Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  “You mean that’s not where we’re going?” Seregil asked, surprised. No Tírfaie had been allowed to land anywhere except the eastern port since Aurënen had closed its borders.

  “There’s not much choice,” Klia told him. “You can practically walk across the Strait of Bal on the decks of enemy ships these days. We’re to land at Gedre. Do you know the place?”

  “Very well.” The name was tinged with bittersweet memories. “So we’re to meet the Iia’sidra there?”

  Klia’s smile intensified. “No, over the mountains, at Sarikali.”

  “Sarikali?” Alec gaped. “I never thought I’d see Aurënen, much less Sarikali!”

  “I could say the same,” Seregil murmured, fighting to retain his composure as a wave of conflicting emotions raged through him.

  “There is one more thing you ought to know,” she warned. “Lord Torsin has opposed including you.”

  The words took a moment to register. “Why?”

  “He believes your presence will complicate negotiations with some of the clans.”

  Seregil let out a derisive snort. “Of course it will! Which means the queen must have some very pressing reason for sending me against the advice of her most experienced envoy.”

  “Yes.” Klia turned the map weight over in her hands. “As envoy to Aurënen, Lord Torsin has served my family faithfully for three decades. There’s never been any question as to his loyalty or wisdom. However, in all that time, outsiders have never been allowed beyond the city of Virésse, which means he’s more familiar with that clan and their allies in the east. It would be—understandable if his long association with certain khirnari might unconsciously predispose him in their favor. The queen and I believe your westerner’s point of view will prove a very valuable balance.”

  “Perhaps,” Seregil said doubtfully. “But as an exile, I have no connections, no influence.”

  “Exile or not, you’re still Aurënfaie, still the brother of a khirnari. As for influence—” She gave him a knowing look. “You know better than most in how many directions that can work. You’ll certainly be seen as having my ear. I’m betting that some Aurënfaie will see you as a sympathetic conduit. Alec, too, for that matter.”

  This was familiar ground. “We’ll do what we can, of course.”

  “Besides which,” Klia continued earnestly, “there’s no one else in all Skala I’d rather have at my back than the pair of you if things get complicated. I’m not asking you to spy on them, but you do have a talent for ferreting out information.”

  “Why do you think they’re letting you come there, after all these years?” asked Alec.

  “Self-interest, I suppose. The prospect of Plenimar controlling Mycena and perhaps striking a bargain with Zengat to the west has made at least some of them reexamine their alliegences.”

  “Has there been more news of the Zengat situation?” asked Seregil.

  “Nothing certain, but there are enough rumors flying around to make the Iia’sidra nervous.”

  “It should. The world’s a smaller place than it once was; it’s time they realized that. So, what is it that Idrilain wants?”

  “Ideally? Wizards, fresh troops, horses, and open trade. The northlands and Virésse are already all but lost to us and it’s likely to get worse. At the very least, we need Gedre as an open port. The establishment of an armorers’ colony at the outer Ashek iron mines would be even better.”

  Seregil ran a hand back through his hair. “By the Light, unless things have changed significantly from what I remember, we’ve got a hard task ahead of us. The Virésse will oppose anything that threatens their monopoly on Skalan trade, and everyone else will be horrified at the thought of a Skalan colony on Aurënfaie soil.” Flexing her shoulders wearily, Klia returned to the paper-strewn table. “Diplomacy is a lot like horse trading, my friends. You have to set your price high so they can beat you down to what you really want and still believe they got the best of the bargain.

  “But I’ve kept you long enough and Thero is anxious to see you. A room’s been made ready for you upstairs. By the way, I took the liberty of asking your manservant in Wheel Street to send down some necessities. Beka said you two had been living rough up there in your hideaway.” She took in their plain, mud-spattered clothing with a comic grimace. “I see now she rather understated the situation.”

  Sarikali. The Heart of the Jewel.

  Alec repeated the magical name silently as he and Seregil climbed the stairs. He’d listened carefully to all Klia had said, but that one detail, and Seregil’s shocked reaction, had captured his imagination.

