Traitor's Moon

by Lynn Flewelling

  Klia sat up in a chair by the window. As they came in, she smiled and held out her hands. On the left she wore a fine leather glove; the empty fingers had been artfully stuffed to hide her deformity. “See, I’ll be whole yet!” she said.

  “She’s gaining quickly, isn’t she?” Beka whispered to Alec as he took his place beside her. “She’ll be walking again before we know it.”

  Alec had spoken with Mydri earlier and was less optimistic. Despite all the healer’s efforts, Klia still had no strength in her legs and could barely hold a cup for herself. The poison had also left her with a slight tremor. Her mind, however, was as sharp as ever.

  “That’s all of you,” said Korathan, abrupt as ever. “Thero, seal this room.”

  Standing next to Klia’s chair, hands clasped behind his back, the prince looked as if he were about to address a regiment. “As vicegerent of Skala, it falls to me to put Gedre in order. Since Klia is still too weak for hard traveling or battle, I’m placing her in command of the supply station at Gedre. She knows these people better than anyone, now that Torsin is gone, and has the status to get us what we need. Riagil í Molan is preparing lodgings and warehouses at the waterfront.

  “I’ll need a sizable staff,” said Klia. “Captain, you and Urgazhi Turma will remain in Aurënen with me.”

  Beka saluted woodenly, saying nothing, but Alec had seen her hastily masked shock.

  “I’ve asked Thero to remain with me, as well,” Klia added.

  Korathan glanced down at his sister in surprise. “I thought Elutheus might do better. He’s older, and more experienced.”

  “I’ll take any wizards you can spare, Brother, but I’d prefer to retain Thero as my field wizard. He and I are used to one another, aren’t we?”

  “My lady.” Thero bowed deeply, and Alec saw that he, at least, was pleased with this turn of events.

  “What about us?” asked Alec.

  “Yes, what about us?” said Seregil.

  “I’m sorry. Not you.”

  “But I thought he wasn’t exiled anymore. Can’t he go wherever you do?” said Alec.

  “Under the law, yes,” Klia told him. “But it’s not politic for him to overstay his welcome, especially as part of my staff. Many of those who opposed his return haven’t changed their minds, and some of them have powerful voices among the clans who voted against the treaty.”

  “Not to mention the fact that the iron Skala needs is mined in the mountains of Akhendi fai’thast,” Seregil added. “I’m not very popular among them. It could raise unnecessary difficulties.”

  Klia gave him a grateful smile. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “It’s all right,” he assured her. “There are matters in Rhíminee I need to attend to. I’ve been gone too long as it is.”

  Alec and the others took their leave. As soon as they were in the corridor, Beka turned and walked quickly toward the back stairs, fists clenched at her sides.

  Alec moved to follow, but Seregil drew him in the opposite direction.

  “Let her be, Alec.”

  Alec followed grudgingly, but looked back in time to see Beka wipe angrily at her cheek as she hurried down the stairs.

  Seregil waited until the rest of the house had settled for the night, then stole down to Korathan’s chamber. Light still showed beneath the prince’s door, so he knocked softly.

  Korathan answered, looking less than pleased to see him. “Seregil? What is it?”

  “I’d hoped for a word alone with you before I leave for Skala, my lord.”

  For a moment he thought Korathan was going to send him away; instead he waved Seregil to a seat at a small table and poured wine for his unwelcome guest. “Well?” he prompted.

  Seregil raised his cup to the prince, then took a polite sip. “Through all this, my lord, I haven’t heard much of what the queen thinks of your departure from her orders.”

  “Why do you suppose all those dispatch riders have been wearing out horses since I got here?” Korathan pulled off his boots and scratched his foot, favoring Seregil with a sour look. “Count us all lucky that the Iia’sidra voted in our favor, and that Phoria’s too busy with the Plenimarans just now to care about anything but the iron and horses Klia will be sending. Pray to that moon god of yours that the queen remains so occupied for some time. She’s in no mood for—distractions. Is that all?”

  “No. I also wanted to speak with you about Klia.”

