Stalking Darkness

51

Seregil watched the smoke from Nysander's pyre rise against the brilliant red and gold of the sunset and wondered why he couldn't weep.

Alec was crying softly beside him and Micum, too, as he lay supported by Beka, one broad hand over his eyes. Thero stood a little apart, tears streaming down his pale cheeks as the flames crackled up through the carefully stacked tinder and driftwood.

Seregil longed to join them. His grief was a dry, sharp-edged stone lodged in his chest; he could scarcely draw breath around it.

Rhal's sailors and Beka's soldiers stood in respectful silence on the opposite side of the pyre. Patrolling loyally off the coast, Rhal had seen the fire at the camp and taken it as a signal. Braving the crashing surf, he'd come ashore with twenty of his men in time to help Beka's raiders clear out the last of the Plenimarans. As word spread of Mardus' death, however, most of the remaining soldiers simply scattered into the hills to fend for themselves.

Afterwards, Beka and Rhal had marshaled their people together, clearing away the dead and all trace of the ceremony.

When the site was cleansed, they stacked a funeral pyre on the ledges below the basin, then stood aside as Seregil and Thero placed Nysander on the bed of oil-soaked kindling and sweet herbs.

Standing here now, watching unflinchingly as the flames blackened Nysander's skin and clothing, Seregil forced himself to recall the old wizard kneeling calmly among his paints and symbols, speaking words of encouragement.

But still the tears would not come.

Stars appeared overhead in the darkening sky and with them the comet, robbed now of its dread significance. The pyre began to settle in on itself and Nysander's corpse sank out of sight in a whirling cloud of sparks. Several of Rhal's men came forward and added more wood and oil, stoking the blaze until the heat of it pressed the onlookers back into the surrounding shadows.

With the solemnity of the funeral circle broken, people began to drift away. The fire would burn long into the night, reducing skin, bone, and wood alike to a fine ash for the tide and winds to scatter.

Turning, Seregil limped slowly up to the white stone and sat there waiting for some release.

None came; the emptiness he'd been plunged into from the moment he'd accepted Nysander's final charge still enveloped him, leaving him isolated, deadened inside. He could see Alec and the others gathered around Micum, a knot of shared comfort against the oncoming night.

He should be with them, he knew, but somehow he couldn't move. Sinking his head into his hands, he remained where he was, alone in the shadows where Nysander had stood awaiting his moment just hours before.

Some time later, he heard the sound of someone climbing up the rocks toward him. Looking up, he was surprised to see that it was Thero.

Worn and battered, dressed in borrowed clothes, he bore little resemblance to the prim young wizard Seregil had sparred with for so many years. Thero stared down at the pyre below for a moment before speaking.

"I wasted too many years being jealous of you," he said at last, still not looking at Seregil. "It hurt him, and I'd take it back if I could."

Seregil nodded slowly, sensing that there was more to be said between them but not knowing how to begin. Instead, he asked, "Will Micum be all right?"

"I think I've stopped most of the poison," Thero replied, sounding relieved to speak of practical things. "Still, even if he doesn't lose the leg, I doubt it will ever be much use to him."

"He's lucky to be alive at all. And the dyrmagnos?"

"She's finished. Alec saw to that."

"Good."

Another uncomfortable pause raveled out and Thero turned to leave.

"Thank you," Seregil managed, his voice thin and strained. "For helping Alec and all."

With a curt nod, Thero moved off through the shadows along the road.

Micum saw Thero leave.

"You go up to him," he croaked, looking up at Alec with fever bright eyes.

"He's right," Beka said, raising a cup of drugged wine to her father's lips. "It's not proper, him being alone now."

"I know. I've been thinking that all afternoon," Alec whispered miserably. "But I don't know what to do for him, what to say. We all loved Nysander, but not like he did. And then he had to be the one to—"

Reaching out, Micum closed a hot, dry hand over Alec's. "His heart is broken, Alec. Follow your own."

Alec let out a heavy sigh and nodded. Climbing the rocks, he walked over to where Seregil still sat on the rock, face lost in shadow.

