Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  “Aura’s Cup poisoned?” the woman gasped. “That’s impossible!”

  “There’s no sense taking chances. If you can, learn if anyone has used it in the meantime. Hurry, please!”

  The moment they were gone, he let out a snort of annoyance. “Thanks to their kindness, we may never pick up the trail now.”

  “No wonder no one saw him go out,” Thero murmured, hunkering down beside the body. “These are the clothes he had on last night. He must not have come home at all.”

  “Beka said he refused an escort home from Ulan’s house.”

  The wizard touched Torsin’s face gingerly. “My experience with death is still quite limited, it seems. I’ve never seen a person turn blue like that. What can it mean?”

  “Suffocation, most likely.” Seregil held up the handkerchief. “His lungs finally gave out on him, drowning him in his own blood. Of course, he may have been strangled or smothered, too. We’d better have a look at the rest of him, just to be sure. Help me strip him.”

  And pray to Aura he wasn’t murdered, he thought. There had never been a murder in Sarikali as far as he knew. Better that Skala didn’t set the precedent. There was no telling how the ’faie would react to that.

  Thero might be unversed in death, but the war had toughened him to its aftermath. In his sheltered days at the Orëska House, the young wizard had lacked the stomach for such things; now he worked with grim determination, mouth pressed into a tight line as they cut and pulled the clothes from the stiff limbs.

  They found no obvious wounds or bruising, nor any evidence of theft. Torsin’s skull and long bones were sound, and his right hand and wrists showed no wounds indicating he’d warded off an attacker; the left fist would have to wait until the rigor passed.

  “So what do you think? Was it poison?” Thero whispered when they’d finished.

  Seregil prodded at the rigid muscles of the dead man’s face and neck, then pried back the wrinkled lips. “It’s hard to say with the discoloration. Any feel of magic on him?”

  “None. What was he doing by the pool?”

  “It lies between here and Virésse fai’thast. He must have stopped there to wet his throat, then collapsed. He was staggering by the time he reached it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Seregil picked up a discarded shoe. “Look at the toe, how scuffed and stained it is. Torsin would never wear dirty shoes to a banquet; therefore, it happened after he left. And see how dirt is ground into the front of his robe about the knees and arms? He fell at least twice getting to the water, yet had the presence of mind to use the Cup instead of simply dipping it up with his hand. He was sick, all right, but I’d say death itself overtook him suddenly there at the water’s edge.”

  “But the contortion of the body?”

  “It hasn’t the look of a death agony, if that’s what you mean. He collapsed and fell over sideways. The death rigor hardened his limbs this way. It makes for a grisly corpse, I grant you, but there’s nothing unusual about it. All the same, I want a look at where they found him.”

  “We can’t just leave him lying here.”

  “Have the servants lay him out upstairs.”

  Thero looked down at his soiled hands and sighed. “First Idrilain and now him. Death seems to be dogging us.”

  Seregil sighed. “Both were sick and old. Let’s hope Bilairy has had enough of us through his gate for a while.”

  Adzriel arrived in the hall just as Seregil and Thero were leaving for the Vhadäsoori.

  “Kheeta sent word. Poor Lord Torsin!” she exclaimed. “He’ll be greatly missed. Will there be another mourning period, do you think?”

  “I doubt it,” Seregil replied. “He wasn’t royal kin.”

  “That’s just as well,” she mused, pragmatic despite her concern. “The negotiations are tenuous enough as things stand.”

  “We’re off to see the place where he was found. Care to come along?”

  “Perhaps I should.”

  The sun had cleared the tallest of Sarikali’s towers by the time they reached the sacred pool. To Seregil’s dismay, a small crowd of gawkers had gathered outside the ring of stones. Inside, old Brythir í Nien stood next to the Cup with Lhaär ä Iriel and Ulan í Sathil. Of these, the Virésse looked the most visibly shaken.

  Here to test the wind, now that your principal advocate is gone? thought Seregil.

  “Stay here a moment, please,” he told Adzriel and Thero. “There have already been enough people trampling around.”

  Using the pedestal and Ulan’s house as reference points, he went slowly over the area Torsin had most likely crossed, starting near the stone statues and working in.