  Korathan’s expression softened slightly. “You’ve served her well. You all did. Klia and I will both make that clear to the queen. You’ve nothing to fear in Rhíminee.”

  Seregil took a longer sip, trying to quell the nagging sense that he was about to do something very unwise. “I’m not so certain one fact leads to the other, my lord.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Klia served Skala well. What’s happened here, the progress we won, that was her doing. If she hadn’t won them over the way she did, nothing you or I could have done would have made the difference.”

  “Are you here to make sure I don’t steal my little sister’s glory?”

  “No, my lord. I didn’t mean to belittle what you’ve accomplished.”

  “Ah, I’ll sleep better, knowing that,” Korathan muttered, refilling his cup.

  Undeterred, Seregil plunged on. “I’d like to know whether the decision to keep Klia in Aurënen came from you or Phoria.”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “I’m Klia’s friend. Phoria doesn’t want her back, does she? She’s succeeded where Phoria wanted her to fail, and turned you to her side in the bargain.”

  “It would be better if no one else ever heard you say these things,” Korathan replied quietly, his pale eyes icy.

  “They won’t,” Seregil assured him. “But Phoria must have known what she was doing when she sent you. It takes time to outfit that many warships, and time to get them here. This was no spur-of-the-moment venture. She didn’t mean for Klia to come home.”

  “You’re not a stupid man, Seregil. I’ve always known that, no matter how you played the wastrel with the other young bloods. So I know that you understand the risk you’re taking, saying this to me, the queen’s brother.”

  “Klia’s loyal, Korathan. She has no designs on her sister’s throne. I think you believe that, too, or you wouldn’t have come here to help her,” Seregil nodded.

  Korathan tapped the side of his cup, considering. “It was Klia’s idea to stay, as it happens, though I was happy enough to grant her request.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Seregil rose to go, then held his cup up again. “To the continued good health of all Idrilain’s daughters, and their daughters after them.”

  The prince touched his cup to Seregil’s, not smiling. “I’m the queen’s man, Lord Seregil. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Not for a moment, my lord.”

  The Skalans spent their last evening in the city as they had their first, feasting with the Bôkthersans under a rising moon.

  Sitting there in his sister’s garden, Seregil searched his heart for some regret, but for once sadness eluded him. He could come back, at least as far as Gedre, and for now that was enough. His thoughts were already turning to Rhíminee.

  As they rose to take their leave at last, Mydri drew him and Alec aside. “Wait, my dears. Let the others go. We must make our own farewells.”

  When she and Adzriel returned from seeing the others off, the older woman was carrying a long, familiar bundle.

  “I hope you manage to hang on to it this time,” Adzriel said, giving him back his sword. “Riagil left it with me when he brought you back.”

  Mydri placed a smaller package in Alec’s hands, and he unwrapped it to find a long hunting knife. The grip was made of some dark, reddish wood and inlaid with bands of horn and silver. “Only members of our clan own such knives,” she told him, kissing him on both cheeks. “You are our new brother, no matter what your name may be. Take care of Seregil until he comes ba
ck to us.”

  “You have my word,” Alec told her.

  Seregil and Alec were crossing the short distance to the guest house when a slender, robed figure stepped from the shadows across the street. The woman wore the hat and robes of a rhui’auros, but Seregil couldn’t make out her face.

  “Lhial sends you a gift, Seregil of Rhíminee,” she said, and tossed something that glittered softly in the moonlight.

  He caught it and recognized the slightly rough feeling of glass against his fingers.

  “Such clever hands,” the woman said, laughing as she vanished.

  “What is it?” Alec asked, fishing a lightstone from his belt pouch.

  Seregil opened his hand. It was another of the strange orbs, but this one was as clear as river ice, allowing him to see the tiny carving it held—a dragon with the feathered wings of an owl.

  “What’s that?” Alec asked again.

  Yours to keep. Yours to discard, little brother.

  “A reminder, I think,” Seregil said, pocketing it with care.

