Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

by Lynn Flewelling

  “What is that?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “Dragon breath!” an Aurënfaie exclaimed.

  He was already grasping the edge of the blindfold when someone gripped his wrist. Laughter broke out around them.

  “A joke, Alec,” his escort assured him, sounding like he was sharing in it. “It’s just a hot spring. There are lots of them on this side of the mountains, and some smell even worse than this.”

  Alec smelled the strange odor again just as the hated blindfolds finally came off later that afternoon.

  A few miles ahead, an ice field hung in a valley high between two peaks. The pass was wider here, and in places along its sloping sides clouds of white steam boiled from the ground, or wafted off the faces of little pools between the rocks.

  Below lay a small tarn, its brilliant blue surface shimmering like a shard of Ylani porcelain beneath a shifting pall of vapor. Deep azure at its center, the waters gradually lightened to a pale turquoise toward the shore, where the rocks were a dull yellow. Rocky ground surrounded it, devoid of vegetation. A line of darker stone ran down the slope to the water’s edge and beyond, like a stain.

  “One of your ‘mirrors of the sky’?” asked Alec.

  “Yes,” said Seregil. “It’s the largest hot spring along this trail, a very sacred spot.”

  “Why is that?”

  Seregil smiled. “That’s Amali’s tale to tell. We’re in Akhendi fai’thast now.”

  • • •

  They made camp upwind of the tarn. It was warm in the little vale; the ground gave off heat they could feel through the soles of their boots. The foul odor was stronger here, too, like eggs gone bad. The yellow coloration Alec had noted earlier turned out to be a crusty rime built up just above the Waterline.

  “Sulfur,” Thero said, taking a pinch between his fingers and igniting it in a puff of orange flame.

  Despite the smell, most of the ’faie were already stripping off to bathe in it. Amali ä Yassara dipped up a cupful and presented it to Klia.

  “Odd sort of spot to call sacred, don’t you think?” asked Alec, eyeing the gently roiling water distrustfully. “It can’t be poison, though. Everyone’s drinking it.”

  Testing the water, he found it hot as a bath. He scooped up a small amount in one cupped palm and took a sip. It was an effort to swallow; the flat, metallic flavor was not something that invited deep drinking.

  “A mineral spring!” Thero noted, wiping his lips—though not discreetly enough to escape Amali’s notice.

  “You are perhaps wondering why we revere such a place?” she asked, laughing at the wizard’s expression. “I will show you in a little while. In the meantime, you all should bathe, especially you, Alec í Amasa. The waters are healing and would do that ear of yours good.”

  “Is my talímenios welcome, as well?” Alec asked, keeping his tone respectful even as his gut tightened.

  Amali colored, but shook her head. “That I cannot grant.”

  “Then I thank you for the offer.” He gave her a slight bow and strolled off to the cluster of tents nearby. Seregil followed.

  “You didn’t have to do that!”

  “Yes, I did. I can’t stand them all fussing over me while they slap you down at every opportunity.”

  Seregil pulled him to a halt. “They aren’t doing it to insult me, you damn fool!” he whispered angrily. “I brought this on myself a long time ago. You’re here for Klia, not me. Any insult you offer to our hosts reflects on her.”

  Alec stared at him a moment, hating the resignation that underlay his friend’s hard words. “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he mumbled, pulling his pack down from the saddle and carrying it into the tent assigned to them. He waited, expecting Seregil to come in. When he didn’t, Alec looked out through the tent flaps and saw him back at the water’s edge, watching the others swim.

  • • •

  Seregil kept up his air of cordial distance, speaking little but making no effort to retreat from the main company. When Amali invited the Skalans to walk along the shore that evening, he joined in without comment or apology.

  She led them up to the outcropping of dark stone. Bulging up from the surrounding stone and skree, it spread like an ink stain to the edge of the lake.

  “Look closely,” she told them, running her hand over a curving slab.

  Examining it, Alec saw nothing out of the ordinary except the peculiar smoothness of the weathering in places.

