Nightrunners 03 - Traitor's Moon (23 page)

"Usually because I'd gotten him into trouble in the first place," Seregil added, drawing laughter from many of the other guests.

Servants brought in trays of food and wine as Adzriel made introductions. Alec quickly lost track of the names but noted with interest the various Bokthersans. Many were referred to as cousins; such terms often indicated ties of affection rather than blood. One of these people turned out to be Kheeta's mother, a dark-eyed woman who reminded Alec of Kari Cavish.

She shook a finger sternly at Seregil. "You broke our hearts, Haba, but only because we loved you so." The stern look gave way to a tearful smile as she embraced him. "It is so very good to see you in this house again. Come to the kitchen anytime and I'll bake spice cakes for you."

"I'll make you keep that promise, Aunt Malli," Seregil replied huskily, kissing the backs of her hands.

Alec knew he was seeing glimpses of a history he did not share. As the old familiar ache threatened to close around his heart, however, he felt long fingers close over his own. For once, Seregil understood and offered silent apology.

The meal began informally with several courses of finger foods: morsels of spiced meat or cheese wrapped in pastry, olives, fruit, fanciful nosegays of edible greens and flowers.

"Turab,
a Bokthersan specialty," a server murmured, filling Alec's cup with a frothy reddish ale.

Seregil clinked his cup against Alec's, murmuring, "My tali."

Meeting his friend's gaze over the rim of his cup, Alec saw an odd mix of joy and sadness there.

"I'd like to hear of this war from you, Captain," said Adzriel's husband, Saaban i Irais, as a course of meats was served. "And from you, as well, Klia a Idrilain, if it is not too upsetting to speak of it. There are many Bokthersans who will join your ranks if the Iia'sidra allows." Judging by the worried frown that crossed Adzriel's face, Alec guessed that Saaban might be one of them.

"The more I see of your people, the more I wonder why they would risk themselves in a foreign conflict," Beka replied.

"Not all would, or will," he conceded. "But there are those who would rather meet the Plenimarans now than fight them and the Zengati on our own soil later."

"We can use all the help we can get," said Klia. "For now, however, let's keep the darkness away and speak of happier things."

As the evening progressed and the
turab
flowed, conversation turned to reminiscences of Seregil's childhood exploits. Kheeta i Branin figured in a good many of these tales, and Alec was surprised to learn that the man was actually a few years older than Seregil. Seregil had moved to Kheeta's couch to share some story, and Alec studied the pair and those around them, trying yet again to get his mind around the long 'faie life span that he himself shared. Adzriel and her husband, he knew, were in their twelfth decade, a youthful prime among the Aurenfaie. The oldest guest, a Gedre named Corim, was in his third century and looked no older than Micum Cavish, at least at first glance.

It s the eyes,
Alec thought. There was a stillness in the eyes of the older 'faire, as if the knowledge and wisdom of their long lives left its mark there—one that Kheeta did not yet show. Seregil, though—he had old eyes in a young face, as if he'd seen too much too soon.

And so he has, just in the time I've known him,
Alec reflected. By the time they'd met, Seregil had already lived a human lifetime and seen a human generation age and die. He'd made a name for himself while the friends of his youth were still finishing out their long childhoods. Seeing him here, among his own kind, Alec realized for the first time just how young his friend actually was. What did his own people see when they looked at Seregil?

Or at me?

Seregil threw his head back, laughing, and for a moment he looked as innocent as Kheeta. It was good to see him like that, but Alec couldn't keep away the darker thought that this was how he might have been if he'd never gone to Skala.

"You're as solemn as Aura's owl, and as quiet," Mydri observed, sitting down next to him and taking his hand.

"I'm still trying to believe I'm really here," Alec replied.

"So am I," she said, and another of those unexpectedly warm smiles softened her stern features.

"Can the ban of exile ever be lifted?" Alec asked, keeping his voice low.

Mydri sighed. "It happens, especially with one so young. Still, it would take a petition from the Haman khirnari to begin the debate, and that doesn't seem very likely. The Haman are an honorable people, but they are proud in a way that breeds bitterness. Old Nazien is no exception. He still grieves at the loss of his grandson and resents Seregil's return."

"By the Light, you're a grim pair," Seregil called over, and Alec realized that he was drunk, a rarity for Seregil.

"Are we?" Mydri shot back, a gleam of challenge in her eyes. "Tell me, Alec, does Seregil still have his fine singing voice?"

"As fine as any bard's," Alec told her, giving Seregil a teasing wink.

"Sing for us, tali!" Adzriel urged, overhearing. At her signal, a servant came forward with something large and flat wrapped in patterned silk and placed it in Seregil's hands.

He unwrapped it with a knowing smile. It was a harp, its dark wood polished with use.

"We kept it for you, all these years," Mydri told him as he settled it against his chest and ran his fingers across the strings.

He plucked out a simple tune that drew tearful smiles from his sisters, then moved on to a complex tune, fingers flying across the strings as melody followed melody. Even drunk and out of practice, he played beautifully.

After a moment he paused, then began the exile's lament he'd sung the first time he'd spoken to Alec of Aurenen.

My love is wrapped in a cloak of flowing green

and wears the moon for a crown. And all around has chains of flowing silver.

Her mirrors reflect the sky. O, to roam your flowing cloak of green

under the light of the ever-crowning moon.

Will I ever drink of your chains of flowing silver and drift once more across your mirrors of the sky?

"A bard's voice, indeed," said Saaban, dabbing at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. "With such power to move the emotions, I hope you know happier tunes."

"A few," Seregil said. "Alec, give us the harmony on 'Fair Rises My Lover.' "

The Skalan song was warmly received, and more instruments appeared as if on cue.

"Where's Urien?" Seregil demanded, squinting out into the garden at the soldiers. "Someone give that boy a lute!"

