Stalking Darkness

by Lynn Flewelling

  Mardus looked down at the dead man again. “Two thieves in as many days? Rather a lot, don’t you think, even for this part of the city.” He watched with satisfaction as a fish hook of anxiety tugged in the necromancer’s cheek. “A pity we weren’t here the night our young friend made his visit,” he continued. “Then it could have been him lying here dead and unable to be questioned, instead of this useless piece of meat. Get rid of it before it attracts any attention.”

  Vargûl Ashnazai muttered a summons through clenched teeth and the darkness beside them convulsed. A second dra’gorgos materialized, a wavering, faceless presence that hung like smoke for an instant before streaming down into the dead man’s mouth and nose. The body gave a convulsive jerk, then lumbered clumsily to its feet. There was no semblance of life in the face; the dead glazed eyes remained fixed, the one on the ruined side of the head bulging grotesquely from its smashed socket.

  Mardus regarded the thing with detached interest. “How long can you maintain it in this state?”

  “Until it decomposes, my lord, but I fear it would be of little use. So much of the magic is consumed simply to animate it that it lacks the dra’gorgos’ strength. That, of course, will not be the case once our purpose has been accomplished.”

  “Indeed not.” Mardus touched a gloved hand briefly to the corpse’s chest, feeling the black emptiness of death within—such power in that void, and so nearly in his grasp.

  The necromancer spoke another command and the corpse loped away in the direction of the nearby harbor.

  Still cloaked by the necromaner’s spell, they rode up to the main city. The few folk they passed in the streets at that hour were aware of little more than a momentary chill, a fleeting bit of movement caught from the corner of the eye.

  “It’s of little consequence really, even if they do discover Rythel’s work in the sewers,” Ashnazai ventured nervously as they rode down Sheaf Street toward their lodgings near the Harvest Market. “The map is the important thing, and we have that. Still, it’s unsettling, having the two of them both nosing around Rythel.”

  “On the contrary, I see the hand of Seriamaius at work in it,” said Mardus. “It seems our journey has been a long spiral path, one narrowing quickly now to tighten around our quarry. You may have been correct after all about these thieves being of some importance, Vargûl Ashnazai. They wouldn’t be crossing our trail so often unless there is some greater purpose in it. We have only to bide our time until the others arrive. Meanwhile, I think it’s time to deal with Master Rythel. Arrange something unremarkable, would you?”

  Nearing the market, Mardus reined in. “I’m to meet with our new friend, Ylinestra. I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Very good, my lord. I’ll check on Tildus and the others at the inn.”

  Parting ways with the necromancer, Mardus turned his mount down a side lane. Halfway down it, he glanced at the fine pair of brass cockerels decorating the entrance to an inn of the same name. He’d passed through Blue Fish Street several times since arriving in Rhíminee and the figures, each holding a lantern suspended from an upraised claw, often caught his eye.

  22

  OLD SORROWS

  A Watcher password got them by the guards at the same postern gate Alec had used as a refuge a few months before. Riding through the palace grounds, they dismounted at a tradesman’s door near the Ring wall of the Palace.

  “I feared you would not come,” Nysander said, hurrying them inside. As he reached to close the door behind them, Alec noticed the hem of a finely embroidered robe beneath the wizard’s plain mantle.

  “You caught us in the middle of a job,” Seregil told him.

  “I suspected as much, but I had no choice. Come, there is little time.”

  Nysander inscribed a faint sigil in the air over their heads, then led the way silently down a servant’s passage. They hadn’t gone far when a serving woman came around a corner ahead of them carrying an armload of linen. She looked directly at Alec as she passed, but gave no sign that she’d seen him.

  Magic? Alec signed.

  Seregil motioned him onward with an impatient nod.

  I hope I don’t have to find my own way out of here, Alec thought as Nysander hurried them up stairways and through more corridors and increasingly lavish public rooms. Climbing a final, curving stairway, they reached a closed door. Nysander took a key from his sleeve and let them into a long, dimly lit gallery.

