Shadows Return Read online

  The war against Plenimar was still grinding on, and brought home to Rhíminee in the form of the criers’ daily reports, cartloads of funeral urns and crippled soldiers, and the growing shortages of metal, horses, and meat. Seregil kept a large map on the dining room wall at Wheel Street, stuck with brass pins to mark the surging tide of battle. After this summer’s bloody fighting, Phoria and her Mycenian and Aurënfaie allies had finally pushed the enemy back halfway across Mycena, and held a line past the eastern bank of the Folcwine. Northern gold and wool were trickling south again, along the recaptured Gold Road, but supplies still had to flow north.

  Famished and exhausted, Alec and Seregil paused long enough to get the gist, then ambled on to the booth of their favorite baker for slices of warm bread slathered thickly with fresh butter and honey.

  As they turned the corner into Blue Fish Street, Alec looked up at the cloudless sky. “Another hot day.”

  “Not for much longer, I hope.” Seregil pulled his damp hair over one shoulder, trying to get the breeze on his neck.

  Even after all this time, it still felt odd to Alec, walking down this familiar street and not finding the Cockerel Inn there. They’d had a new inn built in its place. The Stag and Otter—a tongue-in-cheek reference to the animal forms they’d each taken during Nysander’s intrinsic nature spell—had been open for business for three months, and had already established a good name for its beer, if not the food. The Cockerel’s cook, old Thryis, had been well-known on this side of the city for her excellent fare.

  To rebuild on the same spot had seemed like a good idea when they’d come back to Rhíminee a year and a half ago. Now Alec thought it had been a mistake. Some of the foundation stones were still blackened—a stark reminder of the night Seregil had burned the old inn as a funeral pyre for their murdered friends.

  “You two are up and about early today,” Ema called as they passed the open kitchen door. Broadly pregnant, she held her apron hem carefully under the bulge of her belly as she bent to check on the contents of a kettle bubbling on its hook over the kitchen hearth.

  “Never came home last night at all,” Alec said with a wink. Mistress Ema was blond and pretty and cheerful, and Alec had warmed to her at once, even though her cooking skills left much to be desired.

  “You wicked things! But you’ll be hungry, I bet. I’ve got some cakes rising for breakfast, and some salt cod and onions on the boil.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. Just tea,” Seregil replied curtly, striding on. He hated salt cod and onions and had told her that a dozen times or more. The kitchen reeked of it.

  “I’ll come down for some cakes later,” Alec put in quickly as he took the tea tray. He’d have taken the fish, too, but Seregil wouldn’t allow the smelly stuff in their rooms.

  Magyana—the last remaining wizard at the Orëska House who called Seregil friend—had found the couple who ran the place. The husband, Tomin, was some kin of hers, from a town south of Ardinlee. Alec liked them well enough, but Seregil was still keeping his distance, and not just because of the food. Even with everything new right down to the pot hooks, neither of them could set foot in the place without expecting to hear Thryis snapping out orders to Cilla in the kitchen, or Diomis’s laughter as he bounced his grandson Luthas on his knee by the hearth. The child was the only survivor of that night, aside from Seregil’s cat, and was now safely fostered with the Cavishes at Watermead. Alec still caught a glimpse of Seregil’s guilt every time they saw the child; he’d never stopped blaming himself for the massacre.

  The stink of the fish gave way to the sweetly cloying smell of fresh wood and plaster as Alec followed Seregil upstairs. The Cockerel had been as settled as an old ship, steeped with years of cook smoke and soap boiling and lives lived. This place would smell new for years.

  The third-floor rooms they shared were well hidden, just as they had been at the Cockerel. Magyana had obscured the door that led to the secret stair, and warded those stairs just as they had been at the Cockerel. As with the old place, the wards on the stairs were keyed not to incinerate cats.

  Seregil whispered the passwords for the current wards as he reached each one. He still insisted on changing them frequently, though it was unlikely anyone would come hunting them now. Fortunately, Alec had a good memory. This month they were the Aurënfaie words for the phases of the moon.

  “Aurathra.”

  “Morinth.”

