Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  It proved an easy task. Alec soon found himself welcome at a makeshift tavern, known for its ready supply of strong beer and spiced eggs. Not only was it a popular meeting place for people of various clans, but Artis, the brewer who ran the place during the day, was a servant of one of the Ra’basi khirnari’s closest advisers. He’d set up shop on the street level of a deserted house, serving his customers through an open window that overlooked a walled garden. Archery, dice, and wrestling were the sports of choice to pass the time.

  The beer proved passable, the eggs inedible, and the results of Alec’s spying meager. After three days of loitering and drinking, he’d added nearly a dozen shatta to his collection, lost his second-best dagger to a Datsian woman who outwrestled him, and learned only that the khirnari of Ra’basi had some sort of falling out with the Virésse a week before, though no one seemed to know the details.

  Lounging there with Nyal and Kheeta after a shooting match, Alec decided that he’d probably learned everything there was to be learned among the Ra’basi. He was about to leave when he overheard Artis launch into a tirade against the Khatme. Evidently he’d had a run-in with a member of that clan the night before over a keg of beer he’d sold. Still smarting from his own failure among that strange clan, Alec sauntered over to hear more.

  “Arrogant bunch of stargazers, that’s what I say,” Artis fumed as he served beer from his window perch. “Think they’re closer to Aura than the rest of us.”

  “They don’t take to outsiders much, I’ve found,” Alec ventured. “Or ya’shel, for that matter.”

  “They’ve always been a strange, standoffish bunch,” the brewer muttered.

  “What do you know of the Khatme?” a Goliníl woman scoffed.

  “As much as you do,” he drawled, passing out cups of murky new beer. “They keep to themselves and they serve themselves, for all their talk of Aura.”

  “I hear they make fine wizards,” Alec put in.

  “Wizards, seers, rhui’auros,” the brewer allowed grudgingly. “But magic is a gift meant to serve and that’s something the Khatme don’t do willingly. Instead, they stay up in their eagles’ nest of a fai’thast, dreaming their strange dreams and handing down proclamations.”

  “You know, in all the time I’ve been here, I haven’t seen much magic used. Where I come from, folks imagine the ’faie throwing it around left and right.”

  Several of Alec’s companions snickered.

  “Look around, Skalan,” Artis said. “Do you see any need for magic? Should we fly through the air instead of using our own feet? Or knock birds out of the sky instead of learning archery?”

  “This beer of yours could use a bit of magicking,” a boy laughed.

  Artis gave him a hard look, then wove a brief sigil over their cups. The beer foamed slightly, giving off a strong, malty odor.

  “Taste that, then,” he challenged.

  The contents of Alec’s cup were certainly clearer than before. Impressed, he took a drink, but immediately spat it out.

  “It tastes like swamp water!” he sputtered.

  “Of course,” Artis declared, laughing now. “Beer has its own magic. It doesn’t need any help, as any brewer knows.”

  “And so knowing, takes it too much for granted,” said a new voice.

  A grey, wizened little rhui’auros stepped from the shadows of a cul-de-sac next to the building.

  Kheeta and the others raised their left hands and gave the man a respectful nod. In turn, he raised a tattooed hand in blessing.

  “Welcome, Honored One,” said Artis, coming out to offer him beer and food.

  The others made room for the old man and he sat down, wolfing down the eggs and bread as if he hadn’t eaten in days and dribbling his beer down the front of his already none-too-clean robes.

  When he’d finished he looked up and pointed to Alec. “Our little brother asks about magic and you scoff, children of Aura?” Shaking his head, he picked up a bow lying near his feet and placed it in Alec’s hands. “Tell me, what do you feel?”

  Alec rubbed his palm over the smooth limbs. “Wood, sinew—” he began, then gasped as the rhui’auros touched a finger firmly to the center of his forehead.

  A cool sensation swept the skin between his eyes, like the kiss of a mountain breeze. As it spread deeper, the bow seemed to subtly vibrate in his hands, reminding him of the time he’d touched a drysian’s staff and felt the surge of power through the wood.

