Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

  “What are you implying?” demanded Adzriel.

  Ulan spread his hands. “I merely speculate. Perhaps Seregil knows of something that takes precedence over the outcome of his current mission here.”

  For an instant, Thero forgot to breathe. Had Ulan’s Plenimaran spies found out so soon of Korathan’s ill-timed attack, or had Nyal somehow managed to betray them in this, as well? Rising, he said, “I can assure you, Khirnari, nothing is more important to Seregil or any of us than the success of our labors here.” Even in his own ears, this scrap of truth sounded far less convincing than any lie he’d told so far.

  “I do not mean to impugn Thero í Procepios’s honor when I point out that we have only his word for that,” Ulan said smoothly. “Nor when I also point out that it was Seregil himself, a proven traitor and murderer, who possesses the greatest knowledge of the device he claims was used to poison Klia. It was he himself who so easily and fortuitously found the ring in my house, thereby discrediting Skala’s staunchest opponent.”

  “Are you suggesting that he poisoned Klia?” asked Brythir.

  “I suggest nothing, yet she is not dead, is she? Perhaps a man who knows so much about poisons would also know how to administer them so as to not quite kill, thereby creating the semblance of a botched murder attempt?”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Thero retorted, but his protest was drowned out by the renewed burst of exclamations from all sides. People were out of their seats, shouting and arguing, crowding out onto the chamber floor. Even Brythir í Nien could not make himself heard over the din.

  Thero shook his head, marveling at the ease with which the Virésse khirnari could manipulate an audience. Still, there was more than one way to get people’s attention. Climbing up on his chair, he clapped his palms together over his head, forgetting, in his haste, to make allowances for the strange energy of the city.

  Daylight failed for an instant, then a deafening clap of thunder rocked the chamber, rumbling around the room for the space of several heartbeats.

  The result was nearly comical. People clutched at each other, clapped hands over their ears, or fell dumbstruck back into their seats. Ears ringing, Thero groped for the chair’s back to keep his balance.

  “Whatever Seregil has done, for whatever reasons, the matter of teth’sag lies between him and the Haman,” he declared. “The greater wrong remains that done to Princess Klia, who lies insensible at the heart of a city she believed held no violence. Hunt him down if you must, but do not let the actions of one man destroy all we have worked toward during these long weeks! By all the sacred names of the Lightbearer, Klia has acted with nothing but honor, and been rewarded with injury, yet she demands no vengeance. I pray you remember that when the vote is cast—”

  “How can you speak of a vote?” Lhaär ä Iriel demanded, gathering herself up from the floor and shaking off anyone who tried to assist her. “You see what comes of oaths made by the Tír. Cast them out and be done with it!”

  “The vote will go forward,” Brythir declared. “In the meantime, let the Exile be found and returned to face judgment.”

  Adzriel took the floor. “My fellow khirnari, Klia has labored long and honorably among us, as did Lord Torsin. They have been wronged; to cast the vote while she is unable to speak for herself would wrong her further. Until she recovers and the confusion that enfolds us has been lifted, I call upon the Iia’sidra to show mercy and postpone their decision. A few more days or weeks, what is that to us compared to what it may mean for Skala?”

  “Let the Exile be brought back!” Elos of Goliníl called out, casting a dark look Thero’s way. “I say we postpone the vote until he has answered for his actions. Only then will any doubts regarding Skala’s true intentions be resolved.”

  “You speak wisely, Khirnari, as does Nazien í Hari,” said Nyal, speaking up again. “I know the Exile and his companions better than any of you and would not see them brought to harm. They’re most likely on their way north to Gedre, or west to Bôkthersa. You all know that I’m accounted a skilled tracker, and I know that country well. With the Iia’sidra’s consent, I will lead a search party.”

  An angry outcry went up from the Bôkthersans, but Brythir stilled them with one upraised hand. “I accept your offer, Nyal í Nhekai, assuming Nazien í Hari has no objections.”

  “He may do as he likes,” the Haman retorted. “I sent searchers west and north as soon as I learned of Seregil’s escape.”