  An ornate balustrade screened by panels of wooden fretwork ran the length of the right side of the room. Light streamed up through the openings, casting netted patterns on the ceiling overhead.

  Nysander raised a finger to his lips, then drew them to one of the panels. Putting his face close to the fretwork, Alec found himself looking down into a brightly lit audience chamber.

  He’d seen Queen Idrilain only once before, but he recognized her at once among the small knot of people gathered around a wine table at the center of the room. Phoria sat at her left with several other people in Skalan court dress. To Idrilain’s right sat a man and two women dressed in a fashion he’d never seen before.

  All three wore tunics of soft white wool accented only by the polished jewels glowing on their belts, torques, and broad silver wristbands. Two of them, the man and the younger woman, wore their long dark hair loose over their shoulders beneath elaborately wrapped head cloths. The older woman’s hair was silvery white, and on her brow was a silver circlet set with a single large ruby in a fan of blade-shaped gold leaves.

  Intrigued, Alec turned to Seregil but found his friend pressed rigidly to the screen, his face a mask of anguish washed with stippled light.

  What’s he seeing? Alec wondered in alarm, looking down at the strangers again. Just then, however, the younger woman turned her head his way and Alec felt his breath catch in his throat as he recognized the fine features, dark shining hair, and large, light eyes—

  Aurënfaie.

  Still staring down, he reached for his friend’s shoulder, felt the slight trembling there before Seregil shrugged him away.

  The conference below continued for some time. At last the Queen rose and led the others out of the chamber. Seregil remained where he was for a moment, forehead resting against the screen as a single tear inched down his cheek. Wiping it quickly away, he turned to face Nysander, who’d stood silently behind them all the while.

  “Why are they here?” Seregil asked, his voice husky with emotion.

  “The Plenimaran Overlord died today,” the wizard replied. “The Aurënfaie had the news before we did and translocated a delegation here tonight. There is still no official alliance between Plenimar and Zengat, but both Aurënfaie intelligence and our own suggests that secret agreements have in fact been made.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?” Seregil’s face was stony now, the naked sorrow too thoroughly erased.

  “Nothing, as yet,” said Nysander. “I summoned you here because the Iia’sidra has granted permission for you to speak with her briefly. There is a small antechamber just through that door behind you.”

  Still rigidly expressionless, Seregil stalked away into the next room.

  As soon as he was gone, Alec let out a pent-up gasp. “Illior’s Hands, Nysander—Aurënfaie!”

  “I thought you should see them, too,” Nysander said with a rather sad smile.

  “Who’s he meeting?”

  “That is for Seregil to tell you. And with any luck, before you wear a trench in this excellent carpet.”

  Seregil paced the small, well-appointed sitting room, one eye on the side door. And as he paced, he fought to maintain some semblance of inner calm. There was a looking glass on the wall and he paused in front of it, ruefully inspecting his reflection. His hair was tangled and windblown, and a week of puzzling over Rythel had left dark circles under his eyes. The old surcoat he’d thrown on that evening was frayed at the cuffs and one shoulder was torn.

  Don’t I look the ragged outcast? he thought, giving the glass a humorl
ess smile as he combed his fingers through his hair.

  Behind him the side door opened and for a moment another face was reflected next to his, the two images so similar, yet worlds apart. When had his eyes grown so wary, the lines around his mouth so harsh?

  “Seregil, my brother.” Her pure, unaccented Aurënfaie washed through him like cool water.

  “Adzriel,” he whispered, embracing her. The scent of wandril blossoms rose from her hair and skin, blinding him with memories. She had been both sister and mother and suddenly he remembered what it had been to be a child, smelling her special scent as she comforted him or carried him home from some moonlit festival. Now she felt small in his arms and for a long moment he could do nothing but cling to her, his throat tightening painfully as he blinked back four decades of unshed tears.

  Adzriel stepped back at last, still holding him by the shoulders as if afraid he’d disappear if she didn’t.

  “All these years I’ve carried the image of that unhappy boy looking down at me from the deck that awful day,” she gasped, her own tears flowing freely. “O Aura, I missed seeing you grow into a man! Now look at you; wild as any Tírfaie and wearing a weapon in the presence of your kin.”

