Stalking Darkness

by Lynn Flewelling

  “And that’s always the last of it, and the worst,” Alec finished. Even with the morning sun streaming down through the glass dome overhead, he shifted uneasily as he described the final image.

  Magyana nodded slowly. “Violent events can summon up other painful memories, I suppose. Though your father died of the wasting sickness rather than violence, it must have been a time of terrible fear and pain for you.”

  Alec merely nodded, but Seregil read the pain behind his stoic expression.

  “Yes, and coupled with the shock of learning your true parentage, it could create such images in the mind,” Nysander concurred, although the look he gave Seregil showed that he had other ideas on the matter. “I would not worry too much about them, dear boy. I am certain they will pass in time.”

  “I hope so,” sighed Alec. “It’s getting so I hate to go to sleep.”

  “Nysander, do you still have that book of meditations by Reli ä Noliena?” asked Seregil. “Her philosophy might be of some use to Alec just now. I seem to recall seeing it on the sitting-room bookshelves somewhere.”

  “I believe it is,” replied Nysander. “Come along and help me look, would you?”

  Nysander said nothing as they descended the tower stairs. As soon as the sitting-room door was firmly shut behind them, however, he fixed Seregil with an expectant look.

  “I assume there is some matter you wish to discuss privately?”

  “Was it that obvious?”

  “Really now. Reli ä Noliena?” Taking his accustomed seat by the hearth, Nysander regarded Seregil wryly. “I seem to recall that you have on numerous occasions referred to her writings as utter tripe.”

  Seregil shrugged, running a finger along the painted band of the mural that guarded the room. “First thing that popped into my head. What do you make of this dream of Alec’s, and the headless arrow shaft? I have a feeling it’s tied in with”—Seregil paused, acknowledging Nysander’s warning look—“with that particular matter about which I am not allowed to speak.”

  “It does seem a rather obvious correlation. No doubt you are thinking of the words of the Oracle?”

  “ ‘The Guardian, the Vanguard, and the Shaft.’ ”

  “It is certainly possible that there is a connection, although why it should suddenly surface now, I do not know. Then again, it could conceivably be nothing more than it appears. Alec is an archer. What stronger image of helplessness could there be for him than a useless arrow?”

  “I’ve tried to tell myself that, too. We both know who this Eater of Death is; I’ve been touched twice by the dark power and was damn lucky both times to get away with life and sanity intact. So I want to believe that Alec isn’t getting pulled into this web, but I think he is, that that’s exactly what that dream means. You believe that, too, don’t you?”

  “And what would you have me do?” Nysander asked with a trace of bitterness. “If we are dealing with true prophecy, then whatever must happen will happen, whether we accept it or not.”

  “True prophecy, eh? Fate, you mean.” Seregil scowled. “So why dream? What’s the use of being warned about something if you can’t do anything to avoid it?”

  “Avoiding something is seldom the best way to resolve it.”

  “Neither is sitting around with your head up your ass until the sky falls in on you!”

  “Hardly, but forewarned is forearmed, is it not?”

  “Forearmed against what, then?” Seregil asked with rising irritation as an all-too-familiar guarded look came over the wizard’s face. “All right then, you’re still guarding some dire secret, but it seems to me that the gods themselves are giving hints. If you’re the Guardian, which you’ve admitted already, and if Alec, our archer, is the Shaft, then am I the Vanguard?” He paused, mentally trying the title on for size. But the bone-deep feeling of certainty he’d had about Alec eluded him. “Vanguard, those who go before the battle, one who goes in front— No, that doesn’t resonate somehow for me. Besides, the Oracle wouldn’t tell me to guard myself. So why would he tell me anything at all unless—”

  “Seregil, please—”

  “Unless there’s a fourth figure to the prophecy!” Seregil exclaimed, striding excitedly back and forth between the hearth and the door as the myriad possibilities took shape in his mind. “Of course. Four is the sacred number of the Immortals who stand against the Eater of Death, so—” The inner certainty was there now. No matter what answer Nysander gave, he knew instinctively that he was on the right track now. “Illior’s Light, Nysander! The Oracle wouldn’t have spoken to me as he did if there wasn’t a reason, some role for me to play.”