  “I feel—I don’t know. It’s like holding a living thing.”

  “It is Shariel ä Malai’s magic you feel, her khi,” the rhui’auros replied, pointing to the Ptalos woman who owned the bow. He motioned for Kheeta to give Alec the knife from his belt.

  Gripping it, Alec felt similar sensations from the metal. “Yes, it’s there, too.”

  “Our khi suffuses us the way oil soaks a wick,” the rhui’auros explained. “Everything we touch takes on a bit of it, and from it comes all our gifts. Shariel ä Malai, take up Alec í Amasa’s bow.”

  She obeyed, eyes widening in surprise as the man touched her brow. “By the Light, the khi is strong as a storm wind in it!”

  “You shoot well, do you not?” the rhui’auros asked, noting the collection of shatta on Alec’s quiver.

  “Yes, Honored One.”

  “Better than most?”

  “Perhaps. It’s just something I’m good at.”

  “Good enough to strike a dyrmagnos?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “He fought a dyrmagnos?” someone whispered.

  “It was a good shot,” Alec admitted, recalling the strange, dreamlike calm that had come over him when he took aim at his hated tormentor. His bow had trembled strangely in his hands as he’d let fly, but he’d always put those sensations, indeed even his success, down to the spells Nysander had woven around it.

  “Little brother, when will you visit me?” the rhui’auros chided. “Your friend Thero comes to the Nha’mahat often now, yet for you I wait and wait.”

  “I’m sorry, Honored One. I—I didn’t realize I was expected,” Alec stammered, taken aback by this revelation about Thero. The wizard had never mentioned it. “I’ve been wanting to, but—”

  “You must bring Seregil í Korit, as well. Tell him to come tonight.”

  “The Exile no longer bears that name,” an Akhendi reminded him.

  “Doesn’t he?” the rhui’auros asked, turning to go. “How forgetful of me. Come tonight, Alec í Amasa. There is so much you must tell me.”

  Tell you? thought Alec, but before he could question the man further the rhui’auros blurred before his eyes, disappearing like a design of colored sand in a strong wind.

  “Well, at least you can’t complain of not seeing magic,” said Artis. “Now what’s this about you killing a dyrmagnos?”

  Alec’s first thought was to find Seregil and tell him about the rhui’auros’s strange summons, but his drinking companions wouldn’t let him go without hearing the tale of the battle against Irtuk Beshar and Mardus. Struck by a sudden inspiration, he played heavily on Seregil’s role in the fight, reasoning that stories of the “Exile’s” heroism could only do Seregil good in reclaiming his place among his people. As he recounted his own part that day, however, the rhui’auros’s words kept coming back to him, making him wonder if there actually had been more than experience guiding his hand that day.

  Afternoon sunshine lit the eastern half of the Iia’sidra chamber and threw the other half into near darkness. When Alec slipped in, a member of the Khatme delegation was pacing the open floor at the center of the room, haranguing the assembly with an extensive list of the historic depredations of outlanders.

  Many in the audience were nodding approval. Just visible behind Klia, Thero appeared angry, Seregil bored and tired. Braknil and his honor guard loomed behind them, faces duty-blank. Wending his way through the minor clans, Alec took a seat beside Seregil.

  “Ah, you’ve come at the most interesting part,” his friend
murmured, stifling a yawn.

  “How much longer will you be?”

  “Not long. Everyone’s out of sorts today; I think most of them are ready for a jug of rassos. I know I am.”

  Torsin turned and shot them a pointed look. Seregil covered a smirk with his hand and sank a bit lower in his chair. With his other, he signed for Alec to stay.

  The Khatme finished at last, and Klia stood to reply. Alec couldn’t see her face, but from the set of her shoulders he guessed she’d had enough, too.

  “Honored Khatme, you speak well and clearly of Aurënen’s concerns,” she began. “You speak of raiders, and those who have betrayed the laws of hospitality, yet in all these tales, I hear no mention of Skala. I don’t doubt that you have good reason to fear some foreigners, but why should you fear us? Skala has never attacked Aurënen. Instead, we have traded in good faith, traveled your land in good faith, and respected the Edict of Separation in good faith, although we believe it is unjust. Many here do not hesitate to remind me of the murder of Corruth; is that because it is the only transgression you can throw up at us?”