  58

  RUINS

  Seregil stood alone at the ship’s prow, watching as the distant outline of Rhíminee’s citadel slowly resolved against the dawn-tinted sky. Fog lingered over the harbor, set aglow here and there by a few early lamps in the Lower City.

  The sound of feet on the deck above had woken him. Leaving Alec still asleep, he’d gone up alone, thankful for a few moments to himself for this homecoming.

  The harbor was as flat as a mirror inside the moles and crowded with warships and merchant carracks riding at anchor. It was so still at this hour that Seregil could hear the rumble of wagons on their way up the walled road to the Sea Market, and the crowing of cocks on the citadel. Closer at hand, a cook on a nearby man-of-war beat on a kettle to summon his shipmates to a hot breakfast. The scents of porridge and fried herring hung on the air.

  Seregil closed his eyes, picturing familiar streets and alleyways, wondering what changes the war had brought.

  Caught up in his thoughts, he let out a startled grunt when a warm hand closed over his on the rail.

  “It looks peaceful enough, doesn’t it?” Alec said, stifling a yawn. “Suppose there’s any work left for us to do?”

  Seregil recalled his last conversation with Korathan. “I imagine we’ll find something.”

  They’d sent no word ahead of their arrival, so no one was at the docks to meet them. As soon as their horses were led off the ship, they set out for Wheel Street.

  What remained of the Lower City looked just the same, a maze of customs houses, crooked streets, and filthy tenements. But as they rode on, they saw that whole sections along the waterfront had been razed to make room for supply markets and corrals. Soldiers were everywhere.

  In the Upper City, the Sea Market was already busy, but there were fewer goods in the stalls than Seregil remembered.

  The wealthy Noble Quarter was the least changed. Servants were abroad on their morning business, laden with market baskets. Trees laden with summer fruit arched their branches invitingly above the colorful tiled walls that shielded the villa gardens. A few trespassing dogs and pigs chased one another across the street. Children’s laughter echoed from an open window as they rode by.

  Wheel Street lay on the fringe of this quarter and was lined with more modest houses and shops. Seregil paused across the street from the house he’d called home for more than two decades. The grapevine mosaic over the door was as bright as ever, the stone stairway below neatly scrubbed and swept. Here he could only be Lord Seregil. The Rhíminee Cat lodged elsewhere.

  “We could just send word that Lord Seregil and Sir Alec were lost at sea,” he muttered.

  Alec chuckled, then walked across the street and climbed the stairs. With a sigh, Seregil followed.

  It had never mattered how long he was gone—three weeks or three years. Runcer kept the place unchanged, ready for his return.

  The door was still locked for the night, so they knocked. After a few moments a young man with a long, vaguely familiar face answered.

  “What’s your business here?” he demanded, taking in their stained traveling clothes with obvious suspicion.

  Seregil sized him up, then said, “I must see Sir Alec at once.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Well, where is he?” Alec demanded, falling in with the game.

  “He and Lord Seregil are away on queen’s business. You may leave a message for them, if you wish.”

  “I do,” Seregil told him. “The message is that Lord Seregil and Sir Alec have returned. Get out of the way, whoever you are. Where’s Runcer?”

  “I’m Runcer.”

  “Runcer the Younger, maybe. Where’s old Runcer?”

  “My grandfather died two months ago,” the man replied, not moving. “As for who you might be, I’ll need more than just your word for that!”

  Just then a huge white hound pushed past the man and reared up to lick Seregil’s face, wagging its shaggy tail frantically.

  “Mârag will vouch for me,” Seregil laughed, pushing the dog off and scratching her ears.

  In the end, however, they had to summon the cook to identify them. Young Runcer apologized profusely, and Seregil gave him a gold sester for his caution.

  Giving Alec first turn in the small bath chamber upstairs, Seregil wandered the house, feeling like his own ghost. The lavish woodland murals of the salon seemed garish after Sarikali’s austerity. His bedchamber upstairs, furnished in Aurënfaie style, felt more welcoming. Opening a door at the opposite end of the corridor, he smiled to himself. This had been Alec’s room. They hadn’t been lovers when they’d left.

  He’d had his own cot at the Cockerel, too.

