Stalking Darkness

by Lynn Flewelling

  “No!” Seregil glared at Micum. “Until I hold his body in my hands, Alec is alive, do you hear?”

  Micum understood the anguish behind Seregil’s anger all too well. If Alec was alive, Seregil would fight through fire and death to save him. If Alec was dead, then he’d do the same to track down his killers. Either road, he blamed himself.

  “You know I love the boy as much as you do,” he said gently, “but it won’t do him a damn bit of good for us to let that cloud our thinking. If we’re going to come up with any sort of plan we have to at least take into consideration that he might be dead. If this ‘Shaft’ person of yours is really meant to be an archer, then we’d better—”

  Seregil stared out the window, his mouth set in a stubborn line. “No.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of a short, well-fed man in an enormous dressing gown.

  “I beg pardon, gentlemen,” he apologized, yawning as he ushered them into a spacious consultation room. “As you’ve no doubt surmised, the nature of my studies requires that I work at night. I’m seldom awake at this hour. I’ve sent for strong tea, so perhaps you would—”

  “Forgive me, but I assume you’re unaware of the attack on the Orëska House last night,” Seregil broke in, “or that Nysander í Azusthra has been seriously wounded.”

  “Nysander!” Leiteus gasped, his robe billowing around him as he sank into a chair. “By the Light, why would anyone want to harm that decent old fellow?”

  “I can’t say,” answered Seregil, his manner now betraying none of the emotion of a moment before. “He sent us to you, though he was too weak to tell us why. Magyana says he’d consulted you on some astrological matter recently. It could have some bearing.”

  “Do you think so?” Leiteus fetched a pile of charts from a nearby shelf and shuffled quickly through them. “If only he’d allowed me to do that divination for him. He was gracious about it, of course, but so— Ah, here it is!”

  He spread a large chart out on a polished table and peered down at it. “He was interested in the movements of Rendel’s Spear, you see.”

  “A comet?” asked Seregil.

  “Yes.” The astrologer pointed to a series of tiny symbols arcing across the chart. “It has a synodical cycle of fifty-seven years. This is the year of its return. He helped me calculate the date of its appearance.”

  Seregil leaned forward eagerly. “And you have it?”

  The astrologer referred to his parchments again. “Let me see, going by the observations recorded in Yrindai’s Ephemeris, as well as our own calculations, I believe Rendel’s Spear should be visible on the fifteenth night of Lithion.”

  “That gives us just over two weeks, then,” Micum murmured.

  “Of course, it will remain in the sky for nearly a week,” Leiteus added. “It’s one of the largest comets, a most impressive display. Of particular interest both to Nysander and myself, however, is the fact that this cycle of the comet coincides with a solar eclipse.”

  Seregil shot Micum a meaningful glance, then asked, “Would that also be considered a synodical event?”

  “Certainly, and one of the rarer variety,” replied the astrologer. “I assumed that’s why Nysander was so curious about it.”

  “Eclipses are unlucky things,” Micum noted. “I once knew a man who went blind afterward.”

  “It’ll be a doubly unlucky day with the comet in the sky,” Seregil added, though to Micum’s ear he sounded more pleased than alarmed. “ ‘Plague stars,’ I’ve heard these comets of yours called, bringers of ill fortune, war, disease.”

  “That’s true, Lord Seregil,” Leiteus concurred. “The College of Divination has already sent word to the Queen, advising the suspension of all trade on that day. People should keep to their homes until the evil influence passes. Such a conjunction has not occurred in centuries.”

  “And do you have a date for that?” asked Seregil.

  “On the twentieth.”

  “Was there any other sort of information Nysander seemed interested in?”

  The astrologer stroked his chin. “Well, he did ask me to calculate if such a conjunction had occurred before.”

  “And did you?”

  Leiteus smiled. “I didn’t have to, actually. As every Skalan astrologer knows, it was that very same conjunction that heralded the beginning of the Great War six hundred eighty-four years ago. So you see, Lord Seregil, your talk of unlucky ‘plague stars’ does have some basis.”

  • • •

  Leaving the astrologer with assurances to send word of Nysander, Micum and Seregil headed back to the city.

