Stalking Darkness n-2 Read online

  Seregil loved him.

  Little more than the length of a tailor's yard separated them, but it might just as well have been the breadth of the Osiat Sea. Allowing himself nothing more than a deep, silent sigh, he blew out the lamp and lay back, praying for sleep.

  Rising early the next morning, Micum found Alec stacking wood in the kitchen. The boy had changed his city clothes for plain garb and was sharing some joke with Arna and young Jalis. Watching a moment from the doorway, Micum was struck again by how easily Alec seemed to fit into the rhythm of the household.

  Or anywhere else, come to that, he amended, thinking of all the roles and identities Alec had played in the time he'd been with Seregil. They were like water, those two, always shifting shape.

  "It's a fine day for hunting," he announced. "The deer have been thick up on the ridge this year. His lordship up yet?"

  Alec brushed dirt and bark fragments from his tunic. "He was still buried somewhere under the covers last time I looked. I don't think he slept well last night."

  "Is that so?" Micum went to the kitchen door and reached outside for a handful of loose snow. "Well then, he wants waking up, doesn't he? I'm sure he'd hate to miss such a beautiful morning."

  Mirroring his grin, Alec got himself a handful and followed Micum to the bedroom.

  The shutters were still closed, but there was enough light for them to make out the long form beneath the quilts on

  Seregil's side of the bed.

  Together, Micum signed to Alec.

  Stalking in silently, they threw back the quilts and launched their assault, only to find they'd ambushed a bolster.

  The shutters banged open behind them and two familiar voices shouted, "Good morning!"

  Startled, Micum and Alec looked up just in time to catch a faceful of snow from Seregil and Illia, laughing victoriously outside.

  "Sneak up on me, will you?" Seregil jeered as he and the girl fled.

  "After them!" cried Micum, scrambling out through the window.

  An ungainly chase ensued. Illia wisely dodged into the kitchen and was granted asylum by Arna, who brandished a copper ladle at all would-be abductors.

  Seregil wasn't so lucky. Never at his best in a daylight fight, he stumbled over one of the excited dogs who'd joined in the hunt and was tackled by Alec. Micum caught up and together they heaved Seregil into a drift and sat on him.

  "Traitor!" he sputtered as Alec thrust a handful of snow down the back of his shirt.

  Micum cut him short with another handful in the face. "I believe I owed you that," he chortled, "and here's another with interest."

  By the time they let him up, Seregil looked like a poorly carved sculpture done in white sugar.

  "What do you say to a hunt?" Micum asked, attempting to brush him off a bit.

  "Actually, I had more of a quiet day by the fire in mind," Seregil gasped, shaking snow from his hair.

  Grabbing him, Micum tossed him easily over one broad shoulder. "Find me a fresh drift, Alec."

  "There's a good one right there."

  "I'll go, I'll go, damn you!" howled Seregil, struggling.

  "What did I tell you?" laughed Micum, setting him on his feet.

  "I knew he'd want to."

  With dry clothes and a quick breakfast, the three of them set off into the hills above Watermead with bows and hounds.

  The dogs struck the trail of a boar first, but Micum called them off that, since they hadn't brought spears.

  For the rest of the morning they found nothing but birds and rabbits. At Alec's insistence, Seregil had brought a bow and no one was more surprised than he when he managed to hit a roosting grouse.

  They were just thinking of stopping for a midday meal when the dogs flushed a bull elk from a stand of fir. They chased it for nearly half an hour before Alec put a broadhead shaft into the great beast's heart, dropping it in midleap.

  "One shot, by the Maker!" Micum exclaimed, swinging out of the saddle to inspect the kill.

  "Quick and clean," said Alec, kneeling to inspect the shot. "That way they don't suffer."

  Alec had dropped armed men with the same merciful economy, thought Micum, inspecting the red-fletched shaft protruding from the animal's side.

  They built a fire and began dressing out the carcass. It was messy work; the snow around them was soon stained a steaming scarlet. Opening the belly, Micum tossed the entrails to the dogs and presented the heart and liver to Alec, his due for the killing shot.

