Stalking Darkness n-2 Read online

  Much of this anger was directed at himself. Ylinestra had meant no more to him than a voluptuous diversion possessed of a mind of uncommon ability. Yet he had allowed his carnal desires to blind him to the true depths of her cupidity. Her sudden dalliance with Thero had reawakened his lulled sense of prudence. What he'd witnessed this night strengthened his suspicions.

  He let out an exasperated growl. The Black Time was coming, he knew, coming in the course of his own Guardianship. Was he prepared?

  Hardly.

  He had an assistant he could not completely trust and yet hardly dared release. A sorceress twenty decades his junior had him passion-blind.

  And Seregil!

  Nysander clenched his hands, digging the nails into his palms. Seregil, whom he loved as a son and a friend, had very nearly condemned himself to death through his own obstinate inquisitiveness. Alec would prove no different in time—that much was already clear.

  For the first time in years, he found himself wondering what his own master would have to say about all this. Arkoniel's craggy face came to him as readily as if he'd seen him only the day before.

  He'd been old when Nysander had first met him and never seemed to change. How fervently the young Nysander—that desperate, quick-tempered urchin of the streets, plucked starving from the squalor of the lower city-had tried to emulate the old man's patience and wisdom.

  But from Arkoniel he'd also inherited the burden of the Guardianship, that dark thread of knowledge that must be kept at once intact and concealed. A thread that the events of the past few months, beginning with Seregil's finding the cursed disk and culminating tonight with the omens at the ceremony, showed to be nearing its end.

  Finding no answers in the night, he'd returned to his tower and prepared for a formal meditation. Dawn found him motionless and seemingly serene. He'd been dimly aware of Thero's arrival and respectful withdrawal.

  As the last light of Sakor's Day faded above the tower dome, Nysander opened his eyes, no wiser than when he'd begun. Denied inspiration, he was left with facts. Seregil had stumbled across the disk, ostensibly by accident, then found his way to the Oracle of Illior, who'd recited a fragment of a prophecy no one but Nysander himself had any business knowing about. Last night the same words—"Eater of Death" — had been spoken by the priest of Sakor following the strange omen of carrion birds.

  Rising, he worked the stiffness from his joints and set off for the Temple Precinct again.

  A cold sliver of moon was just sliding up from behind the white dome of the Temple of Illior when he arrived. Taking this as a favorable sign, he entered the temple and donned the ritual mask.

  He'd sought the counsel of the Oracle only a few times before, and then more often in the spirit of curiosity. His devotion to Illior took a different form than that of the priests.

  But now he hurried onward with a growing sense of anticipation. Snapping a light of his own into existence, he made his way down the twisting, treacherous stairway to the subterranean chamber of the Oracle. At the bottom he extinguished the light and strode on through the utter blackness of the corridor, more convinced with every step that the poor, mad creature at its end had answers to offer.

  A lumpish, disheveled young man squatting on a pallet bed looked up as he entered. This was not the same Oracle Nysander recalled, of course, yet all the rest was as before: the profound silence, the dim, cold light, the attendants seated motionless on either side of the idiot vessel of the Immortal, featureless silver masks gleaming from the depths of their cowls.

  "Greetings to you, Guardian!" he cried, vague eyes locking with Nysander's.

  "You know me?"

  "Who you are is nothing," the Oracle replied, rocking slowly from side to side. "What you are is everything. Everything. Prepare, O Guardian. The ordeal is close at hand. Have you preserved what was entrusted?"

  "I have." Nysander suddenly felt weary beyond words.

  How many times had he walked through the dusty labyrinth beneath the Oreska House, feigning absent curiosity? How many years had it taken to cultivate his reputation as an eccentric, albeit powerful, dabbler? How much had he sacrificed to uphold the trust of generations?

  "Stand ready, O Guardian, and be vigilant," the Oracle continued. "Your time approaches out of darkness and hidden places. The minions of the Adversary ride forth in secret glory. Your portion shall be bitter as gall."

