“To the Temple of Illior.”
“That’s right, but I never told you why I went there, did I?”
“No, never.”
“I went hoping the Oracle could tell me something about that wooden disk we brought back from Wolde.” Seregil touched a hand to his breast where the hidden brand lay.
Alec stared at him in disbelief. “Does Nysander know?”
“He does now, but that’s not the point. The Oracle didn’t tell me anything specific about the disk, but he did say something that I know now was a piece of a prophecy. He spoke of the Eater of Death—”
“Just like in the journal we found, and at the Mourning Night ceremony.”
“Yes, and then he told me I was to guard three people he called the Guardian, the Vanguard, and the Shaft. And there’s a fourth, the Unseen One or Guide. That’s me, it seems, and Nysander’s the Guardian. After hearing about your dream, we think you might be—”
“The Shaft,” Alec said softly, remembering the headless arrow and the feeling of helplessness he always felt at the sight of it.
“Apparently Nysander has had some presentiment that Micum is the Vanguard.”
“But the Eater of Death is Seriamaius.” He saw Seregil flinch as he said the name aloud. “This Shaft and Guardian business, it’s connected somehow. Oh, wait a minute—” Alec’s belly twisted into a queasy knot. “That disk, that damned wooden disk that made you so sick and crazy. That’s what you went to the Oracle to ask about, so it must have something to do with the prophecy.”
“It does,” said Seregil. “But what, I don’t know. Nysander won’t say, except that the disk is part of something bigger, something the Plenimarans are willing to go to any lengths to get. When I went away just before the Festival of Sakor, it was to get another object before the Plenimarans did, a sort of crown. It had the same sort of evil magic about it, only worse.” His face darkened as some memory surfaced. “Much worse, and much more dangerous. But I got it.”
“There were other disks just like the one we stole,” Alec recalled, his mind racing. “Maybe they had to be all together to have their full effect.”
“That’s right. Which means if we’d been greedy and taken them all, you and I probably wouldn’t have made it as far as Boersby. I’ve wanted to tell you all this before, but Nysander swore me to silence. I wouldn’t be telling you now, except that you seem to be part of it, too.”
“Of what?” demanded Alec. “What does the Shaft do? If Nysander has the disk and the crown, then the Plenimarans aren’t going to get them and whatever they’re part of can’t happen, right?”
“I guess that’s the idea. But why would you be having these dreams now, if that’s all there is to it, eh?”
“Do you think Mardus could still be after us? Bilairy’s Balls, Seregil, if Rhal could find us, then why not him?”
Seregil shrugged. “It’s not impossible. He didn’t strike me as the sort who gives up easily. But why hasn’t he shown up yet? It’s been months now, and if he had any idea that we have the crown as well, then he or somebody like him will be certain to come after it sooner or later. There’s something else, too. You remember Micum’s description of the ritual sacrifice he found up in the Fens?”
“All those bodies cut open,” Alec said with a small shudder.
“I found the same sort of thing with the crown. All the bodies were ancient there, but the mutilations were the same, breastbone split, ribs pulled back like wings. Now Nysander claims that all this may come to nothing, that there have always been Guardians and Shafts and so forth chosen just in case. But he didn’t sound all that confident. That’s why I’m telling you this, and why we’ve got to warn Micum. I want you to ride out there tomorrow and tell him just what I’ve told you.”
“What about you?”
Seregil smiled darkly. “There are a few old mates of Tym’s I’d like to have a chat with. If Plenimarans are getting into Rhíminee, then someone has got to know about it.”
“They covered their tracks pretty well with that business in the sewers,” Alec reminded him.
“Except for Rythel. There’s almost always a Rythel in any plot. When you get to Watermead, what I’ve told you is for Micum’s ears alone. Do whatever you can to get him alone but try not to raise suspicion. Kari usually knows when something’s up. And ask him about his dreams while you’re at it, although I expect he’ll scoff.
“It’s a lot to take in, I know. Like I said, Nysander claims this may all come to nothing, but I don’t think he really believes it. I know I don’t.”
