Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  “Where does he say we’ve been all this time?” he asked.

  “By last report, you were at Ivywell, watching over Sir Alec’s interests and providing horses to the Skalan army,” Micum said, giving Alec a wink. Ivywell was the fictitious Mycenian estate bequeathed to Alec by his bucolic and equally fictitious father. This obscure squire had supposedly made Lord Seregil of Rhíminee the guardian of his only son. Seregil and Micum had concocted both tale and title over wine one night to explain Alec’s sudden appearance in Rhíminee. Given the insignificance of the title and locale, no one had ever questioned it.

  “What’s said of the Rhíminee Cat?” asked Seregil.

  Micum chuckled. “After six months or so, rumors began to go round that he must be dead. You may be the only nightrunner ever mourned by nobility. I gather there was a significant lapse of intrigues among that class in the wake of your disappearance.”

  Here was one more reason not to return. Seregil’s clandestine work as the Cat had made his fortune. His work as one of Nysander’s Watchers had given him purpose, while the public role he’d played as foppish Lord Seregil, the only one left him now, had become increasingly burdensome.

  “I suppose I should sell the place off, but I don’t have the heart to put Runcer out. It’s been more his home than mine. Perhaps I’ll deed the house over to your Elsbet when she finishes her training at the temple. She’d keep him on.”

  Micum patted Seregil’s hand. “It’s a kind thought, but won’t you be needing it again, one of these days?”

  Seregil looked down at the big freckled hand covering his own and shook his head. “You know that’s not going to happen.”

  “How is everyone out at Watermead?” Alec asked.

  Micum sat back and tucked his hands under his belt. “Well enough, except for missing the pair of you.”

  “I’ve missed them, too,” Seregil admitted. Watermead had been a second home to him, Kari and her three daughters a second family. They’d claimed Alec as one of their own from the first day the boy had set foot in their house.

  “Elsbet’s still in Rhíminee. She took sick in the plague that swept through last winter, but came through it whole,” Micum went on. “Temple life suits her. She’s thinking of becoming an initiate. Kari has her hands full with the two babes, but Illia’s old enough to help now. It’s a good thing, too. Ever since Gherin learned to walk he’s been trying to keep up with his foster brother. That Luthas has the gift of mischief. Kari found them halfway down to the river one morning.”

  Seregil smiled. “Shades of things to come, I’d say, with you for a father.”

  They chatted on for a while, exchanging news and stories as if this were some casual visit. Presently, however, Seregil turned to Beka.

  “I suppose you’d better tell me more. You say Klia’s in charge of this delegation?”

  “Yes. Urgazhi Turma’s been assigned as her honor guard.”

  “But why Klia?” Alec asked. “She’s the youngest.”

  “A cynical person might say that makes her the most expendable,” Micum remarked.

  “She or Korathan would be whom I’d choose, in any case,” Seregil mused. “They’re the smartest of the pack, they’ve proven themselves in battle, and they carry themselves with authority. I assume Torsin will go, along with a wizard or two?”

  “Lord Torsin is in Aurënen already. As for wizards, they’re as hard to spare in the field as generals these days, so she’s taking only Thero,” Beka replied, and Seregil knew she was watching him for a reaction.

  And with good reason, he thought. Thero had succeeded him as Nysander’s pupil after Seregil had failed in that capacity. They’d disliked one another on sight and bickered like jealous brothers for years. Yet they’d ended up in each other’s debt after Mardus had kidnapped Thero and Alec. From what Alec had told him afterward, they’d kept each other alive through a horrific journey, long enough for Alec to escape before the final battle on that lonely stretch of Plenimaran coast. Nysander’s death had laid their rivalry to rest, yet each remained a living reminder to the other of what had been lost.

  Seregil looked hopefully at Micum. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  Micum studied a hangnail. “Not invited. I’m just here to convince you to go. You’ll have to make do with Beka this time out.”

  “I see.” Seregil pushed his dish aside. “Well, I’ll give you my answer in the morning. Now, who’s for a game of Sword and Coin? It’s no fun playing with Alec anymore. He knows all my cheats.”