  “You demand access to our northern coast, our port, our iron mines,” a Haman declared. “If we let you bring miners and smiths to make settlements, how then can we expect them to leave when your need is gone?”

  “Why do you think they will not?” Klia countered. “I have seen Gedre. I have ridden through the cold, barren mountains where the mines are. With all due respect, perhaps you ought to visit my land. Perhaps then you would understand that we have no desire for yours, only the iron to fight our war and save our own.”

  This response gained her a ripple of applause and a few poorly muffled laughs among her supporters. But Klia remained stern.

  “I have listened to Ilbis í Tarien of Khatme recite the history of your people. Nowhere in that history did I hear of Skala acting as aggressor toward your land, or any other. Like you, we understand what it is to have enough. Through husbandry and trade and the blessings of the Four, we have never needed to take what was not freely offered. The same can be said of the Mycenians, who even now sway, driven to their knees by the onslaught of Plenimar. We fight to repel the aggressor, not to conquer. The previous Overlord of Plenimar was content within his own borders for many years. It is his son who has renewed the old conflict. Must I, youngest daughter of a Tírfaie queen, remind the Aurënfaie of their heroic role in the first Great War when we fought as one?

  “My throat grows sore from giving the same assurances day after day. If you will not allow us to mine, then sell us your iron and let our ships come to Gedre to get it.”

  “And so it goes,” Seregil muttered. “The war could be lost before we can get beyond whether or not Klia is personally responsible for Corruth’s murder.”

  “Are there any plans for tonight?” Alec asked, glancing nervously in Torsin’s direction.

  “We’re to dine in Khaladi tupa. I’m actually looking forward to this one. Their dancers are exceptional.”

  Alec settled back with an inward sigh. The shadows crept a few more inches across the floor as Rhaish í Arlisandin and Galmyn í Nemius of Lhapnos launched into a verbal battle over some river that divided their lands. The argument ended when the Akhendi stalked from the chamber in a rage. The outburst signaled the end of the day’s debate.

  “What did that have to do with Skala?” Alec complained as the assembly broke up.

  “Balance of trade, as usual,” Torsin told him. “At the moment Akhendi must depend on Lhapnos’s goodwill to float goods down to port. If and when Gedre opens, then Akhendi will gain the advantage. That is only one of several reasons why Lhapnos opposes Klia’s request.”

  “Maddening!” Klia muttered under her breath. “Whatever they decide in the end, it will have more to do with their troubles than ours. If we were dealing with a single ruler, things would be different.”

  Their host of the evening swept down on her, and Klia allowed herself to be led aside for a private conversation.

  Seregil gave Alec a questioning look. “You’ve been waiting to tell me something, I think?”

  “Not here.”

  The walk back to their lodgings seemed a long one. When they were finally alone in their room, Alec closed the door and leaned back against it.

  “I met a rhui’auros today.”

  Seregil’s expression did not change, but Alec detected a sudden tightness at the corners of his friend’s mouth.

  “He asked that we come to the Nha’mahat tonight. Both of us.”

  Still Seregil said nothing.

  “Kheeta hinted that you have—bad feelings about them?”

  “Bad feelings?” Seregil raised an eyebrow as if considering Alec’s choice of words. “Yes, you could say that.”

  “But why? The one I met seemed kind enough, if a little eccentric.”

  Seregil folded his arms. Was it Alec’s imagination, or was he trembling slightly?

  “During my trial—” Seregil began, speaking so softly that Alec had to strain to hear. “A rhui’auros came, saying I was to be brought here, to Sarikali. No one knew what to think. I’d already confessed everything.…”

  He faltered, and the hint of a dark memory traveled to Alec across the talímenios bond; his vision darkened as a burning stab of panic constricted his chest.

