Nightrunners 03 - Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  The Bokthersan grinned. "Why, at the Vhadasoori, of course."

  Cloud shadows scudded across their path as they set off along the turf-muted avenue leading back to the center of the city.

  It felt less deserted today. Riders galloped past, and there were people in the streets. Marketplaces had been set up at crossroads, with goods being sold on blankets or out of the backs of carts. Most of the people Alec saw looked like servants and attendants. Clearly, it took a sizable population behind the scenes to maintain the banquets and bathhouses that helped court alliances.

  "It's difficult to believe a city like this just stands empty most of the time," Alec remarked.

  "Not quite empty," said Kheeta. "There are the Bash'wai, and the rhui'auros. But as you say, Sarikali belongs mostly to itself and its ghosts. We are merely occasional lodgers, coming here for festivals, or to settle clan disputes on neutral ground."

  He pointed to a stag's skull set on a post beside the street. It was painted red, with silvered horns. "See that. It's a boundary marker for Bokthersa tupa. And that white hand with the black symbol on the palm painted on the wall across the street marks the tupa of Akhendi."

  "Are people very territorial here?" Given the chances that he'd be nightrunning here sooner or later, it was a good idea to know the local customs.

  "It depends on who is involved, I suppose. Violence is forbidden, but trespassers can be made to feel quite unwelcome. I stay clear of Haman tupa and you and your companions will do well to do the same, especially when you're alone. The Khatme aren't much for visitors, either."

  At the Vhadasoori they left their horses outside the circle of stones and entered on foot. Alec paused beside one of the monolithic figures, pressing a palm to its rough surface. He half expected to feel some magical vibration, but the stone was silent beneath the cool morning dew.

  "You did not have a proper welcome the other day," Kheeta said, going to the moon-shaped chalice that still stood on its pillar. "All who come to Sarikali drink from the Cup of Aura."

  "Is it left here all the time?" Alec asked, surprised.

  "Of course." Kheeta dipped up water from the pool and presented it to him.

  Alec took it in both hands. The narrow alabaster bowl was perfectly smooth, its silver base untarnished.

  "Is it magical?" he asked.

  The Bokthersan shrugged. "Everything is magical in some way, even if we cannot perceive it."

  He drank deeply, then handed it back to Kheeta. "Don't you have any thieves here in Aurenen? "

  "In Aurenen? Of course. But not here."

  A city without locks and without footpads and thieves? Alec thought skeptically. That would be magic indeed.

  They spent the rest of the morning exploring. There were hundreds of tupas, counting those of the lesser clans, so Alec concentrated on those of the Eleven for the moment. Kheeta was a talkative guide, pointing out clan marker and points of interest. One hulking dark structure looked very much like another until he named it as a temple or meeting place.

  Alec found himself studying his companion as well. "Does Seregil seem much changed to you?" he asked at last.

  Kheeta sighed. "Yes, especially when he's dealing with the Iia'sidra or your princess. Then again, when he looks at you, or makes a joke, I see the same old haba."

  "I heard Adzriel call him that," Alec said, pouncing on the unfamiliar word. "Is it like 'tali'?"

  Kheeta chuckled. "No, haba are small black—" He paused, searching for the Skalan word. "Squirrels? Yes, squirrels, that live in the western forests. They're everywhere in Bokthersa, feisty little creatures that can chew their way into the tightest bale, or will steal the bread from your hand when you're not looking. Seregil could climb like a haba, and fight like one when pushed to it. He was always trying to prove himself, that one."

  "To his father?"

  "You've heard about that, have you?"

  "A bit." Alec tried not to sound too eager. This wasn't the sort of information he'd been sent to gather, but he wasn't about to let the opportunity pass.

  "Well, you've met Mydri, so you can see the difference. Seregil and Adzriel were the only ones of the four who took after their mother. Perhaps things might have been different for Seregil if she'd lived." Kheeta paused, frowning at some unpleasant memory. "There are those in the family who say it was Korit's guilt that kept father and son at odds."

  "Guilt? For what?"

