Stalking Darkness (39 page)

Hwerlu let out a snort of surprise. “Not until now does he know?” He said something to Feeya in their whistling language and she shook her head.

Turning to Alec, Hwerlu smiled. “We saw it that first day you came here, but Seregil says not to tell you. Why?”

“I guess he wanted me to get used to him first,” Alec said, shooting Seregil a wry look. “I suppose that would take a long while,” Thero threw in.

“Yet, as things have turned out, I now believe Seregil may have been wise to wait,” said Nysander. “It is more than a sense of obligation or fear which keeps you with him, is it not, Alec?”

“Of course. But the idea that I could be sitting here three or four hundred years from now—” He stared down at his plate, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine it.”

“I sometimes still feel that way,” said Thero.

Seregil looked at the younger wizard in surprise. In all the time he’d known him, he’d never heard Thero reveal a personal feeling.

“I’d guessed it when I was a boy,” Thero continued. “But it was nonetheless overwhelming to have it confirmed when the wizards examined me. Yet, think of what we’ll experience in our lifetimes—the years of learning, the discoveries.”

He’s almost human today, Seregil thought, studying his rival’s countenance with new interest.

“I made a poor job of telling you,” he admitted to Alec. “I was feeling a bit shaky that night myself, after seeing Adzriel and all, but what Thero says is true. It’s what has kept me sane after I left Aurenen. Long life is a gift for those with a sense of wonder and curiosity. And I don’t think you’ll ever have any shortage of those qualities.”

Nysander chuckled. “Indeed not. You know, Alec, that for over two centuries I have studied and learned and walked in the world, and yet I still have the satisfaction of knowing that should I live another two hundred years there shall still be new things to delight me. Magyana and I have gone out into the world more than many wizards and so, like Seregil here, we have seen many friends age and die. It would not be truthful to tell you that it is not painful, yet each of those friendships, no matter how brief, was a gift none of us would sacrifice.”

“It might sound hard-hearted, but once you have survived a generation or two, it becomes easier to detach yourself from such feelings,” added Magyana.

“It isn’t that you love them any less, you just learn to respect the cycles of life. All the same, I thank Illior the two of you found each other the way you did.”

“So do I,” Alec replied with surprising feeling. He colored slightly, perhaps embarrassed by his own admission. “I just wish I could have talked to my father about it, about my mother. Seregil’s spun out a good theory about what must have gone on between the two of them, but now I’ll never know the real story.” “Perhaps not,” said Nysander. “But you can honor them by respecting the life they gave you.”

“Speaking of your parents, Alec, tell Nysander about that nightmare you’ve been having since Rythel got killed,” Seregil interjected, sensing the opening he’d been hoping for.

“Indeed?” Nysander cocked an inquiring eyebrow at the boy.

“Can you describe it?” asked Magyana. “Dreams are wondrous tools sometimes, and those that come to you more than once are almost always important.”

Seregil kept a surreptitious eye on Nysander while Alec went through the details of the nightmare; he knew the old wizard too well not to see a definite spark of interest behind Nysander’s facade of thoughtful attentiveness.

“And that’s always the last of it, and the worst,” Alec finished. Even with the morning sun streaming down through the glass dome overhead, he shifted uneasily as he described the final image.

Magyana nodded slowly. “Violent events can summon up other painful memories, I suppose. Though your father died of the wasting sickness rather than violence, it must have been a time of terrible fear and pain for you.”

Alec merely nodded, but Seregil read the pain behind his stoic expression.

“Yes, and coupled with the shock of learning your true parentage, it could create such images in the mind,” Nysander concurred, although the look he gave Seregil showed that he had other ideas on the matter. “I would not worry too much about them, dear boy. I am certain they will pass in time.”

“I hope so,” sighed Alec. “It’s getting so I hate to go to sleep.”

“Nysander, do you still have that book of meditations by Reli a Noliena?” asked Seregil. “Her philosophy might be of some use to Alec just now. I seem to recall seeing it on the sitting-room bookshelves somewhere.”

“I believe it is,” replied Nysander. “Come along and help me look, would you?” Nysander said nothing as they descended the tower stairs.

