“I’m not, really, but one picks up all sorts of skills, traveling.”
Seregil studied the other man’s profile. “We do, don’t we?”
Nyal glanced up from his task. “That sounded almost friendly, Bôkthersa.”
“You’ll get into trouble calling me that.”
Nyal gestured sloppily with the sponge. “Who’s to overhear?”
Seregil acknowledged the barb with a grin of his own. “You’re a nosy bastard, and an easterner. Not to mention the fact that you’re the lover of a young woman who’s the closest thing to a daughter I’ll ever have. The combination makes me nervous.”
“So I’ve noticed.” Nyal gently turned Seregil over to spread fresh salve on his back. “A spy, am I?”
“Perhaps, or maybe just a balance to my presence.”
Nyal eased him back down, and Seregil looked him in the eye. Incredible eyes, really, clear and seemingly guileless. Strange that he hadn’t noticed them before. No wonder Beka—
He was wandering, he realized. “So are you?”
“A balancing factor?”
“A spy.”
Nyal shrugged. “I answer to my khirnari, like anyone else. What I’ve told her is that what your princess says in private is no different than what she says to the Iia’sidra.”
“And Amali ä Yassara?” Aura’s Fingers, had he said that aloud? Nyal’s potion must be having more of an effect than he’d thought.
The Ra’basi merely smiled. “You’re an observant man. Amali and I were once lovers, but she chose to accept the hand of Rhaish í Arlisandin. But I still care for her and speak with her when I safely can.”
“Safely?”
“Rhaish í Arlisandin loves his wife very much; it would be unworthy of me to be the cause of discord between them.”
“Ah, I see.” Seregil would have tapped the side of his nose knowingly if he could have raised his hand that far.
“There’s nothing dishonorable between Amali and me, I give you that on my honor. Now come, you must get up and move before your muscles stiffen any more. I expect it will hurt.”
Getting out of bed proved to be the worst of it. With Nyal’s assistance and considerable cursing, Seregil managed to slip on a loose robe and stagger woozily around the room several times. On one pass he caught sight of himself in the mirror and cringed—eyes too large, skin too pale, expression too nakedly helpless to be the infamous Rhíminee Cat. No, here was the frightened, shame-laden young exile come home again.
“I can walk by myself,” he growled, and pulled away from Nyal only to find that he couldn’t, not by a long shot.
Nyal caught him as he staggered. “That’s enough for now. Come, you can do with some fresh air.”
Seregil surrendered himself back into the man’s capable hands and was soon settled more or less comfortably in a sunny back corner of the balcony. Nyal was just tucking a blanket around him when a brisk knock sounded at the door.
Nyal went to answer it, but it was Mydri who returned. Seregil hastily checked the neck of his robe, hoping no telltale marks showed. It was a futile effort.
“A fever, is it?” she said, glowering down at him. “What were you thinking, Seregil?”
“What did Alec tell you?”
“He didn’t have to tell me anything. I could see it in his face. You should tell that boy not to bother lying; he’s got no skill for it.”
He does when he wants to, Seregil thought. “If you’re here to scold me—”
“Scold you?” Mydri’s eyebrows arched higher, the way they always had when she was truly angry. “You’re not a child anymore, or so I’m told. Do you have any idea what it would do to the negotiations if word got out that a member of Klia’s delegation had been attacked by a Haman? Nazien is already expressing admiration for Klia—”
“Who said anything about the Haman?”
Her hand moved so fast it took him a second to register that he’d been slapped, and hard enough to make his eyes water and his ears ring. Then she was bending over him again, poking him painfully in the chest with one finger.
“Don’t compound your stupidity with a lie, little brother! Did you think such a hollow act would make anything right? Did you think at all, or just hare off blindly like you always did? Have you changed so little?”
The words hurt far more than the blow. He probably hadn’t changed all that much, though he knew better than to say so just now.
“Does anyone else know?” he asked dully.
