And the movements of the necromancer’s hands in the museum.
How Seregil had survived his exposure to the disk unprotected by anything but his own magical block was still a mystery. Equally mystifying was how little protection all Nysander’s carefully prepared spells and charms had been for Seregil from the effects of the crown. In the first case he should have died, in the second he should have had absolute protection, yet in both cases he had sustained wounds but survived.
All this, taken together with the words the Oracle of Illior had spoken to Seregil, left Nysander with the uneasy conviction that much more than mere coincidence was at work.
Stopping, he faced the familiar stretch of wall yet again. With a final check to be certain no eyes, natural or otherwise, were upon him, he spoke a powerful key spell and cast a sighting through stone and magic to the small hidden room beyond.
Immured in the darkness of centuries, the bowl sat on the tiny chamber’s single shelf. To the uninitiated, it was nothing more than a crude vessel of burnt clay, unremarkable in any way. Yet this homely object had dominated his entire adult life, and the lives of three wizards before him.
The Guardians.
To one side of the bowl lay the crystal box containing the disk; on the other, still smeared with the ash of Dravnian cook fires, was the flat wooden case holding the crown.
For no better reason than curiosity, he spoke the Spell of Passage and entered the chamber.
Magic crackled ominously around him in spite of the wards and containment spells. Taking a lightstone from his pocket, he held it up and regarded the bowl solemnly for a moment, thinking again of his predecessors. None of them, not even Arkoniel, had anticipated ever adding to the contents of this hidden and most guarded chamber. Now he had, not once but twice, and their combined song was a pulse of living energy.
His hands stole to the containers on either side of the bowl. What would that song be if I opened these, brought even these three fragments together without the rest? What could be learned from such an experiment?
His right thumb found the catch on the wooden box, rubbed tentatively at it—
Nysander jerked back, made a warding sign, and retreated the way he’d come. Alone in the corridor, he broke the Spell of Passage and slumped against the opposite wall, his heart pounding ominously in his chest.
If just three fragments of the whole could force such thoughts into his mind, then he must be all the more vigilant.
Forced those thoughts into your mind, old man, a niggling inner voice chided, or revealed them there? How many times did Arkoniel warn you that temptation is nothing more than the dark mirror of the soul?
Inevitably, regret followed hard on the heels of memory. Arkoniel had taught him well and early the responsibility of the Guardians, allowing him to share the weight of the secret they preserved. Whom did he share it with?
No one.
Seregil could have been trusted, but the magic had failed him. Thero had the magic, but lacked—what?
Humility, Nysander decided sadly. The humility to properly fear the power contained in this tiny, silver-lined chamber. The more apparent Thero’s abilities became over the years of his apprenticeship, the more certain Nysander was that temptation would be his undoing. Temptation and pride.
Feeling suddenly far older than his two hundred and ninety-eight years, Nysander pressed a hand to the wall, bolstering the warding spells, changing and strengthening them to conceal what must remain concealed. It was a task he’d once thought he would pass along as his master had passed it to him. Now he felt no such certainty.
12
BEKA’S SEND-OFF
Seregil and Alec were lingering over a late lunch one bright afternoon toward the middle of Dostin, when Runcer entered the room with a ragged young girl in tow. Seregil looked up expectantly, recognizing her as the sort who made her living as a message carrier.
“Beka Cavish sends word that the Queen’s Horse is riding out at dawn tomorrow,” the girl recited stiffly.
“Thanks.” Seregil handed her a sester and pushed a plate of sweets her way. Grinning, the child snatched a handful and hid them away in the folds of her ragged skirt.
“Take this message to Captain Myrhini, of the Queen’s Horse,” he told her. “As Beka Cavish’s patron, I’m honor-bound to give her and her turma a proper send-off. The captain is asked to attend and keep order. She may bring anyone else she likes, so long as she gives Beka and her riders a night out. Got that?”
She proudly repeated it back word for word.
“Good girl. Off you go.” Turning back to Alec, Seregil found his young friend frowning worriedly.