Half-realized images whirled through Alec’s mind, too chaotic to grasp. Yet bits and pieces seemed to stand forth from the general maelstrom, like branches in an eddy. “So Nysander has at least two pieces of whatever this thing is: the disk and the crown. But there must be something else, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if he’s been the Guardian all these years, then what’s he guarding?”
Seregil’s eyes widened in surprised realization. “That’s a good question. But somehow I doubt we’ll ever know.”
Resuming their roles of Lord Seregil and Sir Alec for the day, they emerged from the Wheel Street villa at midday and rode down to the lower city to inspect a certain privateering vessel anchored just beyond the quays. They found Rhal’s man still waiting at the Griffin. A day and night spent in a tavern notwithstanding, he was still sober enough to row them out to the ship.
“That’s ’er,” he said proudly, nodding over one shoulder as he rowed them toward a sleek, twin-masted raider. The Green Lady sported fighting platforms fore and aft. Even to Alec’s untutored eye there was no mistaking her prime purpose.
“Bilairy’s Balls, what’s that supposed to be?” Seregil asked as they crossed beneath her prow. Fitted under the bowsprit was the painted statue of a woman.
“Figurehead,” Welken replied. “Lots of the new ships has ’em. Said to bring luck. Captain Rhal got the best carver in Iolos to do our lady there; she’s even got a real golden ring on her finger with a great red stone winking in it. Captain says her round belly’ll bring us a full hold.”
Dark hair streamed over the woman’s shoulders and the carved skirts of her emerald-green gown flowed back from a rounded, pregnant belly. One outstretched hand pointed ahead; the other lay modestly over her heart.
Alec broke into a broad grin as he squinted up at the painted wooden face; it was not fine work, but the resemblance to Seregil was obvious to anyone who’d seen him playing a Mycenian gentlewoman aboard the Darter.
Still staring up, Seregil swore pungently under his breath.
Alec stifled a snort of laughter and asked innocently, “Does she have a name?”
“Oh, aye. Captain calls her Lady Gwethelyn.”
“It suits her,” Alec observed, still fighting to keep a straight face.
“Charming,” muttered Seregil.
Climbing a rope ladder, they found Rhal waiting for them on deck. After a brief tour, he ushered them belowdecks to his aft cabin. Though by no means luxurious, it was a far cry from the cramped quarters he’d entertained them in aboard the Darter.
“I hope that figurehead of yours brings you luck,” Seregil remarked dryly, taking a chair.
“Aye, and I don’t doubt we’ll be needing it soon,” Rhal said, pouring wine for them. “The weather is settling out early this year. With the old Overlord dead, there isn’t much to hold the Plenimarans back now. Of course, his son Estmar isn’t Overlord yet. According to Plenimaran custom, there’s a month of official mourning before he can be crowned. That should give us another few weeks.”
Seregil shook his head, frowning. “I wouldn’t count on it. There have been rumors of Plenimaran scouts sighted as far west as the Folcwine River.”
This had come as troubling news, Alec reflected. The swift-moving units of the Queen’s Horse Guard were scouting there, too, but there’d been no word from Beka in weeks.
“Well, whatever happens,
the Lady and her crew are ready,” Rhal assured them stoutly. “She sailed easy as a swan coming up from Macar and as you saw, we’re fitted out with grapples, catapults, and fire baskets. When we set off raiding I’ll have twenty archers among my crew and ten more hired on special.”
“Impressive. When do you sail?”
Rhal stroked his dark beard. “Soon as we get the Queen’s Mark.”
“The only thing that separates privateers from pirates,” Seregil interjected for Alec’s benefit.
“That, and the percentage of the take appropriated for the royal treasury,” Rhal added. “I figure we’ll do coasting trade until the war breaks out in earnest; goods loads, transporting soldiers, that sort of thing. The crew needs a proper sea run. Word is there’s already plenty of activity down around the Inner Sea and the Strait, lots of fat Plenimaran merchant ships carrying supplies and gold up toward Nanta. And of course, I stand ready to honor our bargain, though I don’t see how you’ll find me if you need me.”