  There’d been a heavy dew the night before, and the grass was still moist. Here and there Seregil found the marks of what appeared to be Skalan shoes, overlaid with dew. The heels made a deeper im pression than the flat boots favored by the ’faie. The uneven spacing and occasional small gouge or dent in the turf spoke of a man already unsteady on his feet.

  He might have found more distinct signs near the water’s edge if his well-meaning predecessors had not in their zeal trampled over the area. Even Micum would have been hard-pressed to make sense of this mess, he fumed silently.

  His persistence was repaid in part, however. At the water’s edge he found four long marks scored by grasping fingers. A flattened patch of ground showed where the body had lain, a nexus for various sets of footprints. Here were a few uneven steps—Torsin’s last. Parallel marks of Aurënfaie boots were most likely those of the Bry’khans who’d borne him away. At some point, someone had knelt by the body. These tracks had been crossed by the Bry’khans. All of them crossed Torsin’s prints.

  Straightening, he waved Thero and his sister over.

  “We grieve for your loss,” Brythir told him, his wizened face somber. “No one has touched the Cup since I arrived.”

  “You imagined it poisoned, I suppose,” Lhaär said acidly. “You have lived too long among the Tír. No Aurënfaie would poison the Cup of Aura.”

  “I spoke in haste, Khirnari,” Seregil replied, bowing. “When I heard that the Cup had been found by the body, I wished to chance no mishap. Having looked the ground over, however, I’m reasonably certain that Torsin met his end alone, and that he was dying before he reached the water.”

  “May I examine the Cup, Khirnari?” asked Thero. “It might be possible to learn something of his state of mind if he touched it before he died.”

  “Aurënfaie law forbids the touching of minds,” the Khatme replied tersely.

  Brythir placed a hand on her arm. “A guest has died while under our protection, Lhaär ä Iriel. It is only right for his people to pursue their own manner of inquiry to satisfy themselves as to the nature of that death. Besides, the mind of Torsin has gone with his departed khi. Thero í Procepios seeks only memories in stone. You may proceed, young wizard. What can you learn from this mute object?”

  Thero examined the alabaster bowl closely, even going so far as to dip up a little water and taste it.

  “You let him dishonor us with his suspicions,” the Khatme muttered.

  “The truth dishonors no one,” said Ulan í Sathil.

  Undeterred, Thero pressed the cup to his brow and mouthed a silent incantation. After several minutes he replaced it on its rough pedestal and shook his head. “This vessel has known only reverence until Torsin came here. He alone touched it with a discordant mind, and that was due to the extremity of his illness.”

  “You can feel his illness?” asked Adzriel.

  Thero pressed a hand to his chest. “I felt some of what Torsin felt as he held it—a burning pain here, under the breastbone.”

  “What of his last thoughts?” challenged the Khatme.

  “I do not possess such magic as that would take,” Thero replied.

  “Thank you for your patience, Khirnari, said Seregil. “There’s nothing to be done now but await Klia’s return.”

  Brythir shook h
is head sadly. “What a pity to spoil her fine day with such news.”

  30

  THE HUNT

  Alec’s initial qualms had lessened somewhat by the time they forded the fog-shrouded river and headed up into the hills. The younger Haman were in high spirits and the mood soon spread among the Skalan riders. Alec was as glad as any of them to escape the dark walls of Sarikali for the day—especially on a day that promised as fair as this. The rising sun sent streaks of gold across a sky as flawlessly blue as Cirna turquoise.

  Even this close to the city, game tracks were thick on the soft mould: stag, black deer, boar, and flocks of some large bird. There were also signs of other hunters—wolves, bears, and foxes.

  Their guides didn’t slow to hunt here but pressed on into the forest ahead, where fir and oak towered up to block the rising sun.

  The Aurënfaie had no dogs for coursing. Instead, they dismounted when game was sighted, letting a few chosen hunters stalk it on foot while the rest waited. This was the sort of hunting Alec knew best, and he quickly earned his host’s praise when he brought down a fat doe with a single shaft. Strangely, Klia did not fare as well.