“I thought you said nothing would happen before spring?” Alec asked.
“The war? It won’t,” Seregil replied, somewhat surprised by the news himself. “The Queen must have some reason to think the Plenimarans mean to move in early spring, though, and wants troops near the border in case of trouble.”
“This doesn’t give us time enough to send for Micum and Kari.”
“Damn! I didn’t even think of that.” Seregil drummed his fingers on the polished tabletop a moment. “Oh, well. We’ll ride out tomorrow with the details. In the meantime, we’ve got a party to prepare for.”
Word soon came back by the same messenger that Captain Myrhini would release Lieutenant Cavish and her riders for the evening, with the expectation that sufficient food and drink were included in the offer. Seregil had already turned his attention to the preparations with an efficiency that astonished Alec.
Within a few hours, extra servants had been engaged, a raucous group of musicians was installed in the gallery with their fiddles, pipes, and drums, and a steady stream of deliveries from the market had been whipped into a proper feast by the cook and her crew.
In the meantime, the salon was cleared of all breakables and three long trestle tables set up, together with hogsheads of ale and wine set on pitched braces at the head of the room.
Beka and her turma rode into Wheel Street at sunset. They were an impressive sight in their spotless white breeches and green tabards sewn with the regimental crest.
A little daunting even, thought Alec, standing next to Seregil at the front door to welcome them. He’d always envied Beka just a little, being part of such an elite group. The idea of riding into a pitched battle surrounded by comrades had a certain romantic appeal.
“Welcome!” Seregil called.
Beka dismounted and strode up the front steps, her eyes shining almost as brightly as the burnished lieutenant’s gorget hanging at her throat.
“You do us a great honor, my lords,” she said loudly, giving them a wink.
Seregil bowed slightly, then looked over the crowd of riders milling behind her. “That’s a rough-looking bunch you brought. Think they can behave themselves?”
“Not a chance, my lord,” Beka replied smartly.
Seregil grinned. “Well then, come on in, all of you!”
Alec’s awe diminished somewhat as the men and women of Beka’s command filed past into the painted salon. He’d only seen them at a distance on the practice field before—dashing figures clashing in mock battle. Now he saw that most of them were scarcely older than he. Some had the bearing of landless second sons and daughters or merchant’s scions; others—those who stood gaping at the opulent room—came from humbler backgrounds and had earned their place by sheer prowess and the price of a horse and arms.
“I’d like to introduce my sergeants,” Beka said. “Mercalle, Braknil, and Portus.”
Shaking hands with the trio, Alec guessed that most of them had come up through the ranks. Sergeant Mercalle was tall and dark-complected. She was also missing the last two fingers of her right hand, a common wound among warriors. Next to her stood Braknil, a big, solemn-looking man with a bushy blond beard and weather-roughened skin. The third, Portus, was younger than his companions and carried himself like a noble. Alec wondered what his story was; according to Beka, it seemed unlikely tha
t he would not be an officer of some rank.
Seregil shook hands with them. “I won’t embarrass your lieutenant by telling you how long I’ve known her, but I will say that she’s been trained by some of the best swordsmen I know.”
“I can believe that, your lordship,” Braknil replied. “That’s why I asked to serve with her.”
Beka grinned. “Sergeant Braknil’s too tactful to say so, but he was one of the sergeants assigned to train the new commissions when I came in. I started out taking orders from him.”
“A title may guarantee an officer’s commission, but it doesn’t guarantee the officer’s quality,” Mercalle put in rather sourly. “Especially if there hasn’t been a real war to winnow out the chaff in a while. I’ve seen a good many sporting the steel gorget who won’t see high summer.”
“Mercalle’s our optimist,” Portus chuckled, and Alec heard the remnants of a lower city accent behind the man’s smooth words.
“It’s early for you to be sent north, isn’t it?” he asked ingenuously.
