Luck in the Shadows (32 page)

“I owe you a tremendous debt,” he said, studying Alec’s grim profile. “With all that’s happened, I guess I haven’t thanked you properly.”

“I’m not asking for any thanks.”

“But you deserve it nonetheless. And I’m sorry if I insulted you just now. It’s just that I don’t think in terms of expecting anything of anyone.”

Alec turned a bleak eye on him. “That’s not what Micum said. He said you demand loyalty and never forgive anyone who betrays you.”

“Well—yes. But that’s hardly the same thing, is it?”

Color flared in the boy’s fair cheeks. “All I know is that I
have
been loyal and if you don’t need me around anymore, then what the hell am I doing in Rhíminee anyway?”

“Who said I don’t want you around?” Seregil shot back in exasperation.

“No one. Not exactly. It’s just that ever since we got here, I
mean since the ship—with the wizards and healers and—” Alec faltered to a halt. “I don’t know, I guess I just don’t feel like I belong here.”

“Of course you do!” Seregil sputtered. “Who’s been saying you don’t? Thero! That whey-faced son of a bitch—”

“Thero didn’t say anything.” A gravid pause strung out between them, growing increasingly more uncomfortable.

“I never could carry on an argument naked,” Seregil said at last, pulling a wry face. This elicited a grudging hint of a smile, at least. “If you figure out what you’re so mad about, let me know. In the meantime, let’s go across to the museum. I promised to show you wonders, and that’s as good a place as any to find them.”

Revived by the bath and fresh clothes, Seregil had Alec help him across the atrium to the opposite archway.

“The vaults under this building are overflowing with treasures of one sort or another,” he expounded, still leaning on Alec’s arm. “I used to go down there with Nysander and Magyana all the time. You wouldn’t believe how much is squirreled away right under our feet.”

Opening the huge door of the museum room, Alec let out a low whistle.

The vaulted central chamber of the Orëska Museum was similar in dimensions to the baths. Here, however, every wall was hung with rich tapestries and paintings, shields, and pieces of armor. Suspended overhead was the skeleton of some horrific creature fifty feet long; the bare teeth jutting from the jawbones were as long as his forearm. Wooden cases of all sizes, many covered with sheets of thick crystal, lined the walls and stood in neatly spaced rows across the room. In the one closest to them lay a collection of jeweled ornaments and vessels. The one next to it contained a golden coronet studded with rubies. Another was devoted to wizardly paraphernalia.

“How do you like it?” Seregil whispered, grinning at the boy’s gape-mouthed wonder. Alec made no reply as he slowly made his way from case to case, looking like a thirsty man who just found an unexpected spring.

The room was very quiet, but not unoccupied. A group of scholars were there examining a tapestry. Nearby, a girl in
apprentice robes sat on a high stool next to one of the cases, working with wax tablet and stylus at copying a passage from an open book displayed there. Across the room, two scarlet-clad servants were in the process of replacing some items in a crystal case.

“I used to spend a good deal of time here,” Seregil told Alec softly. “I’ve even managed to add a few pieces to the collection over the years. This, for instance.”

Steering him to a case near the center of the room, Seregil pointed to a delicate flower carved from translucent pink stone.

“This belonged to the enchantress Nimia Reshal. When the proper words are spoken, it emits a magical fragrance which renders anyone who inhales it a helpless slave to the owner. She’d managed to snare Micum before I got hold of it.”

“Why didn’t she catch you, too?” Alec whispered.

“I happened to be approaching from a different direction at the time. While she was concentrating on him, I simply held my nose, crept up from behind, and knocked her on the head. Never underestimate the benefit of surprise!”

Nodding, Alec turned to the next case and stiffened. Inside lay a pair of shriveled hands, the skin darkened to the color of old leather.

“What are
those
?” he gasped.

“Shh! A most unusual relic. Look closer.”

Jeweled rings still encircled the withered fingers and the long discolored nails were covered with a delicate tracery of golden whorls; the plain iron manacles encircling each wrist looked out of keeping with the rest of the ornaments. Each band was held fast by a long spike driven through the wrist just below the base of each hand. The whole affair was bolted to the bottom of the case.

Alec stared down at the hands with puzzled revulsion. “What in the world are—”

Just then, one of the leathery forefingers slowly raised and lowered, as if scolding his idle scrutiny.