  Bowing, Nyal left the floor without looking in Thero’s direction, and the wizard’s fingers itched for magic to strike the man down.

  Glaring at the Ra’basi’s back, Thero vowed silently, I’ll give you teth ’sag. If any harm comes to my friends through you, no law or magic will be enough to protect you!

  The Skalan guest house had become a fortress in Thero’s absence. Armed guards stood at every door, and others paced the roof. Hurrying inside, he managed to make it to a chair near the door before his legs gave out. The sergeants and a handful of Urgazhi were waiting for him in the hall, together with several of the servants.

  “What are you still doing here?” he asked the Bôkthersans.

  Kheeta’s mother shrugged. “Klia is still Adzriel’s kin, and her guest. We do not desert our guests.”

  The wizard gave her a grateful nod, then quickly sketched out the debacle he’d just witnessed.

  “Nyal’s gone against us?” asked Corporal Nikides, stunned. “How can he do that to the captain? I’d have sworn—”

  “What, that he loved her?” Sergeant Braknil let out a snort. “It’s the oldest trick in the book, damn him! And he was good at it, too. He fooled me, and I’ve been out of the barn a time or two.”

  “He fooled us all,” Thero admitted sadly. “I just hope Seregil and the others have had enough of a start to get through.”

  Gathering what strength he had left, he climbed the stairs to Klia’s chamber.

  41

  REVELATIONS IN THE RAIN

  A gentle drizzle dogged Alec and Seregil through the day, growing heavier and mixing with brief spates of sleet as afternoon slowly wore toward evening.

  “This is a useless sort of rain,” Seregil griped, shivering as he pulled his damp cloak around him. “It’s not coming down hard enough to wash away our tracks.”

  “It’s easier to stay warm in a snowstorm than in this,” Alec agreed, chilled himself. His cloak and tunic had already soaked through at the shoulders and across the tops of his thighs. Now he could feel the wetness spreading. Waterlogged clothing wicked heat away from the body; even this late in the spring a man could take a killing chill from it. To make matters worse, the route Seregil had chosen ascended into the mountains sooner than the main road. The peaks in the distance ahead showed patches of white where snowfields still blanketed the summits. The dull outline of the sun, just visible through the mist, was sinking steadily in the west, stealing back the scant warmth of the day.

  “We’re going to have to stop soon,” he said, chafing his arms with his hands. “Somewhere we can make a fire.”

  “We can’t risk it yet,” Seregil replied, scanning the road ahead.

  “Dying of the chills will slow us down worse than getting cap-lured, don’t you think?”

  Seregil urged his horse up a steep stretch of trail. They were still in the trees, but a wind was rising, adding to their discomfort. When the ground leveled out enough for them to ride abreast again, he turned to Alec, who knew at once by his slight frown and distant expression that he hadn’t been thinking of rain or shelter.

  “Even if Emiel is out to supplant Nazien, killing Klia would almost certainly work against him, don’t you think? Emiel’s a violent bastard, and no mistake, still—” He broke off, rubbing ruefully at the latest bruise on his jaw. “It’s just a gut feeling, but after talking with him in the barracks that night, I can’t imagine him risking the loss of honor.”

  “After all he did to you?” Alec growled. “I still say he’s the most likely one. Wh
at about Ulan í Sathil?”

  “Do you really think that man would make such a silly botch of the whole business? Would a man who knows how to foment civil war in another country have hidden the ring in his own courtyard like some common blackmailer keeping his dirty little collection of letters under his mattress?

  “No, he’s too smart for that. If he had done it, we’d never have found him out. Besides, why would he do such a thing if Torsin was attempting some compromise in Virésse’s favor. Which leaves us looking elsewhere. You recall what I said about the ’faie?”

  Alec grinned. “That they’re no good at murder because they don’t do enough of it to keep in practice?”

  “Ask the right questions,” Seregil murmured, wandering off into his own thoughts again. “We’re approaching this as if we’re tracking some practiced assassin—it’s what we’re used to.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “Amateurs! They’re the worst.”

