Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  Feeling guiltier by the moment, he worked quickly, examining the desk and its contents, the clothes chests, and the walls behind the hangings, but found nothing of note. Everything was meticulous, orderly.

  Picking up a daybook from a stand by the bed, he found a terse but detailed record of each day’s developments written in Torsin’s precise script. The first entry was dated three months earlier. As he moved to put it back it fell open to more recent entries, one dating a week or so before Klia’s arrival in Gedre. The handwriting was still recognizable, but the letters were not as clearly formed, and words occasionally strayed from the careful lines or were marred by blots and smudges.

  That’s his illness doing that. Alec paged back through the book, trying to gauge how long Torsin had been failing, but was interrupted by the sound of brisk footsteps from the corridor.

  Aurënfaie beds were low-slung affairs, yet he managed to wedge himself out of sight under it without too much trouble. It wasn’t until he was hidden that he realized he was still clutching the book.

  The latch lifted and he held his breath, watching from beneath the edge of the coverlet as the door swung open and a pair of boot-clad feet—a woman’s, by the size—strode across the room to the desk. It was Mercalle; he recognized her limp. He heard the small squeak of the dispatch box’s lid and the unmistakable rustle of parchments.

  Turning his head, he looked out under the other side of the bed and could see the bottom of a dispatch pouch hanging against her thigh.

  Seems I’m the only spy here, after all, he thought, letting out a pent-up breath when she’d gone out. She’d simply come to collect the day’s dispatches.

  He remained where he was a moment, and opened the daybook again. The first sign of weakness in Torsin’s handwriting appeared several weeks before Klia’s arrival. Pondering this, he turned to the latest entry, a summary of the previous day’s debate.

  U.S. remains subtle, letting the L. raise opposition—

  Alec allowed himself a wry smirk. What had he expected? “Met with the Virésse. Plotted against the princess”?

  His current position afforded him a different perspective on the room. From here, he could see the careful polish on the row of shoes lined up next to a clothes chest, and the crisply folded pleats in the hem of a robe hanging on the wall.

  One glance into a person’s private rooms will tell you more about him than an hour’s conversation, Seregil had once told him. Alec had found the statement amusing at the time, considering the source; any space Seregil inhabited was soon in complete disarray. Torsin’s room, on the other hand, shouted order. Everything was in its place, with nothing extraneous in evidence.

  As he slid out from under the bed he noticed a flash of red in the ashes on the hearth, just beneath the metal bars of the grate. If he’d been standing, he’d have missed it.

  Crawling over, he saw it was the half-charred remains of a small silk tassel, dark red with a few blue threads mixed in. He doubted Torsin owned a garment with such embellishments, but they were common enough on Aurënfaie clothing, edging cloaks and tunics.

  And sen’gai.

  He gingerly plucked it out, heart racing again. It was the right size and colors to have come from the edge of a Virésse head cloth. Someone had meant to destroy it, but it had fallen through the grate before the fire had completely consumed it.

  No chance of it being missed, then, he reasoned, tucking it into the wallet at his belt.

  He spent the rest of the morning loitering about the edges of Khatme tupa in hopes of striking up a profitable conversation. Skilled as he usually was at such ploys, he had no luck here. Unwelcoming stares and whispers of “garshil” warned him off whenever he ventured too deeply into the area.

  Perhaps I used up all my luck this morning, he thought, frustrated.

  The few outlying streets he did manage to explore had none of the usual gathering spots. Unfriendly tattooed faces peered at him from windows and balconies, then disappeared from view. No one, it seemed, had time to drink or game here. Or perhaps, insular as they were, their taverns were located deeper in the tupa, far from prying impure eyes.

  As midday approached he gave up and started for home. It took only a few turnings, however, to realize that he had once again gotten himself lost.

  “Illior’s Fingers!” he muttered, scowling as he scanned the anonymous walls and doorways.

  “Blaspheming won’t get you free, half-breed. You must use the Lightbearer’s true name here.”