“Officially? No one. Who would strut around bragging of breaking Aura’s sacred peace? But there have been whispers. You must be at the Iia’sidra tomorrow, and you’d damn well better look like you’ve been ill!”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
For a moment he thought she was going to hit him again. Sparing him a last disgusted glare, she swept out. He braced to hear the door slam in her wake, but she refrained. Mustn’t give the servants anything to talk about.
He pressed his head back against the cushions and closed his eyes, concentrating on the sounds of the birds and breeze and people passing by along the street below. The brush of cool fingers against his cheek a moment later startled him badly. He thought Nyal had gone when his sister had arrived, but here he was again, studying him with unwelcome concern.
“Are people so eager to hit you back in Skala?” the man asked, examining whatever new mark Mydri had left.
Seregil should have been angry at the intrusion, but suddenly he was too tired, too sick.
“Now and then,” he replied, closing his eyes again. “But there it’s usually strangers.”
20
THE PASSING OF IDRILAIN
Midnight was long past by the time Korathan reached Phoria’s camp. He’d outdistanced his escort some miles back, pressing on alone in the vain hope of catching his mother’s dying words.
The pickets recognized his shouted greeting and cleared out of the road without challenge. Thundering into camp, he reined in at the tent showing his mother’s banner, scattering a crowd of servants and officers gathered there.
Inside, the heavy odor of death assailed him.
Tonight only Phoria and a wizened drysian attended the queen. His sister’s back was to him as he entered, but the drysian’s solemn face told him that his mother was already dead.
“You’re too late,” Phoria informed him tersely.
From the state of her uniform, he guessed she’d been called in off the battlefield, too. Her cheeks were dry, her face composed, but Korathan sensed a terrible anger just held in check.
“Your messenger was delayed by an ambush,” he replied, throwing off his cloak. Joining her beside the narrow field bed, he looked down at the wasted corpse that had been their mother.
The drysian had already begun the final ministrations for the pyre. Idrilain was dressed in her scarred field armor beneath the lavish burial cloak. That would please her, he thought, wondering if these considerations were Phoria’s doing or the servants’. The strap of her war helm was cinched tight to hold her jaw shut, and her dimmed eyes were pressed open for the soul’s journey. Her ravaged face had regained a certain dignity in death, but he saw traces of blood and dried spittle crusting her colorless lips.
“She died hard?” he asked.
“She fought it to the end,” replied the drysian, close to tears.
“Astellus carry you soft, and Sakor light your way home, my Mother,” he murmured hoarsely, covering Idrilain’s cold hands with his own. “Did she speak much before she went?”
“She had little breath for talking,” Phoria told him, turning abruptly and stalking out. “All she said was, ‘Klia must not fail.’ ”
Korathan shook his head, knowing better than anyone the pain Phoria’s anger hid. He’d watched for years in silence as the gulf between queen and heir had widened while Idrilain and Klia drew ever closer. Loyal to both, he had been able to comfort neither. Phoria had never spoken of what caused the final rift between herself and t
heir mother, not even to him.
Whatever it was, you are queen now, my sister, my twin.
Leaving the drysian to complete his task, Korathan walked slowly to Phoria’s tent. As he approached, he heard her voice raised sharply. A moment later Magyana emerged hastily from the doorway.
Seeing Korathan, she gave him a respectful bow, murmuring, “My sympathies, dear Prince. Your mother will be sorely missed.”
Korathan nodded and continued in.
He found Phoria sitting at her campaign table, greying hair loose about her shoulders. Her soiled tunic and mail lay in a heap beside her chair. Without looking up from the map before her, she said tonelessly, “I’m appointing you as my vicegerent, Kor. I want you in Rhíminee. The situation here is too dire for me to leave the field, so we’ll hold the coronation tomorrow as soon as you round up the necessary priests. My field wizard will officiate.”
“Organeus?” Korathan took a seat across from her. “It’s customary for the former queen’s wizard to officiate. That would be—”
“Magyana. Yes, I know.” Phoria looked up at last, pale eyes flashing dangerously. “But only because Nysander died. Who was she before that but a wanderer who spent more time in foreign lands than in her own? And what did she do while she served Mother except convince her to become dependent on foreigners?”