  “I hope you’re not depending on me to round out tonight’s feast,” she remarked ruefully after letting fly too soon on a clear shot.

  In spite of this, many of the younger Haman who’d been standoffish began to warm to her, if not to her entourage. Emiel grew particularly attentive, even lending Klia his own bow when hers failed her on another shot.

  “Looks like she decided to play coy after all,” Beka muttered, waiting for Klia and Emiel to return from a stag chase. “I’ve seen her shoot better than this in a driving rain at dusk!”

  The day turned warm as the morning mist burned off. Beneath the trees the air grew heavy. The birds fell silent, and swarms of tiny flies plagued riders and mounts alike, buzzing about their heads and raising itching welts on any patch of exposed skin. Ears and noses seemed a favorite target.

  They reached a large grassy glade on the crest of a hill just before midday, and Nazien called a halt. Poplars edged the clearing, their coin-shaped leaves rustling in the breeze. A wide stream cut along one edge of it, and a cool breeze drove off both heat and flies. Stacks of wood, old fire circles, and the evidence of several other trails leading off through the trees marked this as a popular destination.

  “The game will sleep until the noonday heat passes,” Nazien was saying to Klia. “We may as well do the same.”

  Fruit, bread, and wine were produced from various saddlebags. Several of Beka’s riders helped clean and spit kutka for roasting. Alec stayed a little apart, keeping a surreptitious eye on Emiel and the khirnari as they sat with Klia in the shade.

  After the meal, most of the hunters lay down to sleep. Settled comfortably with his back to a tree, Alec was just drifting into a doze when he sensed someone standing over him. A woman was regarding him with a guarded smile. Orilli ä something, he thought, trying to summon the rest of her name. Behind her, several of her companions stood watching.

  “You shoot uncommonly well for a Tír,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he replied, then added pointedly, “The rhui’auros say it’s my gift from Aura, by my mother’s blood.”

  She nodded politely. “My apologies, ya’shel. My friends and I were wondering if you would care to match that odd black bow against ours.”

  “I’d like that.” Perhaps Klia had been right about the diplomatic value of this excursion after all.

  A tree boll across the clearing served for the first target. It was an easy mark, and Alec outshot most of the Haman archers. By the end of it, he had five new shatta on his quiver.

  “Would you care to try something a bit harder?” he asked.

  The others exchanged amused glances as he cut a dozen straight young branches and trimmed them to wands. Setting these upright in a patch of soft ground, he paced back twenty feet and scratched a shooting line in the moss with his heel.

  “And what are we to do with those? Split them down the middle?” a Haman youth scoffed.

  “You could.” Alec settled his quiver against his right hip. “But this is the way I was taught.”

  Drawing four shafts in smooth succession, he nipped off the tips of four wands, alternating high and low.

  Turning, he saw a mix of admiration and dismay on his opponents’ faces. “Master Radly of Wolde, who makes these bows, won’t sell them to anyone who can’t do that.”

  A man named Ura held up a carved boar-tooth shatta. “I wager you can’t do that again!”

  Side bets were exchanged. Alec took his time fitting an arrow to the bowstring, waiting for a puff of wind to die down. A familiar calm settled over him, as it always did when he gave himself up to the bow. Bringing his left arm up, he drew and released in one smooth flow of motion. The chosen wand shivered as his arrow nicked the tip neatly away. He nocked a second shaft, then a third and fourth, sending each unerringly to their targets. Amazed laughter and a few low grumbles burst out among his competitors.

  “By the Lightbearer’s own Eyes, you are as good as they claim!” Orilli exclaimed. “Come on, Ura, meet your bet.”

  Alec accepted the prize with a modest smile, but couldn’t help looking around to see if Klia had witnessed his victory.

  She wasn’t there.

  Nazien lay dozing on the moss now, but there was no sign of her anywhere in the glade. Or of Emiel, he realized with a stab of alarm.

  Stay calm, he thought as he excused himself from the games and walked over to Beka, who was talking with Nyal. Her horse is still here, so they can’t have gone far.