  Nysander stared down at his clasped hands for a moment, communing with an inner voice. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, “You are the Guide, the Unseen One. I did not tell you before for two reasons.”

  “Those being?”

  “First, because I still hoped—continue to hope, in fact—that it will not matter. And secondly, because I know nothing more than that. None of the Guardians ever has.”

  “What about the Vanguard?”

  “Micum, most likely, since he has also been touched by these events. For the love of Illior, Seregil, do stop that pacing and sit down.”

  Seregil came to a halt by the bookshelves. “What do you mean, you hope it won’t matter?”

  Closing his eyes, Nysander massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “Just as there have been other Guardians, so have there been other Shafts, other Guides. It is as if they always exist from generation to generation, kept in readiness in case—”

  “In case what?”

  “I cannot say. I confess I still cling to the hope that this terrible evil may yet be forestalled. For now, I must guard my secret as I have done. What I can tell you, seeing that you have guessed so much, is that the four figures of the prophecy have always been known to the Guardians, but what their functions are has never been revealed. But if you are the Unseen One, Seregil, if Alec is the Shaft and Micum the Vanguard, then there is nothing any friend or foe can do to alter that.”

  Seregil let out an exasperated growl. “In other words, all we can do is wait for this terrible Something to happen. Or not happen, in which case we spend the rest of our lives waiting because we won’t know that it isn’t going to happen after all?”

  “That is, no doubt, one of the reasons that the Guardians keep such knowledge from the others. It serves little purpose for you to know, and will only make you uneasy. On the other hand”—he paused, looking up at Seregil with a mix of concern arid pity—“I suspect that my hope to pass my burden on to a new Guardian will prove a vain one. Mardus had the wooden disks; other Plenimarans came to the Asheks on your very heels, seeking the crown. There are other objects—magical ones—some in Plenimar, others thankfully scattered to lost corners of the world. It was only by chance that my master, Arkoniel, came into possession of the palimpsest that led you to the crown. Clearly the Plenimarans are making a more deliberate effort to recover them. It bodes ill, dear boy, most ill.

  “As for your dilemma”—Nysander gave him a weary smile—“may I remind you that if you were not such a intolerable meddler you would not be in this quandary.”

  “What about the others?”

  Nysander spread his hands. “I do not forbid you to tell them what you know, but reflect a moment on what you have just said. Even knowing, there is nothing yet to be done; our fates rest on the knees of the immortals.”

  “And a damned uncomfortable seat that is,” Seregil grumbled.

  “I agree. And perhaps a dangerous one now. We must all live cautiously for a time.”

  “I can keep an eye on Alec, if that’s the way you want it, but what about Micum?”

  “I placed a number of protective spells around the three of you as soon as you came back from the north. Since then someone has tried to break through those surrounding you and Alec a few times, but—”

  “What?” An icy stab of fear lanced through Seregil’s
chest. “You never—”

  “I was not surprised by such attempts,” Nysander told him calmly, “and they have failed, of course. The spells surrounding all of you are intact, making it impossible for you to be seen magically. Thus far, there have been no disturbances in the spells surrounding Micum or his family.”

  “Bilairy’s Balls! Do you know who was doing this?”

  “Unfortunately, the seekers are equally well shielded. Their magic is very strong and they know how to protect themselves.”

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” muttered Seregil. “There are more ways than magic to find someone. Hell, Rhal showed up, didn’t he? Who’s to say Mardus or his dogs haven’t, too? Poor Alec had no idea how to cover his tracks.”

  “Whatever happens, you must not blame the boy,” cautioned Nysander.

  “Who said anything about blame?” Seregil ran his fingers back through his hair in frustration. “He did a damn fine job, given the circumstances. He saved my life. Now it’s up to me to protect him. And Micum; knowing what I do, I’m honor-bound to give him any warning I can.”

  Seregil braced for further argument, but instead, Nysander sighed and nodded. “Very well, but only as much as is absolutely necessary.”

