. “But I fear your time in Sarikali grows short and I fear we may not meet again. I would be most honored if you would hunt with me before you depart.”

  “The honor would be mine,” Klia replied warmly. “Virésse is hosting a great gathering tomorrow night; perhaps the following morning?”

  “As you like, Klia ä Idrilain.”

  “Perhaps you should warn her that we Haman take the hunt most seriously,” Emiel put in pleasantly. “Tradition dictates that the feast be made up of whatever is caught that day. There’s always the chance you and your people will have to sup on bread and turab with the rest of us.”

  “You’re fortunate in my choice of companions, then, Emiel í Moranthi,” Klia laughed. “Alec í Amasa can probably supply us all with ample meat.”

  Seregil nudged Alec in the ribs as several Haman covered shocked looks. “Sounds like you’re invited, at least.”

  28

  BURGLARS AT THE BANQUET

  Whether it was Klia’s tacit approval for them to spy on her behalf, or simply the end of the enforced abstinence, Seregil surprised Alec with a burst of passion as soon as they were alone that evening.

  “What’s this?” Alec laughed as he was propelled none too gently onto the bed. Thanks to Seregil’s frequent dark moods and the lingering effects of his mysterious “fall,” they’d scarcely touched in days, weeks even.

  “If you have to ask, then it has been too long,” Seregil growled, yanking Alec’s coat open and fumbling with his belt. He was wild, urgent, hungry to please. Alec responded in kind, neither of them noticing until much later that the door of their balcony was open to the world.

  “We’ve probably got everyone from here to the kitchens blushing or cursing our names,” Seregil laughed when he’d finally collapsed on the floor beside the bed.

  Alec hung an arm over the side and toyed with a strand of his dark hair. “If they can still hear us, tell them to fetch a healer to restring my joints.”

  Seregil grasped his hand and pulled him over the edge, grunting as Alec landed on top of him. “Bilairy’s Guts, talí, you’re all knees and elbows.” Nuzzling Alec’s neck, he inhaled appreciatively. “You smell so good! How is it I always forget how—”

  Alec pulled back to look at him. “There’s something I forgot to tell you the other night when I got back from Ulan’s. The business about Phoria drove it right out of my head.”

  “Hmmm? You forgot—” Seregil murmured, hands roaming.

  Alec caught one of them and pinned it against his chest. “Listen, will you? While I was spying on Ulan, a strong smell like perfume warned me that a watchman was coming to the room where I was hiding.”

  This got Seregil’s attention. “Warned you how?”

  “It distracted me so that I saw the watchman coming. I’d have been caught for sure if it hadn’t. And it wasn’t the first time I smelled it, either.”

  “Oh?”

  Alec rolled free and sat up. “It was just after we arrived in Sarikali. Kheeta took me to the House of the Pillars and we ran into Emiel í Moranthi.…” He faltered, seeing Seregil’s eyes narrow dangerously. “It was just some insults, that’s all.”

  “I see. Then what?”

  “As we were leaving I smelled that same sweet scent at about the same moment I thought I heard someone following us. Maybe that was a warning, too.”

  Seregil nodded thoughtfully. “Some people experience the Bash’wai that way.”

  A superstitious chill spider-walked up Alec’s spine. “You think that’s what it was?”

  “I expect so. Interesting.”

  “That’s one word for it,” Alec replied. “Where I’m from, it’s an unlucky thing when the dead take an interest in you.”

  “And where I’m from, we say take what the Lightbringer sends and be thankful.” Seregil chuckled, rising to pull him into bed again. “Keep your nose to the breeze and let me know if you smell it again.”

  Corporal Nikides gave Seregil and Alec a knowing smirk the next morning as they went through the kitchen passage. “Good to have the mourning over with, eh, my lords?”

  “Damn right,” Seregil agreed jauntily.

  “Oh, hell!” Alec growled beneath his breath, coloring hotly.

  Seregil wrapped an arm around his friend’s waist. “Oh, come now, you didn’t think it was any secret, did you? Or are you ashamed of me, my stiff-necked Dalnan prude?”

