Nightrunners 03 - Traitor's Moon (34 page)

"What happened?"

Adzriel shrugged. "She chose duty over love, I suppose, marrying the khirnari of her clan rather than an outsider. But I know she's grown to love Rhaish dearly; it's Nyal who carries the pain of that decision. He strikes me as the sort of man who does not stop loving even when his love is turned away. Perhaps Beka can heal his heart."

"Just so long as he doesn't break hers in the process. Rhaish is getting long in years. Is he well?"

"I've been wondering that myself. He doesn't seem himself; the strain of the negotiations, no doubt."

"He's known more than his share of sorrows, too," said Saaban. "He's seen two wives die, one barren, one in childbed, along with the child. Now Amali carries their first child. That's bad enough by itself, but to be khirnari and watch your people suffer as his do—I can only imagine how much this business weighs on his mind. I suspect Amali wanted nothing more from Nyal than a shoulder to cry on."

"Try as I may to dislike the man, I hear nothing but good spoken of him," Seregil muttered as they walked back to their room.

"The Akhendi khirnari?" asked Alec.

"No, Nyal. Caring for the lover who threw you over shows more character than I have."

Alec allowed himself a smug grin. "See? I knew you were wrong about him."

Amali huddled in darkness by the bedchamber window, fighting back tears as Rhaish thrashed again in his sleep. He would not tell her what his dreams were, though they grew worse every night, making him sweat and groan. If she woke him he would cry out, glaring at her with mad, sightless eyes.

Amali a Yassara was no stranger to fear; she'd seen her family skirt starvation, driven by it out of the lands they knew to live like beggars in the streets of successive towns and cities across Akhendi. She'd let Nyal heal her fears for a time, but he wanted to take her away, to wander like a teth'brimash again. It was Rhaish who'd saved her, lifted her up and made her proud again to wear the sen'gai of her people. Her parents and brothers ate at the khirnari's table now, and she carried the khirnari's son under her heart. Before the Skalans had come, bearing hope, she had felt safe. Now her husband shouted madness in his sleep.

With a guilty shudder, she felt in the pocket of her nightdress for the warding charm Nyal had given her to mend. It wasn't his, but it was a link to him, an excuse to meet again when she'd finished with it. Her fingers stroked the crude knots of the wristband: a child's work, but effective. Nyal's fingers had brushed her palm as he'd given it to her when they first arrived at the House of Pillars. She let herself savor the memory of that touch, and those that followed; his fingers on her hair, his arms around her, shielding her for a little while from all her fears and worries. It wasn't the Ra'basi she ached for now, but the sense of peace he'd always been able to give her— just never for long enough.

She pushed the charm back into her pocket, her talisman to summon that comfort again if she needed it. Drying her tears, she found a soft cloth and went to wipe her beloved's brow.
  
'

18

Magyana

Cool
 
mountain
  
air
 
against
 
her face. Jagged peaks against a flawless sky. One more pass to traverse and she'd be on the high plains beyond. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the mingled scents of wet stone, wild thyme, and the sweat steaming from her horse's withers.

Freedom. Nothing ahead of her but endless days of exploration
—

Magyana jerked out of her doze as the quill slipped from her fingers. Her mouth was dry. The stale, overheated air inside the queen's tent made her head ache. The dream had been so clear—for just an instant a flash of resentment overwhelmed her.
I
never asked for this!

Retrieving the fallen pen, Magyana trimmed it and settled resignedly back in her chair. Freedom was an illusion she'd been able to maintain too well for too many years. The gifts that raised a wizard to the highest levels of the Oreska came with a price— different for each, according to their talents.

The bill for her wandering years had come due, and here she sat, unable to do more than watch over the best of queens as Idrilain fought death, her final adversary.

Being Idrilain, she had managed to rally, at least for a time. Klia's departure for Aurenen had somehow buoyed her. In the month since,

she clung doggedly to life, even putting on a little flesh as the infection in her lungs receded. Most days she hovered in a murky half-sleep, surfacing now and then into lucid conversation, catching up with a few questions on the progress of the war and Klia's mission, though of the latter there was still cruelly little to report. Neither strong enough nor willing to make the long journey back to Rhiminee, Idrilain was content to remain in what was now essentially Phoria's camp. As Queen's Wizard, Magyana remained with her, trapped in this stuffy tent, surrounded by medicine vessels and the heavy smell of illness and an old woman dying—

Magyana pushed away the guilty thoughts. Yet tied she was, by love, oath, and honor, until Idrilain saw fit to release her, or was released herself.

Leaving the queen to sleep, Magyana carried her chair and writing materials outside. Late-afternoon light bathed the sprawling encampment in a deceptively gentle light. Dipping her pen in the inkpot, she began again.

"My dear Thero, yesterday the Plenimarans drove a line of Mycenian troops back to within a few miles of where I sit. In Skala more towns have been burned along the eastern coast. Stories of a darker sort come in from all quarters—half a regiment of White Hawk archers stricken in one night, overwhelmed by evil vapors; dead men rising to strangle their own comrades; a dyrmagnos summoning ghostly terrors and fountains of fire in broad daylight. Some are mere soldiers' tales, but a few have been verified. Our colleague, Elutheus, himself witnessed a necromancer calling down lightning at Gresher's Ford.

"Even Phoria cannot discount such reports, but she stubbornly maintains that such attacks are so isolated as to be of little concern. In the short term, she may be right. With the destruction of the Helm, the Overlord's necromancers cannot command enough power to overwhelm us with mere magic, but the threat of it among our soldiers, fed by rumor and report, does great harm nonetheless.

