“How are you making out?” asked Seregil, wandering back with a book under his arm.
“I found this in back of some others. It must have fallen in behind.” On closer inspection, he saw that it was actually a case of some sort. There was no writing anywhere on it to suggest what its contents might be. “I can’t get it open.”
Alec jiggled the catch a last time, then handed it to him.
Seregil glanced it over and passed it back. “There’s no lock; the catch is just corroded good and tight. It can’t have been opened for years. Oh, well, it probably wasn’t anything very interesting anyway.”
He gave Alec a challenging grin, one Alec had seen often enough before.
“What, here?” he whispered in surprise.
Seregil leaned against a bookcase and gave a careless shrug. “It’s not much good to anyone that way, is it?”
After a quick, rather guilty look around to make sure the custodian hadn’t returned, Alec drew the black-handled poniard from his boot and worked it under the strap. The deadly sharp blade cut easily through the leather. Sheathing it again, he gently opened the cover and found a loose sheaf of parchment leaves inside. They were badly stained and scorched along the bottom edge, some burned half away. Small, close-packed script covered each on both sides.
“Aura Elustri!” Grinning excitedly, Seregil lifted out the first sheet. “It’s in Aurënfaie. It looks to be a journal of some sort—” He read a few lines. “And it’s definitely about the war.”
“It’s so weathered I can hardly make it out,” said Alec, taking up another page. “Not that my Aurënfaie’s all that good to begin with.”
“Anyone would have a hard time making this out.” Seregil squinted down at the cramped text a moment longer, then closed it and tucked it under his arm with the other book he’d chosen. Sorting through the ones Alec had selected, he discarded all but two and hurried Alec upstairs again, obviously eager to tackle the journal.
Back at Wheel Street again, they retreated to Seregil’s chamber with a supply of wine and fruit. When the fire had been replenished and the lamps lit against the early evening gloom, they began sorting through the sheets on the hearth rug.
Taking up a page, Seregil studied it closely. “Do you know what this is?” he exclaimed with a smile of pure delight. “These are fragments of a field journal kept by an Aurënfaie soldier during the war. Alec, it’s an eyewitness account of events six centuries old! Just wait until we show Nysander. I’ll bet no one even knew this was there, or it would have been in a different vault.”
The pages were badly shuffled in places and it took some doing to sort them out. The translation from Aurënfaie to Skalan was easy enough; deciphering the crabbed and often smeared writing while searching through mismatched pages was another matter. Seregil finally found what appeared to be the earliest entry and settled back in a nest of cushions on the floor to read it aloud.
They soon pieced together that the author had been a young archer, part of a regiment of well-to-do volunteers raised by a local noble. He’d been a faithful diarist, but the entries dealt mostly with skirmishes and fallen comrades. It was clear that the Aurënfaie had hated their Plenimaran adversaries, who were consistently depicted as harsh and brutal. There were several mercifully terse descriptions of their barbaric treatment of captured soldiers and camp followers.
The first series of entries ended with a detailed description of his first sight of Queen Gërilain of Skala. Referring to her as “a plain girl in armor,” he nonetheless praised her leadership. He spoke only Aurënfaie, it seemed, but quoted several lines of a powerful rallying speech she’d given before the Third Battle of Wyvern Dug, which someone had translated for him. He described the Skalan soldiers admiringly as “fierce and full of fire.”
Stretched out on the carpet, watching the shadows playing across the ceiling, Alec let the words paint scenes in his imagination. As Seregil read about Gërilain, the first warrior queen, he found himself picturing Klia, although she was anything but plain.
The second fragment had been written in Mycena during the battles of high summer, when the regiment had been joined by a contingent of Aurënfaie wizards. This was followed by an intriguing line about “the necromancers of the enemy,” but the rest of the page had been destroyed.