“There are rumblings from Plenimar already,” Beka told him. “Queen Idrilain and the Archons of Mycena all want troops in place near the west border of Plenimar before the roads thaw into mud holes next month. They’re not making any secret of it, either. The Sakor Horse Regiment and a squadron of the Yrkani Horse have already headed up to Nanta. We’ll be going farther east.”
“ ‘First in, last out,’ ” Portus said proudly. “That’s been our motto since Gërilain’s day.”
“The Queen’s Horse Guard started as the token group of soldiers King Thelátimos gave his daughter after the Oracle said a woman was to lead the country,” Seregil explained. “She surprised everyone when she led them successfully in battle.”
Braknil nodded. “One of my ancestors was with Gërilain and there’s been at least one of my family with the Guard ever since.”
Stationed by the front door, Runcer announced gravely, “Captain Myrhini and Commander Perris, of the Queen’s Horse, my lords.”
Myrhini strode in, accompanied by a handsome uniformed man Alec had seen around the drilling field. Beka and her riders instantly snapped to attention.
Myrhini introduced her companion as Commander Perris, who led one of the other squadrons of the regiment, then looked around, scowling. “What, no one drunk yet? Lieutenant Beka, explain yourself.”
“I’ll see to it at once, Captain!” Beka replied, coloring a bit.
Seregil laid a hand on her arm. “I thought perhaps some of your soldiers might be a bit self-conscious dancing with each other, so I took the liberty of inviting a few other guests to liven things up.”
At his gesture, the musicians struck up a sprightly tune and a score of richly dressed men and women entered from the dining room, streaming out to partner the soldiers.
“Who are they?” asked Beka, her eyes widening in surprise.
Seregil exchanged an amused look with Alec. “Oh, just a few friends of mine from the Street of Lights who think the Queen’s best regiment deserves nothing less than the best.”
Myrhini covered a smile as Beka’s eyes went wider still as she recognized the significance of the colored tokens each elegant “guest” wore discreetly on their clothing or in their hair—white, green, rose, or amber.
Alec leaned closer to Beka. “From what I understand, you’ll want to stick with amber.”
“From what I understand, Sir Alec, I think I’ll stick with you,” Beka retorted, slipping her arm through his. “Come on and show a soldier a good time, eh?”
• • •
“You are a generous patron,” Commander Perris noted with amusement. “Mind if I join in? I see a familiar face or two.”
“By all means,” Seregil said, smiling.
Myrhini followed Seregil to the table and accepted a cup of wine. “They can do with a bit of spoiling,” she said, watching the milling throng with obvious affection. “It’ll be cold camps and long riding for us between now and spring.”
“And then?” asked Seregil.
Myrhini glanced at him over the rim of her cup, then sighed. “And then it will get worse. Most likely a lot worse.”
“Will this lot be ready?”
“As ready as green soldiers can be. These ones here are some of the best, and so is Beka. I just hope they can stay alive long enough to get seasoned. Nothing but battle experience can do that for them.”
By midnight Alec was drunker than he’d ever been in his life and not only knew all the riders and courtesans by name, but had danced with most of them.
He’d just staggered through a reel with a blue-eyed, tipsily amorous rider named Ariani when Corporal Kallas and his twin brother Aulos grabbed him and hoisted him onto one of the tables.
“Lieutenant says you’re lucky,” Kallas bawled, pulling off his tabard and handing it up to Alec. “So we’re making you our mascot, young Alec my lad.”
Alec pulled on the uniform and made the company an exaggerated bow. “I am honored!”
“You are drunk!” someone shouted back.
Alec considered this, then nodded solemnly. “I am that, but as the Maker teaches us, in the depths of the cup lies the back door to enlightenment—or something like that, anyway.” Snatching up a half-full bottle of wine, he waved it in their general direction. “And the drunker I get, the braver and worthier you all look to me!”
“A visionary of the vine,” Kallas exclaimed, spreading his arms in mock reverence. “Give me your blessing, O beardless sage!”
Alec obligingly slopped some wine on the man’s upturned face. “Long life and a hollow leg, my son.”
