Nightrunners 03 - Traitor's Moon (45 page)

"Torsin?"

"Torsin met secretly with someone in Khatme tupa one night, about two weeks after our arrival," said Seregil. "At least one person at that meeting was a Viresse. There's evidence that Ulan summoned him to that meeting. It was only by chance that Alec discovered he'd gone out."

Klia gave Alec a dubious look that made the younger man color guiltily. "When I ordered you two not to spy without my permission, that included spying on our own people."

Seregil started to reply but she cut him off abruptly. "Hear me, both of you. You needn't concern yourself with Torsin. Wherever Ulan may have gotten this damaging information against my sister, I assure you, it did not come from Torsin. I suggest you concentrate on learning where it
did
come from."

She knows about her envoy's midnight meetings, or thinks she

does,
thought Seregil, smarting under the unexpected reprimand. It hadn't occurred to him that Klia might keep secrets from him. On the other hand, he was fairly certain Torsin knew nothing of his or Alec's true talents. If that were so, then Klia was playing a more complex game than he'd guessed. He glanced at the wizard, wondering how much Thero knew. He didn't appear much surprised by this exchange.

"If it came from Plenimar, then that might also explain those Plenimaran warships that ambushed us in the Ea'malies," Thero mused. "Perhaps the honorable khirnari paid for information with information."

Klia nodded slowly. "I'd very much like to know the truth of that. The negotiations have limped along too long. Every dispatch I get from Phoria is more impatient than the last. Today's all but accuses me of purposefully stalling."

"How could Phoria think that?" exclaimed Alec.

"Who can explain what my sister thinks these days, or why?" Klia rubbed wearily at her eyelids. "This business with Viresse might be just the thing to turn matters our way. Tell me, my Aurenfaie adviser, would it be safe to say that Ulan has acted dishonorably toward me?"

"An argument could be made," said Seregil. "Of course, if we had to explain to the Iia'sidra how you found out about it, it would put Alec on chancy ground."

"I'll leave it up to you to keep us from having to explain anything to anyone. Two days from now, we and the Eleven are to be the guests of Ulan i Sathil."

"Are you suggesting what I think, my lady?"

Klia gave an eloquent shrug. "What's the use of bringing fine coursing hounds to the hunt if you never slip the lead? First thing tomorrow I'll speak in private to Lord Torsin and Adzriel a Illia of all you've told me tonight. My principal adviser and our best ally must not be taken by surprise, either."

"Will you tell Torsin that I spied on him?" Alec asked nervously.

"No, but I want your word that you won't do it again. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lady."

Klia leveled a knowing look at Seregil. "That includes you, as well."

"You have my word. What about Nyal? If it hadn't been for him,

we might have missed this altogether. He asked Alec to tell him what he learned."

Klia sighed. "Ah, yes, Nyal. He's served us well, and word is bound to spread, anyway, since that appears to be Ulan's intent. Tell him only what Alec heard. Nothing more."

26

War

The flush of victory made Phoria feel younger than her years. For two days they'd fought under driving spring rains, forcing the Plenimarans from a pass west of the river. The cost had been high on both sides, but Skala had regained a few precious acres.

A cheer went up across the camp as she rode in at the head of what remained of the Horse Guard regiment. Mingled with the accolades were the wails of camp followers as the missing were noted. There'd be a more somber welcome for the fallen, who followed in carts somewhere back down the road.

Her route through the camp led the new queen past the tents of the guilds, and she caught sight of a potter standing with her hands on her hips, no doubt making a rough count of empty saddles, estimating how many urns would be needed to hold the ashes of the dead for that last journey home.

Phoria dismissed the thought for now. Victories had been hard enough to come by this spring and she meant to savor this one.

At her pavilion, she was greeted by more cheers from the soldiers and servants massed there.

"You showed 'em today, General!" a grizzled veteran called out, waving a regimental banner in one hand. "Give us a chance tomorrow to do you proud!"