Seregil had been watching closely all the while. As soon as he saw the hand move, he ran a finger lightly down the boy’s back, sending him into the air with a startled yelp.

“Damn it, Seregil!” Alec cried, whirling around.

The scholars turned with inquiring stares. The apprentice
dropped her stylus, then began to giggle. The servants merely exchanged disgusted looks.

Seregil leaned against a case, shoulders quivering with smothered laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, feeling anything but repentant as he exchanged a knowing wink with the girl. “That trick has been played on just about every apprentice who ever served here, including me. I couldn’t resist.”

“You scared me half to death!” Alec whispered indignantly. “What
are
those things?”

Seregil rested his elbows on the edge of the case, tapping a finger idly against the glass. “The hands of Tikárie Megraesh, a great necromancer.”

“They moved.” Alec shuddered, peering over Seregil’s shoulder. “It’s as if they’re still alive.”

“In a sense, they are,” Seregil replied. “This necromancer ended his days as a dyrmagnos. Have you ever heard the term?”

“No. What does it mean?”

“It’s the ultimate fate of necromancers. You see, all forms of magic exact a certain toll from those who practice it, but necromancy is by far the worst. It gradually wastes the body, draining life even as it increases the force of that person’s will. In time, there’s nothing left but a walking corpse burning with terrible intelligence—a dyrmagnos. This fellow here was at least six centuries old when Nysander cut these hands off him and, according to him, they haven’t changed much in appearance since he took them, which gives you some idea what the rest of Tikárie Megraesh must have looked like.”

The left hand stirred, scrabbling softly against the bottom of the case with its blackened nails. Alec shuddered again. “If that’s what his hands looked like, I’d hate to have seen the face.”

“These hands escaped once,” Seregil went on, staring down at the twitching things. “It’s nearly impossible to kill a dyrmagnos, once it’s reached such an age. All you can do is dismember and contain it. Those symbols you see painted on the nails were part of the original binding spell to break the power of the creature. Eventually the life will fade from them.”

Alec frowned down at them. “What if all the pieces were brought together again before that happened?”

“They’d rejoin and the dyrmagnos would live again. As I recall, a few other parts of him are somewhere down in the vaults,
but most were carried off for safekeeping by other wizards. The head is the most dangerous part. That was sealed in a lead casket and dropped into the sea.

Seregil savored a shiver of his own, imagining the head locked in darkness beneath the chill waters, dreaming perhaps, or screaming its hatred to the unheeding creatures of the mud. On the heels of that pleasant thought came another, however. When was the last time he’d seen the hands move as much as this?

“Are there any other dead things in here?” asked Alec, moving to another case.

“Not ones that move.”

“Good!”

They wandered on awhile longer, but Seregil’s strength soon flagged.

There was no use trying to hide the fact from Alec. “You’re looking pale again,” he said. “Come on, a walk outside in the air might not be such a bad idea after all.”

The pale winter sky overhead presaged snow, but inside the walls the gardens were bathed with fragrant breezes, and the soft turf beneath their feet was redolent with chamomile and creeping thyme.

Seregil was leaning more heavily on his arm than he had earlier, Alec noted, wondering if it had been a mistake not going back to their room.

“There,” Seregil said, pointing the way to a nearby fountain. Reaching it, he collapsed on the grass and leaned back against its basin.

Alec looked him over with renewed concern. “You’re as white as this marble!”

Seregil dipped a hand in the water and pressed it to his brow. “Just let me get my breath.”

“He’s only doing it to spite Valerius, you know,” a familiar voice interrupted.

A pair of women sauntered up. Both wore the green and white uniform of the Queen’s Horse Guard. The shorter of the two, Alec realized with a start, was Princess Klia. Her companion, a dark, serious-looking woman, stood at ease beside her.

Klia flopped down unceremoniously in front of Seregil but ignored
him completely, addressing Alec as if they were old friends.

“Now, if Valerius had ordered him to get up and about as soon as possible, he’d have clung in bed ’til spring. You’re better turned out than when we met last, I must say. What name are you going by today?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Alec.”

“Hello again, Alec. This is Captain Myrhini.”

The dark woman surprised him with a flashing smile as she joined them on the grass.