  “I admit, it makes some sense if you accept that Nysander’s right about Mardus aiming for that conjunction,” Micum said as they rode.

  “He is right, I’m sure of it. Think about it, Micum. There haven’t been any major incidents between Skala and Plenimar for twenty years, yet all of a sudden Plenimar decides to launch another war of aggression, just as they did in the Great War. And the old Overlord, who opposed such a war, conveniently dies just in time for his hawkish son to take the throne? And there’s the same conjunction? And the attack on the Orëska? And if that whole business does all revolve around some rite or ceremony having to do with their Eater of Death, then what more propitious time could there be than during the conjunction?”

  “But what is it all for?” Micum growled. “Those odds and ends that Nysander was guarding, what does Mardus want with them? If the Plenimarans need them that badly, and now, just as war is breaking out again—”

  “That’s just it, though. Nysander said he wasn’t the first Guardian. His mentor, Arkoniel, was before him, and the wizard before him. Who knows how long Orëska wizards have been watching that same hidey-hole in the vaults? Those things could date all the way back to the Great War. You’ve heard the legends of necromancers and walking dead from that time, and everyone knows it was the wizards who finally turned the tide.”

  “You mean to say that the Plenimarans are going to use those things to summon the power of this god?”

  “Something like that.”

  They both rode in silence for a long moment.

  “Well, we’d better get moving,” Micum said at last. “If you and Nysander are right, then we’ve only got two weeks to find this mysterious temple, if it exists, and a long way to go to get there. We’ll have to hire a ship.”

  “I had Magyana send out word to Rhal this morning. We should be able to set sail by tomorrow or the next day.”

  He kicked his mount into a gallop toward the city gate. Micum spurred grimly on behind him.

  • • •

  Returning to the Orëska, they found Magyana and Valerius in Nysander’s workroom. Seregil quickly outlined what they’d learned from Leiteus.

  “So you see,” he added, “it’s imperative that we all be at this place together, at the given time.”

  “Haul Nysander off in a ship over spring seas? Are you both mad?” Valerius burst out, glaring at him and Micum. “It’s absolutely out of the question. I forbid it!”

  Clenching his fists behind his back, Seregil fought to remain calm as he looked to Magyana for support. “There must be some way we could make him comfortable.”

  But Magyana shook her head firmly. “I’m sorry, Seregil, but Valerius is quite right. Nysander must have solitude and peace to heal. Such a voyage in his present state would certainly kill him.”

  “Not to mention the fact that you’re sailing off into the very teeth of a war,” the drysian sputtered. “Even if he could stand being moved—which he can’t—what if you’re boarded or sunk? Bilairy’s Balls, man, he’s scarcely conscious more than a few minutes at a time!”

  Seregil ran a hand back though his hair in exasperation. “Micum, you talk to them.”

  “Calm down,” said Micum. “If Valerius says Nysander can’t survive the voyage, then that’s the end of that. But what about a translocation?”

  Magyana shook her head again. “He’s too weak to survive i
t, and even if he could, it would not be possible. Since the attack there are only three wizards left, including myself, who possess the skill to perform that spell. And it will be some time before any of us are strong enough to attempt it.”

  Seregil let out a frustrated growl, but Micum was still thinking. “Well, assuming that these Illiorans are on the right track with their prophecies and comets and all, then we wouldn’t necessarily have to move him for almost—”

  “Two weeks,” cried Seregil. “Praise the Flame for hardheaded Sakoran common sense! You may have just saved us all, Micum. What do you say to that, Valerius? Would he be strong enough in two weeks?”

  “With his will, it’s possible,” the drysian admitted grudgingly. “As for the state of his powers, though, only he could say.”

  Seregil gave the wizard a hopeful look. “Magyana?”

  She contemplated her folded hands for a long moment, then said softly, “By then, yes, I should be able to assist him with a translocation of that distance. But the decision must be his.”

  Micum slapped a hand on the table and stood up. “Then it’s settled. We’ll sail without him and he can catch us up when the time is right.”

  Reaching into his purse, Seregil took out a small silver amulet, the twin of the one he’d given to Rhal.