  "We'll need more water before we're done," Micum remarked as they set about the skinning.

  Alec wiped his bloodied hands in the snow. "We passed a stream a ways back. I'll go refill the water skins."

  Seregil paused in his work, following Alec with his eyes until the boy had ridden out of sight between the trees. Beside him, Micum smiled to himself, thinking of what Kari had said.

  "He's grown up a lot, hasn't he?" he ventured presently.

  Seregil shrugged, going back to his skinning.

  "He's had to, running around with the likes of us."

  "You've come to think quite a lot of him, I'd say."

  Seregil saw through his flimsy words in an instant and his smile faded to hard, flat denial. "If you think I—"

  "I'd never think ill of you for the world. I just think that heart of yours leads you down some hard trails, that's all. You haven't said anything to him, have you?"

  Seregil's face was a careful mask of indifference, but his shoulders sagged visibly. "No, and I'm not going to. It wouldn't be— honorable. I have too much influence over him."

  "Well, he loves you well in his own fashion," Micum said, unable to think of anything more optimistic.

  The silence spun out between them again, less comfortable this time. Loosening the last bit of hide, Micum set his knife aside. "Do you have any idea what Nysander is up to? I haven't heard a thing from him since the Festival."

  This time there was no mistaking the troubled look in his friend's eyes. "Secrets, Micum. Still secrets. He's driven me half-mad with them," Seregil admitted, warming himself at the fire.

  "Have you found anything out on your own?"

  Seregil stirred the embers with a branch, sending up a little flock of sparks. "Not much. And I'm oath-bound not to talk about it. I'm sorry."

  "Don't apologize. We both know how the game works. How's Alec handling it, though? He's smart enough to put things together and I'd say he's about as easy to put off a scent as you are."

  "True." Seregil gave a humorless laugh. "I'm worried, Micum. Something really bad is coming down the road and I can't tell who's in the way."

  Micum hunkered down beside him. "If anyone can look out for him, it's you. But there are some other things you could be telling him. He has a right to know."

  Seregil shot to his feet and waved at Alec as he rode out of the trees toward them.

  "Not yet," he said, his voice too soft for Micum to tell if the words were a command or a plea.

  14

  After three days at Watermead, Alec and Seregil returned to the city under cover of night and made their way quietly back to the Cockerel.

  Runcer would keep up appearances at Wheel Street; Lord Seregil was in town, but not always available.

  Thryis and the others had gone to bed when they arrived, but the aromas still lingering in the darkened kitchen—new bread, dried fruit, garlic, wine, and ashy coals banked on the hearth—were enough welcome for Alec.

  Ruetha appeared from somewhere and followed them up to the second floor. Alec scooped her up and held her until Seregil had disarmed the succession of warding glyphs that protected the hidden stairway leading to their rooms. Alec grinned to himself as Seregil whispered the passwords that had once sounded so exotically magical.

  The command for the glyph at the base of the stairs was

  Etuis miara koriatuan cyris.

  "Your grandmother insults the chickens."

  Halfway up:

  Clarin magril.

  "Raspberries
, saddle."

  For the hidden door at the top of the stairs the word was

  Nodense:

  "Almost."

  The nonsense was intentional, making it virtually impossible for anyone to guess the secret words. Only the final command, the one for the door into the sitting room, had any meaning.

  Bokthersa was the name of Seregil's birthplace.

  Seregil crossed the room with the aid of a lightstone and lit the fire. As the flames leapt up, he surveyed the room in surprise. "Illior's Hands, don't tell me you cleaned the place up before you left for Wheel Street?"

  "Just enough so I could walk across the room safely," Alec replied, going to his neat, narrow bed in the corner near the hearth. He didn't particularly mind Seregil's chaotic living habits, but he did dislike stepping on sharp objects barefoot, or having heavy things fall on him from shelves. Hanging his sword and bow case on their nails above the bed, he stretched out with a contented sigh.