“I wondered afterward at meeting another Silverleaf,” Klia went on cheerfully. “If I’d known Seregil was with you, the two of you could have ridden back with us.”

“I was indisposed at the time,” Seregil said, drawing her teasing gaze at last. “How did you know I was back?”

“I met Nysander on his way to a meeting with Mother and Lord Barien last night.” Her blue eyes shone fiercely. “From what she said this morning, it sounds like things may get interesting again.”

Seregil grimaced. “I should think you’d have seen enough of battle last year. That piece of fun nearly cost you your arm and Myrhini both.”

Myrhini gave the toe of Klia’s boot a playful kick. “You know her. She’s Sakor-touched. It only makes her hotter for the next fight.”

“As if you’re not just as bad.” Klia grinned. “Either one of us could be at home with a babe or two already if we didn’t care more for battle than we do for a handsome face! Seregil, come see the horse Alec helped me buy in Cirna. Hwerlu is looking him over for me at the grove.”

Klia helped Seregil to his feet, then wrapped a supporting arm around his waist as they set off for a nearby stand of oaks.

“I know one handsome face she favors, if only its owner had the wit to see,” Myrhini whispered to Alec, winking in Seregil’s direction as they followed the others.

Entering the little grove, Alec was delighted to find that Hwerlu was the centaur he’d glimpsed his first day in Rhíminee.

The creature was even more imposing at close quarters; his chestnut-colored horse body was a good twenty hands tall at the shoulder, while his man parts were those of a giant. Klia’s unusual black and white and another Aurënfaie horse stood by him,
and he patted them with his large, blunt hands as if they were hounds. Seregil and Klia looked like a pair of children standing next to him.

“Come here!” Seregil called to Alec. “I seem to recall you once referring to centaurs as mere legend.”

When Hwerlu bent to greet him, Alec noticed that he had the eyes of a horse, large and dark, showing no white.

“Greetings, little Alec.” Hwerlu’s voice rumbled richly from the depths of his huge chest. “The light of Illior shines brightly in you. It must please you to see that legends can be real.”

“It does,” Alec told him. “I never imagined centaurs were so big!”

Laughing, Hwerlu threw back his black mane and pranced in a circle, his broad hoofs shaking the earth beneath their feet. He stopped abruptly, however, and trotted across the clearing.

“And here is another legend! My lovely Feeya,” he proclaimed as another centaur stepped into the circle of trees.

Feeya was a sorrel, and only a little smaller than Hwerlu. She had the same coarse mane of hair running down her back, but the skin of her human torso was otherwise as smooth as any woman’s. A heavy torque like Hwerlu’s was her only adornment, but Alec quickly saw that he had no cause for embarrassment for she had no breasts, centaurs suckling their young in the same fashion as horses. Her broad features were not beautiful by common standards but, taken for what she was, she had a beauty of her own.

Hwerlu gallantly brought his lady to meet Alec. “She does not speak your tongue, but it pleases her to hear it.”

Alec greeted the golden centaur. Smiling, she lifted his chin and spoke to him in her own curious whistling language as she inspected his face with apparent interest.

Standing behind Alec, Seregil answered her in the centaur tongue. With a toss of her long mane, Feeya nodded to them both and went to admire Klia’s new horse.

“What did she say?” asked Alec.

“Oh, a greeting like Hwerlu’s. I thanked her for you.” Seregil sat down at the base of a tree with a contented sigh.

“Are there a lot of centaurs in Skala?” Alec gazed at the pair of handsome creatures across the clearing.

“No. They live mainly in the mountains across the Osiat Sea. A few large tribes still roam the high plains there. Magyana
brought Hwerlu and Feeya back to Rhíminee with her a few years ago. That’s her tower there, to the left of Nysander’s.”

“Nysander’s friend?”

“Yes. Magyana’s a great traveler. She went to learn more of centaur ways. Hwerlu was curious about her magic, it being so different from his own, so he came back with her. He’ll go home when he’s satisfied.”

“Are you a wizard, too, then?” Alec asked Hwerlu, who’d returned.

“I cannot make fire without fuel, or fly through the air like the Orëska wizards. My power lies in my music.” Hwerlu indicated the large harp that hung in the branches of a nearby tree. “I sing healings, charms, dreams. I think now maybe I should sing a healing for you, Seregil. I still see sickness in your face.”