The answering call was nothing more than the faintest of whispers in the silence of his mind. There was no voice or scent or image, only the summoning of instinct.
North, still north. Follow and trust.
Like a bird that suddenly recalls the route south after the first frost, Alec gave himself up to the pull of that faint glimmer, his mind still too clouded by the stag’s to question or doubt.
With another deep-throated cry he set his face to the wind and bounded onward.
Moon shadow patterns slid across his broad back as he ran and his human mind gradually began to marvel at the sensation of this startling new body. He could feel the strain and bunch of the stag’s muscles as he sprang, the pumping of its great heart, the weight of the heavy rack that it bore with no more thought than he’d ever given to a hat.
The familiar scents of sea and forest took on a new richness beyond human perception. Pausing to drink at a flowing spring, he couldn’t resist the aroma of young mallow shoots growing around it. The wet green taste of them filled his mouth like honeycomb. A little grey owl winged across his path with a soft rush of feathers as he set off again.
The coastline grew more desolate as he moved north, and in the distance he could see a solitary peak jutting up against the stars. The ledges were broader here, extending out into the sea and cleft with crevasses and bands of darker stone. Farther up, where rock met grassland, mats of crowberry and lichen sent up a sweet aroma as he trampled across.
The sea slowly retreated down the rocks toward the low mark, leaving behind glistening tide pools that shone like black mirrors in the darkness. The moon sank into the sea and the stars danced toward home. As the wind shifted and night scents began to fade he smelled horses and men. Picking his way down into a gully, he stood motionless, sniffing the breeze, until they’d passed him and disappeared to the north.
Alec sensed the coming dawn long before the first tinge of it appeared in the sky. The pellucid light of the false dawn welled up behind the mountains, waking flotillas of gulls and ducks that had ridden the waves out beyond the pull of the breakers. Something in the change of light tugged at his memory, but consumed by the irresistible pull of instinct and the summons, he could not recall what it was.
The first ray of true dawn touched him as he sprang across a foaming cleft in the rocks. The stag form blurred in midair, leaving in its place a thin, naked youth.
Sheer momentum carried Alec across. He landed awkwardly, skinning his knees and elbows. Still reeling from the transformation, he sprawled on his back and blinked up at the marbled gold sky, wondering dully where he was and how he’d come to be there.
Waves surged up the cleft he’d just jumped, flinging glittering white spray across his bare skin. As Alec struggled to his knees, he realized he was still wearing the ivory vial he’d taken from Vargûl Ashnazai. Prying it open, he emptied the contents into his palm, a few dark slivers of wood.
A blinding flash of memory rocked him—Ashnazai toying with the vial as he wove his tortures aboard the Kormados, the look of satisfaction on his face when he cut Seregil’s throat, Thero’s last despairing cry as it mingled with the howl of whatever had been unleashed against them after their escape. With a choked sob, he flung the pieces into the sea and screamed his sorrow after them.
But even as he mourned, the summons was still there, fainter somehow but still clear enough.
North.
The first Plenimaran scouts reached the temple site just after dawn. Micum was on watch and heard their horses in time to hide in the underbrush next to the track. He waited until they passed him, heading toward the white stone, then hurried back to the pine shelter to warn the others.
“They’re on their way,” he whispered, crawling under the screen of branches. “Two Plenimaran scouts just went by on the road, headed north.”
“It is fortunate that they keep to the road,” Nysander murmured, stroking his chin absently.
“Why is that?” asked Seregil.
Nysander sighed heavily, then looked up at his two companions. “Alec is on his way to us. He is keeping to the shoreline, so it is fortunate that the Plenimarans take the road.”
“He’s on his way?” Micum gasped, incredulous. “How do you know? When did you know?”
Seregil said nothing, but Micum saw the sudden tension in him, and the hectic spots of color that leapt into his sunken cheeks.
“I sensed him just after midnight last night,” replied Nysander.
“You knew he was out there and you didn’t tell us?” Seregil hissed. “Illior’s Light, Nysander, why not?”
