Traitor's Moon n-3 Page 3

  "What have you two been doing since I saw you last?"

  Alec shrugged. "Wandered for a while. I thought we'd head for the war, offer our services to the queen, but for a long time he just wanted to get as far from Skala as possible. We found work along the way, singing, spying—" He tipped her a rakish wink. "Thieving a bit when things got thin. We ran into some trouble last summer and ended up back here."

  "Will you ever go back to Rhiminee?" she asked, then wished she hadn't.

  "I'd go," he said, and she caught a glimpse of that haunted look as he looked away. "But Seregil won't even talk about it. He still has nightmares about the Cockerel. So do I, but his are worse."

  Beka hadn't witnessed the slaughter of the old innkeeper and her family, but she'd heard enough to turn her stomach. Beka had known Thryis since she was a child herself, playing barefoot in the garden with the granddaughter, Cilia. Cilia's father had taught her how to carve whistles from spring hazel branches.

  These innocents had been among the first victims the night Duke Mardus and his men attacked the Oreska House. The attack at the Cockerel had been unnecessary, a vindictive blow struck by Mardus's necromancer, Vargul Ashnazai. He'd killed the family, captured Alec, and left the cruelly mutilated bodies for Seregil to find. In his grief, Seregil had set the place ablaze as a funeral pyre.

  At the top of the ridge Alec reined in and whistled shrilly through his teeth. An answering call came from off to their left, and they followed it to a pond.

  "It reminds me of the one below Watermead," she said.

  "It does, doesn't it?" said Alec, smiling again. "We even have otters."

  None of them saw Seregil until he stood up and waved. He'd been sitting on a log near the water's edge and his drab tunic and trousers blended with the colors around him.

  "Micum? And Beka!" Feathers fluttered in all directions as he strode over to them, still clutching the wild goose he'd been plucking.

  He was thin and weathered, too, but every bit as handsome as Beka remembered—perhaps more so, now that she saw him through a woman's eyes instead of a girl's. Though slender and not overly tall, he carried himself with a swordsman's grace that lent unconscious stature. His fine-featured Aurenfaie face was sun-browned, his large grey eyes warm with the humor she'd known from childhood. For the first time, however, it struck her how old those eyes looked in such a young face.

  "Hello, Uncle!" she said, plucking a bit of down from his long brown hair.

  He brushed more feathers from his clothes. "You picked a good time to come visiting. There've been geese on the pond and I finally managed to hit one."

  "With an arrow or a rock?" Micum demanded with a laugh. Master swordsman that he was, Seregil had never been much of a hand with a bow.

  Seregil gave him a crooked smirk. "An arrow, thank you very much. Alec's been paying me back for all the training I've put him through. I'm almost as good with a bow as he is with a lock pick."

  "I hope I'm better than that, even out of practice," Alec muttered, giving Beka a playful nudge in the ribs. "Now will you tell us what brings you and a decuria of riders clear up here?"

  "Soldiers?" Seregil raised an eyebrow, as if noticing for the first time that she was in uniform. "And you've been promoted, I see."

  "I'm here on the Queen's business," she told him. "My riders know nothing of what I'm about to tell you, and I need to keep it that way for now." She pulled a sealed parchment from her tunic and handed it to him. "Commander Klia needs your help, Seregil. She's leading a delegation to Aurenen."

  "Aurenen?" He stared down at the unopened document. "She knows that's impossible."

  "Not anymore." Dismounting with practiced ease, Micum pulled his stick from the bedroll behind his saddle and limped over to his friend's side. "Idrilain squared things for you. Klia's in charge of the whole thing."

  "There's no time to lose, either," Beka urged. "The war's going badly—Mycena could fall any day now."

  "We get rumors, even here," Alec told her.

  "Ah, but there's worse news than that," Beka went on. "The queen's been wounded and the Plenimarans are pushing their way west every day. Last we knew, they were halfway to Wyvern Dug. Idrilain's still in the field, but she's convinced that an alliance with Aurenen is our only hope."

  "What does she need with me?" asked Seregil, handing the unread summons to Alec. "Torsin's dealt with the Iia'sidra for years without my help."