"You've done me proud every day you've been on the field, Sergeant," Phoria called back, earning another roar of acclaim. The soldiers still addressed her by her military title, and for now, that was just how she wanted it.

Dismounting, she led her attending officers inside to the waiting meal. Not a banquet, perhaps, but reward enough for honest soldiers.

They were still at table when Captain Traneus appeared at the open flap of the tent. He was muddy to the knees and carried a pouch over his shoulder.

"What word from Rhiminee, Captain?" Phoria called.

"Word from Prince Korathan, my lady, and fresh dispatches from Aurenen," he said, handing over the pouch.

Inside she found three documents. The first, from Korathan, robbed the day of its savor. Reading it through twice, she lowered it slowly and looked around at the expectant faces turned her way. "The Plenimarans have attacked Skala's southern coast. They've burned three cities already: Kalis, Yalin, and Deep Trebolin."

"Yalin?" General Arlis gasped, "That's only fifty miles from Rhiminee!"

Pain flared behind Phoria's eyes. She set her brother's dispatch on the table before her, and opened the parchment bearing Klia's seal. It brought the same news as ever—progress was slowly being made. Now she thought perhaps the Haman clan was being swayed. But no concessions. No end in sight.

Closing her eyes, she massaged the bridge of her nose as the pain mounted to a throbbing ache. "Leave me."

When the scrape of feet and creak of leather had died away, she looked up to find Traneus still there.

Only now did she reach for the third missive, this one sealed with a few drops of candle wax. Like the others that had come to her in the past weeks, it was careful in its phrasing. Klia was not lying, but putting a more hopeful cast on events.

"Our informant tells me that the Viresse have increased their influence," she told Traneus. "The negotiations are at a standstill. She does not share my sister's optimistic view of the outcome. There is even talk that Viresse may prefer the gold of Plenimar to our own."

She handed the letter to Traneus, who locked it away in a nearby casket with the others already neatly stacked there.

"What message shall I take back, my lady?"

Phoria tugged at a ring on her left hand. Her fingers were swollen from the day's battle, and she had to spit on it to work it loose. Wiping it on the hem of her tunic, she held it a moment, admiring the play of light over the dragon carved into the black stone. "Return this to my brother. I want it on his hand within two days. No one is to know of it but you. Go immediately."

Traneus had only just come from Rhiminee, a hard journey of several days by land or sea. The task she'd just set him meant no rest, but the man's face betrayed nothing but obedient devotion, just as she'd expected. If he survived this war, a ring of a different sort might just find its way onto his talented hand.

Alone in the great tent, Phoria sat back in her chair and smiled as she regarded the slightly lighter circle of skin where the ring had been.

Her headache was nearly gone.

27

More Ghosts

Seregil woke before daybreak on the final day of mourning, once again trying to grasp a dream before it faded. It had started out with the same familiar images. This time, however, he seemed to recall the rhui'auros, Lhial, standing in the corner of the room, trying to tell him something very important in a voice too low to make out over the crackling of the flames.

There was no panic this time, but he knew where he had to go; he could feel the pull of the place like a hook under his breastbone. With a sigh, he slipped out of bed, wondering if he could make it back before the day's visitors began to arrive.

Someone was singing a dawn song from an upper window of the Nha'mahat as Seregil approached on horseback. Flocks of tiny dragons whirled around the building, their drab bodies turned to dusky gold by the first rays of morning.

"Maros Aura Elustri chyptir,"
he whispered, not sure what the reason for the prayer was, except that he suddenly felt grateful for the sight before him and the fact that he was here in this blessed place to witness it.

Donning a mask at the door, he followed a guide into the main chamber. A few dreamers

already lay there. "I'd like to speak with Lhial, if I may," Seregil told the girl.

"Lhial is dead," she replied.

"Dead?" he gasped. "When? How?"