  Seregil quickly unbuckled his sword belt and hung it over a nearby chair. “I meant no offense. It’s like another limb to me here. Come, sit down and I’ll try to remember how civilized people act.”

  Adzriel stroked a hand through his unkempt hair. “And when were you ever civilized?”

  Sitting down next to him on a divan, she drew a small bundle of scrolls from her tunic. “I have letters for you from our sisters and your old friends. They haven’t forgotten you.”

  More memories held at bay pressed in, and with them a pang of long suppressed hope. Swallowing hard, he examined the heavy silver bracelet of rank on her wrist. “So you’re a member of the Iia’sidra now. And an envoy, too. Not bad for someone who hasn’t seen her hundred and a half birthday yet.”

  Adzriel shrugged, though she looked pleased. “Our family’s tie to Skala may be useful in the coming years. Idrilain welcomed me as a kinswoman when we arrived, and spoke highly of you. From what little your friend Nysander í Azusthra had time to tell me, I gather you’ve been of some service to her?”

  Seregil studied her face, wondering how much Nysander had said about their work. Little enough, evidently.

  “Now and then,” he told her. “What did your companions make of that, I wonder, Seregil the Traitor praised by the Skalan Queen? I remember old Máhalie ä Solunesthra, but who’s the other?”

  “Ruen í Uri, of Datsia Clan. And you needn’t worry about either of them; they’re both moderates, and good friends of mine.”

  “And you’re here because of Plenimar?”

  “Yes. All recent reports indicate an alliance being attempted with Zengat and there can only be one reason for that.”

  “To keep Aurënen too busy defending her western borders to ally with Skala. But if the Plenimarans had just left things alone, wouldn’t the Edict of Separation have done their work for them?”

  “There’s been considerable progress against the Edict since you left. The recent discovery of our kinsman Corruth’s body—well, you can imagine the effect that has had in the Iia’sidra.”

  Seregil watched her again; no, she didn’t know the part he’d played in that, and his oath as a Watcher prevented him from telling her.

  “Total uproar, I hope,” he said with a smirk. “All those years of accusing every Skalan in sight of foul play. Old Rhazien’s faction must be choking on their own isolationist rhetoric.”

  Adzriel chuckled. “Nothing so dramatic, but it has tipped the scales a bit for those of us who want to renew the old alliances. With Petasárian gone and his successor, young Estmar, already rumored to be the puppet of his own generals and necromancers, I don’t think we can afford to stand alone any longer.”

  “Adzriel?” He hesitated, knowing what he must ask next, but dreading the answer. “Does this have anything to do with why you’ve been allowed to see me?”

  “The lifting of your banishment, you mean?” Adzriel smoothed a thumb over one of the jewels in her bracelet. “Not officially. The time isn’t right. Not yet.”

  Seregil jumped to his feet, clenching one hand against his side where his sword usually hung. “Bilairy’s Guts, I was a child! Willful, misguided, guilty as hell, but still a child. If only you knew what I’ve done since then.”

  We found their precious Lord Corruth, Alec and I! The words burned his throat. “I know the Skalans, their culture and politics, their language, better than any envoy.”

  “Yes, but whose interests would you be representing?”

  Adzriel’s level gaze stopped him in his tracks. “So I’m to sit idle here while the Zengati boil out of the hills and descend on Bôkthersa once again?”

  Adzriel sighed. “I hardly think you’ll be idle, not when the might of Plenimar is pounding against your shores and their armies roll across Mycena to batter at your northern borders. And mark my words, it will come to that before it’s over. I understand your pain, my love, but you’ve spent more than half your life here.” She paused. “I sometimes wonder if things haven’t worked out for the best, somehow.”

  “My being exiled, you mean?” Seregil stared at her. “How can you say that?”

  “I’m not saying I’m glad you were taken from us, but in spite of all the loneliness and pain you must have known, I wonder if life among the Tírfaie doesn’t suit you better? Truly now, 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 Bôkthersa Council whether the lintel of the temple should be painted white or silver? Think back, Seregil. You were always restless, always demanding to find out what lay over the next hill. Perhaps there’s some purpose in it.”