  "Not like this," Beka replied. "Klia needs you as an additional adviser. Being Aurenfaie, you understand the nuances of both languages better than anyone, and you certainly know the Skalans."

  "Given all that, I could end up with neither side trusting me. Besides which, my presence would be an affront to half the clans of Aurenen." He shook his head. "Idrilain actually got the lia'sidra to let me return?"

  "Temporarily," Beka amended. "The queen pointed out that since you're kin to her through Lord Corruth, it would be an affront to Skala to exclude you. Apparently it was also made clear that it was you who solved the mystery of Corruth's disappearance."

  "Alec and I," he corrected absently, clearly overwhelmed by this news. "She told them about that?"

  Before Nysander's death he, Alec, and Micum had been part of the wizard's network of spies and informers, the Watchers. Even the queen had not known of their role in that until he and Alec had helped uncover a plot against her life. In the process, they'd discovered the mummified body of Corruth i Glamien, who'd been murdered by Lerans dissenters two centuries earlier.

  "I don't suppose it hurt that your sister is a member of the lia'sidra now," said Micum. "Word is that the faction favoring open trade is stronger than ever."

  "So you see, there's no problem with all that," Beka broke in impatiently. If she had her way, they'd be riding back down the mountain before sunset.

  Her heart sank when Seregil merely stared down at his muddy boots and mumbled, "I'll have to give it some thought."

  She was about to press him when Alec laid a hand on Seregil's shoulder and gave her a warning look. Clearly, some wounds hadn't healed.

  "You say Idrilain is still in the field?" he asked. "How badly was she hurt?"

  "I haven't seen her. Hardly anyone has, but my guess is it's worse than anyone is letting on. Phoria is War Commander now."

  "Is she?" Seregil's tone was neutral, but she caught the odd look that passed between him and her father. The "Watcher look," her mother called it, resenting the secrets that lay between the two men.

  "The Plenimarans have necromancers," Beka added. "I haven't met up with any yet, but those who have claim they're the strongest they've been since the Great War."

  "Necromancers?" Alec's mouth tightened. "I suppose it was too much to hope that stopping Mardus would put an end to all that. You and your people are welcome to make camp in the meadow tonight."

  "Thanks," said Micum. "Come on, Beka. Let's get your people settled."

  It took her a moment to realize that Alec wanted time alone with Seregil.

  "I expected him to be happy about going home, even if it is only for a little while," she mused, following her father down the trail. "He looked as if he'd received a sentence."

  Micum sighed. "He did, a long time ago, and I guess it hasn't really been changed. I've always wanted to know the story behind what happened to him, but he never said a thing about it. Not even to Nysander, as far as I know."

  A pair of otters was frisking on the far bank, but Alec doubted Seregil saw them, or that it was news of the war that had left him so pensive. Joining him at the water's edge, Alec waited.

  When they'd finally become lovers, it had done much more than deepen their friendship. The Aurenfaie word for the bond between them was talimenios. Even Seregil couldn't fully interpret it, but by then there'd been no need for words.

  For Alec, it was a unity of souls forged in spirit and flesh. Seregil had been able to read him like a tavern slate since the day they'd met; now his own intuition was such that at times he almost knew his
friend's thoughts. As they stood here now, he could feel anger, fear, and longing radiating from Seregil in palpable waves.

  "I told you a little about it once, didn't I?" Seregil asked at last.

  "Only that you were tricked into committing some crime, and that you were exiled for it."

  "And for once you didn't ask a hundred questions. I've always appreciated that. But now—"

  "You want to go back," Alec said softly.

  "There's more to it than that." Seregil folded his arms tightly across his chest.

  Alec knew from long experience how difficult it was for Seregil to speak of his past. Even talimenios hadn't changed that, and he'd long since learned not to pry.

  "I better finish plucking this goose," Seregil said at last. "Tonight, after the others are settled, I promise we'll talk. I just need time to take this all in."

  Alec clasped Seregil's shoulder, then left him to his thoughts.

  Alone at last, Seregil stared blindly across the water, feeling unwelcome memories rising like a storm tide.

  the solid finality of the knife's bloody handle clenched in his fist — choking, suffocating in the darkness — angry faces, jeering —

  Bowing his head, he pressed his hands over his face like an eyeless mask and sobbed.