Muttering again, Seregil sorted through the few remaining pages. “Ah, here we are. Part of it’s missing, but it begins, ‘and our wizards have moved to the front, ahead of the cavalry. The Skalan captain met these forces only two days ago and cannot speak of them without paleness and trembling. Britiel í Kor translated for us, saying he tells of dead men rising from the field to fight the living.’ ”
“Just like in the legends,” Alec murmured, forgetting for a moment that this was a factual account and not some bardic tale.
“ ‘We’ve heard this account too often now to call him mad,’ ” Seregil read on. “ ‘The Skalan captain claims Plenimar has a terrible war god. We have heard wounded enemies calling upon Vatharna. Now learn this is their word for god even they will not name. Nor will Skalans speak it, saying instead with great hatred, Eater of—’ ”
He faltered to a halt.
“Eater of Death!” Alec finished for him, scrambling up to his knees. “That’s it, isn’t it? Just like in the prophecy at the Sakor Temple. We’ve got to find Nysander. The Eater of Death must be that death god you told me about, the bad luck one, Seri—”
Seregil lunged forward, pages scattering as he clamped a hand over Alec’s mouth.
“Don’t!” he hissed, face white as chalk.
Alec froze, staring up at him in alarm.
Seregil let out a shaky breath and dropped his hand to Alec’s shoulder, gripping it lightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Be still a minute; I have to think.”
Seregil felt as if a black chasm had suddenly opened beneath them.
Seriamaius.
—if you let slip the slightest detail of what I am about to tell you, I shall have to kill all of you
join our song, the only song. For the Beautiful One, the Eater of Death—
For an instant the only thing that made any sense was the solid feel of Alec’s shoulder, the warm brush of the boy’s hair as it fell across the back of his hand.
Memories crowded in on each other, treading dangerously on each other’s heels as they threatened to coalesce into a pattern he didn’t wish to see.
The palimpsest, telling of a “Beautiful One” and leading to a crown surrounded by the dead. Micum’s grim discovery in the Fens. The ragged leather pouch that Nysander had burned. And the coin, that deceptively prosaic wooden disk that had nearly killed him with madness and dreams—dreams of a barren plain and a golden-skinned creature that embraced him, demanding a single blue eye that winked from a wound over his heart. Voices singing—over a barren plain, and deep in the depths of a mountain cavern as blood dripped down to pool on the ice. Nysander’s threat—a warning?
“Seregil, that hurts.”
Alec’s soft, tense voice brought him back and he found himself clutching the boy’s shoulder. He hurriedly released him and sat back.
Alec closed cold fingers over his own. “What is it? You look like you’ve just seen your own ghost.”
A desperate ache lanced through Seregil as he looked down into those dark blue eyes.
if you let slip the slightest detail
Damn you, Nysander!
“I can’t tell you, talí, because I’d only have to lie,” he said, suddenly dejected. “I’m going to do something now, and you’re going to watch and say nothing.”
Taking the final page of the manuscript, he twisted it into a tight squib and tossed it into the fire.
Alec rocked back on his heels, watching in silent consternation as the parchment blossomed into flame. When it was consumed, Seregil knocked the ash to bits with the poker.
“But what about Nysander?” Alec aske
d. “What will you tell him?”
“Nothing, and neither will you.”
“But—”
“We’re not betraying him.” Seregil took Alec by the shoulders, more gently this time, drawing their faces close together. “You have my oath on that. I believe he already knows what we just learned, but he can’t know that you know. Not until I tell you it’s safe. Understand?”
“More secrets,” Alec said, looking solemn and unhappy.
“Yes, more secrets. I need your trust in this, Alec. Can you give it?”
Alec looked sidelong at the fire for a long moment, then locked eyes with him again and replied in halting Aurënfaie, “Rei phöril tös tókun meh brithir, vrí sh’ruit’ya.”
Though you thrust your dagger at my eyes, I will not flinch. A solemn oath, and one Seregil had pledged him not so long ago.
Seregil let out a small, relieved laugh. “Thank you. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a rest. Why don’t you go have a look through those books we found?”