This broke through the Urgazhi's reticence. The young rider's friends all but carried the blushing musician forward, demanding favorite ballads as if they were at a crossroads tavern.

"For the pride of the decuria, rider!" Mercalle ordered with mock severity.

Urien accepted an Aurenfaie lute and smoothed an admiring hand over its round back.

"For the pride of the turma," he said, striking a chord. "This is from before my time with the Urgazhi."

Ghost wolves they call us, and Ghost Wolves we are. Drawn to the enemy by a plague star Fighting and burning, deep in their lines Our Captain was fearless, we followed behind.

Death and dark magic, demons she faced, Under the black sun, in that dread lonely place. The black shields of Plenimar, rank upon rank Until their Duke Mardus, in his blood sank
  
.

Alec watched in dismay as Seregil's smile froze and Thero went pale. One of several ballads that extolled the Urgazhi's early exploits, this one spoke of Nysander's death. Fortunately, Beka caught on at once.

"Enough, enough!" she begged, masking her concern with a comic grimace. "By the Four, Urien, of all the grim, threadbare ballads to choose! Give us 'Illior's Face Upon the Waters' to honor our good hosts."

The chagrined rider nodded and commenced the tune, playing each flourish flawlessly. Seregil moved to sit by Alec again.

"You looked as. if you'd seen a ghost. Are you all right?" he whispered, as if the previous song had not affected him.

Alec nodded.

The song ended and Kheeta held a harp out to Klia.

"What about you, my lady? "

"Oh, no! I have the voice of a crow. Thero, didn't I hear you sing a passable ballad after our victory at Two Horse Crossing?"

"I'd had a bit more to drink then, my lady," the wizard replied, thin cheeks coloring as all eyes turned his way.

"Don't be shy!" Sergeant Braknil called out. "We heard you sing sober aboard the
Zyria."

"All the same, perhaps our hosts would prefer a small demonstration of Third Oreska magic? " Thero countered.

"Very well," laughed Mydri.

Thero produced a pouch of fine white sand and sprinkled it in a circle on the ground in front of the couches. Using his crystal wand, he wove a series of glowing sigils over it. Instead of the tidy configurations he usually produced, however, they swelled and bulged, then exploded with enough force to scatter the sand and knock wine cups in all directions. Thero dropped the wand with a startled yelp and stuck his fingers in his mouth.

Alec stifled a laugh; the normally reserved wizard looked like a cat that had just slipped on a patch of ice, chagrined and determined to regain his dignity before anyone noticed. Seregil shook with silent laughter beside him.

"My apologies!" Thero exclaimed in dismay. "I—I can't imagine what happened."

"The fault is mine. I should have warned you," Adzriel assured him, clearly fighting down a smile of her own. "Magic must be performed with great care here. The power of Sarikali feeds into our own, making magic sometimes unpredictable. All the more so in your case, evidently."

"So I see." Thero retrieved his wand and tucked it in his belt. After a moment's thought, he sprinkled more sand and tried the spell again, drawing the sigils with his fingers this time. The patterns hung in the air a few inches above the ground, then coalesced into a flat disk of silvery light as big around as a serving platter. He added another sigil, and the smooth surface took on a mottled array of sun-washed colors, then resolved itself into a miniature city set high above a miniature harbor.

"How wonderful!" exclaimed Amali, leaning forward to admire his creation. "What place is it?"

"Rhiminee, my lady," he replied.

"That sprawling black-and-grey monstrosity is the queen's Palace, my home," Klia remarked dryly. "While this lovely white structure over here, the one with the sparkling dome and towers, is the Oreska House."

"I visited it during my time in Rhiminee," said Adzriel. "As I recall, the wizards of Skala were originally scattered around your land, some solitary, others serving various noble houses."

"Yes, my lady; what we called the Second Oreska. After the old capital, Ero, was destroyed, Queen Tamir founded Rhiminee and forged an alliance with the greatest wizards of her day, the Third Oreska. They helped build her city and other wonders; in return she gifted them with her patronage and the land for the Oreska House."

"Then it is true that those among you with magic are kept apart from others?" an Akhendi asked.

"No, not at all," Thero replied. "It's just that we are so different by virtue of that magic and its effect on us—life spans comparable to your own, and the barrenness that is its price—that it was good to have a haven, a place where we could live and share our learning among ourselves. Wizards are not required to live there, but many choose to. I spent most of my life there, in the tower of my master, Nysander i Azusthra. Wizards are highly honored in Skala, I assure you."

"Yet do you not find it sad, to be cut off from the natural flow of life among your own kind?" the same Akhendi asked.

Thero considered this and shrugged. "No, not really. I've never known any other life."

"Rhaish and I visited your city as boys," Riagil i Molan told Klia. "We went to attend the wedding of Corruth i Glamien to your ancestress, Idrilain the First. We were taken to visit this Oreska House of yours. Rhaish, do you recall that wizard who did tricks for us?"

"Oriena, I think her name was," the Akhendi khirnari replied. "It was a beautiful place, with gardens where it was always springtime, and a great mosaic on the floor showing Aura's dragon. The queen's Palace was much darker, with thick walls like a fortress."

"Which only goes to prove that my ancestor, Queen Tamir, should have included more wizards among her builders," Klia said, smiling.

"I should like to see this Third Oreska," said Amali.

"With pleasure, my lady, though it is a less happy place now than it once was." Thero uttered a quick command, and the city's image was replaced with a view of the Oreska gardens. A few robed

figures were visible there, but the place looked strangely deserted. The scene shifted, and Alec recognized the view of the central atrium from the balcony by Nysander's tower door. Sections of the dragon mosaic still showed the damage caused by the attack of Mardus and his necromancers. Here, too, there were fewer people than Alec remembered from his time there,