“We thought of that,” Alec said, flipping him a silver medallion. “It’s magicked. Just hang it up in here somewhere and a wizard friend of ours can sight off it wherever you are.”
Rhal studied the emblem of Illior stamped into the face of the disk. “This has a lucky feel to it, too, and we can use all of that we can get.”
“Then the best of it to you,” said Seregil, rising to go. “I hope your ship’s belly is as full as your figurehead’s before long.”
Rhal scratched his head sheepishly. “Oh, you noticed that, did you? She was a fine-looking woman, that Gwethelyn. Thinking back to that night I caught you out, I don’t know if I was more angry or disappointed. But in the end I’d say meeting you brought me luck, so there she is. The Green Lady’s a fine ship and she’ll do us all proud.”
Since they were already dressed for the part, Alec and Seregil put in a suppertime appearance at Wheel Street, then slipped back to the Cockerel after dark. Once there, Seregil went straight to his room and rummaged out his tattered beggar’s rags.
“Are you going out tonight?” asked Alec, leaning in the doorway as Seregil changed clothes.
“There are some thieves and nightrunners I want to speak with. I’m not likely to find them in daylight. I probably won’t be back before you go, so get some rest and leave early. Before I go, though, let’s hear what you’re going to tell Micum. Things happened pretty fast today. I want to be sure you’ve got everything straight.”
Alec recited as best he could what Seregil had told him about the prophecy and dreams. Seregil made one or two corrections, then nodded approval.
“Just right. I don’t know what Micum will make of all this but at least he’ll know what’s in the wind.” Clapping on his old felt hat, he stepped past Alec and began dusting himself with ashes from the hearth.
“I’ll come back as soon as I’ve talked to him,” said Alec, “I could be back by nightfall.”
“There’s no need. Stay the night and come back in daylight.”
Alec opened his mouth to protest further, but Seregil forestalled him with an upraised hand. “I mean it, Alec. If we are in danger, then the more care we take the better. I don’t want you getting caught out in some lonely place after dark.”
Still slouching unhappily in the doorway, Alec frowned down at his boots. The truth was, he suddenly didn’t like the thought of leaving Seregil alone here, either, though he knew better than to say so.
Seregil seemed to guess his thoughts just the same. Adjusting a greasy patch over one eye, he came over and grasped Alec by the shoulders. “I’ll be all right. And I’m not shutting you out of anything, either.”
Despite the patch, tangled hair, and ridiculous old hat that partially obscured his friend’s features, Alec heard the warm earnestness in his voice clearly enough.
“I know,” he sighed. “You missed a spot.” Reaching over, Alec smeared ashes over a bit of clean skin just under Seregil’s right cheekbone. His friend’s one visible eye widened noticeably. Strange feelings stirred again, and Alec felt himself blush.
Seregil held his gaze a moment, then cleared his throat gruffly. “Thanks. We don’t want any telltale signs of cleanliness giving me away, do we? I’ll take a run through the stable dung heap before I go, just to make sure I’ve got the right odor about me. Take care.”
“You, too.” Alec felt another twinge of unease as Seregil headed out the door. “Luck in the shadows, Seregil,” he called after him.
Seregil looked back with a crooked grin. “And to you.”
Left to himself, Alec set about packing the small bundle for his journey. But he soon found himself repeatedly packing and unpacking the same few items as his thoughts wandered over the harried events of the day, and his strange unease over Seregil’s departure.
• • •
That night Alec’s nightmare returned, but this time there was more to it.
In the end, when he turned to look for his pursuer, blocks of stone slid out of the wall beside him, tumbling to the floor with a hollow crash. Gripping the headless arrow, he forced himself to go to the opening in the wall and look through. He could see nothing but darkness beyond, but he could hear a new sound, one that was at once as ordinary and as inexplicably terrifying as the sight of the simple arrow shaft.
It was the booming grumble of the sea battering a rocky shore.