  “She took a walk with Emiel over that way,” Beka told him, pointing to a trail leading down through the trees. “Klia complained of the heat, and Emiel offered to show her some shady pools downstream. I tried to go along with an escort, but she ordered us to remain here.” The look in her eyes suggested that she was much less happy about the situation than he’d first supposed.

  “How long have they been gone?”

  “Since just after you began your archery contest,” Nyal replied, squinting up at the sun. “Half an hour, perhaps a little more.”

  Alec’s sense of uneasiness returned in force. “I see. Perhaps I’d enjoy seeing these pools.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Beka replied, keeping her voice low. “See that you keep out of sight.”

  The track led down a steep slope through wide-spaced trees. The stream that watered the glade crossed it, then tumbled down through a series of deep basins. Two sets of boot prints showed clear along the soft bank, and Alec followed them, reading the story they told. Two people had meandered along the water’s edge, jumping across the narrow watercourse several times and pausing at the larger pools, perhaps looking for fish.

  Rounding a bend in the stream, Alec caught a bright flash of Haman yellow between the trees. He approached softly, intending to ascertain Klia’s whereabouts and discreetly withdraw.

  What he saw as he came closer, however, made him abandon all stealth. Klia was thrashing on the ground beneath Emiel, who crouched over her, hands locked around her throat. Klia was tearing at the man’s hands, heels kicking up clods of damp moss as she struggled to free herself. Water streamed from her hair, soaking the upper part of her tunic.

  Alec charged, knocking the Haman away from her. Emiel came down hard on his back.

  “What was your plan, then?” Alec snarled, bending over him, one hand on his dagger hilt. “Were you going to dump her in the water and claim she got lost? Or that some animal had killed her? Do you have beasts that strangle here in your forests?”

  Gathering a fistful of the Haman’s tunic, Alec dragged him to his feet with one hand and drove his other fist into Emiel’s face twice, as he let loose all the pent-up hate he felt for the humiliations and insults he and Seregil had endured. Blood spurted from the man’s nose and welled in a shallow gash above his right eye. Twisting in Alec’s grip, he swung back wildly, catching Alec on the
side of the head. The pain only fed his anger. Grabbing Emiel with both hands, Alec slammed him into the nearest tree. Momentarily stunned, Emiel collapsed in an awkward heap.

  “So much for Haman honor!” Alec snarled, pulling off Emiel’s sen’gai. Shaking the long strip of cloth loose, he bound the man’s arms behind his back, then yelled for Beka.

  Emiel groaned and tried to rise, and Alec kicked his feet out from under him. He drew back his fist again, welcoming an excuse to strike, but was stopped by a rasping croak behind him.

  Klia was on her knees, one hand pressed to her throat, the other reaching out toward him.

  “It’s all right, my lady, I have him,” Alec assured her.

  Klia shook her head, then crumpled slowly to the ground.

  Fear of a new sort shook him. Forgetting Emiel, he ran to her and gathered her in his arms. Half conscious, Klia writhed weakly against him, her breath coming in shallow, labored gasps. Tipping her head back, he found angry red scratches on her throat.

  “Klia, can you hear me? Open your eyes!” Alec steadied her head between his hands. Her face was white, her skin clammy. “What’s wrong? What did he do to you?”

  Klia stared blearily up at him and slurred out, “So cold!”

  He rolled her on her belly and pressed hard on her back, hoping to squeeze any water from her lungs. His efforts produced nothing but a dry, hacking wheeze. When he turned her over again, he found her insensible.

  “What happened?” Beka yelled, racing down the trail with Nyal and a pack of armed Urgazhi on her heels.

  “He attacked her!” Alec spat out. “He was strangling her or drowning her—I don’t know which. She can hardly draw breath! We’ve got to get her back to Sarikali.”

  “Riders, keep the others back!” Braknil ordered, taking in the scene. “We’ve got to get to the horses.”

  “Keep who back?” Nazien demanded, arriving with several of his men. “What’s happened?”

  He halted in astonishment, looking first at his kinsman, bloodied and trussed with his own head cloth, then at Klia gasping in Alec’s arms. “Emiel í Moranthi, what have you done?”