  “It’s skin!” Thero exclaimed from the other side of an upthrust slab. “Or at least, it was. And here’s the ridge of a spine. By the Light, was this a dragon? It must have been over three hundred feet long, if we’re seeing all that there was of it.”

  “Then it’s true what I’ve read,” Klia mused, climbing around to where the crumbling edge of what might have been a wing bone jutted from the ground. “Dragons do turn to stone when they die.”

  “This one did,” Amali replied. “But it is the only one of this size ever found. How they die, just as how they are born, remains a mystery. The little ones appear; the great ones disappear. But this place, called Vhadä’nakori, is sacred because of this creature, so drink deeply, sleep well, and attend carefully to your dreams. In a few days, we will be in Sarikali.”

  Seregil knew the Akhendi woman had not meant to include him in her invitation at the Vhadä’nakori; she’d been unfailingly distant since Gedre. Perhaps her ill will accounted for his poor sleep that night.

  Curled beside Alec in the tent they shared with Torsin and Thero, he tossed restlessly through a dream of uncommon vividness, even without aid of the waters.

  It began like so many of his nightmares had over the past two years. He stood again in his old sitting room at the Cockerel, but this time there were no mutilated corpses, no heads gummed in their own blood on the mantelpiece chattering accusations at him.

  Instead, it was as he remembered it from happier days. The cluttered tables, the piles of books, the tools laid out on the workbench beneath the window—everything was just as it should be. Turning to the corner by the fireplace, however, he found it empty. Alec’s narrow cot was gone.

  Puzzled, Seregil walked to the door of his bedchamber. Opening it, he found himself instead in his childhood room at Bôkthersa. The details here were equally clear and achingly familiar—the cool play of leaf shadow on the wall above his bed, the rack of practice swords near the door, the rich colors of the corner screen in the corner—painted by the mother he’d never known. Toys long since lost or packed away were there, too, as if someone had collected all of his most treasured belongings and laid them out for his return.

  The only discordant element were the delicate glass orbs strewn across the bed. He hadn’t noticed these when he’d first come in.

  He was taken by their beauty. Some were tiny, others the size of his fist, and they gleamed like jewels, multihued and translucent. He didn’t recognize them, but in the strange way of dreams, knew that these, too, were his.

  As he stood there, smoke suddenly seeped up through the floorboards around him. He could feel heat through the soles of his boots and hear the angry crackle of flames from below.

  His first thought was to save the orbs. Try as he might, though, a few always slipped away and he had to stop and pick them up again. Looking around frantically, he knew that he couldn’t save everything; the fire was bursting up through the floor in earnest now, licking at the corners of the room.

  He knew he should run and warn Adzriel. He longed to save familiar mementos but could not decide what to take, what to sacrifice. And all this time, he was still trying to gather the glistening spheres. Looking down, he saw that some had turned to iron and threatened to smash the more fragile ones. Others were filled with smoke or liquid. Confused and frightened, he stood helpless as smoke boiled up around him, blotting out the light—

  Seregil woke drenched in sweat, with his heart trying to hammer its way out of his chest. It was still dark, but he had no intention of sleep
ing again in this place. Finding his clothes, he slipped out.

  The stars were still bright enough to cast faint shadows. Dressing quickly, he climbed up to the dragon stones overlooking the water.

  “Aura Lightbearer, send me insight,” he whispered, stretching out on his back to wait for dawn.

  “Welcome home, Korit’s son,” a strange little voice replied, close to his ear.

  Seregil looked around in surprise. No one was there. Leaning over the edge of the rock, he peered underneath. A pair of shining yellow eyes looked back at him, then tilted as the creature moved its head.

  “Are you khtir’bai?” asked Seregil.

  The eyes tilted in the other direction. “Yes, child of Aura. Do you know me?”

  “Should I, Honored One?” Seregil had encountered only one such being, the khtir’bai of an aunt who’d taken the form of a white bear. This creature was far too small.