  The silence closed over them again like the surface of a pool. Into that silence Nysander slowly recited words that, to his knowledge, had not been said aloud in nearly five centuries. It was a fragment of the "Dream of Hyradin," the one faint ray of hope he and all his predecessors had clung to down the long years of their vigil.

  "And so came the Beautiful One, the Eater of Death, to strip the bones of the world.

  First clothed in Man's flesh, it came crowned with a helm of darkness and none could stand against this

  One but Four.

  "First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in the darkness.

  Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall fail and yet not fail if the

  Guide, the Unseen

  One, goes forth. And at last shall be again the

  Guardian, whose portion is bitter, as bitter as gall."

  The Oracle said nothing to this, but gazed up at him with eyes that held no alternative.

  After a moment, Nysander bowed slightly and went back the way he'd come, in darkness and alone.

  9

  Alec had hoped that their stay at Wheel Street would be brief—a week perhaps, to satisfy appearances. But the week stretched into two, and then lengthened to a month. Seregil had "daylight business" to attend to, as he called his numerous legitimate interests around the city. They spent a great deal of time in the lower city, where he met with ship captains in warehouses smelling of tar and low tide, or haggled with traders at the customs houses. This meant that for the time being their comfortable rooms over the Cockerel were generally off-limits; they couldn't chance a connection being made between Lord Seregil and the inn.

  The business transactions bored Alec, but he contented himself with observing how Seregil played the role. Despite his affectations, he had the common touch that invited confidence and respect. He also had a reputation for openhandedness in certain matters; tradesmen were happy enough to pass on whatever rumors were current and there was little going on, legal or otherwise, which Seregil didn't soon hear of.

  Equally important were the evening salons. Once it was known that the elusive Lord Seregil was home at last, a veritable deluge of scented, wax-sealed invitations poured in.

  Thrown together night after night with nobles of all degrees, Alec gradually learned the gentle art of conversational thrust and parry so necessary to navigate the intricate waters of Skalan politics.

  "Intrigue!" Seregil laughed when Alec groaned over manner once too often. "That's our bread and butter, and the only intrigue that pay are those of the wealthy. Smile nicely, nod often, an less-than keep your ears open."

  Alec's presence excited a certain amount of comment at first and rumors regarding his relationship with Seregil circulate

  hotly. The higher-minded accepted that he really was—Seregil's ward, or perhaps his illegitimate son, though the majority of opinion tended toward less altruistic possibilities. Alec was mortified, but Seregil shrugged it off.

  "Don't let it bother you," he counseled. "In these circles the only thing worse than being slandered is not being talked about at all. In a month or two they'll forget all about it and think you've been around for years."

  To this end, they made a point of frequenting the better theater and gambling houses. The Tirade Theater in the Street of Light was a favorite haunt of Seregil's, particularly when Pelion i Eirsil was on stage.

  Alec was an instant aficionado of drama.

  Brought up on ballad and tavern tales, he was amazed to see stories played out by a fill cast in costume. Whether he understood the story line or not—he frequently didn't
—the pageantry of it was enough to keep him enthralled through the entire performance.

  And through it all, Alec's education continued—lock work and swordsmanship, etiquette and lineage, history and disguise, the picking of surcoats and the picking of pockets—together with a hundred other skills Seregil deemed indispensable for an aspiring spy.

  One grey morning several weeks after the Festival Seregil handed Alec a sealed note from the pile of new correspondence a his elbow as they sat over a late breakfast.

  Breaking the seal, he read a hastily scrawled note from Beka Cavish.

  Can get free a few hours this afternoon. Fancy a ride? If so, meet me at the Cirna Road gate at noon.

  — B.C.

  "You don't need me this afternoon, do you?" he asked hopefully, passing the note to Seregil. "I haven't seen her since the investiture."

  Seregil nodded. "Go on. I think I can manage without you."

  Arriving at the Harvest Market well before the appointed time, Alec found Beka already waiting for him by the city gate. The way she sat her horse, reins held casually in one hand, her other elbow cocked out at a jaunty angle beneath her green cloak, spoke volumes; she looked born to soldiering.