  “The Ra’basi have been cagey about which side of the fence they’re on,” Alec said, though he was more reluctant than ever to suspect Nyal after all his help with Klia. “The poison is one they’re familiar with, and they had a man inside our house. And what about the Khatme? If I were going to pick anyone out for sheer malice, Lhaär and her lot would be it. It’s clear they don’t regard Tírfaie as equals. Perhaps they wouldn’t count killing one or two as any great crime.”

  “An interesting thought,” said Seregil. “And their religious zeal seems to have grown in my absence. I’ve seen that wreak more havoc than magic when it comes to war.” Still, he didn’t sound convinced.

  • • •

  They spent the night in a ruined hut, huddled miserably together under damp blankets as they ate a cold supper of dried venison, cheese, and rainwater. A wind came up soon after sunset, finding its way through every hole and chink of their paltry shelter, stirring the soaked clothing that lined the hut’s one sound wall.

  Pressed shoulder to shoulder with Alec, Seregil rested his head on his knees and tried to ignore the fits of shivering that shook him, and the way the slightest movement sucked cold air in around the edges of the blankets. He wasn’t dangerously cold, just miserably uncomfortable.

  As usual, Alec warmed faster. “Come here,” he said presently, pulling Seregil to sit between his legs, back to Alec’s chest. He rearranged the blankets into a better cocoon around them and wrapped his arms around him. “Better?”

  “A bit.” Seregil jammed his hands under his armpits to warm them.

  Alec chuckled next to his ear. “I don’t think you’d have survived where I grew up.”

  Seregil snorted softly. “I could say the same about you. I had some lean times and harsh lessons, wandering around Skala.”

  “The Rhíminee Cat.”

  “I was a lot of things before that. Ever wonder why I was so generous to whores, back when you first met me?”

  “Not until just now.” Alec’s voice carried a note of weary resignation.

  Seregil stared out a hole in the roof, watching the dark shapes of branches tossing in the wind. “Being back there, in Sarikali—it’s like—I don’t know, like being there clouded my mind. Considering the shambles we’ve left behind, I’m not sure how useful I’ve been to Idrilain, or to Klia.” He took a deep breath, fighting down a surge of guilt. “We should have been able to learn more, do more.”

  Alec’s arms tightened around him. “We would have, but Phoria cocked it up for us. And you’re right about us being the only ones who could get to the coast. You’re probably right about Emiel.”

  “Maybe, but I feel as if I’ve been sleepwalking since we arrived.”

  “I believe I pointed that out to you, not so long ago,” Alec noted wryly. “It wasn’t just you, though. Aurënen’s a damn hard place for nightrunners. Too much honor.”

  Seregil chuckled. “Whatever happened to that honest Dalnan lad I took up with?”

  “Long gone, and good riddance.” Alec shifted his legs to a more comfortable angle. “Do you really think Korathan will listen to you?”

  “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “I’ll have to make him listen.”

  They fell silent, and presently Alec’s even breathing told Seregil that he’d fallen asleep. He shifted against Alec’s shoulder, mind still racing.

  Perhaps he had needed to get clear of Sarikali’s powerful aura. The rhui’auros’s convoluted words, his own strange dreams, his pathetic efforts to prove himself worthy—where had it all gotten him, except deeper into confusion? He was sick to death of the whole business and longed for the dangerous, straightforward life he’d left behind in Skala. Something Adzriel had said to him, when they’d seen each other so briefly in Rhíminee just before the war, came back to him. Could you ever be content to sit under the lime trees at home, telling tales to the children, or debating with the elders of the council whether the lintel of the temple should be painted white or silver?

  His new sword lay close at hand, and he reached out, running his fingers over the hilt, thinking of how he’d felt, grasping it for the first time. Whatever the rhui’auros or Nysander or his family or even Alec thought, he was good at one thing, and one thing only—being a nightrunner. Courtier, wizard’s apprentice, diplomat, honorable clan member, son—failed efforts, all.

  Sitting here, with a sword at his side, Alec at his back, a dangerous journey ahead, and who knew how many of his former countrymen seeking his blood, he felt at peace for the first time in months.

  “So be it,” he murmured, drifting off at last.