“You would only have charged off in the darkness with very little hope of accomplishing anything but damage to yourselves. He was too far away for you to reach on foot. Thero seems to have had a hand in his escape—”
“That traitorous bastard?” Seregil’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Stop it, Seregil!” Nysander ordered, finally giving rein to his own anger. It flashed across his face, startling as lightning from a clear sky. “Whatever Thero’s past actions may have been, it would appear that he used his own magic to aid Alec’s escape, quite possibly at the expense of his own life. Alec is alone. This has brought him closer to us than losing either of you would have. If Mardus’ scouts have reached us already, then the man himself cannot be far behind.”
Seregil opened his mouth to protest but Micum spoke first.
“I don’t like it either, but he’s right and we both know it,” he said grudgingly.
“Well, what about now, then?” demanded Seregil, still boiling. “We can’t just sit here hoping he finds us by sheer luck! Bilairy’s Balls, Nysander, if you’re so certain of where he is, magick him in!”
“You know I cannot expend that kind of power now. However, I was able to send a summoning and place some protections around him, as well. Mardus will not find him by magic.”
Seregil reached for his boots and sword belt.
“But you knew about him last night,” Micum said, frowning. “How did you do that, if not with magic?”
“I did nothing. The knowledge simply came to me.”
“Then why don’t Micum and I sense him?” Seregil demanded.
“Who knows? Go to him now; help him He is coming from the south.”
“Ah, that’s one of my titles, isn’t it? The Guide?” Seregil growled, grabbing up a water skin and pushing out through the branches.
Micum moved to follow, but Nysander laid a hand on his arm.
“Let him go.”
Seregil’s anger quickly gave way to cautious joy as he loped along over the rocks. During the long days on the Lady, hope had dwindled to a stubborn refusal to imagine the worst. Now it seemed Nysander’s faith in the prophecy had been proven. Against all odds, the four of them were being brought together again on this hostile shore.
The tide had just turned past low, leaving tide pools and treacherous masses of bladder wrack gleaming in the morning sun. Great green swells rolled in from the open sea, wave upon wave smashing to geysers of glistening spume against the rocks. A freshening wind off the water carried the spray up the shore; Seregil turned his face to it as he stalked along, tasted salt on his lips.
Nothing else mattered. Alec was alive.
He kept one eye on the trees as he went. One patrol had shown up already; there would be others. Within the hour he spied the glint of sunlight off metal.
Taking cover in a rocky cleft, he listened as a group of riders passed at a gallop. From the sound of it, there were at least a dozen of them. Waiting until the last sound of their horses had faded away to the north, he continued on his way.
Another hour passed and he began to worry that they’d somehow missed each other. Alec could have taken refuge, as he had, under an outcropping or in the forest. Or had an accident or been recaptured. Reining in these dark thoughts, Seregil sat down on a damp block of stone to catch his breath.
His arrival dislodged a small nation of striped periwinkles, whic
h clattered and rolled away like a cascade of marbles into the tide pool at his feet. A gull circled down to drink on the opposite side.
“I’ll find him,” Seregil sighed aloud, resting his head in his hands. “He’s here and I’ll find him.”
The gull regarded him with one skeptical yellow eye, then flapped off with a derisive jeer. Turning his head to watch it, Seregil froze in disbelief. A wan, battered spector stood looking down at him from a shelf of rock not twenty feet away.
“Alec!”
Thin, bruised, and naked, Alec swayed visibly as the wind buffeted him. Despite his obvious exhaustion, however, he was poised for flight.
“Alec, it’s me,” Seregil said more gently, watching hope and fear warring in those dark, narrowed eyes. What had put such deep distrust there? “What’s wrong, talí?”
“What are you doing here?” Alec croaked, and the wariness in his voice went through Seregil like a knife.
“Looking for you. Nysander’s here, too, and Micum. They’re back that way.”
“Nysander’s dead,” Alec said, taking a step backward.