  “This will guide you to our ship, the Green Lady,” he told Magyana, giving it to her. “There’s no guarantee we’ll still be with her then, but Rhal may be able to tell you where we’ve gone. Wait, there’s another way, too.”

  He took a clean rag from a pile near the worktable. Pricking his thumb with his dagger, he dabbed a few spots of blood onto the cloth and knotted it tightly.

  “You won’t miss me with that,” he said. “Micum should do one, too, just to be safe. If you’ll excuse me now, I want a moment with Nysander.”

  Magyana looked down at the stained cloth in distaste when Seregil had disappeared downstairs.

  “I abhor blood magic,” she said. “So does Nysander. Oh, Micum, do you really believe all this is what Nysander intended? Seregil has had so many terrible shocks.”

  “I don’t know,” Micum said quietly, pricking his own finger and staining another bit of cloth for her. “But I do know that nothing short of death is going to stop him from going on with it. If he’s right, then maybe there’s a chance of getting Alec back, and perhaps even stop whatever it is that the Plenimarans are up to. If he’s wrong—” Micum gave a resigned shrug. “I can’t just let him dash off by himself, can I?”

  “And what of your own family?” asked Valerius as Micum stood to go.

  For the first time that day Micum managed a wry smile. “Kari won’t budge from Watermead unless the enemy’s in sight. Warnik’s given me his word to watch over her until I return.”

  The drysian smiled through his unruly beard. “A strong-minded woman, your wife. The eldest, Beka, is no different.”

  “By the Flame, Beka!” groaned Micum. “I promised Kari I’d ask Nysander to look for her.”

  “Rest yourself, Magyana,” Valerius said as the wizard moved to rise. “Give me your hand, Micum, and think of your eldest daughter.”

  Clasping his staff in one hand, Valerius took Micum’s in his other and closed his eyes. After several minutes he announced, “She is well. I see her riding with good companions.”

  “And Alec?” Micum asked, still gripping the drysian’s hand. “Can you see anything of him?”

  Valerius concentrated, frowning. “Only that he is not among the dead, nothing more. I’m sorry.”

  36

  DARK DAYS FOR ALEC

  Alec’s teeth rotted and fell loose in his mouth. Hot bile rose in the back of his throat, made doubly foul by the feel of the snakes squirming in his belly. He wanted desperately to curl up, writhe away from the interminable agony, but the iron spikes driven through his hands and feet held him spread-eagled. Blind and helpless, he lay waiting for release back into the dark dreams where there was only the sighing of wind and water—

  Occasionally faces would intrude on his darkness, swimming out of the murk only long enough to leer, fading back out of sight before he could put names to them.

  Fevers rose, flaming across his skin to burn out every memory until nothing remained but the rush of the sea—

  Alec felt the chill of a salt-laden breeze against his bare skin, but no pain. His limbs felt heavy, too heavy to move just yet, but he ran his tongue over his teeth and found them sound. How could a nightmare feel so real, he wondered, or leave him so drained and confused?

  The cold breeze helped clear his mind, but the world was still rolling under him in a vaguely familiar fashion. Opening his eyes, he blinked up at broad, square-rigged sails bellied out against a noonday sky.

  And two Plenimaran marines.

  Scrambling up to his knees, Alec reached instinctively for his dagger, but someone had stripped him to his breechclout, leaving him helpless. The marines laughed, and he recognized them as two of the men who’d pushed him around in Wolde.

  “Don’t be frightened, Alec.”

  Alec rose slowly to his feet, too stunned to speak. Less than ten feet away, Duke Mardus leaned at his ease against the ship’s rail. He’d been seated the one time Alec had seen him. He hadn’t guessed how tall Mardus was. But the man’s handsome, aesthetic face, closely trimmed black beard, and scarred left cheek—Alec remembered those well enough. And the smile that never quite reached his eyes.

  “I trust you slept well.” Impeccably dressed in leather and velvet, Mardus regarded him with all the solicitude of an attentive host.

  How did I get here? Alec wondered, still at a loss for words. A few details trickled back to him: the frantic ride to Watermead, a snarling dog, unlit lanterns, hoping to find Seregil home. Beyond that, however, there was only a blank greyness tinged with dread.

