Stalking Darkness (9 page)

“If any man comes seeking the evil one, bring them to this place and tell them how Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi, mage of Aurenen, captured the evil spirit and took it away forever. Remember this day and tell the story to your children so that they will remember. Let no person among your clans forget that evil was cast out from here. And now I must go.”

The villagers surged forward, imploring him to stay.

Unvisited maidens wept with disappointment and one of Ekrid’s daughters threw herself into his arms sobbing. Putting her gently aside, he gathered his gear and palmed the last of Nysander’s painted wands from the pouch at his belt. He snapped it behind his back and the Dravnians shrank back in fear as the translocation vortex opened behind him. Waving a last farewell, he forced a smile as he stepped backward into emptiness.

Thero was on his way upstairs when a muffled crash halted him in his tracks. There was no doubt where the sound had come from; every door along the curved corridor—the bedchambers, the guest room—stood open except one.

The sitting-room door, with its magical wards and protections, was always kept shut unless Nysander was inside. Nonetheless, putting his ear to the door, Thero heard a low groan inside.

“Nysander!” he called, but his master was already hurrying down the tower stairs, robes flapping beneath his leather apron.

“There’s someone in there,” Thero exclaimed, gaunt face flushed with excitement.

Nysander opened the door and snapped his fingers at the nearest lamp. The wick flared up and by its light they saw Seregil sprawled in the middle of the room, his back arched awkwardly over the pack he wore, the strap of the battered wooden chest tangled around one leg. His eyes were closed, his face colorless beneath streaks of grime and blood.

“Get water, a basin, and linen. Hurry!” said Nysander, going to Seregil and pulling at the front of his coat. Thero hurried off to fetch the required articles.

When he returned a few moments later, Nysander was examining a raw wound on Seregil’s chest. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“Not so bad as it looks,” said Nysander, covering the wound with a cloth. “Give me a hand with these filthy clothes.”

“What happened to him this time?” Thero asked, gingerly pulling off the unconscious man’s boots. “He’s got the same sort of preternatural stench he had when he came back—“

“Very similar. Fetch the things for a minor purification. And, Thero?”

Halfway out the door already, Thero paused, expecting some explanation.

“We shall not speak of this again.”

“As you wish,” Thero replied quietly.

Focused on Seregil, Nysander did not see the hot color that leapt into Thero’s sallow cheeks beneath his thin beard, or the sudden angry set of his jaw.

Later, with Seregil asleep under Thero’s watchful eye, Nysander paid his nightly visit to the lowest vault beneath the Oreska House. He was not the only one who wandered here late at night. Many of the older wizards preferred to pursue their research when the scholars and apprentices were out of the way. Proceeding on through the long passages and down stairways, he nodded to those he met, stopping now and then to chat. He’d never made any secret of his evening constitutionals. Had anyone over the years ever noticed that he seldom followed the same route twice? That there was always one point, one stretch of blank, innocent wall, which he never failed to pass?

And how many of these others, Nysander wondered as he went on, kept watch as he did over some secret charge?

Reaching the lowest level, he wended his way with more than even his usual caution through the maze of corridors to the place, though his carefully woven magicks kept all from perceiving the box he carried.

Satisfied that he was unobserved, he lowered his head, summoned a surge of power, and silently invoked the Spell of Passage. A sensation like a mountain wind passed through him, chilling him to the bone.

Hugging the grimy box to his chest, he walked through the thick stonework of the wall and into the tiny chamber beyond.

A
lec squinted as sunlight flashed off the polished festival gong under his arm. Shifting his grip, he struggled the rest of the way up the ladder braced against the front of the villa.

“Really, Sir Alec, this is not necessary. The servants always take care of these details!” Runcer dithered from the curb, clearly embarrassed by this display of labor but powerless to countermand it.

“I like to keep busy,” Alec replied, undeterred.

He’d reluctantly resumed his public role at Wheel Street the day before. The Festival of Sakor began tonight and—Seregil or no Seregil—Sir Alec had to make an appearance.