"It's turning cold. I thought you might need this," Alec said, taking off his cloak and draping it over his friend's shoulders. Seregil mumbled a thank you, but didn't move.

Feeling desperately awkward, Alec rested a hand on Seregil's shoulder, then slid an arm around him. He'd half expected Seregil to shrug it off, or finally weep, but not the black waves of emptiness he felt, leaning there beside him. Something intrinsic in Seregil had fled or died; it was like touching a statue, a scarecrow.

A fresh trickle of tears inched down Alec's cheeks, but he didn't move, just stayed there, hoping

Seregil would draw some comfort from his nearness. His tongue felt like a dead thing in his mouth. Words were dead leaves lodged in his throat. What was there to say?

A breeze stirred, sighing through the forest at their backs, mingling its sound with the rhythmic surge of the waves. An owl sailed by close enough for Alec to hear its wings cutting the air. Its hooting call drifted back to them through the darkness.

They remained like this for some time before Seregil finally spoke, his voice barely audible. "I'm sorry, Alec. Sorry for everything."

"Nobody blames you. You did what you had to, just like the rest of us."

Seregil's short, angry laugh was startling after such silence. "What choice did I have?"

They sailed the following morning, heading north along the coast. Still running with stolen canvas, the Green Lady again raced unchallenged through enemy waters, though she caused something of a stir at Nanta until Rhal showed his commissioning papers.

They lay in port for two days while Rhal refitted the sails and took on fresh stores.

Beka found a drysian to tend Micum's wounds and Seregil's, then set about making her own preparations for departure. She and her riders were duty-bound to find their regiment. By the second day Braknil and Rhylin had rounded up sufficient horses and supplies, as well as word that their regiment was stationed a few days ride to the north.

Rhal had given over his cabin to the survivors of Nysander's Four and Micum lay on the narrow bunk, his leg swathed in linen bandages. Sitting down beside him, Beka pushed her long braid back over her shoulder.

"Word around the city is that the Plenimarans have been pushed behind their own borders for the moment," she told him. "We'll ride northeast until we find Skalan troops, then start asking directions from there."

Micum clasped her hand. "You take care of yourself, my girl. This war is far from over."

Beka nodded, her throat tight. "By the Flame, Father. I don't like to leave you, but I have to get back. I sent some of my people on ahead before we met up with you and I've got to see if they made it."

Micum waved aside her concern with a smile.

"I've been talking with your Sergeant Braknil and some of the others. From what they say, you're a good officer and a brave fighter. I'm proud of you."

Beka hugged him tight, feeling the familiar roughness of her father's cheek against her own. "I had the best teachers, didn't I? I just wish—"

"What?"

Beka sat back and wiped a hand across her eyes.

"I always thought, once I had some experience on my own, that maybe Nysander would, you know, find use for me the way he did with you and Seregil."

"Don't you worry about that. There'll always be enough trouble in the world to keep our kind busy. None of that dies with Nysander. I'll tell you, though, it's Seregil I'm worried about."

Beka nodded. "And Alec, too. You can see what it's doing to him, having Seregil so silent and sad. What's happened with them?"

Micum lay back against the bolsters with a sigh. "Poor Alec. He cares so much for Seregil he doesn't know what to do about it, and now this. And Seregil's hurting so deep I don't know if any of us can help him."

"Perhaps he has to help himself." Beka rose reluctantly. "You get Valerius to see to that leg when you get back. I still don't like the look of it. And take my love to Mother and the girls. Send word of my new brother when he's born."

"You keep yourself in one piece, you hear?"

Beka kissed him a last time, then hurried above.

Seregil was standing alone by the rail.

As they clasped hands, he turned her palms up to look at the faded traces of the symbols there.

"You've got your father's heart as well as his hair," he said with a ghost of the old smile. "Trust either one of you to show up when you're least expected and most needed. Luck in the shadows, Beka Cavish, and in the light."

"Luck to you, too, Seregil, and the Maker's healing," Beka returned warmly, relieved to see even this small break in his sorrow. He'd scarcely spoken since they'd set sail. "Bring Father safe home again."