As soon as the sitting-room door was firmly shut behind them, however, he fixed Seregil with an expectant look.

“I assume there is some matter you wish to discuss privately?”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Really now. Reli a Noliena?” Taking his accustomed seat by the hearth, Nysander regarded Seregil wryly. “I seem to recall that you have on numerous occasions referred to her writings as utter tripe.”

Seregil shrugged, running a finger along the painted band of the mural that guarded the room. “First thing that popped into my head. What do you make of this dream of Alec’s, and the headless arrow shaft? I have a feeling it’s tied in with”—Seregil paused, acknowledging Nysander’s warning look—“with that particular matter about which I am not allowed to speak.”

“It does seem a rather obvious correlation. No doubt you are thinking of the words of the Oracle?”

“The Guardian, the Vanguard, and the Shaft.”

“It is certainly possible that there is a connection, although why it should suddenly surface now, I do not know. Then again, it could conceivably be nothing more than it appears. Alec is an archer. What stronger image of helplessness could there be for him than a useless arrow?”

“I’ve tried to tell myself that, too. We both know who this Eater of Death is; I’ve been touched twice by the dark power and was damn lucky both times to get away with life and sanity intact. So I want to believe that Alec isn’t getting pulled into this web, but I think he is, that that’s exactly what that dream means. You believe that, too, don’t you?”

“And what would you have me do?” Nysander asked with a trace of bitterness. “If we are dealing with true prophecy, then whatever must happen will happen, whether we accept it or not.”

“True prophecy, eh? Fate, you mean.” Seregil scowled. “So why dream? What’s the use of being warned about something if you can’t do anything to avoid it?”

“Avoiding something is seldom the best way to resolve it.” “Neither is sitting around with your head up your ass until the sky falls in on you!” “Hardly, but forewarned is forearmed, is it not?”

“Forearmed against what, then?” Seregil asked with rising irritation as an all-too-familiar guarded look came over the wizard’s face. “All right then, you’re still guarding some dire secret, but it seems to me that the gods themselves are giving hints. If you’re the Guardian, which you’ve admitted already, and Alec, our archer, is the Shaft, then am I the Vanguard?” He paused, mentally trying the title on for size. But the bone-deep feeling of certainty he’d had about Alec eluded him. “Vanguard, those who go before the battle, one who goes in front—No, that doesn’t resonate somehow for me. Besides, the Oracle wouldn’t tell me to guard myself. So why would he tell me anything at all unless—“

“Seregil, please—” “Unless there’s a fourth figure to the prophecy!”

Seregil exclaimed, striding excitedly back and forth between the hearth and the door as the myriad possibilities took shape in his mind. “Of course. Four is the sacred number of the Immortals who stand against the Eater of Death, so—“

The inner certainty was there now. No matter what answer Nysander gave, he knew instinctively that he was on the right track now. “Illior’s Light, Nysander! The Oracle wouldn’t have spoken to me as he did if there wasn’t a reason, some role for me to play.”

Nysander stared down at his clasped hands for a moment, communing with an inner voice. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, “You are the Guide, the Unseen One. I did not tell you before for two reasons.”

“Those being?”

“First, because I still hoped—continue to hope, in fact—that it will not matter. And secondly, because I know nothing more than that. None of the Guardians ever has.”

“What about the Vanguard?”

“Micum, most likely, since he has also been touched by these events. For the love of Illior, Seregil, do stop that pacing and sit down.”

Seregil came to a halt by the bookshelves.

“What do you mean, you hope it won’t matter?”

Closing his eyes, Nysander massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “Just as there have been other Guardians, so have there been other Shafts, other Guides. It is as if they always exist from generation to generation, kept in readiness in case—“

“In case what?”

“I cannot say. I confess I still cling to the hope that this terrible evil may yet be forestalled. For now, I must guard my secret as I have done. What I can tell you, seeing that you have guessed so much, is that the four figures of the prophecy have always been known to the Guardians, but what their functions are has never been revealed. But if you are the Unseen One, Seregil, if Alec is the Shaft and Micum the Vanguard, then there is nothing any friend or foe can do to alter that.”