“No, he almost died, but he’s alive, I promise you. We know what Mardus is up to now. We were right, Alec. We are the Four—you, me, Nysander, and Micum. We’re all here to stop him.”
Alec shivered miserably as the wind whipped his hair across his pale face. “How do I know it’s you?” he mumbled faintly.
“What are you talking about?” Seregil asked in growing confusion. “What did they do to you, talí? It’s me! I’m coming up to you now, all right? Don’t be afraid.”
To his amazement, Alec turned and fled.
Scrambling up the rocks, Seregil dashed after him and caught him in his arms, holding Alec tightly as he struggled.
“Easy, now! What’s wrong?” He could feel Alec’s heart hammering beneath his ribs.
Panting, Alec twisted around and gripped the side of Seregil’s face in one hand. Fighting back his own sudden fear, Seregil loosened his hold.
Alec gingerly touched his hair, shoulders, and arms, his expression almost feral in its intensity and distrust. After a moment, however, the look disappeared, replaced by the most wondrous look of relief Seregil had ever seen.
“O Illior, it is you. You’re alive,” Alec gasped, tears welling in his eyes. “That bastard! I should have guessed, but the blood, your voice, everything— But you’re alive!” Shuddering, he grabbed Seregil in a fierce embrace.
“Last time I looked,” Seregil rasped, his throat tight with emotion as he hugged Alec to him. The boy was trembling badly now. Releasing him just long enough to get his cloak off and swing it around Alec’s bare shoulders, Seregil helped him down in the lee of a large rock and held him close as the boy trembled and wept.
“I thought you were dead,” Alec exclaimed hoarsely, still clinging to Seregil as if terrified that he’d disappear. “It was Vargûl Ashnazai. He made me think you’d come to rescue me, and he killed—” Alec let out a harsh sound between a sob and a laugh. “But I killed the son of a whore!”
The story that spilled from him was broken and confused, but Seregil was able to piece enough together to begin to guess what kind of torture Alec had been subjected to. Tears of helpless rage stung behind his own eyes as he stroked Alec’s hair, murmuring softly to him in Aurënfaie.
Coming to the end of his tale, Alec rested his head wearily on Seregil’s shoulder and drew another shuddering breath. “The worst of it— When Ashnazai killed you, tricked me into thinking he had—he said things—” Alec squeezed his eyes shut. “I thought you died believing I’d betrayed you.”
Seregil stroked a strand of hair back from Alec’s forehead and kissed him there. “It’s all right, talí. If it had really been me, I wouldn’t have believed him. I know you too well for that.”
“And I never told you—” Alec’s pale face flushed crimson. “I don’t understand it, but I—”
He faltered and Seregil pulled him closer. “I know, talí. I know.”
It was Alec who brought their lips together.
Seregil’s first reaction was disbelief. But Alec was insistent, clumsy but determined. It lasted an instant, an eternity, that one awkward kiss, and it spoke silent volumes of bewildered honesty.
The moment that followed was too fragile for words.
He’s exhausted, confused. He’s been tortured past the point of endurance, Seregil warned himself, but for once, the doubts refused to take root.
Father, brother, friend.
Lover.
He closed his eyes, knowing that whatever grew up between them, it would be enough.
Alec was the first to break the silence. Wiping his face on the corner of the cloak, he said, “We’d better keep going. If I fall asleep now I don’t think you’d be able to wake me again. Mardus is on his way.”
“You’d better get some clothes on.” Seregil stood to pull off his tunic and felt the weight of the black dagger he’d carried inside it.
“I almost forgot, I’ve been saving this for you.”
Taking the knife out, Seregil unwrapped the scarf he’d wound around it. He held it a moment, his symbol of both defeat and hope through the long days of their separation. At last he tugged the knotted hank of hair loose from the hilt and let the wind snatch the golden strands from his fingers, scattering them over the rocks and into the sea.
48
A NARROWING OF PROXIMITIES
Irtuk Beshar rode to the front of the column and fell in beside Mardus. Captain Denarii, leader of the land force that had met them upon landing, gave place with a barely concealed shudder.