  A Khatme woman stepped into view a few yards away, her tattooed face impassive beneath her bulging red-and-black sen’gai. She wore none of the usual heavy jewelry Alec associated with the clan, but her tunic was stitched with rows of silver, pomegranate-shaped beads.

  “I meant no disrespect,” Alec replied. “And you can spare yourself the effort of magic; I get lost on my own without any help.”

  “I’ve been watching you all morning, half-breed. What is it you want here?”

  “I was just curious.”

  “You’re lying, half-breed.”

  Do the Khatme read thoughts after all, or do I just look as guilty as I feel? Putting on the bravest face he could, he replied. “My apologies, Khatme. It’s a practice we Tír have when what we are doing is none of another person’s business.”

  “There’s an etiquette to duplicity, then? How interesting.”

  Alec thought he saw a hint of a smile shift the black tracery covering one cheek. “You say you’ve been watching me, yet I haven’t seen you,” he countered. “Were you spying on me?”

  “Were you spying on Lord Torsin when he came here at our khirnari’s request last night, half-breed?”

  There was no use dissembling. “That doesn’t concern you. And my name is Alec í Amasa, not half-breed.”

  “I know. Retrace your steps.” Before he could respond, she was gone, disappearing like smoke on the air.

  “Retrace my steps?” Alec grumbled. “What else have I been doing?”

  This time, however, it worked and he found himself back in familiar territory, near the Iia’sidra chamber. Having nothing better to do, he went in and settled in an inconspicuous corner, watching faces. He watched Torsin’s most closely of all.

  He managed to catch Seregil’s attention when the council adjourned for the midday meal. Motioning him outside, Alec walked him quickly into an empty side street.

  “Find out anything in Khatme tupa?” Seregil asked hopefully.

  “Well, no. Not there.” Steeling himself, Alec plunged into a hurried account of his findings in. Torsin’s room, what he’d seen between Nyal and Amali momentarily forgotten.

  Seregil stared a him incredulously, then whispered, “You burgled Torsin’s room? Bilairy’s Balls, didn’t I tell you to wait?”

  “Yes, and if I’d listened to you we wouldn’t have this, would we?” Alec showed him the Virésse tassel. “What’s the matter with you? A member of Klia’s own delegation sneaks out to talk to the enemy and you say wait? Back in Rhíminee you’d have been in there last night yourself!”

  Seregil glared at him a moment, then shook his head. “It’s not the same here. This isn’t the Plenimarans we’re dealing with. The Aurënfaie are Skala’s allies in spirit if not in actual fact. It’s not as if they’re likely to be plotting her assassination. And Torsin?”

  “But this could be the proof Klia was looking for, about his divided loyalty.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. It’s not sympathy that would make Torsin court Ulan’s favor. He’s worried that we could lose all by offending the Virésse: not get Gedre, and lose our port in Virésse in the bargain. Still, if he did go behind her back to do it—?”

  “How did he seem at the Iia’sidra?”

  “Any guilty glances or secret nods exchanged, you mean?” Seregil asked with a crooked grin. “None that I saw. The one possibility we haven’t considered is that he was acting on Klia’s behalf, and that it’s the rest of us who aren’t supposed to know.”


  “Well, that brings us right back to my original question. What do we do?”

  Seregil shrugged. “We’re Watchers. We’ll watch.”

  “Speaking of watching people, I saw Nyal and Amali together again early this morning.”

  “Oh?” This clearly piqued Seregil’s interest. “What were they up to?”

  “She was upset about her husband and it was Nyal she turned to.”

  “They were lovers once. Clearly there’s still a bond there,” said Seregil. “What was it she was upset about?”

  “I didn’t hear everything, but it sounded like this debate is taking a toll on Rhaish.”

  Seregil frowned. “That’s not good. We need him strong. Do you think Amali and Nyal are still secretly lovers?”

  Alec thought back over the morning’s scene: Amali clinging to the tall Ra’basi, the anger he’d seen in the man’s face at the mere hint of abuse. “I don’t know.”

  “I think it’s time we found out, and not just for Klia’s sake. Let’s see if Adzriel knows more than she’s been letting on.”

  They found Adzriel sitting with Säaban in her colos.

