Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  “Are you still in love with her?” She wished the words back as soon as she spoke them.

  Nyal looked away with a sad, shy smile. “I regret the choice she made, and will always consider myself her friend.”

  Yes, then. Beka folded her arms and sighed. “It must have been uncomfortable—being thrown together again this way.”

  Nyal shrugged. “She and I—it was a long time ago, and most agreed that she made a wise choice. Still, her husband is jealous, the way old men are. It’s best that I stay in tonight.”

  “Very well.” On impulse, she laid a hand on his arm as he turned to go. “And thank you for telling me this.”

  “Oh, I think it would have been necessary sooner or later to say something,” he murmured, and was gone.

  Sakor’s Flame, woman, are you losing your mind? Beka berated herself silently, pacing the tiny room. You barely know the man and you’re mooning over him like a jealous kitchen maid. Once this mission is over you’ll never see him again.

  Ah, but those eyes, and that voice! her mutinous heart replied.

  He’s a Ra ’basi, for all his traveling, she countered. By all reports that clan was expected to support Virésse. And Seregil obviously distrusted Nyal, though he hadn’t come out and said so.

  “Too many months without a man,” Beka growled aloud. That was easy enough to remedy, and without all the bother of falling in love. Love, she’d learned through harsh experience, was a luxury she could not afford.

  Freshly bathed and brushed, Alec and Seregil headed downstairs to meet the others in the main hall.

  Reaching the landing at the second floor, however, Seregil paused. “I’d feel better if we were down here, closer to Klia,” he noted, walking the length of the crooked corridor where the other guest rooms lay. At the far end was another stairway, with a window overlooking the rear yard. “This goes down to the kitchen, as I recall,” said Seregil, following it down.

  Wending their way past baskets of vegetables, they greeted the cooks and were directed down a passageway to the main hall at the front of the house. Klia, Kheeta, and Thero were there already, sitting next to a cheerful blaze on the hearth.

  “It’s too bad, having Akhendi there his first night with—” Thero was saying to Kheeta, but broke off when he caught sight of them.

  “Hospitality must be served,” Kheeta murmured tactfully, giving Seregil a knowing look that sent a niggling little jolt through Alec’s gut. The two men may not have seen each other for forty years, but an undeniable rapport remained between them.

  “Of course,” Seregil agreed, brushing the matter aside. “Waiting for Lord Torsin, are we?”

  And changing the subject as quickly as ever, too, thought Alec.

  “He should be down in a moment,” Klia said. The sound of cheers echoing down the back corridor just then.

  “Ah, yes, and Captain Beka, too,” Klia added with a knowing wink.

  A moment later Beka strode in dressed in a brown velvet gown. Her unbound hair had been brushed until it shone and she even had on golden earrings and a necklace. It suited her, but if her expression was anything to go by, she didn’t agree. Sergeant Mercalle came in just behind her, grinning broadly at her captain’s unease.

  “No wonder your riders were cheering,” Kheeta exclaimed. “For a moment there I scarcely recognized you.”

  “Adzriel sent word that I was included among the guests,” Beka explained, blushing as she flicked an imaginary bit of lint from her skirts. She looked up in time to catch Alec and Thero staring and bristled. “What are you gawking at? You’ve seen me in a dress before.”

  Alec exchanged a sheepish glance with the wizard. “Yes, but not for a long time.”

  “You look very—pretty,” Thero hazarded, and got a dark look for his trouble.

  “Indeed you do, Captain,” chuckled Klia. “An officer on the rise has to know how to carry herself in the salon as well as in the field. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”

  Mercalle came to attention. “It is, my lady, though this war hasn’t given the younger officers much opportunity for anything except fighting.”

  Torsin came down the main stair and gave Beka an approving nod. “You do your princess and your country honor, Captain.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Beka replied, softening a bit.

  Adzriel had included Klia’s entire entourage in her invitation, and everyone was in high spirits as they walked over, even Seregil.

  “It’s about time I brought you to meet my family,” he said, grinning crookedly as he slipped an arm around Alec and Beka.