Mardus greeted her with a gracious nod. “Good morning, Honored One.”
“And to you, Lord Mardus. Have your scouts returned?”
“Yes. They report no interference. We’ll make camp by late afternoon today and be well in place for the final ceremony tomorrow.”
“The will of Seriamaius is with you, as always, my lord.” Irtuk studied the dark man’s comely profile. “I must say, you seem remarkably sanguine, given the death of Vargûl Ashnazai and the escapes last night.”
Mardus shrugged eloquently. “Ashnazai brought his death on himself, despite all my warnings. Losing Alec was regrettable, though. What a remarkable young man.”
“But the prisoners?”
“My trackers say the Skalan raiding party numbered less than a dozen riders and that they fled east. No, the Helm will be restored and I shall serve Seriamaius as the Vatharna.” Mardus’ cold smile broadened perceptibly. “Not a shabby attainment for an Overlord’s unacknowledged bastard, eh?”
“I have foreseen this day since you were a child at my knee,” the dyrmagnos said fondly. “Even now the young Overlord suspects nothing. When the time comes he will be forced to give place to you, his trusted half brother. With the Helm on your brow and the hand of Seriamaius over you, no one can contest your claim to the throne.”
“And how is young Thero this morning?”
Irtuk Beshar gave a dry, whispery laugh. “Subdued. Most subdued.”
The second scouting patrol was larger. Watching from the shelter of several large boulders, Micum counted a dozen Plenimaran riders moving up the track toward the temple site.
Stealing back to the salt pine, he found Nysander listening calmly to the scouts calling back and forth to one another as they spread out through the trees behind the site.
“What are they saying?” whispered Micum.
“From the sound of it, they are looking for a place for an encampment.”
Before long the Plenimarans backtracked to a sloping meadow a quarter of a mile back the way they’d come. Micum and the wizard followed cautiously.
“Looks like they’re settling in,” Micum said, watching as several soldiers set to work felling trees at the edge of the clearing. “And right in Seregil’s path, too. You can see the ledges from there.”
“He must have seen them earlier,” Nysander replied, heading back to the pine shelter.
&nb
sp; “Let’s hope so,” Micum muttered. “I didn’t like the way he stormed out of here. You know, there’s nothing to do here just now. Maybe I should head out looking for him. Will you be safe?”
Nysander smiled. “From that lot? Oh, yes. You go on.”
Keeping behind the underbrush along the road, Micum passed the Plenimaran camp without being seen. From the cover of a fallen tree, he counted ten soldiers in the clearing. That left two unaccounted for.
When he was well away from the camp he moved out onto the ledges and looked south for some sign of movement. Nysander had not been specific on how far away Alec was. Checking the sun, he guessed Seregil had been gone a little better than an hour.
The incoming tide boomed against the rocks as he continued south. Another hour passed before he finally caught sight of two figures moving toward him in the distance. Though too far away still to make out details, he could see that Seregil was supporting Alec as they made their way unsteadily over a rocky stretch of shore.
Seregil drew his sword at the sight of him, then sheathed it again as he recognized Micum.
“By the Flame, we found you after all!” Micum exclaimed joyously as he reached them. Throwing an arm around Alec, Micum gave him a welcoming hug and helped him to a seat on a driftwood log. The boy was hollow-eyed with exhaustion, and dressed in Seregil’ boots, tunic, and cloak. “Are you all right? Where’s Thero?”
“Dead or captured,” Alec told him, and Micum heard the strain in his voice.
Seregil gave Micum a quick warning look. “Thero helped him escape. He’s had a rough time of it these last few weeks. We’ve still got a ways to go, Alec. Do you want to rest before we go on?”
“No, let’s just keep going,” Alec replied. “Where’s Nysander?”
“Don’t you worry about him. He’s safe. And by the Flame, so are you!” Micum said warmly, clasping Alec’s shoulder. “Bilairy’s Balls, Alec, I was afraid we’d lost you.”
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