  “Perhaps,” the voice told him. “You have much to do, son of Korit.”

  “Will I ever be called that again?” Seregil asked as it finally sank in that the khtir’bai had addressed him by his true name.

  “We shall see.” The eyes blinked and were gone.

  Seregil held his breath, listening, but no sound came from under the rock. He lay back again, staring up at the stars as he pondered this new turn of events.

  A few minutes later he caught the soft scuff of bare feet on stone. Sitting up, he saw Alec climbing up to join him.

  “You should have come sooner. There was a khtir’bai under there, one who knew my name.”

  Alec’s look of disappointment was almost comical. “What did it look like?”

  “It was just a voice in the dark, but it welcomed me home.”

  Alec sat down next to him. “At least someone has. Couldn’t you sleep?”

  Seregil told Alec all he could recall of his dream: the glass balls, the flames, the childhood memories. Alec listened quietly, gazing out across the mist-covered water.

  “You’ve always claimed to have no magic, but your dreams—!” Alec said when he’d finished. “Remember those visions you had before we found Mardus?”

  “Before he found us, you mean? The warnings I didn’t understand until it was too late? A lot of good that did us.”

  “Maybe you’re not supposed to do anything about them. Maybe you’re just supposed to be ready.”

  Seregil sighed, thinking again of the khtir’bai’s words. You have much to do, son of Korit. “No, this was different. Just a dream. What about you, talí? Any great revelations?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that. I dreamt about being aboard Mardus’s ship with Thero, only when Thero turned around, he was you and you were weeping. Then the ship sailed over a waterfall and into a tunnel and that was the end of it. I don’t think I’d make much of an oracle.”

  Seregil chuckled softly. “Or a navigator, from the sound of it. Well, they say all answers can be found at Sarikali. Perhaps we’ll turn up a few there. How’s the ear?”

  Alec fingered the swollen skin and winced. “My whole neck hurts. I should have brought the lissik.”

  “Come on, I know something even better.” Rising, Seregil pulled Alec to his feet and led him down to the water’s edge. “Get in and give it a good soak.”

  “No. I already told you—”

  “Who’s to know?” Seregil challenged with a wink. “Go on now, before I toss you in. The ride ahead of us will be uncomfortable enough. Take what healing you can get.”

  “Well, did anyone else dream last night?” Klia asked as they stood around the morning fire a few hours later. “I couldn’t recall a thing when I woke up, but I never do.”

  “Neither did I,” said Beka, clearly disappointed.

  None of the Skalans had anything to report, as it turned out.

  “Perhaps the magic doesn’t work for Tír?” Alec offered, still pondering his own strange dream.

  When Thero emerged at last from the tent, however, he knew he was going to have to reevaluate his theory. The young wizard looked too dark under the eyes to have rested well.

  “Bad dreams?” asked Seregil.

  Thero gazed out over the pool, looking rather perplexed. “I dreamed of drowning here, with the moon shining in my eyes so brightly it hurt, even through the water. And all the while I could hear someone singing ‘home, home, home.’ ”

  “You’re a wizard,” Amali said, overhearing. “Your magic came from Aurënen, so perhaps you are home, in a sense.”

  “Thank you, lady,” Thero said. “That is a more positive interpretation than I was able to come to. It felt very much like a dream of death to me.”

  “And yet does not water also signify birth among your people?” she asked, strolling away.

  Below the Vhadä’nakori, the trail grew steeper and the Skalans had to ride most of the morning blindfolded. Chewing doggedly on a slice of ginger, Alec clung on with thighs and hands; at times it felt as if the horse were about to walk out from under him.

  After a few miles of this torture, he swallowed his pride and let an Akhendi named Tael mount in front of him and take the reins. Judging by the muttered epithets he heard on all sides, he wasn’t the only one to give in. Even with this help, however, his back and thighs were soon aching again as he clung on behind his guide.

  Luckily, his torment was short-lived. Reaching a level patch of ground, the column halted and the hated blindfolds were removed.

  Alec blinked, then let out a whistle.

