Stalking Darkness (10 page)

“Oh, I’m much too old for that now,” she assured him, taking him and Alec by the hand and drawing them toward the door. “Come on, now. Father and Mother must be here by now.”

Wheel Street was thick with traffic, but Seregil quickly spotted Micum’s coppery head bobbing toward him through the press, followed by his second daughter and a covered cart driven by a pair of servant women. Old Arna spied him and waved.

“I see Illia found you,” Micum said with a grin as they dismounted in front of the house.

Seregil embraced his old friend, and then Elsbet, dark and shy in her blue riding gown. “You’re just in time. Alec’s done all the work.”

“We’d have been here sooner if I could have ridden,” Kari complained, struggling from a nest of cushions and robes in the cart. Weeks of morning sickness had thinned her face, but the journey had put the challenging glint back in her dark eyes. Micum helped her down and she embraced Alec and Seregil happily.

Seregil eyed her rounding belly. “Breeding agrees with you, as usual.”

“Don’t tell her that before breakfast just yet,” Micum warned.

Old Arna made a blessing sign in her mistress’ direction. “The sicker the mother, the stronger the son.”

Kari rolled her eyes behind the old woman’s back. “We’ve heard that at least three times a day for the past month. Even if it’s another girl, I expect the child will be born with a sword in her hand.”

“Another Beka,” Alec said, grinning.

“And what about you?” Seregil asked Elsbet. “Last I heard, you were going to stay on at the temple school.”

“That’s right. Thank you for recommending me. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“First Beka’s commission with the Queen’s Horse Guard, and now Elsbet a scholar.” Kari slipped an arm about Elsbet’s waist and gave Seregil a dark look. “Thanks to you, I’ll be lucky to get any of my girls married off before they’re old and grey.”

“Scholars marry, Mama,” Elsbet chided. “I’ll get married!” Illia chimed in, still clinging to Alec’s hand. “I’m going to marry you, Alec, aren’t I?”

The boy gave her a gallant bow. “If you still want me when you’re grown up a beauty like your mother and sister.”

Elsbet blushed noticeably at this. “How are you, Alec? Father told us you were hurt saving Klia.”

“I’m pretty well healed, except for this,” he replied, running a hand ruefully over his ragged hair. “Klia came out of it looking worse than I did.”

“It was very brave of you. To run into the fire like that, I mean,” she stammered. Blushing more hotly than ever, she hurried after Arna into the house.

Alec turned to Kari with a perplexed look. “Is she all right?”

Kari slipped her arm through his with an enigmatic smile. “Oh, she’s just turned fifteen, and you’re a hero, that’s all. Come along now, brave Sir Alec, and let’s see what can be done about your hair. We don’t want you looking like the tinker’s boy in front of Lord Seregil’s fine lady friends tonight.”

L
ady Kylith’s tapestry-draped box commanded an excellent view into the Sakor Temple portico. Seregil and Alec reached the Temple Precinct an hour before sunset and found their hostess and six other guests already chatting over dainties and wine.

It was a frosty evening and everyone’s breath puffed out in little clouds as they talked. All were warmly swathed in black cloaks or robes out of respect for the occasion, but gold and jewels caught the light on wrists and circlets.

“Ah, now our little party is complete!” Kylith rose smiling to kiss Seregil.

He returned the kiss with genuine affection. They’d been lovers for a time years ago, and friends ever since. Kylith must be nearing fifty now, he realized, but time had refined both her famous beauty and wit.

All of these were in full force as she turned to Alec, still hanging shyly back. “And you and I meet again under far more pleasant circumstances, Sir Alec. I trust no one will be arresting Lord Seregil tonight?”

Alec executed a perfect bow. “I believe he’s rescheduled all arrests until tomorrow, my lady.”

Well done, Sir Alec, Seregil thought to himself with a smile.

From the corner of his eye, he saw several of the others exchange discreet glances. Most of Rhiminee knew he’d been taken from his villa in chains only a few weeks before. Kylith had deftly removed any tension surrounding the incident by making light of it.