Alec was waiting for her by the longboat. Putting her arms around him, Beka squeezed him tight and felt the embrace returned.

"Take them to Watermead, both of them," she whispered against his cheek. "Stay there as long as you need to. Poor Nysander, I can't believe he'd ever have wanted things to turn out like this."

"Me neither," Alec said, still holding her by the arms as he stepped back.

He looks so much older, Beka thought, seeing the depths of sadness in his eyes.

When Nanta had slipped away to the horizon Alec went below. Seregil was sitting on the end of Micum's bunk.

"I found something for you in Nanta before we sailed," Alec said, handing Seregil a cloth-wrapped parcel. Inside was a small harp, like the one he'd carried in Wolde.

"It's nowhere near as good as yours, I know," Alec went on quickly as Seregil folded the wrappings back and touched the strings. "But I thought it might—Well, Micum is still in pain and I thought maybe if you played for him it might give him some ease."

A white lie, perhaps, but it did the trick.

Micum gave Alec a knowing wink as Seregil propped the instrument on his knee and plucked out a few tentative notes.

"It's a fine instrument. Thank you," Seregil said, not looking up. He plucked out a few searching chords, then swept the strings, releasing a glissando of plaintive notes.

Thero came in to tend Micum's leg and stayed awhile to listen. Seregil didn't sing, but plucked out tune after tune, the music mournful and soothing.

Micum slipped into a peaceful doze and Alec sat quietly in the corner, watching Seregil's face as he played on through the afternoon. His expression betrayed little. The mantle of silence remained in place.

Seregil's spirits seemed to rally somewhat during the voyage back to Rhiminee. He spoke more freely, though not of Nysander or the Helm.

Never of those. He walked the deck with Alec and Thero, ate sparingly with neither relish nor complaint, and played the harp by the hour, covering his own pain a little by easing Micum's.

Micum and Thero took heart at these small changes but Alec, who shared a pallet with Seregil on the floor of Rhal's cabin, knew how he trembled and groaned in his sleep each night. An intuition uncomfortably like the one that had dragged him back to the Cockerel that fateful night kept him by Seregil's side as much as possible. The man he'd known for so long was gone, leaving in his stead a quiet stranger with distance behind his eyes.

Alec sat alone with Micum the afternoon of their fifth day out from Nanta. Micum was dozing, his face pale and haggard against the bolsters. The harp lay at his feet where Seregil had left it after soothing him to sleep. There's continued ministrations had kept rot from setting into Micum's leg, but the little cabin was stifling with the flat, heavy odor of unhealthy flesh.

Moving quietly so as not to disturb Micum, Alec opened the cabin window and propped the door open with a pack. Just as he was about to steal out again, however, Micum opened his eyes.

"That's a long face you've got on," he rasped, motioning for Alec to sit by him. "Out with it. What's wrong?"

Alec shrugged unhappily. "It's Seregil. He's like a shadow. He doesn't talk, he doesn't smile. It's like he's not really here at all. I don't know what to do for him."

"I think you're doing right by just standing by him for now, just as you did when he ran afoul with that wooden coin. It made all the difference to him then. He's told me so himself."

"That was magic and he was fighting it, too. But killing Nysander—" Alec fiddled with the edge of the blanket, searching for words. "It's like he killed part of himself."

"He did. We have to give him time to sort out what's left."

"Maybe." But in his heart Alec feared that the longer they waited for Seregil to come around, the farther away he drifted.

Magyana was waiting for them on the quay the day they sailed into Rhiminee harbor. Alone and unattended, she wore a dark mourning veil over her silvery hair.

Seregil placed a little bundle containing Nysander's few belongings in her arms, his voice failing him when he tried to speak.

"I know, my dear," she murmured, embracing him.

"Nysander and I said our farewells the day I sent him across to find you. He suspected that he would not return, and asked me to tell all of you not to grieve for him, but to forgive him if you can."

"Forgive him?" gasped Thero, standing rigidly beside Micum's litter. "What could there be to forgive?"