  3 OLD GHOSTS STIRRING

  An early half-moon was already rising in the evening sky when Seregil returned. Beka's riders had set up camp and had cook fires going. He looked for familiar faces, wondering which decuria she'd brought, and was surprised at how few people he recognized.

  "Nikides, isn't it?" he asked, approaching a small group gathered around the nearest fire.

  "Lord Seregil! It's good to see you again," the young man exclaimed, clasping hands with him.

  "Are you still with Sergeant Rhylin?"

  "I'm here, my lord," Rhylin called, coming out of one of the little tents.

  "Any idea what all this is about?" asked Seregil.

  Rhylin shrugged. "We go where we're told, my lord. All I know is that we head back down toward Cirna from here, to meet up with the rest of the turma. The captain's waiting for you over at the cabin. Just so you know, she's in one hell of a hurry to move on."

  "So I gathered, Sergeant. Rest well while you can."

  Beka was sitting with Alec and Micum by the front door. Ignoring her expectant look, Seregil tossed Alec the goose and went to wash his hands in a basin by the rain barrel.

  "Supper smells good," he noted, giving Micum a wink as he sniffed the pleasant aromas wafting from the open doorway. "Lucky for you Alec's the cook tonight, and not me."

  "I thought you looked thin," Micum said with a chuckle as they went in.

  "Not quite your Wheel Street villa, is it?" Beka remarked, gesturing around the cabin's single room.

  Alec grinned. "Call it an exercise in austerity. The snow got so deep this past winter we had to cut a hole in the roof to get out. Still, it's better than a lot of places we've been."

  The place was certainly a far cry from the comfortably cluttered rooms he and Seregil had shared at the Cockerel, or Seregil's fine Wheel Street villa. A low-slung bed took up nearly a quarter of the floor. A rickety table stood near it, with crates and stools serving as chairs. Shelves, hooks, and a few battered chests held their modest belongings. Squares of oiled parchment were nailed over the two tiny windows to keep out the drafts. In the stone fireplace a kettle bubbled on an iron hook over the flames.

  "I looked in at Wheel Street last month," Micum remarked as they crowded around the table. "Old Runcer's been ailing, but he still manages to keep the place just as you left it. A grandson of his helps out around the place now."

  Seregil shifted uncomfortably, guessing that his friend had meant the statement as more than a casual remark. The house was his last remaining tie in Rhiminee. Like Thryis, old Runcer had kept his master's secrets and covered his tracks, enabling Seregil to come and go as he pleased without arousing suspicion.

  "Where does he say we've been all this time?" he asked.

  "By last report, you were at Ivywell, watching over Sir Alec's interests and providing horses to the Skalan army," Micum said, giving Alec a wink. Ivywell was the fictitious Mycenian estate bequeathed to Alec by his bucolic and equally fictitious father. This obscure squire had supposedly made Lord Seregil of Rhiminee the guardian of his only son. Seregil and Micum had concocted both tale and title over wine one night to explain Alec's sudden appearance in Rhiminee. Given the insignificance of the title and locale, no one had ever questioned it.

  "What's said of the Rhiminee Cat?" asked Seregil.

  Micum chuckled. "After six months or so, rumors began to go round that he must be dead. You may be the only nightrunner ever mourned by nobility. I gather there was a significant lapse of intrigues among that class in the wake of your disappearance."

  Here was one more reason not to return. Seregil's clandestine work as the Cat had made his fortune. His work as one of Nysander's Watchers had given him purpose, while the public role he'd played as foppish Lord Seregil, the only one left him now, had become increasingly burdensome.

  "I suppose I should sell the place off, but I don't have the heart to put Runcer out. It's been more his home than mine. Perhaps I'll deed the house over to your Elsbet when she finishes her training at the temple. She'd keep him on."

  Micum patted Seregil's hand. "It's a kind thought, but won't you be needing it again, one of these days?"

  Seregil looked down at the big freckled hand covering his own and shook his head. "You know that's not going to happen."

  "How is everyone out at Watermead?" Alec asked.