  “But you’re cold,” Mardus observed, unpinning the gold broach that secured the neck of his cloak. He motioned to the guards, who pulled Alec roughly forward and held him while Mardus swung the heavy folds around his bare shoulders.

  Holding the brooch in place with one gloved hand, Mardus slid the long pin through one of the holes until its blunt point pressed against Alec’s windpipe.

  Terrified, Alec fixed his gaze in the buttons of Mardus’ velvet surcoat and waited. The pin pressed harder against his throat, but not quite hard enough to break the skin.

  “Look at me, Alec of Kerry. Come now, you mustn’t be shy.”

  Mardus’ voice was disarmingly gentle. Without wanting to, Alec found himself looking up into the man’s black eyes.

  “That’s better.” Still smiling, Mardus fixed the brooch in place. “You must not fear me. You’re quite safe under my care. In fact, I shall guard you like a lion.”

  Alec felt someone come up behind him.

  “Perhaps he does not understand his situation well enough to be properly grateful,” a heavily accented voice hissed near his ear.

  The speaker moved to stand by Mardus, and Alec recognized him as the silent “diplomat” who’d been with Mardus at Wolde.

  “Perhaps not,” Mardus said agreeably. “You must understand, Alec, that Vargûl Ashnazai was all for gutting you like a fish the moment he laid hands on you. Not an unjustified reaction, considering the trouble you and your friend have put us to over the past few months. It was I who prevented him from doing so. ‘Why, he’s nothing but an impressionable boy,’ I said many times as we stalked the two of you through the streets of Rhíminee.”

  “Many times,” the necromancer said with a poisonous smile. “Sometimes I fear that the softness of my Lord Mardus’ heart will lead him into harm.”

  “And yet how else am I to feel when I see such an intelligent and enterprising young man fallen in with such company.” Mardus shook his head sadly. “A renegade Aurënfaie spy, outcast from his own people to whore for the queen of a decadent land, and a wizard admitted even by his own kind to be a mad fool? ‘No, Vargûl Ashnazai,’ I said, ‘we must first see if
this poor lad can be saved.’ ”

  Mardus grasped Alec by the shoulders, slowly pulling him close enough for Alec to feel the man’s breath on his face. His eyes seemed to go an impossible shade darker as he asked, “What do you think, Alec? Can you be saved?”

  Trapped in the intensity of Mardus’ gaze, Alec kept silent. Despite the implicit threat behind those honeyed words, there was something dangerously compelling in the man’s manner, a force of personality that left Alec feeling powerless.

  “This one has a stubborn nature,” the one called Vargûl Ashnazai muttered. “I fear he will disappoint you.”

  “Let’s not be hasty in our opinion,” said Mardus. “This Seregil of Rhíminee may have some claim upon his loyalty. You did say, after all, that you believe young Alec here has Aurënfaie blood in his veins.”

  “I am certain of it, my lord.”

  “Perhaps that’s the impediment. There were so many conflicting rumors around the city. Tell me, Alec, is he by chance your father? Or a half brother? Age is so difficult to gauge with these Aurënfaie and they are by nature deceitful.”

  “No,” Alec managed at last, his voice sounding faint and childish in his ears.

  Mardus raised an eyebrow. “No? But friend, certainly. He may have called you his apprentice during that unfortunate masquerade in Wolde, but your circumstances in Rhíminee belie it. So then, friend. Perhaps even lover?”

  Alec felt his face go hot as the soldiers snickered.

  “I recognize loyalty when I see it,” Mardus said. “I admit I am impressed to find it in one so young, even if it is blind loyalty to a man who abandoned you.”

  “He didn’t!” Alec snarled.

  Mardus gestured around them at the ship, the empty sea stretching away on all sides. “Didn’t he? Ah, well. I suppose it’s of little consequence to me what you choose to believe. Still, you might wonder why this trusted friend of yours chose to leave you to your fate when he might have saved you.”

  “You lie!” Alec was trembling now. He still couldn’t remember anything that had happened after his arrival at the Cockerel.