  For a time Seregil was able to lose himself in the simple enjoyment of the game, the pleasure made all the more precious by the knowledge that this moment of peace was a fleeting one.

  He’d enjoyed their long respite. He often felt as if he’d stepped from his world into the one Alec had known before they’d met: a simpler life of hunting, wandering, and hard physical work. They’d found enough mischief to get into along the way to keep up their nightrunning skills, but mostly they’d done honest work.

  And made love. Seregil smiled down at his cards, thinking how many times he and Alec had lain tangled together in countless inns, by countless fires under the stars, or on the bed Micum was currently using as a seat. Or on the soft spring grass beneath the oaks down by the stream, or in the sweet hay of fall, or in the pool on the ridge, and once, floundering half-dressed in deep new snow under a reckless waxing moon that had broken their sleep for three nights running. Come to think of it, there weren’t too many spots around here where the urge hadn’t overtaken them one time or another. They’d come a long way from that first awkward kiss Alec had given him in Plenimar, but then, the boy had always been a fast learner.

  “Those must be some good cards you’re holding,” said Micum, giving him a quizzical look. “Care to show us a few? It’s your turn.”

  Seregil played a ten pip and Micum captured it, cackling triumphantly.

  Seregil watched his old friend with a mix of sadness and affection. Micum had been about Beka’s age when they first met—a tall, amiable wanderer who’d happily joined Seregil in his adventures, if not in his bed. Now silver hairs outnumbered the red in his friend’s thick hair and mustache, and in the stubble on his cheeks.

  Tírfaie, we call them: the short-lived ones. He watched Beka laughing with Alec, knowing he’d watch silver streak her wild red hair, too, while his was still dark. Or would, Sakor willing, if she survived the war.

  He quickly kenneled that dark thought with the others baying somewhere in the back of his mind.

  They burned two candles to stumps before Micum threw down his cards. “Well, I guess that’s enough losing for one night. All that riding’s finally caught up with me.”

  “I’d put you up in here, but—” Seregil began.

  Micum dismissed his apology with a knowing look. “It’s a clear night and we have good tents. See you in the morning.”

  Seregil watched from the doorway until Beka and Micum had disappeared among the tents, then turned to Alec, belly already tight with dread.

  Alec sat idly shuffling the cards, and the flickering light of the fire made him look older than his years. “Now?” he asked, gentle but implacable.

  Seregil sat down and rested his elbows on the table. “Of course I want to go back to Aurënen. But not this way. Nothing’s been forgiven.”

  “Tell me everything, Seregil. This time I want it all.”

  All? Never that, talí.

  Memories surged again like a dirty spring flood bursting its banks. What to pluck out first from the debris of his broken past?

  “My father, Korit í Solun, was a very powerful man, one of the most influential members of the Iia’sidra.” A dull ache gripped his heart as he pictured his father’s face, so thin and stern, eyes cold as sea smoke. They hadn’t been like that before his wife’s death, or so Seregil had been told.

  “My clan, the Bôkthersa, is one of the oldest and most highly respected. Our fai’thast lies on the western border, close to the Zenga
ti tribal lands.”

  “ ‘Fade as’?”

  “Fai’thast. It means ‘folk lands’; ‘home.’ It’s the territory each clan owns.” Seregil spelled the word out for him, a comfortingly familiar ritual. They’d done it so often that they scarcely noticed the interruption. Only later did it strike him that of all the words he’d poured out in his native tongue over the past two years, that one had not been among them.

  “The western clans always had more dealings with the Zengati—raids out of the mountains, pirates along the coast, that sort of thing,” he continued. “But the Zengati are clannish, too, and some tribes are friendlier than others. The Bôkthersa and a few other clans traded with some of them over the years; my grandfather, Solun í Meringil, wanted to go further and establish a treaty between our two countries. He passed the dream on to my father, who finally convinced the Iia’sidra to meet with a Zengati delegation to discuss possibilities. The gathering took place the summer I was twenty-two; by Aurënfaie reckoning that made me younger than you are now.”