Runcer was stubbornly determined to defer to him as master of the house in Seregil’s absence, a role he was acutely uncomfortable with. He detested being waited on, but every servant in the house seemed to take it as a personal affront every time he so much as fetched his own wash water or saddled a horse.

Grasping the wooden brace set into the wall, Alec slid the gong’s leather hanging straps over it. They held and it swung gently in the morning breeze, a rectangular battle shield displaying the elaborate sunburst design of Sakor.

Runcer handed up a swath of black cloth and Alec draped it carefully over the shield face.

Similar gongs were being hung all across the city. Mourning Night, the longest of the year, began with solemn ceremonies at the Temple of Sakor. The symbolic passing of the old god would be enacted, and every fire in the city extinguished except for a single firepot guarded by the Queen and her family at the temple. At the first hint of dawn the following morning, the gongs would be uncovered and sounded to welcome the resurrected god as runners carried the new year’s fire to every hearth.

Similar versions of the ceremony would be carried out all over Skala.

He was halfway down the ladder when a rider clattered around a corner down the street.

Recognizing Seregil’s glossy Aurenfaie mare, Alec jumped down and ran to meet them.

Seregil reined Cynril to a walk and looked Alec over with a disapproving frown as he continued up the street. “Out in your shirtsleeves like a common laborer? What will the neighbors say?”

“I did remark upon it, my lord,” Runcer commented blandly as they came up.

“I guess they’ll say I’m more likely to do a lick of honest work than my fop of a guardian,” Alec said with a laugh, too relieved to see Seregil safely home to care what anyone thought.

Wherever Seregil had been, he’d costumed himself carefully for the role of returning lord. His mud-spattered boots and gauntlets were of the finest chestnut-brown leather, his riding mantle lined with dark fur. Beneath it he wore a velvet surcoat, and tall pheasant feathers bobbed at a jaunty angle from the jeweled cockade of his cap.

“Ah well, we must forgive him his rough ways,” Seregil said, throwing an arm around Alec’s shoulders as they went inside. “These northern squire’s sons are badly raised—too much honest labor in their youth. How’s everything here?”

“Come see for yourself.”

Inside, the main hall was still swarming with servants.

The carpets were being rolled back in preparation for the night’s dancing and fragrant garlands of plaited wheat and winter greenery festooned the walls. Rich aromas had been floating out from the kitchen since dawn. The feast after the ceremony would be cold, but well laid on.

“What about the lightwands?” asked Seregil as he sat to tug off his boots.

“They arrived from the Oreska House yesterday, my lord,” Runcer informed him, hovering close at hand. “Nysander i Azusthra and Lady Magyana a Rhioni have confirmed that they will contribute to the evening’s entertainment again this year.”

“Good. Any word from the Cavishes?”

“They are expected this afternoon, my lord. I prepared the upstairs guest chambers myself.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then. Come on, Alec, you can give me the news while I freshen up.”

“Nysander’s invited the Cavishes to sit with him,” Alec told him as they went up the stairs to Seregil’s room, adding wistfully, “I wish we could.”

“I know, but Kylith’s group is likely to be more informative. Besides, you need practice playing nobility.”

Seregil’s bedchamber overlooked the garden at the back of the villa. Unlike the other rooms, it was furnished in Aurenfaie style, with walls whitewashed rather than frescoed, and the furnishings were done in pale woods and simple lines. In contrast, the cushions, carpets, and hangings around the bed were vibrant with pattern and color.

The shutters had been opened and a fire crackled invitingly in the marble fireplace.

“Runcer’s right, you know,” he went on, tossing his cloak over a clothes chest and going to the fire. “It’s not good for you to be seen out there in your shirtsleeves. When you’re playing a role—“

Alec sighed. “You play it to the bone, I know, but—“

“No excuses. It’s part of the game.” Seregil leveled a gloved forefinger at him. “You know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter at the Cockerel or half the time around here, but on a real job something like that could get you killed! When you play Sir Alec, you must be Sir Alec. Either live it from the heart, or stand outside yourself like a puppet master and direct every movement. You’ve seen me do it often enough.”