  "For Illia's death in childbirth. Most Aurenfaie women bear only one or two children, but Korit i Solun wanted a son to carry his name. Illia obliged him out of love, having daughter after daughter until she was past her prime. The last birthing was too much for her, or at least that's how I've heard it.

  "The raising of Seregil fell to Adzriel, and a good thing, too. What finally happened with that bastard Ilar—" Kheeta spat vehemently over his horse's flank. "Well, there are those who laid the blame as much on his father as on Seregil. I tried to tell Seregil as much last night, but he won't listen."

  "I know what you mean. It's best to leave certain subjects alone."

  "And yet he became a great hero in Skala." Kheeta's admiration and affection for Seregil was evident. "And you, as well, from what I hear?"

  "We got through some bad times with whole skins," Alec replied vaguely, not in the mood to extol their exploits like some bard's tale.

  He was spared the trouble. As they came around a corner, they saw a woman dressed in a red robe and bulbous black hat standing in the shadowed doorway of a temple, apparently in the midst of an animated conversation with someone inside. As they drew closer, Alec could make out complicated patterns of black lines covering the woman's hands.

  "What clan is she?"

  "No clan. That's a rhui'auros. They give up their clan when they enter the Nha'mahat" Kheeta told him, making a sign of some sort in her direction.

  Before Alec could ask what a nha'mahat was he came abreast of the rhui'auros and saw that she was talking to empty air.

  "Bash'wai," Kheeta said, noting Alec's surprise.

  A chill ran up Alec's spine as he looked back at the empty doorway. "The rhui'auros can see them?"

  "Some do. Or claim to. They have some strange ways, and what they say is not always what they mean."

  "They lie?"

  "No, but they are often—obscure."

  "I'll keep that in mind when we visit them. Seregil hasn't had a free moment since we—"

  Kheeta stared at him. "Seregil spoke of going there?"

  Alec thought back to that odd, tense conversation back in Ardinlee. Seregil hadn't spoken of the rhui'auros since.

  "You mustn't ever ask him to go there," Kheeta warned.

  "Why?"

  "If he's not told you, then it's not for me to say."

  "Kheeta, please," Alec urged. "Most of what I know about Seregil I've learned from other people. He gives away so little about himself, even now."

  "I shouldn't have spoken. It's for him to tell you that tale, or not."

  Being close-mouthed and stubborn must be a Bokthersan trait, Alec thought, as they rode on in silence.

  "Come," Kheeta said at last, relenting a bit. "I can show you where to find them for yourself."

  Leaving the more populated tupas behind, they rode to a quarter at the southern edge of the city. The buildings here were overgrown and crumbling, the streets choked in places with tall grass and wild-

  flowers. Weeds had claimed the courtyards. For all its strangeness, however, it appeared to be a popular destination; people strolled the ruined streets in pairs and small groups. Dragonlings, the first Alec had seen since they'd left the mountains, were as plentiful as grasshoppers, basking on the tops of walls like lizards or fluttering among the flowering vines with the sparrows and hummingbirds.

  This place felt different, as well, the magic stronger and more unsettling.

  "This is called the Haunted City," Kheeta explained. "It's believed that the veil between ourselves and the Bash'wai is thinnest here. The Nha'mah
at lies just outside the city."

  They rode past the last of the crumbling houses and out into the open. On a rise just ahead stood the most bizarre-looking structure Alec had seen here yet. It was a huge tower of sorts, built in a series of square tiers that diminished in size as they went up. It was topped with a large colos and Alec could see people moving in the archways there. Although different in design from anything he had seen in Sarikali, it was made of the same dark stone and had the same grown-from-the-earth look. Behind it, the white vapor of a hot spring billowed up, roiling on the slight breeze.

  "The Nha'mahat," Kheeta said, dismounting well away from the building. "We'll go on foot. Be careful not to step on the little dragons. They're thick here."

  Alec kept a nervous eye on the ground as he followed.

  The ground level was bordered by a covered arcade. Prayer kites hung from the pillars, some new, some faded and tattered.