  Seregil collapsed on the sofa in front of the fire. "You know, it strikes me that this is all a bit of a comedown for you. After having your own chamber, I mean. Perhaps we should think about expanding our accommodations here. There are empty rooms on either side of us."

  "Don't bother on my account." Yawning, Alec crossed his arms behind his head. "I like things just as they are."

  Seregil smiled up at the shadow of a dusty cobweb wavering overhead. "So do I, now that you mention it."

  Their pleasure at returning to the inn was marred by a sudden scarcity of jobs. The few that had come in during their absence were petty matters, and over the next week new ones were slow to follow. For the first time in their acquaintance, Alec saw Seregil grow bored.

  To make matters worse, late winter was the dreariest season in Rhiminee despite the lengthening days. The icy rains brought thicker fog in off the sea, and a grey dampness seemed to get into everything. Alec found himself sleeping well past dawn, and then nodding off over whatever he was doing in the evening with the sound of the rain lulling him like a heartbeat. Seregil, on the other hand, became increasingly restless.

  Returning from a visit with Nysander one dank afternoon near the end of Dostin, Alec found Seregil working at the writing desk. The parchment in front of him was half-covered with musical notations, but he appeared to have lost interest in the project. Chin on hand, he was staring glumly out at the fog slinking by like a jilted lover.

  "Did you check with Rhiri on your way up?" he asked without turning his head.

  "Nothing new," Alec replied, unwrapping the books the wizard had lent him.

  "Damn. And I've already checked everywhere else. If people keep behaving themselves like this we'll be out of a job."

  "How about a game of bakshi?" Alec offered. "I could use some practice on those cheats you showed me yesterday."

  "Maybe later. I don't seem to be in the mood." With an apologetic shrug, Seregil returned to his composition.

  Suit yourself, thought Alec. Clearing a space on the room's central table, he settled down to study the compendium of rare beasts Nysander had given him. The text was somewhat beyond his ability, but he stubbornly puzzled it out, relying on the illustrations for clues when the gist of a passage eluded him. With cold mists swirling against the windowpanes, a fire crackling on the hearth, and a cup of tea at his elbow, it was not an unpleasant way to occupy an afternoon.

  It did require considerable concentration, however, which quickly proved difficult as Seregil abandoned the desk and began wandering around the room. First he toyed with an unusual lock he'd picked up somewhere, grinding noisily away at the wards with a succession of picks. A few moments later he tossed it onto a shelf with the others and disappeared into his chamber, where Alec could hear him rummaging through the chests and trunks piled there and muttering aloud, either to himself or the ever faithful Ruetha.

  Presently he reappeared with an armload of scrolls. Kicking the scattered cushions into a pile in front of the fire, he settled himself to read. But this pursuit was equally short-lived.

  After a brief perusal involving considerable rustling of parchments and muttered asides, each document was relegated in rapid succession into the fire or onto a dusty pile beneath the couch. With this task completed, he lay back among the cushions and began to whistle softly between his teeth, keeping time to his tune by tapping the toe of one boot against the ash shovel.

  Not even Nysander's excellent bestiary could withstand such distraction. Realizing he'd just read the same sentence for the third time, Alec carefully closed the book.

  "We could do some shooting in the back court," he suggested, trying not to let his exasperation show.

  Seregil looked up in surprise. "Oh, sorry. Am I disturbing you?"

  "Well—"

  He stood up again with a sigh. "I'm not fit to be around today, I'm afraid. I'll get out of your way." With this he returned to his room, emerging a few moments later wearing his best cloak.

  He'd changed his rumpled tunic for a proper surcoat and breeches, too, Alec saw.

  "Where are you off to?"

  "I think I'll just walk awhile, get some air," Seregil said, avoiding eye contact as he hurried to the door.

  "Wait a minute, and I'll go with you."

  "No, no, you go on with your reading," Seregil insisted hurriedly. "And tell Thryis not to wait supper for me. I could be late."

  The door closed after him and Alec found himself in sole possession of their rooms.

  "Well, at least he didn't take his pack this time," he grumbled to Ruetha, who'd stationed herself on a stack of books beside him. Tucking herself into a neat loaf, the cat merely blinked at him.