  “They tortured you?” Memories of his own experiences added to the leaden weight settling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Not in the way you mean.” Going to a clothes chest, Seregil threw back the lid and rummaged in its depths. “It was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter.”

  But Alec could still feel the sour tang of panic clinging to his companion. Going to him, he laid a hand on Seregil’s shoulder. The man sagged a little under the light touch.

  “I just don’t understand what they want with me now.”

  “If you’d rather not go, I could make some excuse.”

  Seregil managed a lopsided grimace. “I don’t think that would be wise. No, we’ll go. Together. It’s time you did, talí.”

  Alec was silent a moment. “Do you think they can tell me about my mother?” The words came hard. “I—I need to know who I am.”

  “Take what the Lightbearer sends, Alec.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The strange, guarded look came into Seregil’s eyes again. “You’ll see.”

  22

  DREAMS AND VISIONS

  The minor clans had no official voice in the Iia’sidra, but they were not without influence. The Khaladi were among the most respected and fiercely independent; Klia considered them an important potential ally.

  At Sarikali they occupied a small section in the eastern part of the city. The khirnari, Mallia ä Tama, met them at the head of what appeared to be her entire clan and led them on foot to the open land beyond the city’s edge. Her blue-and-yellow sen’gai was made of twisted bands of silk intertwined with red cord, and she wore a voluminous silk coat over her tight-fitting tunic.

  The Khaladi were taller and more muscular than most of the ’faie Alec had met, and many had bands of intricate tattoos encircling their wrists and ankles. They smiled readily and treated their guests with a mix of respect and warm familiarity that quickly put him at ease.

  On a flat expanse of ground just beyond the city’s edge, a circular area a few hundred yards in diameter had been covered with huge, multicolored carpets and ringed with bonfires. Instead of the usual dining couches, low tables and piles of bolsters were arranged around the perimeter. Mallia ä Tama and her family served Klia’s party themselves, washing their guests’ hands over basins to symbolize the customary bath and offering them wine and dried fruits dipped in honey. Musicians arrived carrying pipes and long-necked stringed instruments unlike any Alec had seen. Instead of plucking or strumming the latter, the players sawed at the strings with a short bow, producing a sound at once mournful and sweet.

  As the sun sank and the feast progressed, it was not difficult for Alec to imagine himsel
f transported to their mountain fai’thast. Under different circumstances, he would have been content to spend the entire night in such company.

  Instead, he kept a watchful eye on Seregil, who often fell silent and glanced frequently at the progress of the moon.

  Do you dread the night’s destination so much? Alec wondered with a twinge of guilt at his own anticipation.

  As the banquet neared its end, thirty or more Khaladi rose and shed their tunics, stripping down to short, tight-fitting leather breeches. Their lightly oiled skin shone like satin in the firelight.

  “Now we’ll see something!” Seregil exclaimed under his breath, looking happy for the first time that night.

  “We are great dancers, the best in all Aurënen,” the khirnari was telling Klia. “For in the dance we celebrate the circles of unity that make our world—the unity between our people and Aura, the unity of sky and earth, the unity that binds us one to another. You might feel the magic of it, but do not be alarmed. It is only the sharing of khi that unites the dancers with those who watch them.”

  The musicians struck up a dark, skirling melody as the performers took their places. Working in pairs, they slowly lifted and balanced each other with sinuous grace. Without the least hint of strain or tremor, their bodies twined into configurations at once disciplined and erotic, arching, folding, curving as they rose and fell.

  Rapt, Alec felt the flow of khi the khirnari had spoken of; differing energies of each successive dance enfolded him, drawing him in although he never stirred from where he sat.

  Some dances featured a single gender or male and female couples, but most involved all the varying groups at once. One of the most moving was a performance by pairs of children.

  Klia sat motionless, one hand pressed unconsciously to her lips. Pure wonder showed on Thero’s thin features, softening them to something approaching beauty. Beyond them, Alec could see Beka among the honor guard, the hint of tears glistening in her eyes. Nyal stood beside her, not quite touching as he watched her watch the dance.