  They’d spoken of Sarikali only once that Alec could recall. “It’s magical ground, Alec, the most sacred of all,” Seregil had told him in the depths of a long winter night. “An empty city older than the ’faie themselves; the living heart of Aurënen. Legend says that the sun pierced the heart of the first dragon with a golden spear, and that the eleven drops of blood which fell from its breast as it flew over Aurënen created the ’faie. Some of the stories say that Aura took pity on the dying dragon and placed it in a deep sleep beneath the city until it heals and wakens again.”

  Alec had all but forgotten the tale, but now a hundred images sprang up before his mind’s eye, like the first ’faie from the blood in the legend.

  They found Thero at work at a small desk in the first bedchamber at the top of the stairs. Of all of them, the wizard had changed the most. The scruffy black beard was gone, and his curly hair was pulled back in a short queue. His thin face had filled out a bit, and he’d lost his bookish pallor. His customary reserve was still in place, but a hint of warmth in his pale green eyes made his gaunt features somewhat less imposing. He’d even shed his immaculate robes in favor of the simple traveling garb Nysander had always favored.

  It suits him, Alec thought. He’d seen glimpses of this side of the man during the dark days of their captivity in Plenimar and was glad that Magyana had found a way to cultivate it. Perhaps the sense of compassion Nysander had always hoped would balance Thero’s great potential was finally emerging.

  Seregil was the first to clasp hands with him. The two stood a moment, regarding each other without speaking. The rivalry that divided them for so many years had died with Nysander; what would fill that void remained to be seen.

  “You’ve prospered,” Seregil said at last.

  “Magyana’s a remarkable mentor. And the war—” Thero shrugged expressively. “Well, it’s been a harsh but efficient training ground.” Turning to Alec, he smiled. “I ride like a soldier now, if you can imagine that. I’ve even lost my seasickness.”

  “That’s a lucky thing, crossing the Osiat this time of year.”

  “Klia said you’ve brought more information regarding my return?” asked Seregil.

  “Yes.” Thero’s smile faltered. “The Iia’sidra has laid down certain conditions.”

  “Oh?”

  “As you know, the ban of exile has not been lifted,” Thero replied with a briskness that undoubtedly masked discomfort. “You’re being allowed a special dispensation at the queen’s request.”

  “I understand that.” Seregil sat down on the edge of the bed, hands clasped around one up-drawn knee. “What’s it to be then? Branding me on the cheek, or just a placard around my neck reading, ‘Traitor’?”

  “No one’s branding him!” Alec exclaimed, alarmed.

  “I’m joking, talí. All right, Thero, lay out the terms.”

  The wizard clearly took no pleasure in his task. “Your name is still forfeit; you’ll be known as Seregil of Rhíminee. You’re forbidden to wear Aurënfaie clothing or any other clan marks, including the sen’gai.”

  “Fair enough,” said Seregil, but Alec saw a muscle tighten in his jaw. The sen’gai, a traditional Aurënfaie head cloth, was an integral part of Aurënfaie identity. Its color, patterns, and how it was wrapped denoted both clan and status.

  “You are banned from all temples, and from participating in any religious
ceremony,” Thero went on. “You will be accepted as a voice of council on behalf of Skala but have none of the common rights of a ’faie. Finally, you are not allowed outside Sarikali except to accompany the Skalan delegation. You will lodge with them, and carry no weapons. Violate any of these and teth’sag will be declared against you.”

  “Is that all? No public flogging?”

  Thero leaned forward with a look of genuine concern. “Come now, what did you expect?”

  Seregil shook his head. “Nothing. I expect nothing. What does Idrilain think of all this?”

  “I’m not certain. These details arrived after I’d left her in Mycena.”

  “Then you have seen her since she was wounded?” Seregil pressed.

  Thero wove a spell in the air before continuing. The change was so subtle that at first Alec couldn’t figure out what had happened. An instant later, he realized he could no longer hear sounds from outside the room.

  “Between us as Watchers, I can tell you that we need to accomplish the queen’s purpose as quickly as possible.”

  “Idrilain is dying, isn’t she?” asked Seregil.

  Thero nodded grimly. “It’s only a matter of time. Tell me, what’s your impression of Phoria?”

  “You’ve seen more of her than I have this past year.”