Alec got up to go without a word. But he paused in the doorway, looking back at Seregil still sitting by the fire.
“What does talí mean? Is it Aurënfaie?”
“Talí?” A ghost of the old grin tugged at one corner of Seregil’s mouth. “Yes, it’s an Aurënfaie term of endearment, rather old-fashioned, like beloved. Where’d you pick that up?”
“I thought—” Alec regarded him quizzically, then shook his head. “I don’t know, at one of the salons, probably. Sleep well, Seregil.”
“You, too.”
When Alec was gone, Seregil walked to the window and rested his forehead against one cold pane, staring out over the dark garden.
Stone within ice. Secrets within secrets. Silences inside of greater silences.
In all the time he’d known Nysander, he had never felt such distance between them. Or so alone.
Several days passed before Alec realized that they were not going to talk of the matter again. Despite his oath, it troubled him greatly. This silence toward the wizard seemed to create a small cold gap in a relationship that had been so seamlessly warm and safe. For the first time in months he found himself wondering about Seregil’s loyalties.
Try as he might to banish such thoughts, they nagged at him until at last he came out with it as they were out walking in the Noble Quarter one evening.
He’d feared that Seregil would evade the question or be annoyed. Instead, he looked as if he’d been expecting this discussion.
“Loyalty, eh? That’s a large question for a thinking person. If you’re asking if I’m still loyal to Nysander, then the answer is yes, for as long as I have faith in his honor. The same goes for any of my friends.”
“But do you still have faith in him?” Alec pressed.
“I do, though he hasn’t made it easy lately. You’re too smart not to have noticed that there are unspoken things between him and me. I’m trying hard to be patient about all that, and so must you.
“But maybe that’s not the real issue here. Are you losing faith in me?”
“No!” Alec exclaimed hastily, knowing the words were true as he spoke them. “I’m just trying to understand.”
“Well, like I said, loyalty is no simple thing. For instance, would you say that you, Nysander, and I are loyal to Queen Idrilain and want to act in the best interests of Skala?”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“But what if the Queen ordered us, for the good of Skala, to do harm to Micum? Should I keep faith with her or with him?”
“With Micum,” Alec replied without hesitation.
“But what if Micum, without our knowledge, had committed treason against Skala? What then?”
“That’s ridiculous!” Alec snorted. “He’d never do anything like that.”
“People can surprise you, Alec. And perhaps he did it out of loyalty to something else, say his family. He’s kept faith with his family but broken faith with the Queen. Which outweighs the other?”
“His family,” Alec maintained, although he was beginning to feel a bit confused.
“Certainly. Any man ought to hold his family above all else. But what if his justified act of treason cost hundreds of other families their lives? And what if some of those killed were also friends of ours—Myrhini, Cilla, Thero. Well, maybe not Thero—”
“I don’t know!” Alec shrugged uncomfortably. “I can’t say one way or the other without knowing the details. I guess I’d just have to have faith in him until I knew more. Maybe he didn’t have any choice.”
Seregil leveled a stern finger at him. “You always have a choice. Don’t ever imagine you don’t. Whatever you do, it’s a decision and you have to accept responsibility for it. That’s when honor becomes more than empty words.”
“Well, I still say I’d have to know why he did it,” Alec retorted stubbornly.
“That’s good. But suppose, despite all his kindness to you, you discovered he really had betrayed your trust. Would you hunt him down and kill him as the law required?”
“How could I?”
“It would be difficult. Past kindness counts for something. But say you knew for certain that someone else would catch him—the Queen’s officers, for instance—and that they’d kill him slowly and horribly. Then wouldn’t it be your duty, as a friend and a man of honor, to see to it that he was granted a quick, merciful death? Looked at from that angle, I suppose killing Micum Cavish might be the greatest expression of friendship.”
Alec stared at Seregil, mouth slightly ajar. “How the hell did we come to me killing Micum?”