  For a moment he feared Alec would pull away. Instead, he found himself pinned roughly against the wall of the now deserted hallway.

  Pressing his hands to the stone on either side of Seregil’s head, Alec leaned in for a bruising kiss. “Of course I’m not ashamed, but I was a stiff-necked Dalnan prude before you came along, so next time let’s make certain the door’s closed, all right?”

  Seregil clucked his tongue in mock concern. “Dear me, I see there’s a good deal more we have to work on with you.” Laughing, he slipped under Alec’s arm and continued on toward the hall. “At the solstice festival here, they—”

  “I know what they do,” said Alec. “I only pray we’re back in Skala before then.”

  Klia and the wizard were there, waiting for the rest to join them before leaving for the council.

  “You two are looking remarkably well rested this morning,” Klia observed dryly.

  “As are you, my lady,” Seregil returned with gallant good humor, trying not to laugh as Alec cringed beside him. “We’ll all be needing our wits about us today.”

  An air of expectation hung over the Iia’sidra chamber as the members gathered for the morning session. Seated with Alec in his usual place behind Klia, Seregil studied the faces around the council circle and read in many a subtle, collective tension that hadn’t been there a week before. The Khatme were looking unusually sanguine, the Akhendi grim—both bad weather signs for Skala. Ulan’s private cabal had certainly had an effect.

  Elos í Orian was the first to speak. He paused a moment to tuck back the ends of his brown-and-white sen’gai, letting the others wait, then addressed the chamber with the ease of one who has had his speech laid out for him in advance.

  “Klia á Idrilain, you have shown great patience,” he began, acknowledging her with a nod. “Your presence here has done honor to your race, and brought new insight to our people.” He turned to the assembly. “Are we of the Iia’sidra unaware of the pain such delay must have caused her and her people? Many things have been discussed in this chamber; all have had their say. What more is there to be done?” He paused for a murmur of approval. “The will of Aura and the people must be served. To that end, I propose that the vote be cast at the Vhadäsoori in seven days’ time.”

  One by one, the khirnari signaled unanimous consent.

  “That’s the first thing they’ve agreed on since we’ve been here,” muttered Alec.

  The decision brought the council to an abrupt halt. Abandoning the orderly rote, people wandered freely, major and minor clans alike. Some, including the Akhendi, left quickly. Others lingered to cajole and harangue one another.

  The Skalans and Bôkthersans withdrew and rode back to their tupa together.

  “It was most tactful of Ulan to have his daughter’s husband push for the vote,
” Adzriel observed sourly.

  “You think he means to capitalize on the doubts he’s sown?” asked Klia.

  “Of course he does,” said Seregil. “How long do you suppose he’s been planning this maneuver? You notice he’s one of the last to host a feast in your honor?”

  “Ostensibly in my honor,” Klia said. “He’s invited everyone in Sarikali.”

  “I’ve been to Virésse banquets. They may throw us out of Aurënen empty-handed, but at least they’ll show us a good time first. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Torsin?”

  Caught coughing softly into his handkerchief, Torsin wiped his lips and smiled. “He cannot present his usual collection of foreign entertainments here, but I’m certain he will provide us with a most memorable evening.”

  “If he’s so certain of the decision, why did he have Elos í Orian set a date a week off?” Alec asked. “Why not tomorrow?”

  “It’s the least time allowed before a vote,” Säaban í Irais explained. “As you’ve all observed, the Aurënfaie prefer not to rush into anything. It’s an auspicious number, seven; a quarter of the moon’s cycle, and the time it takes for it to pass into each of the four phases.”

  “Auspicious for whom, I wonder?” asked Klia.

  “ ‘The same moon shines on all,’ ” Mydri quoted.

  “True,” Seregil agreed. “And this isn’t over yet; at least we have a little time to sway the undecided. This hunt of yours with the Haman tomorrow feels like a turn of luck to me. Nazien í Hari has already taken a liking to you. He could be a valuable advocate. If he comes around to our side, his vote could make the difference.”

  “Yet that would mean antagonizing both Lhapnos and many members of his own clan,” Torsin reminded him. “I hesitate to put too much stock in his support.”