  “Nyal and Amali?” Säaban chuckled when Seregil broached the subject. “Have you two been gossiping in the taverns?”

  “Not exactly,” Seregil hedged. “I’ve heard a few rumors, and Nyal’s been showing a lot of attention to Beka Cavish; if he’s leading her on, I mean to take steps.”

  “They were lovers before her marriage to Rhaish í Arlisandin,” Adzriel said. “A sad story, the stuff of ballads.”

  “What happened?”

  Adzriel shrugged. “She chose duty over love, I suppose, marrying the khirnari of her clan rather than an outsider. But I know she’s grown to love Rhaish dearly; it’s Nyal who carries the pain of that decision. He strikes me as the sort of man who does not stop loving even when his love is turned away. Perhaps Beka can heal his heart.”

  “Just so long as he doesn’t break hers in the process. Rhaish is getting long in years. Is he well?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself. He doesn’t seem himself; the strain of the negotiations, no doubt.”

  “He’s known more than his share of sorrows, too,” said Säaban. “He’s seen two wives die, one barren, one in childbed, along with the child. Now Amali carries their first child. That’s bad enough by itself, but to be khirnari and watch your people suffer as his do—I can only imagine how much this business weighs on his mind. I suspect Amali wanted nothing more from Nyal than a shoulder to cry on.”

  • • •

  “Try as I may to dislike the man, I hear nothing but good spoken of him,” Seregil muttered as they walked back to their room.

  “The Akhendi khirnari?” asked Alec.

  “No, Nyal. Caring for the lover who threw you over shows more character than I have.”

  Alec allowed himself a smug grin. “See? I knew you were wrong about him.”

  Amali huddled in darkness by the bedchamber window, fighting back tears as Rhaish thrashed again in his sleep. He would not tell her what his dreams were, though they grew worse every night, making him sweat and groan. If she woke him he would cry out, glaring at her with mad, sightless eyes.

  Amali ä Yassara was no stranger to fear; she’d seen her family skirt starvation, driven by it out of the lands they knew to live like beggars in the streets of successive towns and cities across Akhendi. She’d let Nyal heal her fears for a time, but he wanted to take her away, to wander like a teth’brimash again. It was Rhaish who’d saved her, lifted her up and made her proud again to wear the sen’gai of her people. Her parents and brothers ate at the khirnari’s table now, and she carried the khirnari’s son under her heart. Before the Skalans had come, bearing hope, she had felt safe. Now her husband shouted madness in his sleep.

  With a guilty shudder, she felt in the pocket of her nightdress for the warding charm Nyal had given her to mend. It wasn’t his, but it was a link to him, an excuse to meet again when she’d finished with it. Her fingers stroked the crude knots of the wristband: a child’s work, but effective. Nyal’s fingers had brushed her palm as he’d given it to her when they first arrived at the House of Pillars. She let herself savor the memory of that touch, and those that followed; his fingers on her hair, his arms around her, shielding her for a little while from all her fears and worries. It wasn’t the Ra’basi she ached for now, but the sense of peace he’d always been able to give her—just never for long enough.

  She pushed the charm back into her pocket, her talisman to summon that comfort again if she needed it. Drying her tears, she found a soft cloth and went to wipe her beloved’s brow.

  18

  MAGYANA

  Cool mountain air against her face. Jagged peaks against a flawless sky. One more pass to traverse and she’d be on the high plains beyond. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the mingled scents of wet stone, wild thyme, and the sweat steaming from her horse’s withers.

  Freedom. Nothing ahead of her but endless days of exploration—

  Magyana jerked out of her doze as the quill slipped from her fingers. Her mouth was dry. The stale, overheated air inside the queen’s tent made her head ache. The dream had been so clear—for just an instant a flash of resentment overwhelmed her. I never asked for this!

  Retrieving the fallen pen, Magyana trimmed it and settled resignedly back in her chair. Freedom was an illusion she’d been able to maintain too well for too many years. The gifts that raised a wizard to the highest levels of the Orëska came with a price—different for each, according to their talents.