Seregil shrugged. “You asked about loyalty. I told you it wasn’t easy.”
11
NYSANDER ALONE
The hands moved more often now.
As Nysander gazed down at them through the thick sheet of crystal that covered the case, a trick of the light superimposed his reflection over the splayed hands below, creating the illusion that his head lay within the case, gripped in the withered talons of the dead necromancer. The face he saw there was a very old one, etched with weariness. While he watched, the hands slowly curled into fists, clenching so tightly that the skin over one knuckle split, showing brown bone beneath.
Continuing grimly on through the deserted museum, Nysander half expected to hear the Voice from his nightmares, roaring its taunting challenge up through the floor from the depths below. Those dreams came more often now, since Seregil’s return from the Asheks.
Summoning an orb of light, Nysander opened the door at the back of the museum chamber and began the long descent through the vaults.
He’d wooed Magyana here in the days of their youth. When she’d remained obdurate in her celibacy, they had continued to share long discussions as they wandered along these narrow stone corridors. Seregil had often come with them during his ill-starred apprenticeship, asking a thousand questions and poking into everything.
Thero came with him occasionally, though less often than he once had. Did Ylinestra bring him down here to make love, Nysander wondered, as she had him? By the Four, she’d warmed the very stones with her relentless passion!
He shook his head in bemusement as he imagined her with Thero; a sunbird embracing a crow.
He’d never completely trusted the sorceress. Talented as Ylinestra was at both magic and love, greed lurked just behind her smile. In that way she was not unlike Thero, but Thero was bound by Orëska law; she was not.
The fact that she had gone from his bed to Thero’s troubled Nysander in a way that had nothing to do with former passions, though he had been unable to convince Thero of that. After two tense, unpleasant attempts, Nysander had dropped the subject.
Other wizards might have dismissed an assistant over such a matter, he knew, yet in spite of their growing differences, Nysander still felt a strong regard for Thero and refused to give up on him.
And mixed with that regard, he admitted once again in the silence of the vaults, was the fear that many of his fellows in the Orë
ska would be glad to take on Thero if he let him go. Many were critical of Nysander’s handling of the talented young wizard, and thought Thero was wasted on the eccentric old man in the east tower. After all, he’d ruined one apprentice already, hadn’t he? Small wonder Thero seemed discontent.
But Nysander knew the boy better than any of them and believed with every fiber of his being that given his head at this stage of training, the young wizard would ultimately ruin himself. Oh, he would earn his robes, of course, probably in half the time it would take most. That was part of the problem. Thero was so apt a pupil that most masters would joyously fill his head with all they knew, guiding him quickly through the levels to true power.
But more than a keen mind and flawless ability were needed to make so powerful a wizard as Thero would undoubtedly become. Ungoverned by wisdom, patience, and a compassionate heart, that same keen mind would be capable of unspeakable havoc.
So he kept Thero with him, hopeful to change him, fearful to let him go.
There were moments, such as the night he found him tending to Seregil’s injuries after the misadventure in the sewers, when Nysander caught a gleam of hope—signs that Thero might be coming to understand what it was that Nysander was asking of him beyond the mere learning of magic.
Reaching the door to the lowest vault, he shook off his reverie and hastened on.
Few had reason to go to this lowest vault, which for time out of mind had been the Orëska’s repository for the forgotten, the useless, and the dangerous. Many of the storerooms were empty now, or cluttered with mouldering crates. Other doors had been walled up, their frames outlined with runic spells and warnings. But as he walked along, the sound of his footsteps muffled on the dank brick underfoot, he could hear the bowl and its high, faint resonance, audible only to those trained to listen for it. The sound was much stronger than it once had been.
The wooden disk had had little effect on it; its power was incomplete separated from the seven others Nysander knew existed somewhere in the world. The crystal crown was a different matter. As soon as he’d placed it here, the resonance of the bowl had grown increasingly stronger, and with it his nightmares.
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