“Seregil, you’ll sit there by Lord Admiral Nyreidian,” she said, waving him to a seat beside a portly, black-bearded noble. “He’s overseeing the outfitting of the Queen’s privateer fleet and I know you’ll want to hear all about it. Sir Alec, you sit here between us so that we may renew our acquaintance. But first you must be properly introduced—Lord Admiral Nyreidian i Gorthos, Lady Tytiana e Reva and Lady Breena e Ursil of the Queen’s court, Sir Arius i Rafael, and my very dear friend Lady Youriel e Nikiria.”

Pausing, she placed her hand over that of a uniformed woman on her right. “And this is Captain Julena e Isai of the White Hawk Infantry, the newest addition to our little salon.”

Seregil eyed the captain with discreet interest; she was rumored to be Kylith’s latest paramour.

“My friends, you all know Lord Seregil i Korit,” she continued. “And this charming young man is Lord Seregil’s protege, Sir Alec i Gareth of Ivywell. His late father was a knight of Mycena, I believe.”

Alec’s spurious pedigree elicited the hoped-for lack of interest. Leaving him to stumble charmingly along through Kylith’s courtly flirtations, Seregil turned his attention to the other guests, where more interesting game was afoot.

“I expect war will be a relief for Phoria,” Lady Tytiana was saying. As Mistress of the Queen’s Wardrobe, she was a valuable and generally reliable gossip. “She’s still under a bit of a cloud, you know, after that horrible business with the Vicegerent’s suicide—Oh, Lord Seregil, forgive me. I didn’t mean to be indelicate.”

“Not at all, dear lady.” Seregil flicked a crease from his black mantle. “My name was cleared, so my honor is no more blemished than usual.”

A ripple of laughter went round the little circle.

He’d cultivated his reputation as a charmingly dissipated exile carefully over the years. While his distant relation to the royal family granted him access to most of the more fashionable salons, it was generally supposed that his foreign birth and dilettante ways kept him safely outside the complex intrigues of the city. As a result, he was taken lightly but told a great deal.

“As I was saying,” Tytiana went on, “I shouldn’t wonder that she’d be relieved to go off to war. Nothing like a few victories to improve one’s popularity. And just between ourselves, Phoria could use some goodwill among the people, even without that other unpleasantness. An heir apparent with no offspring is always awkward.”

“She’s a fine cavalry commander, though,” said Captain Julena.

Admiral Nyreidian leaned back and laced his fingers over his considerable paunch, “True, but she’ll be at a disadvantage unless the Plenimarans are foolish enough to attempt overrunning Mycena. Plenimar is a naval power, always has been. I’ve advised the Queen so and she agrees. The lower city defenses are being built up as we speak.”

“Only yesterday I overheard Queen Idrilain ordering two hundred wagonloads of fine red clay from Piorus to slake the slopes below the citadel,” Lady Breena chimed in. “That’s not been done since her great-grandmother’s day.”

“Surely they wouldn’t be so bold as to attack Rhiminee directly?” Seregil ventured over his wine. Nyreidian cast a rather patronizing look his way. “They’ve done it before.” “So you are preparing to meet them on their own terms. It must be an enormous undertaking.”

“I believe I’ve seen every sailor, fisherman, and pirate that ever sailed between here and the Strait of Bal!” the admiral replied. “The harbor’s alive with them. And investors, too. Privateering is a lucrative venture. Have you considered backing a vessel, Lord Seregil?”

“Sounds like an interesting mix of patriotism and profit. Perhaps I should look into it.”

“Vessels are getting scarce already, I must warn you. Every shipbuilder in Skala has all the work he can handle, refitting old ships and building new. But the real trick is to find a decent captain.”

“And yet war has not been officially declared. How can the Queen send out privateers without giving provocation? Surely she doesn’t mean to precipitate a conflict?”

Nyreidian stiffened perceptibly. “I’m sure our Queen does nothing without the best interests of Skala in mind.”

“But of course,” murmured Seregil. “The fact that the Queen has entrusted you with this undertaking is ample proof of the gravity of such measures.”