"Almost forty years ago. It was a wasting illness, I think."

The floor seemed to shift subtly under Seregil's feet. "I see. May I use a dhima?"

She prepared a firepot for him and gave him a handful of the dreaming herb. He accepted these with a respectful bow and hurried down to the cavern below. Choosing one of the little huts at random, he stripped and crawled under the door flap, welcoming the steamy closeness this time. Settled on the rush matting, he threw the herbs onto the coals and waved a hand to mix the smoke and steam.

Taking deep, rhythmic breaths, he slowly relaxed as the mildly narcotic smoke took hold.

His first thought was the realization that he felt no fear, and had felt none from the moment he'd impulsively decided to come here. He was not choking. He'd come here of his own volition, without fear or resentment.

Seregil closed his eyes, pondering this as sweat collected inside the mask, tickling his nose. The smoke from the herbs seared his lungs, making him light-headed, but he welcomed the sensations and waited.

"You begin to understand, son of Korit," a familiar voice said.

Opening his eyes, Seregil found himself sitting on sun-washed stone overlooking the dragon pool in the mountains of Akhendi fai'thast. Lhial sat beside him, his eyes golden again.

"I'm not certain I do, Honored One," Seregil admitted, shivering a little as a chill mountain breeze blew across his bare skin.

The rhui'auros picked up a pebble and threw it into the pool below. Seregil followed it with his eyes, then looked back to find Nysander sitting there in Lhial's place. Somehow, the transformation didn't surprise him. Instead, he felt a rush of the same inexplicable gratitude the sight of the dragonling swarm had given him.

Nysander sat cross-legged, looking out over the water, his plain face serene. He wore one of his threadbare old coats, and the toes of his worn boots were wet, as if he'd been walking through dew-laden grass. The curling white hair that edged his bald pate stirred in the breeze, and Seregil could see a smudge of ink in his close-cropped beard. Not once since Nysander's death had Seregil dreamed of Ms old friend. When he remembered him waking, no matter how he

tried, the sight of Nysander's bloody, dead face rose in his mind's eye to obscure any happier memory.

He looked away quickly, bracing for the vision to shift. A gentle hand cupped his chin, turning him back to face the wizard.

"Open your eyes, Seregil."

He did, and nearly wept with relief to find Nysander, unchanged.

"You have a stubborn mind sometimes, dear boy," he said, patting Seregil's cheek. "You can track a black cat on a moonless night, yet so much of your own heart is still unknown to you. You must pay better attention."

Nysander took his hand away, and Seregil saw that the wizard now held one of the mysterious glass orbs. With a careless flick of his wrist, he tossed it up into the air. It glittered a moment in the sunlight, then fell to shatter on the rocks at their feet. For one terrible instant Seregil was back on the windswept Plenimaran ledges, blood—Nysander's blood—dripping from his ruined blade. Just as quickly, the image was gone.

"Didn't it make a lovely sound?" the wizard asked, smiling down at the tiny shards.

Seregil blinked back tears, trying to make sense of what he was being shown. "The rhui'auros said I have to keep them."

But Nysander was gone, and Lhial sat in his place again, shaking his head. "I said they were yours, son of Korit. But you know that. You knew it before you ever came to me."

"No, I don't!" Seregil cried, but with less conviction now. "What am I supposed to do?"

The wind blew colder. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, trying to warm himself. He felt movement next to him and saw that Lhial had been replaced this time by a young dragon the size of a bull. Its eyes were gold, and kind.

"You are a child of Aura, little brother, a child of Illior. The next step in your dance is at hand. Carry only what you need," the dragon told him, speaking with Lhial's voice. With that, it spread leathery wings with a sound like summer thunder and rose to blot out the sun.

Seregil was drowned in darkness. The hot, acrid atmosphere of the dhima closed around him like a fist. Fighting for breath, he found the door flap and scrambled out, then collapsed gasping on the warm, rough stone outside.