  The dream had altered again. He was in his old room, but this time it was cold and dingy, full of dust. The shelves were empty, the hangings tattered, the plastered walls peeling and streaked with grime. A few toys and his mother’s painted screen lay broken on the floor. This was worse, he thought, overwhelmed with a grief that outweighed any fear. Weeping, he fell to his knees beside the sagging bed, waiting for the flames to come. Instead, the silence and chill increased around him as the light began to fail. Somehow, he knew the rest of the house would be just as empty and didn’t have the heart to investigate. He sobbed on, so cold that his teeth chattered. Exhausted at last, he wiped his nose on the hem of the rotting comforter and heard the familiar clink of glass.

  The glass orbs, he thought with a flash of rage that outmatched his earlier grief Springing up, he raised his arm to sweep them off the bed, then stopped, stunned to see them arranged in an intricate circular pattern, like a sunburst. Some were black; others glowed like jewels. The whole pattern was several feet across, and at its center a sword had been driven to the hilt into the mattress. He hesitated, fearful of disturbing the design, then pulled the blade free and watched in awe as it began to shift form. One moment it was the sword he’d sacrificed the day he’d slain Nysander, the next it had a pommel like a dark new moon. But others followed, other swords, and strange steel tubes with bent handles of bone or wood, each one streaked with blood. It ran down onto his hand in an ever increasing flow, staining the lines of his palm, dripping onto the bed.

  Looking down, he saw that the orbs were gone; in their place lay a square black banner stitched with the same intricate design. The blood droplets still falling from his hand clung to the material and turned to ruby beads where they fell.

  “It is not complete, son of Korit,” a voice whispered, and suddenly he was engulfed in searing pain and darkness—

  Alec woke with a strangled curse when something hit him hard in the face. Momentarily blinded by the pain, he struggled frantically against the weight pressing down on his chest and legs. It disappeared, replaced by a blast of cold air against his sweaty skin. The bright, hot taste of blood at the back of his mouth made him gag. Touching his nose gingerly, he felt wetness. “What the hell—?”

  “Sorry, talí.”

  It was still too dark to see Seregil, but Alec heard scuffling in the darkness, then felt a tentative touch on his arm.

  He spat
in the opposite direction, trying to get the blood out of his mouth. “What happened?”

  “Sorry,” said Seregil again. Alec heard more fumbling, then blinked at the sudden brightness of a lightstone. Seregil held it in one hand and was rubbing the back of his head with the other. “Looks like my nightmare woke us both up.”

  “You can keep yourself warm next time,” Alec growled, trying with limited success to pull the remaining blanket around him.

  Seregil picked up the other and used a corner of it to staunch Alec’s nosebleed. His hands were shaking badly, though, and Alec pulled back to avoid further damage. “How long were we asleep?”

  “Long enough. Let’s move on,” Seregil replied, widened eyes betraying some of the confusion Alec could feel radiating from him.

  They dressed in silence, shivering at the unpleasant feel of damp wool and leather. Outside, the wind was still blowing, but Alec felt a change in the weather. Emerging from the hut, he saw stars showing through long rents in the scudding clouds. “Only an hour or two before dawn, I think.”

  “Good.” Seregil mounted and looped the lead rein of his spare horse around the saddle horn. “We should reach the first guarded pass about then.”

  “Guarded?”

  “Magicked,” Seregil amended, sounding more himself now. “I could get through it in the dark, but I wouldn’t want you doing it blindfolded. It’s a bit tricky in places.”

  “There’s something for me to look forward to,” Alec grumbled, dabbing at his nose with his sleeve. “That, and a cold breakfast on horseback.”

  Seregil raised an eyebrow at him. “Now you’re starting to sound like me! Next thing you know, you’ll be wanting a hot bath.”

  Nyal had made a show of checking the Skalan’s stables and searching out hoofprints, though he already had a fair idea of where Seregil and the others were headed. He’d shadowed them long enough to see them change horses at the way station and continue up the main road. Later, at the Iia’sidra, he’d overheard the Akhendi khirnari warn Nazien í Hari of a certain pass Seregil was likely to head for, one Nyal knew well for reasons of his own.