“The mission to Aurënen, you mean?”
Phoria let out an inelegant snort. “The queen’s not cold an hour and Magyana is in here badgering me for a pledge to continue with Idrilain’s plan! Nysander would have been no different, I suppose. Meddlers all, these old wizards. They’ve forgotten their place.”
“What did you tell her?” Korathan asked quickly, hoping to circumvent another tirade.
“I informed her that as queen I do not answer to wizards, and that she would be informed of my decisions when I saw fit.”
Korathan hesitated, choosing his words with care. One had to, when Phoria was like this. “Do you mean to abandon the negotiations? The way things have gone these past months, Aurënfaie aid might be of value.”
Phoria rose and paced the length of the tent. “It’s a sign of weakness, Kor. I dare say the surrender of the Mycenian troops along the northwestern border—”
“They surrendered?” Korathan groaned. Never in the history of the Three Lands had Mycena failed to stand with Skala against the incursions of Plenimar.
“Yesterday. Laid down their weapons in return for parole. No doubt they’ve heard that the Skalan queen sent her youngest daughter begging to the ’faie and it took the last of the heart out of them, exactly as I predicted it would. Southern Mycena is still with us, but it’s only a matter of time until they turn coat, too. And of course, the Plenimarans know. I’ve had reports of raids on the western coast of Skala as far north as Ylani.”
Korathan rested his face in his hands a moment as the enormity of the situation rolled over him. “I’ve been pushed back nearly ten miles in the past six days.” The force we met above Haverford had necromancers in the front line. Powerful ones, Phoria, not the hedgerow conjurers you’ve met with back here. They killed an entire turma’s horses beneath them as they charged, then sent the corpses galloping back among our ranks. It was a rout. I think—”
“What? That Mother was right?” Phoria rounded on him. “That we need the Aurënfaie and their magic to survive this war? I’ll tell you what we need: Aurënfaie horses, Aurënfaie steel, and the Aurënfaie port of Gedre if we’re to defend Rhíminee and the southern islands. But still the Iia’sidra debates!”
Korathan watched with wary fascination as his twin paced, left hand clenched over the pommel of her sword so tightly that the knuckles showed white.
Her old campaigning sword, he noted. She’d put aside the sword of Ghërilain for now so that she could be formally invested with it at her crowning, with all the power and authority it represented. He’d known all his life that this moment would come, that his sister would be queen. Watching her now, why did he suddenly feel as if the ground had given way under him?
“Have you sent word to Klia?” he asked at last.
Phoria shook her head. “Not just yet. I’m expecting fresh dispatches by tomorrow. We’ll wait to see which way the wind’s blowing down there. Strength, Kor. We must preserve a position of strength at all costs.”
“Any news you get by dispatch, even if it comes tomorrow, will be at least a week old. Besides, Klia is sure to put the best light on things, especially once word reaches her that you’ve taken the throne.”
Phoria gave him a strange, tight smile that narrowed her pale eyes like a cat’s. Going to a table at the side of the tent, she unlocked an iron box and took out a sheaf of small parchments. “Klia and Torsin are not my only sources of information at Sarikali.”
“Ah, yes, your spies in the ranks. What do they say? Will the Iia’sidra give us what we ask?”
Phoria’s mouth set in a harsh, unyielding line. “One way or another, we shall have what we need. I want you in Rhíminee, my brother.”
Going to him, she took one of his large hands in hers and tugged a ring from his finger, the one set with a large black stone carved with a dragon swallowing its own tail. Smiling, she slipped it on the forefinger of her left hand. “Be ready, Kor. When this dragon comes back to you, it’s time to go after another.”
21
RHUI’AUROS
It won’t take much acting to play the recovering invalid, will it?” Alec said as he helped Seregil dress the third morning after the beating. His friend’s body showed a shocking array of purple and green bruises where it wasn’t bandaged, and he still wasn’t eating much except broth and Nyal’s infusions.