  “Fair enough. Damn, they’ll be wondering where we are by now.” Seregil rose to go back upstairs, but Nysander remained where he sat.

  “Seregil?”

  He turned back to find Nysander regarding him sadly.

  “I hope, dear boy, that no matter what the coming days bring, you will believe I never foresaw this time coming during my Guardianship, or that its advent would enmesh any of you.”

  Seregil gave him a grudging grin. “You know, I’ve spent most of my life listening to legends or telling them. It should be interesting being part of one. I only hope the bards who tell it years from now will be able to end with ‘And the Band of Four all lived with great honor for many years thereafter.’ ”

  “As do I, dear boy. As do I. Make some excuse for me, would you? I would like to sit here for a while.”

  Silence closed in around Nysander after Seregil had gone. With his hands resting on his knees before him, he allowed himself to go limp in the chair, listening to the sound of his breathing and his heart until he was aware of nothing else. Then, slowly, he opened himself to the invisible currents of foreseeing, using the faces of his three chosen comrades to call in the energies he sought. Grey images stirred sluggishly before his mind’s eye, the tangled flux of Shall/Might/Should and Imagine. How to pluck crumbs of truth from a future as yet unfixed—

  —the hands of Tikárie Megraesh, the icon of his dreams and visions, opened before him. Voices came faintly through the murk, shouting, raging, weeping. He could hear the clash of weapons, men shouting—

  Then, harsh as a blow, came the vision of a black disk surrounded by a thin white nimbus of fire. It seemed to glare at him, like an accusing eye.

  • • •

  A familiar perfume wafted out to Seregil as he neared the workroom door. Opening it, he found Ylinestra sitting next to Magyana. A quick glance revealed an interesting tableau around the breakfast table. As usual, Ylinestra looked intentionally stunning as she chatted with Magyana, with her shining black hair braided loosely over one shoulder of her loose-flowing gown. Magyana appeared to be a willing conversationalist, but Seregil thought he detected faint lines of distaste around her eyes.

  Feeya was not so subtle. She’d moved to the other end of the table and stood eyeing the sorceress with evident dislike.

  Thero seemed torn between embarrassment and lust. Alec stood at what might be considered a safe distance from his former seducer, carrying on some earnest conversation with Hwerlu.

  All eyes turned Seregil’s way as he entered.

  “Ah, here they are,” said Magyana. “But where is Nysander?”

  “Oh, he got distracted by something down in his study,” Seregil replied.

  “How unfortunate,” sighed Ylinestra. “I was hoping I could lure him out to the gardens for a while.”

  “You know how he is. He’s likely to be a while.”

  “I’ll tell him you were looking for him,” Thero offered a trifle stiffly. “In the meantime, perhaps I—”

  “Ah well, another time,” Ylinestra said breezily, gliding to the door.

  When she was gone Feeya whistled something to Hwerlu, who laughed.

  “She says the smell of the woman makes her belly hurt,” he translated.

  “Mine, as well,” Magyana agreed with a mischievous smile. “Although I daresay most men find the scent alluring enough. She must be missing Nysander. That’s the third time this week she’s come looking for him. Isn’t that right, Thero?”

  “I don’t keep track,” the young wizard said with a shrug. “If you’ll all excuse me, I’ve got work of my own I’d better get started on.”

  Alec chuckled as he and Seregil set off for the Cockerel again. “I’ll bet you a sester he waits until everyone else clears out, then goes after her.”

  “That’s a loser’s bet,” Seregil said with a crooked grin. “I’ve never seen it fail; when a cold fish like Thero finally does fall in love, it makes a total fool of him.”

  “You know, I think you’re too hard on him.”

  “Is that so?”

  Alec shrugged. “I didn’t care much for him at first, either, but now he doesn’t seem so bad. He helped save our lives during that raid on Kassarie’s keep, and he was useful during that whole business with Rythel, too. Since then, he’s been almost—friendly. Nysander may be right about him, after all. As arrogant and cold as he can seem, underneath I don’t think he’s so bad.”