  “Selethrir.”

  “Tilentha.”

  Ruetha was sitting at the top of the stairs, busy cleaning her white ruff and paws. She ignored them until Seregil opened the door, then bounded through with her plumed tail held high.

  These new rooms were pleasant enough. The windows were clean enough to see through, the newly purchased furniture didn’t smell of must and smoke, and the new white marble fireplace certainly drew better. All the same, the whitewashed walls lacked the patina gained from years of smoke and candles, and they weren’t yet covered with trophies of past jobs and adventures. Those had all been lost. The only object that had survived the fire was the mermaid statue, now back in her place by the front door. Her marble skin was soot-stained and her upraised hand had broken off, but Alec had insisted on keeping her. Seregil pulled off his borrowed cloak and tossed it over her head.

  A door on the far side of the room led into the bedroom, where a broad, curtained bed and their clothes chests took up most of the floor space. Both rooms were still neat and orderly.

  At least for now, Alec thought with a tinge of regret.

  Gone were Seregil’s carefully hoarded books and scrolls, and the dusty store of maps he’d collected over the years and stored under the couch. All lost. The new worktables were well stocked with tools and a small forge, but lacked the comforting clutter of old locks and odd bits of metal, string, weapons, and wood. Though he’d often counseled Alec against burdening himself down with possessions, Seregil was a raven at heart, unable to resist picking up anything useful or shiny.

  Despite all the changes, they were both glad to finally have a place to escape to again when playing the dissolute nobles at the Wheel Street villa became too much of a bother.

  They washed the night’s dirt from their bodies and faces with water from the rain barrel on the roof and drank their tea as they dressed in light summer surcoats, doeskin breeches, and tall polished boots. Seregil went to a small casket on the mantelpiece and took out a heavy gold ring. It was set with a ruby carved with Klia’s profile. She’d given it to him in Aurënen, ostensibly in gratitude for his help there. Seregil wore it often—out of pride, certainly, and as remembrance of his absent friend—but also, Alec suspected, to spite Phoria and her lapdogs.

  Ostracized and unwanted, they’d spent the past year alternating between the bright salons of the nobles who would still associate with them, and carrying out minor intrigues like tonight’s job—often for the same people. Seregil was growing increasingly restless with the situation and had taken to slipping out alone at night again, as he used to before they were lovers.

  So far, Alec had resisted the temptation to follow him. Seregil seldom stayed away long, and usually returned in a better mood and eager to make up for his absence. Reluctant as always to admit whatever might be troubling him, Seregil was more than generous with the silent language of the body. It was a language Alec had learned well and easily.

  Perhaps it spoke now, carrying Alec’s irritation, for as he braided his hair into a neater plait, Seregil caught him by the wrist and pulled him close. Wrapping his arms loosely around Alec’s waist, he nipped him on the side of the neck and chuckled. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a bastard. So you really still like it so much, doing silly little jobs like that?”

  “Yes. I mean, it wasn’t much of a challenge, but at least we were working.”

  Seregil lifted Alec’s left hand, tracing his thumb over the round, faded scar on the palm. It was a reminder of the first job they’d shared, one that had nearly killed them both. Seregil bore a similar mar
k on his chest, just above his heart.

  “Maybe that’s the problem, talí. Too much risk for too little purpose these days.”

  Alec stroked his lover’s smooth, beardless cheek. “It’s not the same here, anymore, is it? I hoped getting back to work would help.”

  Seregil gave him a sad little smile. “I thought so, too, but it hasn’t.”

  When Alec had first come to Rhíminee, Seregil was still the Rhíminee Cat, the city’s faceless and most fearless thief for hire. When they’d abandoned the city after Nysander’s death, the Cat had died, too, or so rumor had it. There’d been no way to resurrect him without giving rise to unwelcome speculation. Seregil had been known in some circles as a man who could find the thief when he was needed, and he’d let it be known that he’d found a new nightrunner, but these little clandestine jobs were harder to come by lately.

  Alec tightened his arms around Seregil and leaned his forehead against his lover’s. He had to stoop just a little. He was slightly taller than Seregil now, with a trace of colorless down on his cheeks; both signs of his human blood, just like his yellow hair.