  Alec nodded. There was no exact correlation between human and Aurënfaie ages. Some stages of life lasted longer than others, some less. Being only half ’faie himself, he was maturing more rapidly than an Aurënfaie would, yet he would probably live as long.

  “Many Aurënfaie were against a treaty,” Seregil went on. “For time out of mind the Zengati have raided our shores—taking slaves, burning towns. Every house along the southern coast has a few battle trophies. It’s a testament to the influence of our clan that my father got as far with his plan as he did.

  “The gathering took place beside a river on the western edge of our fai’thast, and at least half the clans there had come to make sure he failed. For some, it was hatred of the Zengati, but there were others, like the Virésse and Ra’basi, who disliked the prospect of western clans allying with the Zengati. Looking back now, I suppose it was a justifiable concern.

  “You recall me saying that Aurënen has no king or queen? Each clan is governed by a khirnari—”

  “ ‘And the khirnari of the eleven principal clans form the Iia’sidra Council, which acts as a meeting place for the making of alliances and the settling of grievances and feuds,’ ” Alec finished, rattling it off like a lesson.

  Seregil chuckled; you seldom had to teach him anything twice, especially if it had to do with Aurënen. “My father was the khirnari for Bôkthersa, just as my sister Adzriel is now. The khirnari of all the principal clans and many of the lesser ones came together with the Zengati. The tents covered acres, a whole town sprung up like a patch of summer mushrooms.” He smiled wistfully, remembering kinder days. “Entire families came, as if it were a festival. The adults went off and growled at each other all day, but for the rest of us, it was fun.”

  He rose to pour fresh wine, then stood by the hearth, swirling the untasted contents of his cup. The closer he came to the heart of the story, the harder it was to tell.

  “I don’t suppose I’ve ever said much about my childhood?”

  “Not a lot,” Alec allowed, and Seregil sensed the lingering resentment behind the bland words. “I know that, like me, you never knew your mother. You once let slip that you have three sisters besides Adzriel. Let’s see: Shalar, Mydri, and—who’s the youngest?”

  “Ilina.”

  “Ilina, yes, and that Adzriel raised you.”

  “Well, she did her best. I was rather wild as a boy.”

  Alec smirked. “I’d be more surprised to hear that you weren’t.”

  “Really?” Seregil was grateful or this brief, bantering respite. “Still, it didn’t much please my father. In fact, I don’t remember much about me that did, except my skill at music and swordplay, and those weren’t enough most days. By the time I’m speaking of, I mostly just stayed out of his way.

  “This gathering threw us back together again, and at first I did my best to behave. Then I met a young man named Ilar.” Just speaking the name made his chest tighten. “Ilar í Sontír. He was a Chyptaulos, one of the eastern clans my father hoped to sway to our side. My father was delighted—at first.

  “Ilar was …” The next part came hard. Just speaking the man’s name aloud brought him back like a summoned spirit. “He was handsome, impetuous, and always had plenty of time to go hunting or swimming with my friends and me. He was nearly man grown, and we were all terribly flattered by his attention. I was his favorite from the start, and after a few weeks the two of us began to go off on our own whenever we could.”

  He took a long sip from his cup and saw that his hand was trembling. For years he’d buried these memories, but with a single telling the old feelings surfaced, raw as they’d been that long ago summer.

  “I’d had a few flirtations—friends, girl cousins, and the like—but nothing like this. I suppose you could say he seduced me, though as I recall it didn’t take much effort on his part.”

  “You loved him.”

  “No!” Seregil snapped, as memories of silken lips and callused hands against his skin taunted him. “No, not love. I was passion-blind, though. Adzriel and my friends tried to warn me about him, but by then I was so infatuated I’d have done anything for him. And in the end, I did.

  “Ironically, Ilar was the first to recognize and encourage my less noble talents. Even untrained, I had clever hands and a knack for skulking. He’d devise little challenges to test me—innocent at first, then less so. I lived for his praise.” He glanced guiltily at Alec. “Rather like you and me, back when we first met. It’s one of the things that made me keep you at arm’s length for so long; the fear of corrupting you the way he did me.”