Alec breathed a sigh of relief when Kylith turned her attention to her other guests. His repertoire of invented history was slim and he was out of his depth for small talk. Luckily, no one else seemed particularly interested in him.

Seregil was still busy with the fat admiral, so he leaned his elbows on the rail to watch the spectacle unfolding before him.

The tiers of viewing boxes where he sat stood at an angle on the south side of the square, just in front of the Dalnan temple grove. Across the square another set of tiers partially obscured the fountain courts and delicate, brightly colored archways of the Temple of Astellus. The Temple of Illior was hidden by the back wall of the box to the east.

Cordoned-off pathways between the four temples quartered the broad square. Black-robed festival goers were already packing the open areas and crowding into the courtyards and porticoes of the other temples. Gulls wheeled overhead, mingling with flights of brown doves from the Dalnan grove.

Before him, the black Temple of Sakor stood massive and stark against a riotous sunset. Broad bars of light spilled out between the square pillars of the portico, silhouetting the gongs that hung between them.

Inside stood an altar of polished black stone. A great fire burned on it, illuminating the huge golden shield that hung suspended just behind. This, Seregil had explained earlier, was called the Aegis of Sakor. It was twenty feet high and its sunburst device was set with hundreds of smooth-polished rubies that seemed to pulse with life in the flickering firelight.

An honor guard was massed in formation on the broad stairs in front of the temple; somewhere in those faceless ranks Beka Cavish was standing watch with her regiment. He envied her just a little. The soldier’s life seemed an uncomplicated one to him; no pretending, no disguise—just honor, duty, and the bravery to stand by your comrades in battle.

“I suppose they do not celebrate the Sakor Festival with such display in Mycena?” Lady Kylith remarked, breaking in on his thoughts.

“No, my lady,” Alec replied, raising his voice for Seregil’s benefit. “Even the Harvest Home at the end of Rhythin isn’t a patch on this.”

“Lord Seregil will have explained to you, I am sure, about the extinguishing of the flames?”

“Yes. I imagine this will be an uncomfortable night.”

“The soldier’s vigil is very weary.” Kylith cast a regretful glance in Julena’s direction and Alec guessed the captain would be going back on duty soon. “But for the rest of us, it’s a merry time. Moonlit parties, blind games, and chases. It’s a fine night for lovers, as well. They say half the people born in Rhiminee can count back from their birth to this night.”

Her perfume drifted over him as she leaned closer. “And who will be keeping you warm in the darkness, hm?”

A sudden fanfare from the temple spared him the necessity of a reply.

A hush fell over the crowd as a long procession of priests filed out from the interior of the temple. Chanting and playing reed flutes, sistrums, deep-throated horns, and timbrels, they formed themselves into two ranks flanking the Aegis. The skirling music had an ancient, mournful sound.

“The Song of Passing, sung in the original Konic tongue,” Seregil whispered. “Most of this ceremony dates back at least a thousand years.”

At the end of the chant, an ornately robed figure was carried forward on a litter, face covered by a golden sun mask, an unsheathed broadsword lying across his knees.

“That’s the oldest of the Sakor priests, dressed to represent the dying god,” Seregil went on. “He brings the great Sword of Gerilain.”

“Was it really hers?” Alec whispered. Gerilain was the first of Skala’s hereditary queens instituted by the prophecy of Illior six centuries before.

“Yes. The Queen’s reinvested with it each year.”

When Old Sakor had been positioned in front of the altar, a priest stepped forward and addressed him in the same ancient tongue.

“She’s imploring Sakor not to abandon the people,” Seregil interpreted. “This next part goes on and on, but the gist of it is that Sakor appoints the Queen as their guardian and gives her the sacred firepot and sword.”

As predicted, Sakor’s reply took some time. The lower portion of the sun mask was constructed to amplify his voice, which was rather thin and creaky. When this dialogue was completed, horns sounded and the grand procession began.

Contingents of priests emerged from the other temples, each bearing a figure representing their patron deity on a litter.