  Turning, he found Alec leaning in the bath chamber doorway, water dripping from his hair onto his bare shoulders.

  “We can’t just avoid that part of the city forever,” he said, guessing Seregil’s thoughts easily enough. “I won’t feel like we’ve really come home until I see it.”

  Seregil closed his eyes and rubbed at the lids, wishing for once that he couldn’t feel the pull of Alec’s longing. “After dark,” he said, giving in.

  They dressed in old clothes and dark cloaks, shedding their public personas as easily as the garments themselves.

  Going on foot, they followed the Street of the Sheaf west toward the Harvest Market. On the way they passed the Astellus Circle and the Street of Lights. The colored lanterns of the brothels and gaming houses still glowed invitingly there, in spite of the war.

  Reaching the poorer quarter behind the Harvest Market, they hesitated at the final turning onto Blue Fish Street. Each had his own memories of the horrors they’d witnessed here.

  The ruin of the Cockerel was still there. The land belonged to Seregil, by way of various false names. Not even Runcer had known of this place or his connection to it.

  Chunks of rubble and most of the courtyard wall had been carried off by other builders, but one kitchen wall and the chimney still stood against the night sky, their broken edges softened by a thick growth of creeper. Somewhere among the tangled branches, an owl hooted mournfully. The night wind rustled the leaves and moaned faintly through broken brickwork.

  Alec whispered something under his breath, a Dalnan prayer to lay ghosts to rest.

  They had their pyre, Seregil thought, fighting down images of blood and dead lips speaking. He’d set the place ablaze himself, just to be certain.

  In the back court, they found no sign of the stable, but the well had been cleared and appeared to be still in use. Thryis’s kitchen garden had run wild nearby. Masses of mint, basil, and borage had spread to claim earth formerly the purview of the old woman’s tidy rows of lentils and leeks.

  “All the time we lived here, I don’t think I ever used the front door,” Alec murmured, picking his way over charred beams to the broken mouth of the hearth. The mantelpiece was still there above it. Mice had taken up residence in the warming oven.

 
Seregil leaned against the empty doorframe and closed his eyes, remembering the room as it had been: Thryis leaning on her stick as she fussed over her kettles and pots; Cilia peeling apples at a table nearby while her father, Diomis, tended the baby. He could almost smell the aromas: lamb and leek stew, new bread, crushed garlic, ripe summer strawberries, the sour reek of the cheese presses in the pantry. The Cavishs had taken breakfast in this kitchen when they visited the city for festivals. Nysander had had a particular fondness for Cilia’s mince tarts and her father’s beer.

  The memories still hurt, but the edges were blunted.

  Dance the dance.

  “Damn, what’s that?” Alec hissed.

  Startled, Seregil opened his eyes in time to see a small, dark form dart out of the hearth. It dodged past Alec but tripped over something and went sprawling. Overhead, the owl and its mate took flight in a flurry of wings.

  Seregil pounced on the struggling shadow, which turned out to be a ragged boy. He couldn’t have been more than ten, but he rolled to his knees quick as a snake and pulled a dagger on Seregil, cursing him ripely in a high, shaky voice.

  “Here’s a proper Rhíminee nightrunner, if the stink and vocabulary are anything to go by,” Seregil said in Aurënfaie.

  “Bilairy take you, spirits!” the boy snarled, trapped between Seregil and a fallen beam.

  “We’re not ghosts,” Alec assured him.

  Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Seregil caught the boy by his dagger hand and pulled him forward. The lad couldn’t be making much of a living for himself. His skinny wrist felt like a bundle of cords in Seregil’s grip.

  “What do you call yourself?” he asked, twisting the knife free.

  “Like I’d tell you!” the boy spat out. With another burst of initiative, he kicked Seregil in the shin and yanked loose, escaping with the agility of a rat.

  Alec’s laughter echoed weirdly off the ruined stonework, but it was full-hearted all the same.

  “If the neighbors do think this place is haunted, this ought to put the seal on it.” Seregil grimaced as he sat down and rubbed his leg. “Quite a welcome, eh?”