  Alec shook his head. “It was different with us. Go on, finish this and be done with it. What happened?”

  Older than his years, Seregil thought again. “Very well, then. One of my father’s most vociferous opponents was Nazien í Hari, khirnari of Haman clan. Ilar convinced me that certain papers in Nazien’s tent would aid my father’s cause, that I alone had the skill to sneak in and ‘borrow’ them.” He grimaced, disgusted at the green fool he’d been. “So I went. Everyone else was off at some ritual that night, but one of Nazien’s kinsmen came back and caught me at it. It was dark; he must not have seen that it was a boy he was drawing his dagger against. There was just enough light for me to see the flash of his blade and the angry glint in his eyes. Terrified, I drew my own and struck out. I didn’t mean to kill him, but I did.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t suppose even Ilar expected that when he sent the Haman back.”

  “He wanted you to be caught?”

  “Oh, yes; that’s what all his attentiveness had been leading to. The ’faie seldom stoop to murder, Alec, or even to outright violence. It all comes down to atui, our code of honor. Atui and clan are everything—they define the individual, the family.” He shook his head sadly. “Ilar and his fellow conspirators—there were several, as it turned out—had only to manipulate me into betraying the atui of my clan to accomplish their end, which was the disruption of the negotiations. Well, they certainly got that! What followed was all very dramatic and tawdry, given my reputation and my all-too-obvious relationship with Ilar. I was found guilty of complicity in the plot, and of murder. Did I ever tell you what the penalty is for murder among my people?”

  “No.”

  “It’s an ancient custom called dwai sholo.”

  “ ‘Two bowls’?”

  “Yes. Punishment is the responsibility of the criminal’s clan. The wronged clan claims teth’sag against the family of the guilty person. If that clan breaks atui and does not carry out their duty, the wronged family can declare a feud and any killing that follows is not considered murder until honor is restored.

  “Anyway, for dwai sholo, the guilty person is shut up in a tiny cell in the house of their own khirnari and every day they are offered two bowls of food. One bowl is poisoned, the other not. The condemned can choose one or refuse both, day after day. If you survive a year and a day, it’s considered a sign from Aur
a and you’re set free. Few manage it.”

  “But they didn’t do that to you.”

  “No.” —the choking heat, the darkness, the words that flayed—

  Seregil gripped the cup. “I was exiled instead.”

  “What about the others?”

  “The small cell and two bowls, as far as I know. All except for Ilar. He escaped the night I was caught. And he’d accomplished his purpose. The Haman used the scandal to wreck the negotiations. Everything my family and others had worked decades to accomplish was swept aside in less than a week’s time. The whole plot had hinged on duping the son of Korit í Solun into betraying the clan’s honor. And you know what?”

  His voice was suddenly husky, so husky that he had to take another gulp of wine before he could finish. “The worst of it wasn’t the killing or the shame, or even the exile. It was the fact that people I should have trusted had tried to warn me, but I was too vain and headstrong to listen.” He looked away, unable to bear Alec’s look of sympathy. “So there you have it, my shameful past. Nysander was the only other person I ever told.”

  “And this happened over forty years ago?”

  “By Aurënfaie reckoning, it’s still last season’s news.”

  “Has your father ever forgiven you?”

  “He died years ago, and no, he never forgave me. Neither did my sisters except for Adzriel—did I mention that Shalar was in love with a Haman? I doubt very many of my clan who’ve borne the burden of the shame I brought on our name will be in any hurry to welcome me back, either.”

  Talked out, Seregil knocked back the last of his wine as images from that final day in Virésse harbor flashed unbidden through his mind: his father’s furious silence, Adzriel’s tears, the scathing jeers and catcalls that had propelled him up the gangplank of a foreign ship. He hadn’t wept then and he didn’t now, but the crushing sense of remorse was as fresh as ever.

  Alec waited quietly, hands clasped on the table in front of him. Stranded in silence by the fire, Seregil suddenly found himself aching for the reassuring touch of those strong, deft fingers.