  Micum sat back and tucked his hands under his belt. "Well enough, except for missing the pair of you."

  "I've missed them, too," Seregil admitted. Watermead had been a second home to him, Kari and her three daughters a second family. They'd claimed Alec as one of their own from the first day the boy had set foot in their house.

  "Elsbet's still in Rhiminee. She took sick in the plague that swept through last winter, but came through it whole," Micum went on. "Temple life suits her. She's thinking of becoming an initiate. Kari has her hands full with the two babes, but Illia's old enough to help now. It's a good thing, too. Ever since Gherin learned to walk he's been trying to keep up with his foster brother. That Luthas has the gift of mischief. Kari found them halfway down to the river one morning."

  Seregil smiled. "Shades of things to come, I'd say, with you for a father."

  They chatted on for a while, exchanging news and stories as if this were some casual visit. Presently, however, Seregil turned to Beka.

  "I suppose you'd better tell me more. You say Klia's in charge of this delegation?"

  "Yes. Urgazhi Turma's been assigned as her honor guard."

  "But why Klia?" Alec asked. "She's the youngest."

  "A cynical person might say that makes her the most expendable," Micum remarked.

  "She or Korathan would be whom I'd choose, in any case," Seregil mused. "They're the smartest of the pack, they've proven

  themselves in battle, and they carry themselves with authority. I assume Torsin will go, along with a wizard or two?"

  "Lord Torsin is in Aurenen already. As for wizards, they're as hard to spare in the field as generals these days, so she's taking only Thero," Beka replied, and Seregil knew she was watching him for a reaction.

  And with good reason, he thought. Thero had succeeded him as Nysander's pupil after Seregil had failed in that capacity. They'd disliked one another on sight and bickered like jealous brothers for years. Yet they'd ended up in each other's debt after Mardus had kidnapped Thero and Alec. From what Alec had told him afterward, they'd kept each other alive through a horrific journey, long enough for Alec to escape before the final battle on that lonely stretch of Plenimaran coast. Nysander's death had laid their rivalry to rest, yet each remained a living reminder to the other of what had been lost.

  Seregil looked hopefully at Micum. "You're coming, aren't you?"<
br />
  Micum studied a hangnail. "Not invited. I'm just here to convince you to go. You'll have to make do with Beka this time out."

  "I see." Seregil pushed his dish aside. "Well, I'll give you my answer in the morning. Now, who's for a game of Sword and Coin? It's no fun playing with Alec anymore. He knows all my cheats."

  For a time Seregil was able to lose himself in the simple enjoyment of the game, the pleasure made all the more precious by the knowledge that this moment of peace was a fleeting one.

  He'd enjoyed their long respite. He often felt as if he'd stepped from his world into the one Alec had known before they'd met: a simpler life of hunting, wandering, and hard physical work. They'd found enough mischief to get into along the way to keep up their nightrunning skills, but mostly they'd done honest work.

  And made love. Seregil smiled down at his cards, thinking how many times he and Alec had lain tangled together in countless inns, by countless fires under the stars, or on the bed Micum was currently using as a seat. Or on the soft spring grass beneath the oaks down by the stream, or in the sweet hay of fall, or in the pool on the ridge, and once, floundering half-dressed in deep new snow under a reckless waxing moon that had broken their sleep for three nights running. Come to think of it, there weren't too many spots around here where the urge hadn't overtaken them one time or another.

  They'd come a long way from that first awkward kiss Alec had given him in Plenimar, but then, the boy had always been a fast learner.

  "Those must be some good cards you're holding," said Micum, giving him a quizzical look. "Care to show us a few? It's your turn."

  Seregil played a ten pip and Micum captured it, cackling triumphantly.

  Seregil watched his old friend with a mix of sadness and affection. Micum had been about Beka's age when they first met—a tall, amiable wanderer who'd happily joined Seregil in his adventures, if not in his bed. Now silver hairs outnumbered the red in his friend's thick hair and mustache, and in the stubble on his cheeks.

  Tirfaie, we call them: the short-lived ones. He watched Beka laughing with Alec, knowing he'd watch silver streak her wild red hair, too, while his was still dark. Or would, Sakor willing, if she survived the war.