  Adzriel greeted them, flanked by her husband and sister. “Welcome, welcome at last, and Aura’s light shine on you,” she cried, clasping hands with each in turn as they entered. Seregil and Alec were soundly kissed on both cheeks. The word “brother” was not spoken but seemed to hover on the air like a Bash’wai spirit.

  “The Akhendi and Gedre are here already,” Mydri told them as they walked through several elegant chambers to a large courtyard beyond. “Amali is very taken with you, Klia. She’s talked of nothing else since she got here.”

  This house was larger, but seemed to Alec to be more welcoming, as if centuries of habitation by this family had imbued the harsh stone with something of their own warmth.

  Low, two-person couches for the highest ranking guests had been set out on a broad stone platform above an overgrown garden, positioned so that the members of the dinner party could watch the moon rise over the towers of Sarikali. Alec counted twenty-three people wearing the colors of Bôkthersa, and half again as many Akhendi and Gedre. The riders who’d accompanied Klia over the pass were seated at long tables in the garden among banks of fragrant, funnel-shaped white flowers. They called out happily to the Urgazhi, making space for them among their ranks.

  Amali was already stretched prettily beside her husband. She had not warmed to Seregil during the long ride, and showed no signs of thawing now. Alec was glad to be seated several couches away from her, near Adzriel and the Gedre khirnari.

  Sitting down next to Seregil, however, he studied the Akhendi khirnari with interest. Rhaish í Arlisandin sat with one arm clasped loosely around his wife, clearly pleased to be with her after a long absence. Looking up at Alec, he smiled. “Amali tells me you were the luckbringer of the journey?”

  “What? Oh, this.” Alec raised a hand to the dragon bite on his ear. “Yes, my lord. It was a bit of a surprise.”

  Rhaish arched an eyebrow at Seregil. “I would have thought you’d have told him all about such things.”

  Alec was close enough to feel Seregil tense, though he doubted anyone else noticed. “I’ve been very remiss, but I’ve always found it painful to—remember.”

  Rhaish raised a hand in what appeared to be some benediction. “May your time here be one of healing,” he offered kindly.

  “Thank you, Khirnari.”

  “You must sit with me as a most honored guest, Beka ä Kari,” Mydri invited, patting the empty place beside her. “Your family took our—took Seregil in. The Cavish clan will always be welcome at the hearths of Bôkthersa.”

  “I hope we can offer your people the same hospitality one day,” Beka returned. “Seregil has been a great friend to us, and saved my father’s life many times.”

  “Usually because I’d gotten him into trouble in the first place,” Seregil added, drawing laughter from many of the other guests.

  Servants brought in trays of food and wine as Adzriel made introductions. Alec quickly lost track of the names but noted with interest the various Bôkthersans. Many were referred to as cousins; such terms often indicated ties of affection rather than blood. One of these people turned out to be Kheeta’s mother, a dark-eyed woman who reminded Alec of Kari Cavish.

  She shook a finger sternly at Seregil. “You broke our hearts, Haba, but only because we loved you so.” The stern look gave way to a tearful smile as she embraced him. “It is so very good to see you in this house again. Come to the kitchen anytim
e and I’ll bake spice cakes for you.”

  “I’ll make you keep that promise, Aunt Malli,” Seregil replied huskily, kissing the backs of her hands.

  Alec knew he was seeing glimpses of a history he did not share. As the old familiar ache threatened to close around his heart, however, he felt long fingers close over his own. For once, Seregil understood and offered silent apology.

  The meal began informally with several courses of finger foods: morsels of spiced meat or cheese wrapped in pastry, olives, fruit, fanciful nosegays of edible greens and flowers.

  “Turab, a Bôkthersan specialty,” a server murmured, filling Alec’s cup with a frothy reddish ale.

  Seregil clinked his cup against Alec’s, murmuring, “My talí.”

  Meeting his friend’s gaze over the rim of his cup. Alec saw an odd mix of joy and sadness there.