  Far below, a rolling green vista dotted with scattered lakes and netted with rivers stretched toward lowlands on the southern horizon.

  “So green it hurts your eyes,” Thero murmured.

  They came down into the foothills through groves of flowering trees so dense it seemed as if they were riding through clouds. Beyond this, a packed-earth road led through the thick forests of Akhendi fai’thast.

  Alec’s fingertips ached for the pull of a bowstring. Sunlight slanted through the towering trees, illuminating little glades where herds of deer grazed. Flocks of game birds called kutka darted across the trail like startled chickens.

  “Doesn’t anyone hunt here?” he asked Tael.

  The Akhendi shrugged. “Aura is bountiful to those who take only what they need.”

  The trail met a broader road that led through small, scattered villages. People gathered by the road, staring and waving at the Skalans and calling out to Amali, who was clearly well loved. Men, women, and children alike wore various versions of the familiar tunic and trousers, which some had augmented with colorful open-work shawls or sashes fashioned like fisherman’s nets, but elaborate as lace.

  “I can’t tell the men from the women,” said Minál.

  “I assure you, rider, those who need to can tell the difference!” Nyal told him, eliciting a round of laughter from his companions.

  The dwellings here were similar in design to those at Gedre, but built of wood instead of stone. Many had open-sided sheds nearby, where their owners plied their trades. From what Alec could make out from the road, woodworking was a common occupation in this part of the country.

  Many of the byways that branched off from the main road looked disused and overgrown, he noticed. In the larger villages, many houses stood empty.

  Riding up beside Riagil and Amali, he asked, “My lady, this was a trade road once, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, one of the busiest. Our marketplaces saw goods from every corner of Aurënen, the Three Lands, and beyond. Our inns were always filled with traders. But now those same traders go downriver to Bry’kha, or overland to Virésse. Many of our people have moved closer to the routes, even gone to other fai’thasts.”

  She shook her head sadly. “The village I grew up in stands empty now. It is a shameful thing for any ’faie to be forced against her will to leave the place her family lived in for generations out of mind, to walk away from the house of her ancestors. It has brought our clan ill luck.

  “It is even more difficult for my husband
, both as our khirnari and as one who has lived so long and remembers what the Akhendi once were. I assure you, he will do all in his power to support your lady’s mission, as will I.”

  Alec bowed, wondering again what she and Nyal had been doing together on that dark trail in the mountains.

  Anxious as she was to see Sarikali, Beka found herself wishing they could stay longer in Akhendi. This country reminded her of the rolling forests she’d roamed as a girl, and of the peaceful life she’d taken for granted.

  They stopped for the night in one of the larger villages, and their arrival created quite a stir, if a quiet one at first. A few at a time, villagers gathered to greet Amali and gawk at the Tírfaie visitors. Before long, the Skalans were surrounded by a silent, staring throng.

  “We’re as much creatures of legend here as the ’faie are in the northlands,” Beka told her riders. “Come on. Give them a smile!”

  A small girl was the first to approach. Pulling free of her mother’s hand, she marched up to Sergeant Braknil and stared with unabashed curiosity at his grizzled beard. The old veteran returned the stare with amusement, then presented his chin for closer inspection. The girl dug her fingers into it and burst out giggling. At this, other children came forward, touching beards, clothing, and weapon hilts with delighted wonder. The adults followed, and anyone who spoke both languages soon had their hands full translating questions back and forth.

  Beka’s hair and freckles were the focus of especially intent curiosity. Pulling her braid loose, she shook out her hair and sat grinning as children and adults gently lifted the strands to see the coppery play of sunlight through them. Looking up, she saw Nyal watching her over the heads of the others, his leaf-and-water eyes tilted up at the corners with silent amusement. He winked and she looked quickly away as her cheeks went warm. Turning, she found herself face-to-face with the little girl who’d walked so boldly up to Braknil, who was now accompanied by a young man about Alec’s age.

  The child pointed to Beka and said something about “making.”