  Entering, Alec saw that the walkways were lined with trays of food: fruit, boiled grains dyed yellow and red, and milk. Fingerlings seemed to be the main beneficiary of this bounty; masses of the little creatures vied for a meal under the watchful eye of several robed rhui'auros.

  Strolling around to the back of the building, Alec saw that the ground fell away sharply. The vapor he'd seen issued from the dark mouth of a grotto beneath the tower. Steam belched from it like smoke from a forge. More rose in wisps from the stream that flowed down among the stones below.

  Something happened to him here, Alec thought, suddenly picturing a much younger Seregil being dragged into the darkness below.

  "Would you like to go in?" asked Kheeta, leading him back toward a doorway.

  A gust of cold wind whipped across the open plain, carrying the first spattering of rain. Alec shivered. "No. Not yet."

  If Kheeta sensed his sudden discomfort, he choose not to pry. "Suit yourself," he said amiably. "Since we have to go back through the Haunted City, how do you like ghost stories?"

  The gash Beka had gotten during the sea battle was healing, but she still suffered from sudden headaches. The brewing storm had brought on another, and by midmorning its effects must have shown, for Klia sent her home with strict orders to rest.

  Returning to the barracks alone, she retreated to her room and exchanged her uniform for a light shirt and tunic. Stretched out on the bed, she settled one arm over her eyes and lay listening to the soft clatter of gaming stones in the next room. She was drifting on the edge of sleep when she caught Nyal's voice outside. She hadn't exactly been avoiding him these past few days, she just hadn't had time to deal with the silly flux of emotions he provoked in her. The approach of booted feet warned that there was no avoiding it now except to plead illness. Not wanting to be caught at a disadvantage, she sat up quickly on the narrow bed, then choked down the wave of nausea the sudden move cost her.

  "It's Nyal," Urien announced, peeking in around the door. "He's brought you something for your head."

  "Did he?" How in Bilairy's name had he known she was ill?

  To her horror, he entered carrying a little nosegay of flowers. What were the others going to make of that?

  "I heard you were feeling unwell," he said. Instead of the flowers, however, he held out a flask. "I've picked up a fair bit of herb lore in my travels. This decoction works well for pains in the head."

  "And those? " Beka asked with a wry grin, pointing to the flowers.

  He passed her those as well, as if they'd been an afterthought. "I don't know all their names in Skalan. I thought you might wish to know what was in it."

  Beka bent over the flowers, hoping he wouldn't notice her guilty blush. Bringing you flowers, was he? And why are you so damned disappointed? "I recognize a few of them. The little white ones are feverfew, and these branch tips are from a willow." She pinched a thick, dark green leaf, then took a nibble. "And this is mountain cress. I haven't seen these others before."

  Nyal knelt in front of her and pushed her hair back to inspect the scabbed cut on her brow. "This is healing well."

  "The Cavishes are a hardheaded bunch," Beka told him, pulling back from the light brush of his fingers against her face. Opening the

  flask, she took a swig and grimaced. There was honey in the mix, but not enough to mask the underlying bitterness.

  "I didn't see any wormwood in that bouquet of yours," she sputtered.

  He laughed. "That's the little pink blossom we call 'mouse ears.' " He poured a cup of water and handed it to her. "My mother used to hold my nose when she dosed me. I'll sit with you a moment until we see if it's going to do its work."

  An awkward silence ensued. Beka wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but not with him sitting there. The little room was stuffy; she could feel sweat trickling down her chest and back and regretted putting on the tunic.

  After a few moments, however, she realized that the throbbing behind her eyes was nearly gone.

  "That's quite a brew!" she said, sniffing the flask again. "I wouldn't mind keeping some of this on hand for the others. Sergeant Braknil does most of our healing for us in the field when there isn't a drysian handy."

  "I'll see he gets the recipe." Nyal rose to go, then paused, eyeing her critically. "The air is so still today, perhaps a walk would do you good. I could show you some more of the city before the rain comes. There's so much you haven't seen yet."

  It would have been a simple matter to plead illness. Instead, she smoothed her hair back and followed him out, telling herself that as the head of Klia's bodyguard, it was her duty to learn the lay of the land. In case of trouble.