  “When we were running from those dogs, all I could think of was what it would be like if they caught us,” Seregil murmured. “Imagine—Lord Seregil and Lord Alec slapped up in the Red Tower for common housebreaking? No one knows what we really are, or what we’ve done for Skala. It would just be shame and dishonor, and for what? Because some titled slip of a girl couldn’t keep her skirts down on Mourning Night, then decided she wanted a proper marriage? For that, I risk losing you?”

  “Is that why you turned down so many jobs?”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew. So you’re getting scared, after all this time?”

  “It’s not fear.” Seregil gave Alec’s braid an annoyed tug. “It’s the sheer pointlessness of it all!” Pulling away, he threw himself down on the couch. “Is this what we came back for? Errand boys for bored nobles? I wish we’d stayed up in the mountains, hunting wolves and screwing in the tall grass.”

  Alec settled down next to him with a resigned sigh. Seregil was always at his worst when he was bored. “Maybe Magyana—?”

  “She’s never needed our kind of help. She’s a scholar, not a Watcher. If Phoria would just swallow her pride and bring Klia and Thero back from Gedre, maybe things would pick up. Otherwise?” He pulled out the brooch and eyed it with distaste. “Well, at least there’s no shortage of this sort of thing.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Too Much, and Not Enough

  PHORIA AND HER army sailed back to Rhíminee at the end of Rhysin, and rode up to the city through the Harbor Way, through the cold autumn rain and the last of the falling red and gold leaves. The official Progress would be held the next day, but this entrance was carried out with as much pomp and ceremony as if the war had ended, rather than trailed off in yet another season of stalemate.

  Peace still seemed beyond anyone’s grasp, but Phoria had decreed that there be a new holiday in the calendar—the Celebration of Returning Heroes—nonetheless. The stated purpose was to commemorate the year’s victories—without mention of the defeats, of course—and to honor the fallen. She’d done the same last year, when hopes had been higher.

  The rain-soaked banners and golden shields hung along the streets looked a little forlorn this year, thought Alec, as he and Seregil stood with the common masses along the walls of the Sea Market, well bundled against the damp chill off the sea. From here they had a good view of the queen as she rode by, brilliant even in this watery light in her gold-chased war helm and breastplate, holding the great Sword of Gherilain upright before her. Even more than the crown, the ancient blade was the most potent symbol of her reign, both as ruler and the country’s supreme war commander. The first time Alec had seen Phoria’s mother, Idrilain had been wearing that same armor, and that sword had been hers.

  Phoria’s twin brother, Prince Korathan, rode on her right. He was the Vicegerent now, and it was odd to see him, her equal as a warrior, dressed in robes of state and the flat velvet hat instead of a commander’s uniform. His greying blond hair was still long, in contrast to most of the court. Sitting his huge black charger with the ease of a born warrior, he cut an elegant and regal figure. Unlike Phoria and their younger sister Aralain, he had always been friendly with Seregil, and with his half sister Klia, too. Alec liked him for that.

  The rain pelted down harder, but they lingered on, counting regiments and banners. By the time the last men-at-arms marched past, Alec estimated she’d lost nearly five hundred soldiers, and this was only the Rhíminee force they were seeing. The cartloads of funeral urns were never part of the official proceedings.

  “Come on,” Seregil said at last through chattering teeth. “The Cavishes will have arrived by now.”

  They stole a ride on the back of a passing wagon and arrived back at Wheel Street to find Micum and his family waiting for them in the painted salon.

  Kari hurried over to embrace Alec, balancing three-year-old, red-haired Gherin on one hip. The child reached out and grabbed at Alec’s braid. “Muncle Arek!”

  “There you are, my sweet boy!” Kari cried, kissing Alec soundly on both cheeks. “A whole lovely summer gone and you only came out to Watermead twice? What has Seregil had you doing?”

  “You know better than to ask that, my love.” Micum chuckled, limping over to clasp hands with Seregil. He was dressed for town today in a fine embroidered coat and his best sword belt, and leaning on a polished walking stick with an ivory head carved in the shape of a fish—a gift from Seregil.

