Stalking Darkness (5 page)

Upstairs in their room again, Seregil finished with his scant collection of gear and clapped a battered hat on his head.

“Well, take care of yourself,” he said, “especially on that job for the baron. I don’t want to find you in the Red Tower when I return.”

“You won’t. Want help getting all that down?”

“No need.” Shouldering his pack, Seregil clasped hands with him. “Luck in the shadows, Alec.”

And with the flash of a crooked grin, he was gone.

Alec listened to his footsteps fading rapidly away. “And to you.”

Seregil paused in the kitchen on his way out.

Pulling up a stool beside Thryis, he slipped her a flat, sealed packet.

“I’m leaving this with you. I’ve got to go off for a few days. If I don’t come back, this should take care of Alec and the rest of you.”

Frowning, Thryis fingered the wax seals. “A will, is it? No wonder young Alec was looking so dark.”

“He doesn’t know, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“You’ve never left a will before.”

“It’s just in case I meet with an accident or something.” Shouldering his pack, he headed for the door.

“Or something!” The old woman’s mouth pursed into a skeptical line. “Mind that a ’something’ don’t jump up and bite you on the arse when you’re not looking.”

“I’ll do my best to avoid it.”

Outside, the sleet had turned to rain. Pulling the hood of his patched cloak up over his hat, he dashed across the slick cobbles to the stable where Rhiri had his new mare saddled and ready. Tossing the fellow a gold half sester, Seregil swung up into the saddle and set off at a gallop for the Oreska House.

I
t was midafternoon before Nysander completed his preparations for the translocation. “Are you ready, Seregil?” he asked at last, looking up from the elaborate pattern chalked on the casting-room floor.

“As ready as I’m likely to be,” Seregil said, sweating in his heavy sheepskins. He carried his pack, snowshoes, and pole to the center of the design and piled them on the floor.

“These should establish your reputation as a wizard.”

Nysander held up a half-dozen short willow rods covered with painted symbols. “When broken, each will produce a different gift for your hosts. But you must be certain to keep this long one with the red band separate from the rest. It contains the translocation spell that will carry you back.”

Seregil tucked the red wand carefully away in a belt pouch, then slipped the others inside the white Aurenfaie tunic he wore beneath his heavy coat.

“These are the most crucial items, however,” the wizard continued, stepping to a nearby table. On it sat a wooden box two feet square and fitted with a leather shoulder strap and a strong catch. It was lined with sheets of silver engraved with magical symbols and contained two flasks wrapped in fleece.

Seregil frowned. “What if this crown or whatever it is that I’m after is too big to fit inside?” “Do the best you can and return to me at once.”

Seregil lifted the flasks. They were heavy, and the wax seals covering the corks were also inscribed with more symbols. “And these?”

“Pour the contents around the crown and inscribe the signs of the Four within the circle. It should weaken any wards protecting it.”

A nasty twinge of uncertainty shot through Seregil’s innards. “Should?”

Nysander wrapped the flasks carefully in the fleece and shut them in the box. “You survived the magic of the disk with no assistance. This should be sufficient.”

“Ah, I see.” Seregil glanced doubtfully at his old friend. “You believe the same inner flaw that kept me from becoming a wizard protects me from magic as well.”

“It seems to be the case. I only wish it did not cause you such distress with translocations. Considering the distance involved in—“

“Let’s just get it over with.” Seregil gathered his gear in his arms as best he could. “The Asheks are far enough west that I should have a few hours of light left, but I’d rather not press my luck.”

“Very well. I have done a sighting and should be able to send you to within a few miles of a village. It will be safest to drop you on the glacier itself, rather than risk hitting the rocky outcroppings along the edge.”

“That’s very comforting. Thanks so much!”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Nysander placed his fingertips together in front of his face and began the incantation.

After a moment a particle of darkness winked into being within the cage of his fingers. Spreading his hands slowly, he coaxed it larger until it spun like a dark mirror in front of them.

Seregil stared into it for a moment, already queasy. Tightening his grip on his snowshoes, he took a resolute breath, closed his eyes, and stepped forward.

The whirling blast of vertigo was worse than he’d feared. For most people, a translocation was as simple as stepping from one room to another. To Seregil, however, it was like being sucked down in some vile black whirlpool.

It seemed to go on endlessly this time, buffeting him with darkness. Then, just as suddenly, he tumbled out into frigid brightness and sank up to his hips in drifted snow.

Stuck fast, he bent forward and spewed out his scant breakfast. When the spasms were over, he struggled free and crawled away from the steaming mess.

Collapsing on his back, one arm over his eyes, he lay very still as the world spun sickeningly. The wind sighed over him, blowing fine ice crystals across his lips. Rolling onto his belly, he retched again, then cleaned his mouth with a handful of snow.

At least Nysander can aim, he thought, looking around.

The glacier hung in a steep valley. At its head a few miles away a pair of high peaks towered above the rest, marking a narrow pass and giving the valley the name Seregil had remembered. Slanting sunlight reflected back from the white expanse before him, bright enough to make his eyes water. Frozen waves, wind scoured out of the hardpack, thrust glistening up through the fresh powder to cast shadows as blue as the sky overhead.

Seregil’s heavy outer garments kept the worst of the biting cold at bay, but his nose and cheekbones were already numb. His breath condensed with every exhalation, freezing in a glistening rime on the fur edging of his cap. Untangling the snowshoes, he checked them for damage and quickly strapped them to his boots.

His thick gloves were cumbersome, but it would be courting frostbite to remove them even briefly.

With firmer footing on the snow now, he set out for a nearby rise to get his bearings. Anyone backtracking his trail would discover that he had more or less fallen from the sky, but that couldn’t be helped; he was, after all, supposed to be a wizard.