  Alec opened his book again, but found he couldn't concentrate at all now.

  Giving up, he made another pot of tea and looked into Seregil's bedroom while it steeped; no clue was immediately apparent in that chaotic jumble.

  What's he up to, dashing off like that?

  Except for that one mysterious journey, Seregil had included him in every job since the Festival. But he hadn't acted like he was going out on a job just now.

  The parchment was still on the desk. Bending over it, Alec saw that it was the beginnings of a song. The words were badly smudged in places, and whole lines had been struck through or scribbled over. What remained read:

  Shelter awhile this poor tattered heart.

  Cool my brow with your kiss.

  Tell me, my love, you will lie with me only.

  Lie to me all night like this.

  Sweet is the night, but bitter the waking

  When the sun harries me home.

  Others there'll be, who drink at your fountain

  While I toss cold and alone.

  Yellow as gold, the hair on your pillow,

  Green as cold emeralds, your eyes.

  Dear as the moon, the cost of your favors,

  Below this half a dozen lines had been struck out with what appeared to be increasing frustration.

  The margins of the sheet were filled with half-completed sketches and designs-Illior's crescent, a perfectly drawn eye, circles, spirals, arrows, the profile of a handsome young man. In the lower left coiner was a quick but unmistakable sketch of Alec scowling comically over his books, which Seregil must have drawn from his reflection in the windowpane.

  As he set the sheet aside, a familiar binding caught his eye among the books stacked on the workbench next to the desk. It was the Aurenfaie journal case they'd discovered in the Oreska library. He'd assumed Seregil had returned it with the others; he certainly hadn't said anything more about it, or about their discovery of the reference to the mysterious "Eater of Death."

  Opening it, Alec gently turned the fragile pages over. Though he couldn't read them, they all looked just as he remembered them.

  He replaced the case as he'd found it, and for the first time wondered if Seregil's restlessness lately was due to something more than just bad weather and boredom.

  Come to think of it, he'd been restless at Watermead, as
well. Those nights they'd shared the guest chamber bed, his friend had often tossed and muttered in his sleep. He hadn't done that before.

  What secrets was he wrestling with?

  "Or maybe he's just pining for his green-eyed mistress?" Alec speculated aloud, scanning the parchment again with an amused chuckle.

  Ruetha appeared to have no opinion on the matter, however, and he found himself pacing as he rehearsed various nonchalant comments he could use to broach the subject when Seregil returned.

  Whenever that turned out to be.

  Lost in the quiet of the murky afternoon, he went back to his book and read until the light failed. When he got up for a fresh candle, he saw that the rain had stopped. Beyond the courtyard wall, the street lanterns glowed enticingly through the mist.

  Suddenly the room seemed close and stale. There was really no reason he shouldn't go out. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? Throwing on a surcoat and cloak, he headed downstairs.

  The door between the kitchen and lading room was open.

  Through it he could see Cilia serenely nursing Luthas in the middle of the dinnertime bustle, sorting through a basket of apples with her free hand as she did so. The baby sucked greedily, tugging at the lacings of her open bodice. Her exposed breast throbbed gently with the rhythm of his demand.

  Alec's experience with Ylinestra had considerably altered his reaction to such sights. He colored guiltily when she looked up and caught him hovering in the doorway.

  "I thought you'd gone out already," she said.

  "Ah-no. I was just, that is—It's stopped raining, you see, and I'm just going out for a walk." He gestured vaguely toward the door behind him.

  "Could you hold the baby a minute before you go?" she asked, pulling Luthas off the nipple and holding him up. "My arm'll break if I don't shift over."

  Taking the child, Alec held him while Cilia moved her baskets and uncovered her other breast.

  It was swollen with milk; a thin stream jetted from the nipple as she moved. Alec was close enough to see the pearly drops that fell across the deep red skins of the apples. He looked away, feeling a little dizzy. Luthas let out a sleepy burp and nuzzled at the front of Alec's cloak.