  It still hurt to see him like this, his stiff leg a constant reminder of that awful day four years ago. They all carried wounds; Micum’s was the most visible, but Seregil’s by far the deepest. The closest he ever came to speaking of it these days were the nights when he woke up yelling or crying, drenched in cold sweat. But none of that showed when he was awake and in command of himself.

  Seregil embraced his old friend, then looked around. “And where’s my little bird?”

  “Here, Uncle!” Illia came tripping lightly down the staircase, flanked by Seregil’s two huge white Zengati hounds, Mârag and Zir, and carrying her foster brother piggyback. Ten now, Illia was dark and pretty like her mother and middle sister, Elsbet, and trying to act very grown-up. “Luthas wanted to see the picture books in the library again. He remembered them from our last visit. Just a minute, though. I brought you presents!” She let Luthas down and ran back upstairs.

  “Uncle!” Luthas ran to throw his arms around Seregil’s knees. Seregil ruffled the child’s hair, but Alec didn’t miss the fleeting look of sadness in his friend’s eyes.

  Mercifully, Luthas was too young to remember his mother and grandparents, or how Seregil had saved him from the burning inn. He’d always had a special affection for Seregil, though, and Seregil was always kind to the child, even though Alec knew how he dreaded the day that the boy learned the truth of his past.

  Illia clattered back downstairs with two bulky brown bundles under her arms. “I made these for you. It took me all summer!”

  Alec unfolded his and shook out a well-made woolen sweater. Seregil’s was the same, in darker wool.

  “Well now, look at that.” Seregil gave Alec a wink. “The arms are the same length and everything.”

  “I’ll take it back!” Illia warned, grinning too broadly to look very insulted.

  Seregil hugged her. “Oh no you won’t! The first flake of snow I see, I’m putting this on until spring.”

  “It’s because of all those stories you told me, how cold it was at that cabin you lived in. If you ever go off like that again, you can take these!”

  Alec kissed her. “Thank you. And as it happens, we have some surprises, too.”

  He went into the dining room and retrieved two little silk-wrapped parcels from the top of the painted plate chest. Returning, he knelt down in front of the boys. “You first!”

  Two pairs of eyes widened—Luthas�
�s the same blue as Cilla’s had been, Gherin’s the same hazel as Micum’s.

  “Presents?” lisped Gherin. The shyer of the two, he hung back while Luthas boldly reached for the parcels.

  The coverings were loose and quickly cast aside, and both boys crowed happily over the brightly painted toy dragons. Alec had tried to give them toy bows on their last visit, but Kari had put her foot down firmly.

  “Give me a few years before you go putting weapons in their hands!” she’d scolded. “Besides, they’ll only put out each other’s eyes with the damn things.”

  Alec had had a bow in his hands for as long as he could remember, but he honored her wishes.

  “I see you over there, pretending you don’t care for presents,” Seregil said to Illia. “Or are you too old for such things, now?” It was a long-standing game between them.

  “Oh, I don’t care!” she replied with a coy smile, twisting this way and that to make her striped skirt twirl.

  “Well, then, what am I to do with this?” Seregil wondered, pulling a small box from the air with practiced sleight of hand.

  Illia’s dark eyes lit up. “Is it something magic?”

  “Not this time, I’m afraid. But if you give me a kiss, I’ll show it to you.”

  Illia skipped over to Seregil and sat on his knee to kiss him.

  “Alec and I used to promise you necklaces of dragons’ tongues and eyeballs. Do you remember?”

  “You didn’t bring me any of those!” She wrinkled her nose comically eyeing the box with distrust. “Did you?”

  “You’ll have to look to find out.”

  Illia opened the box and lifted out a pair of tiny, tear-shaped pearl earrings. “Oh, Uncle!” she cried, throttling him with an excited hug.

  “A young lady old enough to attend a Royal Progress ought to have suitable jewels, don’t you think?” Seregil asked, chuckling. “And I did notice on our last visit that you had your ears pierced. Alec has a gift for you, too.”