  Rising, she took his hands in hers. “I know you’ve paid for your mistakes. Believe me, I want your exile lifted, but you must be patient. Changes are coming for Aurënen, great ones. Make your stand here for now, in this dangerous, wonderful land of yours. What say you, my brother?”

  Still frowning, Seregil muttered, “Silver.”

  “What?” asked Adzriel.

  “Silver,” Seregil repeated, looking up with the crooked grin that had always won her over. “Tell the elders of the Council I said the lintel should be silver.”

  Adzriel laughed, a wonderful, radiant sound. “By Aura, Father was right! I should have beaten you more. Now where is this Alec í Amasa Nysander told me of? He interests me greatly.”

  “You know about Alec?” Seregil said, surprised.

  “More than he does himself, it would seem,” Adzriel chided.

  Seregil gave her a chagrined look. It seemed Nysander had packed a great deal into a short conversation.

  If Nysander hadn’t been with him in the gallery, Alec would have been hard-pressed not to eavesdrop. As it was, he could hear a steady murmur of voices from beyond the door where Seregil had gone.

  After what felt like an interminable length of time, the door opened and Seregil came back into the gallery, accompanied by the young Aurënfaie woman. His air of anguish was gone, erased by an almost sheepish grin.

  Alec knew before his friend spoke who she must be. Her lips were fuller and had none of the hard set of Seregil’s, but the beautiful grey eyes were the same, with the same expression of appraising intelligence.

  “This is my eldest sister, Adzriel ä Illia Myril Seri Bôkthersa,” said Seregil. “Adzriel, this is Alec.”

  What little Aurënfaie Alec knew deserted him. “My lady,” he stammered, making a passable bow.

  The woman smiled, holding out her hands for his. “My people seldom use such titles,” she said in heavily accented Skalan. “You must call me Adzriel, as my brother does.”

  “Adzriel,” Alec amended, savoring the sound of it, and the feel of her cool hands in his. Rubies and moonstones glowed in the rings she wore on nearly every finger.

/>   “Nysander tells me you are my brother’s valued companion, a person of great honor,” she said, gazing earnestly into his face.

  Alec felt his cheeks go warm. “I hope so. He’s been a good friend to me.”

  “I am glad to hear such things said of him.” Bowing gracefully to him and the wizard, she stepped back toward the door. “I hope one day soon I may greet you all in my own land. Until then, Aura Elustri málron.”

  “So soon?” Seregil asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  Alec looked away in embarrassment as the two embraced, speaking softly to each other in their own language.

  “Aura Elustri málron, Adzriel talí,” Seregil said, releasing her reluctantly. “Phroni soutúa neh noliea.”

  Adzriel nodded, wiping her eyes. Nysander went to her side and offered his arm. “Aura Elustri málron, dear lady. I shall accompany you back to the others.”

  “Thank you again, Nysander í Azusthra, for all your assistance in this matter.” As she turned to go, however, she spoke once more to her brother in their own language, glancing at Alec as she did so.

  “Quite right,” Nysander said. “It is the boy’s right to know; he should hear it from you.”

  With that, he escorted Adzriel back the way she’d come.

  Turning to Seregil, Alec found his friend looking pale and uncomfortable again. “What did they mean?”

  Seregil pushed a hand back through his hair and sighed. “I’ll explain everything, but not here.”

  23

  REVELATIONS

  The unexpected reunion with his sister had shaken Seregil to the core of his soul. A fierce sorrow seemed to emanate from him as they left the Palace, and the weight of it left Alec feeling mute and helpless. What could he say, what could he offer in the face of this? And what was it Nysander had meant, that Seregil had something to tell him?

  He trailed anxiously in his friend’s wake, the sound of their horses’ hooves echoing from the ornate walls of villa gardens as the misshapen moon sank slowly toward the western rooftops. Alec couldn’t forget the sight of that single tear rolling slowly down Seregil’s face. He’d never imagined him capable of weeping.