Laughing and cheering, the rest of the riders crowded around for his benediction. Quite a number were missing, he noted, and so were most of the courtesans.
He sprinkled the supplicants liberally, doing each in turn until he came to the last, Beka. Her freckled face was flushed with wine and dancing; her wild red hair had escaped her braid and floated in untidy wisps around it. She was as drunk as any of them, and as happy.
As she grinned expectantly up at him, however, Alec felt a brief, sobering chill. His friend, his almost sister, was going off to war.
“Come on, mascot, don’t you have any luck left for me?” she demanded.
Grabbing up a fresh bottle, Alec upended it over her head. “Long life, and luck in the shadows and the light.”
Beka sputtered and laughed and those around her cheered.
“Well done, mascot,” Kallas said. “A blessing that wet’s likely to make her immortal!”
“I hope so,” Alec whispered, looking down at her. “I do hope so.”
13
WATERMEAD
“Master Micum, there’s riders coming up the hill,” a servant shouted to him across the snowy pasture.
Standing atop the hayrack, Micum shaded his eyes against the late afternoon sun and quickly scanned the frozen river boundary. Two horsemen were riding up from the bridge a mile below.
He’d been leery of unannounced visitors since returning from the northlands that past autumn. Despite all Nysander’s assurances to the contrary, he still didn’t feel easy in his mind about Mardus and his gang.
So he studied the riders with a chary eye. Seeing that they kept to the main track, and rode at an unhurried canter with weapons sheathed, he ruled out enemy or messenger. They were still too far away to make out faces, but he soon recognized the horses.
Frowning, he pushed his way through the colts milling around the hayrack and set off for the house. More often than not, unexpected visits from Seregil meant a summons to Watcher business. Kari was three moons gone now and the sickness had passed, leaving in its wake the glowing bloom of mid term pregnancy. Nonetheless, she was older this time and he disliked the thought of leaving her.
A farm hand met him apologetically in the courtyard. “Illia run ahead with the dogs to meet ’em soon as she made out who it was, Master Micum. I didn’t think it no harm.”
“Not this time maybe, R
anil, but I don’t like her getting in the habit of it,” Micum retorted gruffly.
Seregil and Alec clattered into the court a few moments later, with Illia perched proudly on Alec’s saddlebow. They were both looking a little pale, Micum noted, but they seemed in good spirits otherwise.
“So I might have to marry Alec when I’m grown,” Illia was prattling across to Seregil. “I hope that won’t hurt your feelings too much.”
Seregil slapped a hand over his heart like a troubadour in a mural. “Ah, fair maiden, I shall slay a thousand evil dragons for you, and lay their steaming black livers at your dainty feet, if only you will restore me to your favor.”
“Livers!” Illia buried her face against Alec’s shoulder with an outraged giggle. “You wouldn’t bring me livers, would you, Alec?”
“Of course not,” Alec scoffed. “What a disgusting present. I’d bring you the eyeballs for a necklace, and all their scaly pointed tongues to tie your braids with.”
Shrieking with delight, Illia slid off into her father’s arms.
“Hey, little bird, what are you doing running off by yourself?” he asked sternly.
“It’s just Uncle Seregil and Alec. And I wasn’t alone,” she added coyly, shawl askew as she spread her arms grandly over the pack of great shaggy hounds jostled around them, like a general over her troops. “Dash and all the others came with me.”
“You know the rules, young miss,” Micum remonstrated. “Run in now and tell your mother who’s here.”
“What brings you two up?” he asked, turning back to the others with a twinge of relief; they were dressed for visiting rather than traveling.
Seregil waded through the dogs to hand him a stitched packet of letters. “Beka asked us to bring this out to you. Her regiment left at dawn.”
“What, today? We should have been there to see her off!”
“There wasn’t time,” Alec explained quickly, coming up beside Seregil. “The orders came yesterday. We gave her and her riders a proper send-off last night, though.” He rubbed his head with a rueful grin. “I think I’m still a little drunk.”
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