From the top of the rise he spotted thin columns of smoke marking a village a few miles away on the western slope. Farther down the valley he could just make out a second village. The first was closer to the “horns of stone,” so he headed west.

He was still nauseated and the thin, frigid air cut at his lungs, making dark spots dance in front of his eyes. Setting himself a steady pace, he marched along until he struck a trail leading toward the village. He was within half a mile of it when a pack of children and dogs appeared, running out to meet him.

Seregil paused, leaning on his snow pole with a grin of relief. Dravnian hospitality was legendary among those few who knew of it. Members of a neighboring village were greeted as family, which they often were. Anyone from beyond the limiting peaks was regarded as a veritable marvel. Goats were probably already being slaughtered in his honor.

“May I visit your village?” he asked in Dravnian as the children crowded excitedly around him.

Laughing, they shouldered his baggage and led him in.

Dogs barked, goats and sheep bleated from their stone enclosures. Villagers hailed him like some returning hero.

The little settlement was made up of a collection of squat towers, round two-story affairs of piled stone topped with conical felt roofs. The main doors were set high in the upper level and reached by a ramp when the snow was not piled up to the doorsill.

At the center of the village stood a tower broader than the rest. A sizable crowd had already collected outside, hoping for a look at the newcomer.

The Dravnians were a short, broad-set people with black, almond-shaped eyes and coarse, dark hair that they wore slicked back with liberal applications of oil. A few among them, however, had lighter hair or finer features that spoke of mixed blood—probably Aurenfaie, since few others found their way to these remote valleys.

The headman of the village was one of these half castes. As he stepped forward, smiling broadly, Seregil saw that the man’s eyes were the same clear grey as his own.

“Welcome in this place, Fair One,” the fellow greeted him in a patois of broken Aurenfaie and Dravnian. “I am Retak, son of Wigris and Akra, leader of this village.”

“I am Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi,” Seregil answered in Dravnian.

Grinning, Retak lapsed back into his native tongue. “We’ve not seen one of your tribe since my grandfather’s time. You honor our village with your presence. Will you feast with us in the council house?”

“You honor me,” Seregil replied, bowing as gracefully as his thick clothing allowed.

The upper level of the council house, used as a communal storehouse, was floored over except for the large central smoke hole. Rough stone steps led down to the lower chamber, where a huge fire of dried dung chips had already been kindled in a fire pit surrounded by thick carpets and bolsters. Women bustled excitedly around a cooking fire across the room, preparing the ritual meal.

Seated at the central fire with Retak and the other principal men of the village, Seregil closed his eyes for a moment as his belly did a slow, uneasy roll. The smell of slaughtered animals, mingled with the more immediate aromas of unwashed bodies and greased hair, was overpowering after the clear mountain wind.

Every available inch seemed to have been filled by curious villagers. People talked excitedly on all sides, leaning across their neighbors to shout to someone else or calling down from above for details. Children ringed the smoke hole overhead, chattering like swallows. The women labored with noisy cheer, wielding cleavers and clattering skewers and bowls.

Seregil felt all eyes on him as he stripped off his heavy outer garments. Posing as a traveler from his native Aurenen, Seregil had worn traditional garb. His long white tunic and close-fitting trousers were comfortable and unadorned except for thin bands of patterned weaving at the hem and neck. To complete the effect, he pulled a loosely woven head cloth from inside his tunic and wrapped its many folds about his head with practiced skill, leaving long ends hanging down his back. A small, ornate dagger hung at his belt, but he laid it and his sword aside as a gesture of good faith.

An excited hum went around the room as he reclined at last and accepted a bowl of llaki from Seune, the headman’s wife. He sipped the fermented milk as sparingly as good manners allowed.

His duty as guest was to repay hospitality with news and he slowly related such events from the south as might be of interest to them. Most of it was thirty years out-of-date, mixed in with snippets he’d picked up since his banishment, but it was all fresh to the Dravnians and very well received.

When he’d finished, the traditional storytelling commenced. Great lovers of tales that they were, the Dravnians had no system of writing. Each family had its own special stock of stories that only members of that clan could relate. Other tales were general property and were demanded of those who told them best. The children frequently chimed in with familiar lines and the women were called upon for the proper songs.

Seregil joined in with tales of his own and was quickly hailed as a biruk, “one who remembers many stories”—highest praise in such company. By the time a gigantic platter of roasted goat was set before them, he’d begun to enjoy himself.

Roasted shanks, haunches, and ribs lay arranged on the communal platter in a great ring surrounding cooked entrails, sweetbreads, and boiled goat’s heads. When the guest and council had eaten their fill, the platter would pass on to the secondary guests, and after them the children and dogs. Seregil was served by Seune and her eldest daughters.

The two girls knelt on his right, holding out slabs of dark bread that their mother loaded with choice bits-of meat. Nodding polite acceptance, Seregil picked up a chunk of meat and bit into it, signaling his hosts to begin.

The tough, savory meat settled the last of his queasiness and when the meal was over he made a great show of presenting gifts to Retak and his village.

Motioning for the others to clear a space in front of him, Seregil secretly palmed one of Nysander’s painted wands from his sleeve and snapped it between his fingers while making elaborate motions with his other hand. Several bushels of fruit appeared instantly out of thin air before his delighted audience.

The baskets passed from hand to hand and up to the crowd overhead as the people exclaimed over their good fortune.

Smiling, Seregil drew another wand, which produced a casket of silver coins. The Dravnians had no use for currency, but were pleased by the glint of the metal and the fineness of the designs. Subsequent conjurings brought bolts of bright silk and linen, bronze needles, coils of rope, and bundles of healing herbs.