  “She’s opposed to our course of action.”

  “How could she be?” asked Alec. “If Klia’s right, Skala isn’t strong enough to defeat Plenimar.”

  “Phoria refuses to accept that. Prince Korathan and a number of generals support her view, refusing to admit that magic is as important a weapon as bows or swords. No doubt you’ve heard about the Plenimaran necromancers?” The wizard’s mouth set in a hard line. “I’ve faced them in the field. The queen is quite correct, but Magyana’s convinced that Phoria will abandon the plan as soon as her mother dies. That’s why she sent Klia rather than Korathan. He’s an honorable man, but loyal to his sister.”

  “Phoria’s been in the middle of things from the start,” mused Seregil. “How could she not understand what she’s up against?”

  “At first the necromancers didn’t seem much of a threat. Their numbers have grown, along with their power.”

  “Just imagine if they had the Helm,” Alec said.

  A chill seemed to pass over the room as the three men recalled the glimpse they’d had of the power embodied by the Helm of Seriamaius.

  “Nysander didn’t die in vain,” Thero said softly. “But even with out the Helm, the necromancers are strong and without mercy. Phoria and her supporters simply haven’t seen enough of them to believe yet. I fear it may take a tragedy to sway her.”

  “Stubbornness can be a dangerous trait in a general.”

  Thero sighed. “Or a queen.”

  5

  VIRÉSSE

  So, they are coming, and not by way of your city, Khirnari,” said Raghar Ashnazai, turning his wine cup idly on the polished surface of the balcony table.

  The gaunt Plenimaran’s nails were smooth and clean, Ulan í Sathil noted, watching his guest from his place by the balustrade; this was a Tírfaie whose tools were words. Three centuries of trade with such men had taught Ulan to be wary.

  “Yes, Lord Torsin left to meet them yesterday,” he replied, turning his attention to the harbor spread out below the balcony. Silently he counted the foreign vessels moored there—more than two dozen today in spite of the war. How empty the harbor would be without them.

  “If the Bôkthersa and their allies have their way, your great marketplace will not be so full of northern traders,” the Plenimaran envoy went on, as if reading his thoughts.

  He wasn’t, of course; Ulan would have sensed any magic and countered it with his own. No, this man’s power lay in astuteness and patience, not magic.

  “It’s true, Lord Raghar,” he replied. His old knees ached badly today, but standing allowed him to look down at the Plenimaran, a position worth the discomfort. “It would be a great blow to my clan and our allies if the present routes of trade were changed. Just as it might be a serious blow to your country if Aurënen joined forces with the Skalans.”

  “Then our concerns are similar, if not our interests.”

  Ulan acknowledged the truth of this, glad that he had not underestimated whom he was dealing with; as khirnari of Virésse, he’d dealt with five Tírfaie generations from the Three Lands and beyond. The Ashnazai were one of the oldest and most influential families in Plenimar.

  “And yet I am curious,” he countered, keeping his voice neutral. “There are rumors suggesting that Plenimar needs no assistance from anyone in their war against the Skalans—something to do with necromancy, I believe?”

  “You surprise me, Khirnari. The practice of necromancy was outlawed centuries ago.”

  Ulan shrugged graciously. “Here in Virésse we take a more pragmatic view of such things. Magic is magic, no? I’m sure your cousin, Vargûl Ashnazai, would say the same. Or would have, had he not already given his life in the service of your Overlord’s halfbrother, the late Duke Mardus.”

  This time Raghar’s surprise was genuine. “You are well informed, Khirnari.”

  “I think you will find most of the eastern clans are.” Ulan smiled, his silver-grey eyes narrowing like an eagle’s. “Your country has very long arms; we know better than to underestimate such a neighbor.”

  “And the Skalans?”

  “As allies, they would pose a different sort of threat.”

  “Far beyond a threat to Virésse’s port monopoly, I think. Bôkthersa clan’s blood ties to the Skalan throne, for instance?”

  Ah, yes, very astute indeed. “You have a better grasp of Aurënfaie politics than most, Raghar Ashnazai. Most outsiders think of us as a single, united land ruled by the Iia’sidra in place of a queen or overlord.”