Seregil let out an exasperated growl. “In other words, all we can do is wait for this terrible Something to happen. Or not happen, in which case we spend the rest of our lives waiting because we won’t know that it isn’t going to happen after all?”

“That is, no doubt, one of the reasons that the Guardians keep such knowledge from the others. It serves little purpose for you to know, and will only make you uneasy. On the other hand,” he paused, looking up at Seregil with a mix of concern and pity—“I suspect that my hope to pass my burden on to a new Guardian will prove a vain one. Mardus had the wooden disks; other Plenimarans came to the Asheks on your very heels, seeking the crown. There are other objects—magical ones—some in Plenimar, others thankfully scattered to lost corners of the world. It was only by chance that my master, Arkoniel, came into possession of the palimpsest that led you to the crown. Clearly the Plenimarans are making a more deliberate effort to recover them. It bodes ill, dear boy, most ill.

“As for your dilemma”—Nysander gave him a weary smile—“may I remind you that if you were not such a intolerable meddler you would not be in this quandary.”

“What about the others?”

Nysander spread his hands. “I do not forbid you to tell them what you know, but reflect a moment on what you have just said. Even knowing, there is nothing yet to be done; our fates rest on the knees of the immortals.”

“And a damned uncomfortable seat that is,” Seregil grumbled.

“I agree. And perhaps a dangerous one now. We must all live cautiously for a time.”

“I can keep an eye on Alec, if that’s the way you want it, but what about Micum?”

“I placed a number of protective spells around the three of you as soon as you came back from the north. Since then someone has tried to break through those surrounding you and Alec a few times, but—“

“What?” An icy stab of fear lanced through Seregil’s chest. “You never—“

“I was not surprised by such attempts,” Nysander told him calmly, “and they have failed, of course. The spells surrounding all of you are intact, making it impossible for you to be seen magically. Thus far, there have been no disturbances in the spells surrounding Micum or his family.” “Bilairy’s Balls! Do you know who was doing this?”

“Unfortunately, the seekers are equally well shielded. Their magic is very strong and they know how to protect themselves.”

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” muttered Seregil. “There are more ways than magic to find someone. Hell, Rhal showed up, didn’t he? Who’s to say Mardus or his dogs haven’t, too? Poor Alec had no idea how to cover his tracks.”

“Whatever happens, you must not blame the boy,” cautioned Nysander.

“Who said anything about blame?” Seregil ran his fingers back through his hair in frustration. “He did a damn fine job, given the circumstances. He saved my life. Now it’s up to me to protect him. And Micum; knowing what I do, I’m honor-bound to give him any warning I can.”

Seregil braced for further argument, but instead, Nysander sighed and nodded. “Very well, but only as much as is absolutely necessary.”

“Fair enough. Damn, they’ll be wondering where we are by now.” Seregil rose to go back upstairs, but Nysander remained where he sat.

“Seregil?” He turned back to find Nysander regarding him sadly.

“I hope, dear boy, that no matter what the coming days bring, you will believe I never foresaw this time coming during my Guardianship, or that its advent would enmesh any of you.”

Seregil gave him a grudging grin. “You know, I’ve spent most of my life listening to legends or telling them. It should be interesting being part of one. I only hope the bards who tell it years from now will be able to end with ‘And the Band of Four all lived with great honor for many years thereafter’.”

“As do I, dear boy. As do I. Make some excuse for me, would you? I would like to sit here for a while.”

Silence closed in around Nysander after Seregil had gone. With his hands resting on his knees before him, he allowed himself to go limp in the chair, listening to the sound of his breathing and his heart until he was aware of nothing else. Then, slowly, he opened himself to the invisible currents of foreseeing, using the faces of his three chosen comrades to call in the energies he sought. Grey images stirred sluggishly before his mind’s eye, the tangled flux of Shall/Might/Should and Imagine. How to pluck crumbs of truth from a future as yet unfixed

—The hands of Tikdrie Megraesh, the icon of his dreams and visions, opened before him. Voices came faintly through the murk, shouting, raging, weeping. He could hear the clash of weapons, men shouting—

Then, harsh as a blow, came the vision of a black disk surrounded by a thin white nimbus of fire. It seemed to glare at him, like an accusing eye.