  "Aren't you still the fine young dandy?" she called as he maneuvered Windrunner through the market crowd.

  "Seregil's making a gentleman of me, after all." He struck a haughty pose. "Soon I'll be too good to hang about with the likes of you."

  "Then we'd better get on with it while we still can. I need a good run," she said, grinning at him.

  Nudging Wyvern into a trot, she led the way through the gate.

  As soon as they were past the curtain wall beyond, they kicked their mounts into a gallop and rode north along the cliffs. The frozen roadway rang like metal under their horses' hooves; the sea gave back a metallic sheen beneath the pale winter sky. To the east, the mountain peaks gleamed white against the lowering sky.

  Side by side, cloaks streaming out behind them, Alec and Beka raced along the highroad for a mile or more, then veered off into a meadow overlooking the sea.

  "That's quite a harness you've got on Wyvern,"

  Alec remarked, noting the leather breastplate and frontlet.

  "That's to accustom him to the feel of it," she explained. "For battle, the leather's replaced with felt pads and bronze plates."

  "How do you like military life? And what do I call you now?"

  "We all start as riders, although those of us with commissions are actually officers from the start. I'll be a lieutenant when we ride off to the war. Right now all the new riders are divided up into training decuria. I'm in the first turma under Captain Myrhini. Lieutenants lead three decuriae, but it's the captain more often than not who leads the drills—"

  "Hold on!" Alec interjected, reining in. "You soldiers speak a different language. What's a turma?"

  "I'm still getting it all straight myself," she admitted. "Let's see, now—ten riders make a decuria, which is led by a sergeant. Three decuriae to a turma, commanded by a lieutenant; three turmae to a troop and four troops to a squadron; two squadrons to the regiment. What with officers, sutlers and the like, there's about eight hundred of us altogether. Captain Myrhini has command of First Troop of the Lion Squadron under Commander Klia. Commander Perris commands the Wolf Squadron. And the Queen's oldest son, Prince Korathan, is the regimental commander."

  "Sounds like a pretty exclusive bunch."

  "The Horse Guard is an elite regiment; the officers are all nobles. The riders all have to provide their own mounts and prove themselves at riding and shooting, so most of them are from well— to-do families as well. I'd never have gotten a commission without Seregil's help. Still, elite or not, you should see some of the young blue bloods tumbling off their horses as they try to draw! I tell you, I've never appreciated Father's training so much as now. Sergeant Braknil thinks Captain Myrhini will want to keep me in her troop when I've finished training. I'll have thirty riders under me. But how about you? I suppose Seregil's keeping you pretty busy?"

  "Oh, yes." Alec rolled his eyes. "I think I've gotten all of ten hours sleep this week. When we're not arguing with traders or going off to some fancy gathering, he's got me sitting up half the night memorizing royal lineages. I think he secretly means to make me into a scribe."

  A little pause spread out and in it he felt the distance opening between them as they headed down their divergent paths. What he really wanted to tell her about were their nocturnal adventures, but Seregil was adamant about secrecy outside Watcher circles. At some point, he thought, Nysander ought to recruit Beka.

  Looking up, he found her studying his face with a faint smile. It occurred to him that having grown up around Micum and Seregil, she probably had a fair idea of his unspoken life.

  "Did I tell you Seregil's teaching me Aurenfaie?" he said, anxious to reestablish common ground.

  "Nos eyir?"

  He laughed. "You, too?"

  "Oh, yes. Elsbet and I were always pestering him to teach us when he came to visit. She had a better head for it, naturally, but I know a little. I suppose you'll need it, too. It's all the fashion among the nobles."

  "Seregil says most of them sound like they're talking through a mouthful of wet leather when they try. He's making certain I get it right.

  "Makir y'torus eyair. How's that?"

  "Korveu tak melilira. Afarya tos hara'beniel?" she replied, wheeling her horse and kicking it into a gallop.

  Assuming it had either been an insult or an invitation to another race, Alec galloped after her.