  “I’d like to hear of this war from you, Captain,” said Adzriel’s husband, Säaban í Irais, as a course of meats was served. “And from you, as well, Klia ä Idrilain, if it is not too upsetting to speak of it. There are many Bôkthersans who will join your ranks if the Iia’sidra allows.” Judging by the worried frown that crossed Adzriel’s face, Alec guessed that Säaban might be one of them.

  “The more I see of your people, the more I wonder why they would risk themselves in a foreign conflict,” Beka replied.

  “Not all would, or will,” he conceded. “But there are those who would rather meet the Plenimarans now than fight them and the Zengati on our own soil later.”

  “We can use all the help we can get,” said Klia. “For now, however, let’s keep the darkness away and speak of happier things.”

  As the evening progressed and the turab flowed, conversation turned to reminiscences of Seregil’s childhood exploits. Kheeta í Branín figured in a good many of these tales, and Alec was surprised to learn that the man was actually a few years older than Seregil. Seregil had moved to Kheeta’s couch to share some story, and Alec studied the pair and those around them, trying yet again to get his mind around the long ’faie life span that he himself shared. Adzriel and her husband, he knew, were in their twelfth decade, a youthful prime among the Aurënfaie. The oldest guest, a Gedre named Corim, was in his third century and looked no older than Micum Cavish, at least at first glance.

  It’s the eyes, Alec thought. There was a stillness in the eyes of the older ’faire, as if the knowledge and wisdom of their long lives left its mark there—one that Kheeta did not yet show. Seregil, though—he had old eyes in a young face, as if he’d seen too much too soon.

  And so he has, just in the time I’ve known him, Alec reflected. By the time they’d met, Seregil had already lived a human lifetime and seen a human generation age and die. He’d made a name for himself while the friends of his youth were still finishing out their long childhoods. Seeing him here, among his own kind, Alec realized for the first time just how young his friend actually was. What did his own people see when they looked at Seregil?

  Or at me?

  Seregil threw his head back, laughing, and for a moment he looked as innocent as Kheeta. It was good to see him like that, but Alec couldn’t keep away the darker thought that this was how he might have been if he’d never gone to Skala.

  “You’re as solemn as Aura’s owl, and as quiet,” Mydri observed, sitting down next to him and taking his hand.

  “I’m still trying to believe I’m really here,” Alec replied.

  “So am I,” she said, and another of those unexpectedly warm smiles softened her stern features.

  “Can the ban of exile ever be lifted?” Alec asked, keeping his voice low.

  Mydri sighed. “It happens, especially with one so young. Still, it would take a petition from the Haman khirnari to begin the debate, and that doesn’t seem very likely. The Haman are an honorable people, but they are proud in a way that breeds bitterness. Old Nazien is no exception. He still grieves at the loss of his grandson and resents Seregil’s return.”

  “By the Light, you’re a grim pair,” Seregil called over, and Alec realized that he was drunk, a rarity for Seregil.

  “Are we?” Mydri shot back, a gleam of challenge in her eyes. “Tell me, Alec, does Seregil still have his fine singing voice?”

  “As fine as any bard’s,” Alec told her, giving Seregil a teasing wink.

  “Sing for us, talí!” Adzriel urged, overhearing. At her signal, a servant came forward with something large and flat wrapped in patterned silk and placed it in Seregil’s hands.

  He unwrapped it with a knowing smile. It was a harp, its dark wood polished with use.

  “We kept it for you, all these years,” Mydri told him as he settled it against his chest and ran his fingers across the strings.

  He plucked out a simple tune that drew tearful smiles from his sisters, then moved on to a complex tune, fingers flying across the strings as melody followed melody. Even drunk and out of practice, he played beautifully.

  After a moment he paused, then began the exile’s lament he’d sung the first time he’d spoken to Alec of Aurënen.

  My love is wrapped in a cloak of flowing green

  and wears the moon for a crown.

  And all around has chains of flowing silver.

  Her mirrors reflect the sky.

  O, to roam your flowing cloak of green

  under the light of the ever-crowning moon.

  Will I ever drink of your chains of flowing silver

  and drift once more across your mirrors of the sky?

  “A bard’s voice, indeed,” said Säaban, dabbing at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “With such power to move the emotions, I hope you know happier tunes.”