  They set off on foot as thunder wandered ever closer across the valley. Nyal headed south, pointing out tupas of various lesser clans as they went. He seemed to know a bit about all of them and shared a few amusing stories along the way. As they passed the outskirts of Akhendi tupa, she was tempted to ask more about the khirnari's wife but resisted the urge.

  Most of the city was uninhabited, and the further they got from the center of it, the more overgrown the streets became. The grass grew longer here, and mud swallows had built nests in the corners of open windows.

  One place looked very much like another to Beka, but Nyal seemed to have a particular destination in mind. This turned out to be a deserted neighborhood in the southern part of the city, one more silent and peculiar than any she'd seen so far.

  "Here's a place I think you'll enjoy," he announced at last, leading her into a broad thoroughfare where scrubby bushes were taking back the open spaces.

  She glanced around nervously. "I thought I'd gotten used to the feel of Sarikali, but this is different. Stronger."

  "We call it the Haunted City," Nyal replied. "The magic works differently here. Can you feel it?"

  "I feel something." Whether it was the magic of the place, the impending storm, or the way his arm occasionally brushed hers as they walked, she suddenly felt hot and restless. Pausing, she pulled the tunic off over her head, caring little that the loose linen shirt underneath was stained with sweat and metal tarnish. Tugging it free of her breeches, she undid the neck lacings to let the quickening breeze cool her skin. Like most of her female riders, she didn't bother with binding her breasts when not in the field. Glancing his way, she saw an enigmatic smile on his lips and knew that she had his attention. Alone with him here, she had to admit at last that she liked it.

  "This is a very special place," he continued. "The Bash'wai who lived here simply walked away one day, leaving everything they owned behind."

  They entered one of the houses and passed through an empty gallery to a fountain court. A stone table near the leaf-choked basin was set for six, complete with cups and cracked plates of fine red porcelain. A tarnished silver pitcher stood in the center, its interior still stained with the wine that had dried away countless years before. Beyond the courtyard lay a bedchamber. The furnishings were rotted with age, but a carved wooden tray on a chest still held a collection of gold jewelry, as if the woman who'd owned them had just t
aken them off before her bath.

  "Why haven't thieves carried all this away?" Beka asked, picking up a brooch.

  "No one dares rob the dead. One of my aunts loves to tell the story of a woman who found a ring here that was so beautiful she couldn't resist taking it. Her clan went home soon after and almost immediately she began to suffer nightmares. They became so powerful and terrifying that at last she threw the ring into a river. When she returned to Sarikali the following year, that ring was lying exactly where she'd found it."

  Returning the brooch to the tray, Beka gave him a look of mock disapproval. "I think you brought me here to scare me, Ra'basi."

  Nyal took her hand in his, stroking it with long fingers. "And why should I attempt such a thing with a brave Skalan captain?"

  His touch sent a sensuous tingle up her arm, stronger than before.

  "To test my bravery, perhaps?" she teased. "Or to create the opportunity to offer comfort?"

  Looking into those clear hazel eyes, she felt another jolt of sensual anticipation; there was no mistaking the passion kindling there, or the open affection. It would be so easy to close the distance between her lips and his, she thought, as if gauging an arrow's flight. Without further thought, she kissed him.

  She'd wanted this—wanted him—from the instant she'd laid eyes on him at Gedre. Now she let her hands roam, greedily exploring the hard, responsive body pressed to hers. His mouth was as sweet as she'd imagined, and when he pulled her close she buried her fingers in his hair, nipping his lower lip.

  His hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, encircling her bare waist above her sword belt, working their way slowly higher.

  "Lovely one, beautiful Tir," he murmured against her ear.

  "Don't." She tensed and took a step back. Other lovers had used such blandishments and she'd let them pass; from Nyal they were unbearable.

  "What is it?" he asked, concerned by the sudden shift. "Are you a virgin, or do you distrust me?"

  Beka laughed in spite of the hot, resentful ache in her belly—or perhaps because of it. "I'm no virgin. But I'm not beautiful either, and don't need to fancy myself so. I'd rather we just be honest with each other, if it's all the same to you."