Alec stared glumly out over the snow-dusted garden. “Yes, but I doubt I’ll ever be as good at it as you.”

Seregil let out an impatient snort. “Horseshit. That’s what you said about swordplay, and look how you’ve come along. Besides, you’re a natural actor when the role doesn’t go against your stiff-necked, Dalnan yeoman’s pride. Relax! Flow with the moment.”

Seregil suddenly grabbed him by the arm and whirled him into an eccentric jig around the room. Alec hadn’t even heard him approach. But he recovered swiftly and took the lead.

“But Sir Alec is a stiff-necked Dalnan yeoman,” he said, laughing as he clomped through the steps of a country dance Beka and Elsbet had taught him.

“Wrong!” Grinning wickedly, Seregil yanked him into a formal pavan. “Sir Alec is stiff-necked Dalnan gentry. Besides, he should be picking up a few of Lord Seregil’s airs along the way.”

Alec leaned back in mock horror. “Maker’s Mercy, anything but that!” Still gripping Seregil’s gloved hand his thumb found a ridge beneath the thin leather. Frowning, he felt at it. “What’s this? A bandage?”

“It’s nothing, just a few scrapes.” Seregil stripped off the gloves and showed him thin strips of linen across each palm. “And what about you?” He turned Alec’s left palm up and examined the scab there.

“I cut myself going over a wall the other night,” Alec told him, letting Seregil’s obvious evasion go without argument, knowing it would be futile to press him. “I got chased on the way home afterward, too, but I got away all right.”

“Any idea who it was?”

“Footpads, probably. I didn’t get much of a look at them.”

“How many ‘thems’ were there?”

“Three, I think. I was too busy rabbiting to take count.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Dropping into a chair by the fire, Alec launched into a well-rehearsed and somewhat embellished account of his escape down Silvermoon Street.

“That was quick thinking, using the palace guard for protection,” said Seregil when he’d finished. “And speaking of the Palace, I’ve got something for you—a little thank you from the Queen and Klia, I think.”

He took a small pouch from his coat and tossed it to Alec. Opening it, the boy found a heavy silver cloak brooch fashioned to look like a wreath of leafy branches surrounding a deep blue stone.

“Silver leaves.” Alec smiled slightly as he admired it. “The first time I met Klia up in Cirna I was calling myself Aren Silverleaf.”

“That’s a good stone,” Seregil remarked, looking at it over his shoulder. “You could get a fine horse for that, if you ever need to. Just be sure not to let on where it came from, or why. We’ve got reputations to hide.”

Ilia Cavish burst into the hall like a small, happy hurricane just after midday. “Uncle Seregil! Alec! We’re here!”

From the musicians’ gallery, Seregil watched as she tackled Alec, who’d just come out of the dining room.

“I can stay up for the party this year because I’m six now,” she announced, hugging Alec excitedly. “And I got new shoes and a real gown with a long skirt and two petticoats and—Where’s Uncle Seregil?”

“I’m on my way,” Seregil called. Going down the steep narrow stairs from the gallery, he strode across the hall and claimed a hug of his own. “Did you ride in from Watermead all by yourself, madame?”

Illia pulled a long face. “Mother’s still being sick from the baby, so she had to ride in a cart with Arna and Eulis. Father and Elsbet and me all had to ride slow. But he let me come ahead when we got to your street. I’m the van soldier!” “I think you mean vanguard,” Alec corrected with a smile.

“That’s what I said, silly. Do Elsbet and I get to sleep in the room next to yours, Uncle? The one with the dragon-shaped bed and the ladies painted on the walls?”

“Of course you do, so long as you don’t pop out at the guests once you’ve been put to bed the way you did last year.”