  “A few,” Seregil said. “Alec, give us the harmony on ‘Fair Rises My Lover.’ ”

  The Skalan song was warmly received, and more instruments appeared as if on cue.

  “Where’s Urien?” Seregil demanded, squinting out into the garden at the soldiers. “Someone give that boy a lute!”

  This broke through the Urgazhi’s reticence. The young rider’s friends all but carried the blushing musician forward, demanding favorite ballads as if they were at a crossroads tavern.

  “For the pride of the decuria, rider!” Mercalle ordered with mock severity.

  Urien accepted an Aurënfaie lute and smoothed an admiring hand over its round back.

  “For the pride of the turma,” he said, striking a chord. “This is from before my time with the Urgazhi.”

  Ghost wolves they call us, and Ghost Wolves we are.

  Drawn to the enemy by a plague star

  Fighting and burning, deep in their lines

  Our Captain was fearless, we followed behind.

  Death and dark magic, demons she faced,

  Under the black sun, in that dread lonely place.

  The black shields of Plenimar, rank upon rank

  Until their Duke Mardus, in his blood sank.

  Alec watched in dismay as Seregil’s smile froze and Thero went pale. One of several ballads that extolled the Urgazhi’s early exploits, this one spoke of Nysander’s death. Fortunately, Beka caught on at once.

  “Enough, enough!” she begged, masking her concern with a comic grimace. “By the Four, Urien, of all the grim, threadbare ballads to choose! Give us ‘Illior’s Face Upon the Waters’ to honor our good hosts.”

  The chagrined rider nodded and commenced the tune, playing each flourish flawlessly. Seregil moved to sit by Alec again.

  “You looked as if you’d seen a ghost. Are you all right?” he whispered, as if the previous song had not affected him.

  Alec nodded.

  The song ended and Kheeta held a harp out to Klia.

  “What about you, my lady?”

  “Oh, no! I have the voice of a crow. Thero, didn’t I hear you sing a passable ballad after our victory at Two Horse Crossing?”

  “I’d had a bit more to drink then, my lady,” the wizard replied, thin cheeks coloring as all eyes turned his way.

  �
��Don’t be shy!” Sergeant Braknil called out. “We heard you sing sober aboard the Zyria.”

  “All the same, perhaps our hosts would prefer a small demonstration of Third Orëska magic?” Thero countered.

  “Very well,” laughed Mydri.

  Thero produced a pouch of fine white sand and sprinkled it in a circle on the ground in front of the couches. Using his crystal wand, he wove a series of glowing sigils over it. Instead of the tidy configurations he usually produced, however, they swelled and bulged, then exploded with enough force to scatter the sand and knock wine cups in all directions. Thero dropped the wand with a startled yelp and stuck his fingers in his mouth.

  Alec stifled a laugh; the normally reserved wizard looked like a cat that had just slipped on a patch of ice, chagrined and determined to regain his dignity before anyone noticed. Seregil shook with silent laughter beside him.

  “My apologies!” Thero exclaimed in dismay. “I—I can’t imagine what happened.”

  “The fault is mine. I should have warned you,” Adzriel assured him, clearly fighting down a smile of her own. “Magic must be performed with great care here. The power of Sarikali feeds into our own, making magic sometimes unpredictable. All the more so in your case, evidently.”

  “So I see.” Thero retrieved his wand and tucked it in his belt. After a moment’s thought, he sprinkled more sand and tried the spell again, drawing the sigils with his fingers this time. The patterns hung in the air a few inches above the ground, then coalesced into a flat disk of silvery light as big around as a serving platter. He added another sigil, and the smooth surface took on a mottled array of sun-washed colors, then resolved itself into a miniature city set high above a miniature harbor.

  “How wonderful!” exclaimed Amali, leaning forward to admire his creation. “What place is it?”

  “Rhíminee, my lady,” he replied.

  “That sprawling black-and-grey monstrosity is the queen’s Palace, my home,” Klia remarked dryly. “While this lovely white structure over here, the one with the sparkling dome and towers, is the Orëska House.”