  The bill for her wandering years had come due, and here she sat, unable to do more than watch over the best of queens as Idrilain fought death, her final adversary.

  Being Idrilain, she had managed to rally, at least for a time. Klia’s departure for Aurënen had somehow buoyed her. In the month since, she clung doggedly to life, even putting on a little flesh as the infection in her lungs receded. Most days she hovered in a murky half-sleep, surfacing now and then into lucid conversation, catching up with a few questions on the progress of the war and Klia’s mission, though of the latter there was still cruelly little to report. Neither strong enough nor willing to make the long journey back to Rhíminee, Idrilain was content to remain in what was now essentially Phoria’s camp. As Queen’s Wizard, Magyana remained with her, trapped in this stuffy tent, surrounded by medicine vessels and the heavy smell of illness and an old woman dying—

  Magyana pushed away the guilty thoughts. Yet tied she was, by love, oath, and honor, until Idrilain saw fit to release her, or was released herself.

  Leaving the queen to sleep, Magyana carried her chair and writing materials outside. Late-afternoon light bathed the sprawling encampment in a deceptively gentle light. Dipping her pen in the inkpot, she began again.

  “My dear Thero, yesterday the Plenimarans drove a line of Mycenian troops back to within a few miles of where I sit. In Skala more towns have been burned along the eastern coast. Stories of a darker sort come in from all quarters—half a regiment of White Hawk archers stricken in one night, overwhelmed by evil vapors; dead men rising to strangle their own comrades; a dyrmagnos summoning ghostly terrors and fountains of fire in broad daylight. Some are mere soldiers’ tales, but a few have been verified. Our colleague, Elutheus, himself witnessed a necromancer calling down lightning at Gresher’s Ford.

  “Even Phoria cannot discount such reports, but she stubbornly maintains that such attacks are so isolated as to be of little concern. In the short term, she may be right. With the destruction of the Helm, the Overlord’s necromancers cannot command enough power to overwhelm us with mere magic, but the threat of it among our soldiers, fed by rumor and report, does great harm nonetheless.

  “The news is not all bad, however. To Phoria’s credit, she is a decisive leader, if not a diplomatic one, and the generals trust her. Over the past week she has organized significant strikes against enemy forces to the east, and has had sever
al victories. Tell Klia that her friend, Commander Myrhini, captured fifty enemy horses. A great coup indeed, as many cavalry soldiers are afoot for lack of mounts to replace those killed in battle. Others are making do with whatever horses they can commandeer about the countryside, a situation that is not endearing them to the locals.

  “The third of Klia’s dispatches reached us here yesterday. Phoria said little, but her impatience is clear. Surely some small concession can be coaxed from the Iia’sidra? Otherwise, I fear she will recall you. With every new death of an able commander reported, Klia’s presence on the field is more greatly missed.”

  Magyana paused, considering information she dared not entrust to writing, even in such a message as this. Like the fact that she, eldest of the remaining Orëska wizards, dared not openly translocate this parchment to her protégé lest Phoria hear of it. The Princess Royal made no secret of her distrust of wizards in general, and her mother’s adviser in particular. Magyana had already been summoned once to explain her actions, and for nothing more than performing a scry at General Armeneus’s request. In the weeks since Phoria had taken over as War Commander, a subtle shift had occurred. Watchful eyes and ears were at work for her in every quarter, including those of that handsome snake, Captain Traneus.

  Klia has enough to occupy her mind, thought Magyana, obscuring the letter with a spell only Thero could unravel. She would put it in the hands of the dispatch rider herself later. Let Traneus make of that what he would.

  19

  ANOTHER EVENING’S ENTERTAINMENT

  The dream was less coherent this time, but more vivid. The burning room was still his old chamber in Bôkthersa, yet here were the heads of Thryis and the others glaring at him from the mantelpiece. There was no chance this time to choose what things to save, what to abandon. Fire raced up the hangings of the bed, the draperies, up his legs, but its touch was deadly cold.

  The smoke boiling up through the floor-boards thickened the band of sunlight spilling into the little chamber, blinding him with its bright glare. His throat was full, his hands useless.