  Seregil gave Alec a skeptical grin. “You’ve a charitable nature. We’ve got more important things to worry about than Thero right now, though. I’ll explain it once we get home.”

  They both rode with hoods pulled forward, but Alec guessed even without seeing his friend’s face that something of note had come up during Seregil’s separate conversation with Nysander.

  “What is it?” he asked, unable to guess from Seregil’s guarded tone whether the matter was likely to be a job or a problem.

  Seregil shook his head. “Not here.”

  They spoke little the rest of the way back to the inn, but Alec noted that the route they took to approach it was more cautiously circuitous than usual.

  Thryis hailed them as they passed the kitchen door. “I didn’t hear you go out,” she said, sharpening knives by the fireside. “Rhiri brought in a message for you last night, but it wasn’t sent for the Rhíminee Cat. It’s there on the mantelpiece behind the salt box.”

  Seregil found it, a coarse square of paper tied with greasy twine and sealed with candle drippings.

  “Anything else?” asked Seregil, bending down to tickle Luthas, who sat playing with a wooden spoon at his great-grandmother’s feet.

  “No, nothing.”

  “How many are there in the inn today?”

  “I think this wind’s blown all our custom away,” the old woman grumbled, testing the edge of a cleaver against her thumbnail. “There were those six draymen in the big room, but they left first thing this morning. All we’ve got left now is a horse trader and his son in the room at the front and a cloth merchant in for the spring trade. I’ve never seen it so slack this time of year. I sent Cilla and Diomis out to see what’s what down at the market.”

  Suddenly Luthas startled them all with an angry squall.

  “By the Flame, he’s been restless all morning,” Thryis sighed. “Must be another tooth coming.”

  “I’ll get him.” Alec scooped up the child, bouncing him gently in his arms, but the child howled on.

  “You’re wanting your mother, aren’t you, dear one?” Thryis smiled, offering him his spoon. But Luthas knocked it away and cried louder, squirming like an eel.

  “Find me that rag of his,” Alec called to Seregil over the uproar.

  Rummaging in the nearby cradle, Ser
egil found a colorful kerchief with a knot tied in the middle and held that within reach. Luthas grabbed it and stuffed the knot in his mouth, chewing at it with a decidedly disgruntled air. After a moment he relaxed drowsily against Alec’s shoulder.

  “You’re quite the nursemaid these days,” whispered Seregil.

  “Oh, they’re great friends, these two,” Thryis said fondly.

  Alec was just attempting to lay the child in his cradle when Rhiri stamped in, slamming the door behind him. Luthas jerked awake, crying ferociously.

  The mute ostler gave Alec an apologetic nod, then pulled a small scroll tube from his jerkin and handed it to Seregil.

  “Come on!” groaned Seregil, motioning for Alec to follow.

  Back in their disordered sitting room again, Seregil flopped down on the couch and opened the scroll tube, which contained a jeweled ring and the usual request for the Cat’s services. Setting these aside with an impatient sniff, he cut the string on the folded paper and smoothed it out on his knee.

  “Well now, here’s a bit of good news,” he exclaimed happily. “Listen to this. ‘In Rhíminee Harbor, awaiting your pleasure. Ask for Welken at the Griffin.’ It’s signed ‘Master Rhal, captain of the Green Lady,’ and dated yesterday.”

  “Yesterday? We’d better get down there.”

  “Another hour won’t matter.” His smile faded as he waved Alec to a chair. “We’ve got something else to deal with first.”

  Alec sat down, studying Seregil’s face uneasily; he didn’t look happy.

  “First, you have to swear secrecy under your oath as a Watcher,” Seregil began with uncharacteristic gravity.

  A thrill of anticipation went through Alec as he nodded. “I swear. What’s going on?”

  “Those dreams of yours, with the headless arrow shaft? They meant something to Nysander. To me, too, really, the moment you told me about it last night, but I had to have Nysander hear it to be certain.”

  “Of what?” Alec asked uneasily.

  “There’s so much to tell you, it’s hard to know where to begin.” Seregil studied his clasped hands for a moment. “That first night we came here, I went out again.”