  Dusk was settling outside the windows of Seregil's bedchamber when Alec strode in with flushed cheeks and new snow melting in his hair. The sweet tang of a cold ocean wind still clung to him.

  "Tell me we don't have to dress up tonight!" he pleaded, dropping down on the hearth rug by Seregil's feet.

  Seregil laid his book aside and stretched lazily. "You look like you've had quite an afternoon."

  "We rode for miles! I should have taken my bow—we ended up in the hills and there were rabbits everywhere."

  "I may have some other hunting for you." Seregil pulled a small scroll from his belt and brandished it between two long fingers. "This was left at the Black Feather for the Rhiminee Cat. It seems Lady Isara has lost some compromising letters and she wants them back. She thinks Baron Makrin's study is a good place to start looking."

  "Tonight?" Alec asked, all weariness instantly forgotten.

  "I think that's best. It's a pretty straightforward burglary, nothing fancy. Midnight's soon enough. We'll have to wait until the household's settled down, but I don't want to be out in the cold any longer than we have to."

  The wind tugged at their cloaks as Seregil and Alec set off for the baron's villa on the west side of the Noble Quarter. They wore coarse workman's tunics, and old traveling cloaks covered the swords slung out of sight over their backs.

  They'd gone only a few blocks when Seregil suddenly sensed someone on the street behind them. Touching

  Alec lightly on the arm, he turned a corner at random and caught a hint of motion in the shadows behind them.

  "Just like that time I was chased into Silvermoon Street," Alec whispered, glancing back nervously.

  "I had the same thought, though it's probably just someone out for a midnight stroll. Let's find out."

  Leaving the baron for later, he turned right at the next corner, heading east into the heart of the city.

  A slice of moon broke free from the clouds, giving just enough light for Seregil to make out a large, dark form trailing them from a discreet distance.

  Not so innocent after all, he frowned to himself. Keeping up a steady pace, he strode on into the increasingly poorer streets of the southeast quarter. Their man still kept his distance, but matched them turn for turn.

  "Do you hear that?" Alec asked softly.

  "Hear what?"

  "That little scraping sound, when he walks over a patch of bare cobbles. I heard it that other tim
e, too."

  "Well then, we'd better let him introduce himself."

  Wending his way into a disreputable warren of darkened tenements and warehouses, Seregil spotted a familiar alleyway. Pretending to stumble, he reached out and grasped Alec's elbow and signed for him to follow.

  Ducking into the alley, he quickly tore off his cloak and tossed it behind a pile of refuse, then pulled himself through a crumbling window frame overhead. Alec was up beside him in an instant. From this vantage point, they watched as their man hesitated, then drew a falchion and went slowly on into the shadows of the alley. From this angle, Seregil couldn't make out his face.

  An amateur, but persistent,

  Seregil thought, watching as he went half the length of the alley before realizing that it was a dead end, and that his quarry was nowhere in sight.

  As he turned, Seregil and Alec dropped lightly to the pavement and drew their swords.

  "What do you want?" Seregil demanded.

  Undaunted, their pursuer took a step forward, weapon at the ready. "If ever you called yourself Gwethelyn, Lady of Cador Ford, and Ciris, squire of the same, then we've a matter of restitution to discuss."

  "Captain Rhal!" Alec examined.

  "The same, boy."

  "You're a long way from the Darter," said Seregil, hoping he didn't sound as shaken as he felt.

  "And a good thing, too," Rhal retorted stiffly, "seeing that she lies rotting at the bottom of the Folcwine River."

  "What's that to do with us?"

  Rhal advanced another step, flinging his hat aside. "I've traveled a long way to ask you that. Two days below Torburn we put in for water at a little place called Gresher's Ferry. A pack of swordsmen were waiting for us there, and who do you suppose they wanted?"

  Alec shifted uncomfortably beside him.

  "I'm sure I have no idea," Seregil replied. "Who were they looking for?"

  "Two men and a boy, they claimed, but it was you they meant, sure enough. If I hadn't caught you out of your woman's riggings I might not have tumbled, but it was you."