"The news is not all bad, however. To Phoria's credit, she is a decisive leader, if not a diplomatic one, and the generals trust her. Over the past week she has organized significant strikes against enemy forces to the east, and has had several victories. Tell Klia that her friend, Commander Myrhini, captured fifty enemy horses. A great coup indeed, as many cavalry soldiers are afoot for lack of mounts to replace those killed in battle. Others are making do with whatever horses they can commandeer about the countryside, a situation that is not endearing them to the locals.

"The third of Klia's dispatches reached us here yesterday. Phoria said little, but her impatience is clear. Surely some small concession can be coaxed from the Iia'sidra? Otherwise, I fear she will recall you. With every new death of an able commander reported, Klia's presence on the field is more greatly missed."

Magyana paused, considering information she dared not entrust to writing, even in such a message as this. Like the fact that she, eldest of the remaining Oreska wizards, dared not openly translocate this parchment to her protege lest Phoria hear of it. The Princess Royal made no secret of her distrust of wizards in general, and her mother's adviser in particular. Magyana had already been summoned once to explain her actions, and for nothing more than performing a scry at General Armeneus's request. In the weeks since Phoria had taken over as War Commander, a subtle shift had occurred. Watchful eyes and ears were at work for her in every quarter, including those of that handsome snake, Captain Traneus.

Klia has enough to occupy her mind,
thought Magyana, obscuring the letter with a spell only Thero could unravel. She would put it in the hands of the dispatch rider herself later. Let Traneus make of that what he would.

19

Another Evening's Entertainment

The dream was less coherent this time, but more vivid. The burning room was still his old chamber in Bokthersa, yet here were the heads of Thryis and the others glaring at him from the mantelpiece. There was no chance this time to choose what things to save, what to abandon. Fire raced up the hangings of the bed, the draperies, up his legs, but its touch was deadly cold.

The smoke boiling up through the floorboards thickened the band of sunlight spilling into the little chamber, blinding him with its bright glare. His throat was full, his hands useless.

Across the room, just visible through the smoke, a lean figure moved closer.

"No!" he thought. "Not here. Never here."

liar's presence made no more sense than that of the glass spheres he clutched so desperately in both hands. The flames cleared before Ilar as he approached, his smile warm and welcoming.

So handsome. So graceful.

Seregil had forgotten how the man moved, light and easy as a lynx. Almost close enough to touch now.

Seregil felt the cold flames eating into him, felt smooth glass slipping through his fingers.

Ilar reached for him. No, he was offering him something, a bloody sword.

"No!" Seregil shouted, clutching frantically at the glass orbs. "No, I don't want it!"

Seregil started up in bed, drenched in sweat and amazed to find Alec still asleep beside him. Hadn't he been shouting?

Shout?
he thought in sudden alarm. He couldn't even get his breath. The cold smoke from the dream still filled his lungs, making even the slight weight of Alec's arm across his chest a stifling burden. He was choking, suffocating.

He slid out of bed as carefully as his rising panic allowed, still irrationally concerned about waking Alec. Snatching up discarded clothing, he blundered out into the dimly lit corridor.

Breath came easier once he was in motion. But when he paused to drag on his breeches and boots, the smothering sensation overwhelmed him again. He hurried on, pulling on the surcoat—Alec's, it turned out—as he went.

He was practically running now, past the second landing and on down the broader staircase that led to the hall.

What am I doing?

He slowed, and as if in answer, the breath locked tight in his chest. So he blundered on, praying he didn't meet anyone in his current state.

Raw instinct guided him down a side passage and out through the kitchen to the stable court. The moon was down, the shadows thick. A murmur of voices and a faint glow of firelight near the gate marked where the sentries stood, just outside the gate. Scaling the back wall unseen was a simple feat for the man once know as—

Haba

—the Rhiminee Cat.

The soft turf of the street muffled the sound of his boots as he jumped down from the top of the wall and loped away, the unfastened coat flapping loosely around his bare sides.

For a while the feel of his heart and breath and the long legs carrying him along were enough to fend off thought. Gradually, however, he grew calmer, and the panicked dash slowed to a walking meditation.

The confusion of the Cockerel with his childhood room—a homecoming of sorts? he wondered, beginning to pick away at the dream that had precipitated this headlong nocturnal perambulation.

But the rest: glass orbs, fire, smoke, Ilar. Try as he might, the dream's import still eluded him.

But then again, the images spoke of the past he'd mourned and here he was, alone under the stars, as he'd so often dreamed of being during the lonely years in Skala.

Alone with his own thoughts.

Introspection had never been a favorite pastime. In fact, he was quite skilled at avoiding it. "Take what the Lightbearer sends and be thankful." How many times had he quoted that, his creed, his catalyst, his bulwark against self-revelation?

The Lightbearer sent dreams—and madness. His thin mouth tilted into a humorless smirk:
better not to dwell too long on that.
Nonetheless, this dream had driven him out alone for the first time since their arrival in Sarikali. Goose flesh prickled his skin, and he fastened the coat, noting absently that it was a little loose in the shoulders for him.

Alec.

Seregil had been with him or others day and night without cease since their arrival, making it a simple matter to fill every waking moment with the business at hand—so many concerns, so much to do. So very easy to stave off the thoughts brewing since he'd set foot in Gedre—hell, since Beka had told him about this mission in the first place.

Exile

Traitor

Alone here in the haunted stillness of a Sarikali night, he was stripped of his defenses.

Murderer

Guest slayer

With hallucinatory clarity, he felt the hardness of a long-gone dagger's hilt clenched in his right fist, felt again for the first time the jar and give as the blade sank into the outraged Haman's—

You knew him. He had a name.
His father's voice now, filled with disgust.