29
HARBINGERS
Alec opened his eyes well before dawn. Too anxious to sleep, he dressed quickly and went down to the stable to saddle Patch.
A damp grey mist hung over the city, presaging a foul day, but in the Harvest Market the first traders and stall keepers were already preparing for the day’s business. Alec paused to buy a bit of breakfast, then headed for the gate. To his surprise, pikemen of the City Watch stepped out to block his way.
“State your name and business,” one of them said, stifling a yawn.
“What’s this?”
“Queen’s orders. Anyone going in or out of the city gets recorded. State your name and business.”
Just a spy riding out to warn an old friend that the Immortals may have designs on his future, Alec thought wryly.
“Wilim í Micum of Rhíminee,” he said aloud. “I’m heading up to Tovus village to see a man about a horse.”
A guard seated at a rough table by the gate busily recorded this information in a day book.
“When do you expect to return?” asked the first guard.
“With luck, late tonight.” As he said it, Alec realized that sometime between last night and now, he’d made up his mind to return that day, no matter what Seregil said. There was no good reason he couldn’t make the trip in a day if the weather didn’t turn too bad.
Riding north along the highroad, he watched a cheerless grey dawn crawl slowly up from the eastern horizon. The first crocus and snowdrops were blossoming in the ditches, but the pallid light seemed to rob both them and Alec’s spirits of any color.
His dreams had left him feeling gritty-eyed and dour. The farther he rode from Rhíminee, the more heavily the weight of a formless dread seemed to weigh on his heart.
It was midmorning when Alec crossed the bridge and started up the hill toward Watermead. Micum’s hounds came pelting out to meet him, but there was no sign of any other welcome.
Wondering where Illia could be, he entered the courtyard to find a farm hand waiting for him.
“Good morning, Sir Alec. If you’re looking for the master, he ain’t here. He and the family up and headed over to Lord Warnik í Thorgol’s estate in the next valley day before yesterday. Folks are gathering there from all over the district to talk about defenses for the war.”
Alec slapped his gloves against his thigh in exasperation. “When do you expect them back?”
“Not until tomorrow, maybe longer.”
“Is that Master Alec?” Kari’s old woman servant, Arna, called out the front door. “Come on in, love. This house is always open to you. You can put up here until they r
eturn. Is Master Seregil behind you on the road?”
“No, I’m alone.” Still mounted, Alec considered the offer. “How long would it take for me to get to Warnik’s?”
Arna considered this a moment. “Well, you’d have to go down to the highroad and then north to the next valley. What would you say, Ranil, he could be there in two hours or so, couldn’t he?”
“Two hours, eh?” Two there, two back here, and another two back to the city, plus however long it took to explain things to Micum. Alec frowned to himself. With this weather, he would be riding home in the dark.
“Oh, aye,” said Ranil. “And you’d be wanting a fresh horse to give young Patch here a spell. Course, if you’re in a particular hurry, you might want to try the old hill track.”
“He doesn’t want to go riding up the hills today,” scoffed Arna, pulling her shawl closer about her skinny shoulders. “That trail will be nothing but a ribbon of mire with all the thaw and rain.”
“How long does that way take?” Alec pressed, trying hard not to let his impatience show.
“I dunno.” Ranil scratched his head as he considered the question. “Perhaps no more than an hour, if you rode hard and didn’t lose yourself. Myn’s the one who’d know best. He comes from over in that valley.”
“There now, so he does,” said Arna, sounding as if the next valley were some exotic distant land. “Myn’s the one could tell you, Master Alec. Perhaps he could guide you.”
“Where is he?” Alec asked.
“Myn? Now let’s see, Ranil, where’s Myn today?”
“Gone over to Greywall with the reeve,” Ranil replied. “That’s five miles or so east of here.”
Another costly detour. “Ranil, is this hill track of yours far from here?” asked Alec.
“No, you know the one, sir. Ride back down to the stream at the bottom of the hill and you’ll strike it running to your right along the near bank.”
“You mean that trail that leads up to the pool where the otters live?” Alec exclaimed in relief. He’d ridden there with Beka.
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