“The act will be to convince them that I am recovered.” Seregil let out a strangled groan as he eased his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “Or to convince myself.”
Seregil still refused to divulge what had really happened to him that night. The fact that he seemed in better spirits since the attack bothered Alec almost as much as his friend’s stubborn silence on the matter.
No sooner do I rake a few old secrets out of him than he goes and takes on a load of new ones.
“I’ll come with you today,” he said. “It’s almost gotten interesting. The khirnari of Silmai has been taking Klia’s part openly, and she’s convinced the Ra’basi are about to tumble our way. You missed the banquet with them last night; most cordial, and the Virésse noticeably absent. Do you think Nyal had a hand in that?”
“He claims not to have been asked his opinion. It could be that Ra’basi is getting tired of being under Virésse’s sway.” Seregil limped to the small mirror over the washstand. Evidently satisfied with what he saw there, he stretched his arms tentatively and let out another pained gasp. “Oh, yes, I’m much better!” he muttered, grimacing at his white-faced reflection. “Help me downstairs, will you? I think I can manage after that.”
The others were at breakfast in the hall. Klia sat poring over a stack of new dispatches.
“Feeling better?” she asked, glancing up.
“Much,” Seregil lied. He eased into a chair next to Thero and accepted a cup of tea he had no intention of drinking. The wizard was frowning over a letter.
“From Magyana?” he asked.
“Yes.” Thero passed it to him and Seregil skimmed the contents, holding it so Alec could see, too.
“ ‘The third of Klia’s dispatches reached us here yesterday. Phoria said little, but her impatience is clear,’ ” Alec read aloud. “ ‘Surely some small concession can be coaxed from the Iia’sidra? otherwise, I fear she will recall you—’ ”
“Yes, we’ve already seen that,” Torsin told him. “A small concession, she asks for. What else have we been laboring for all these weeks?”
Seregil saw the quick glance Alec shot the envoy and knew he was recalling the man’s night visit to Khatme tupa.
“I get hints of the same threat from my honored sister,” Klia growled, tossing aside the letter she’d been readin
g. “Let her come down and see what I’m up against. It’s like trying to argue with trees!” She turned to Seregil with a grimace of frustration. “Tell me, my adviser, how to make your people hurry! Time’s running short.”
Seregil sighed. “Let Alec and I do what we’re best at, my lady.”
Klia shook her head. “Not yet. The risks are too great. There must be another way.”
Seregil stared into the depths of his cup, wishing his head was clear enough to think of one.
The ride to the council chamber was a tense affair. Ignoring Seregil’s muttered warnings, Alec helped him mount and dismount, claiming he looked faint. By the time Seregil was finally seated in his place just behind Klia, he was pale and sweating, but seemed to recover a little once he’d gotten his wind back.
Alec scanned the faces around the circle. Reaching the Haman contingent, he stopped, a sudden knot of tension tightening his belly. Emiel í Moranthi was grinning openly at Seregil. Catching Alec’s eye, he gave him a slight, sardonic nod.
“It was him, wasn’t it?” Alec grated under his breath.
Seregil merely glanced at him as if he didn’t know what Alec was talking about, then motioned him to silence.
Alec looked back at Emiel, thinking, Just let me and a few friends catch you in a dark street some night soon. Or just me alone, come to that. He hoped the thought showed on his face, whatever the cost.
Seregil saw the Haman’s appraising leer, but steadfastly ignored him. It was easier to carry on with the pretense that he had recognized no one in the darkness that night.
And just who are you trying to fool?
He pushed the thought aside with practiced ease. There were more important things to be dealt with right now.
Alec had been correct about a shift in the Ra’basi’s stance. Moriel ä Moriel took it upon herself to contest a point being put forth by Elos of Goliníl about certain Skalan shipping practices. Whether it represented full support remained to be seen.
Satisfied that Seregil was back on his feet, Alec returned to his ramblings through the city the next day. At Klia’s request, he commandeered Nyal and set out to ingratiate himself among the Ra’basi in the hope of gleaning both goodwill and useful information.
Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3 Page 27