  “Overlord Estmar understands that the eastern and western clans have different concerns. And that clans such as Bôkthersa and Bry’kha are looked on by many as troublemakers, too ready to mix with foreigners.”

  “The same has been said of the Virésse. But there is a difference. The Bôkthersans are fond of foreigners, while we in Virésse …” He paused and looked directly at the Plenimaran for the first time, letting a hint of his power travel along the thread of their gaze. “We merely consider you—useful.”

  “Then we are of similar minds, Khirnari.” Ashnazai smiled coldly through his beard as he pulled a sealed document tube from his sleeve and laid it on the table. “According to my sources, Queen Idrilain is dying, though few outside the royal circle know of it. I do not think she will live long enough for Klia to complete her mission.”

  Ulan eyed the tube. “I understand Phoria is a worthy successor.”

  The envoy tapped the tube meaningfully with a ringed finger and smiled again. “So one might think, Khirnari, and yet there are certain rumors suggesting a rift between her and the queen. Rumors that even now my people in Skala are allowing to seep out into certain well-placed ears. Even without this information, there are some Skalans who do not welcome the idea of a barren queen. There are few enough rightful heirs as it is. Just the second sister, Aralain, and her daughter. And Klia, of course.”

  “That would seem sufficient,” remarked Ulan.

  “In time of peace, perhaps, but in war? So much death and uncertainty. Let us hope for Skala’s sake that their four gods guard these women lovingly, eh?”

  “I pray Aura may watch over their lives,” Ulan retorted, turning away to hide his revulsion; how easily these Tír turned to the expediency of assassination and outright murder. The brevity of their lives seemed to engender a brutal impatience abhorrent to the Aurënfaie mind.

  “I am grateful as always for your information and support,” he went on, still gazing out over the harbor. His harbor.

  “You honor me with your trust, Khirnari.”

  Ulan heard the scrape of the chair and the rustle of a cloak. When he turned at last, Ashnazai was gone, but the sealed tube still lay on
the table.

  Avoiding the chair the Plenimaran had occupied, Ulan eased painfully into the one opposite and stretched his aching legs. At last he opened the tube and shook out its contents: three parchments. One was a Plenimaran affidavit of sorts signed by someone named Urvay. The other two were Skalan court documents apparently having to do with the treasury. Each bore the signatures of Princess Phoria and the late Skalan Vicegerent, Lord Barien. One of these also carried the Queen’s Seal.

  Ulan read them all carefully, then again. When he’d finished he set them down with a sigh, wishing not for the first time that it was Skala or Mycena lying so close across the Strait of Bal, rather than Plenimar.

  • • •

  That night Ulan sat again on the balcony, this time entertaining three other members of the Iia’sidra. The meal had been cleared away and the wine poured. As was the custom, they sat in silence for a while, watching the waning moon climb the canopy of stars. Two of Ulan’s guests were there at his invitation. The third had surprised them all with her unexpected arrival.

  A fragrant breeze fluttered the ends of their sen’gai against their faces and lifted Lhaär ä Iriel’s thin silver hair, revealing the tracery of Khatme clan marks on her wizened neck behind her heavy jeweled earrings.

  Her arrival that afternoon was a mixed blessing. Because of her, Raghar Ashnazai’s scrolls remained tucked away out of sight in Ulan’s study. The fact that the Khatme khirnari would travel so far to meet with him might be interpreted by some as a sign of support, yet who could guess what any of that strange clan was thinking behind their painted eyes and elaborate tattoos?

  The others were a different matter. Elos í Orian, khirnari of nearby Goliníl, was husband to Ulan’s daughter. Malleable, and transparent as water, Elos understood how intertwined the interests of the Goliníl were with those of Virésse.

  Old Galmyn í Nemius, who’d come east from Lhapnos bearing messages of support from his own clan and the Haman, was another matter. The interests of those two clans were more complex, and more obscure, yet they had both voted against the impending delegation from Skala. What would have happened, Ulan wondered, if the Skalans had not insisted on bringing the Bôkthersan exile, Seregil í Korit, with them? No matter, really. It would work to his favor at Sarikali.