Magyana did not answer, but her gaze stole briefly back to Seregil, who'd turned away.

Alec's eyes locked briefly with hers and in that instant the mutual understanding ran deep.

"It was also Nysander's wish, Thero, that you should complete your training with me," she continued.

The color fled from the young wizard's thin cheeks as he sank to his knees before her. "I can't go back to the Oreska, not after what happened that night. The attack, the Plenimarans getting in, it was my fault. If I hadn't told Ylinestra about Nysander's walks, his studies—Looking back now, I see what all her questions were leading to, but at the time—I just didn't know! But the Council would never allow me back."

Magyana laid a hand on his bowed head. "You forget that I, too, am a member of the High Council, as was Nysander. He spoke with them one last time before he left. There is no impediment to your return. His last words to me on the matter were that he hoped I would see to it that you completed what you have begun so well."

Cupping his chin, she gently raised his anguished face. "I would be honored if you would accept me as your teacher, Thero. In truth, it would be a great comfort to have you with me, and to see the education of my friend's last pupil completed. It would be the greatest honor to his memory."

Thero rose and bowed. "I'm yours to command."

Magyana smiled gently. "You will learn that, like

Nysander, I seldom command anything. I hope the rest of you will accept my hospitality tonight?"

"I thank you, Magyana, but I don't think—"

Seregil broke off, unable to meet her gaze.

"I understand." She touched his cheek. "Later then. Tell me where you plan to stay and I'll send word for Valerius to see Micum."

"Wheel Street tonight, then out to Watermead."

"I will see that he comes to you at once. Aura Elustri malreis, Seregil tali."

Clasping hands with Alec, she bid him farewell, then bent over Micum. "Shall I send word to Kari?"

Micum took her hand with a meaningful look and said softly, "Maybe we'd better wait until Valerius has had a look at me, eh?"

Magyana pressed his hand. "Very well. May Dalna speed health to you, Micum, and peaceful hearts to you all." With Thero at her side, she walked away through the dockside throng to a waiting carriage.

"If you've no further need of the ship, the men are anxious to put out again," said Rhal, coming over to take his leave of them. "We've made two crossings with an empty hold and there are enemy ships to be plucked."

"The ship is yours to command, Captain," Seregil told him. "And the luck of Astellus go with you. I expect the Green Lady will be the scourge of both seas."

Moving Micum into a hired cart, Alec and Seregil set off for Wheel Street. The house was just as they'd left it. Evidently Mardus had been well apprised enough of their movements not to waste time on unnecessary destruction.

Old Runcer greeted them with his usual lack of surprise, as if they'd been gone for a day or two instead of months. Seregil's white hounds, Zir and Marag, showed equal equanimity toward their master, padding softly on ahead as Seregil and Alec helped Micum up the stairs to Seregil's chamber.

Valerius arrived soon after, dour as ever, but subdued. His scowl deepened as he inspected Micum's wound.

"You're lucky to be here," he exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. "Who's been looking after you?"

"Thero, mostly," Alec told him. "He was there when the dyrmagnos attacked him, and he tended him all the way home."

"He may have saved your leg, Micum. He certainly saved your life. There's still a great deal of healing to be done, though." He turned to Seregil and Alec. "Runcer can help me. I suggest you both go out for a while."

"I'm not leaving," Seregil protested with a flash of his old fire.

"You heard him, Seregil. You'd just be in the way. Get out," Micum said from the bed, making a passable job of sounding cheerful. "Come see me in the morning."

"Come on," said Alec, taking him by the arm. "I could do with a walk after all that time at sea."

Valerius closed the door firmly behind them.

Seregil glared at it for a moment, tight-lipped and grim, then followed Alec downstairs without another word.

Seregil hadn't worn a sword since the day of Nysander's death, but Alec hastily buckled on his own as they headed out into the cool spring evening.

Lithion had passed into Nythin since he'd been gone and flowering trees scented the air.

They both still wore their rough traveling clothes and, with his sword swinging against his leg with no cloak to cover it, Alec worried fleetingly that the Watch might stop them to ask why two such ill-dressed strangers were hurrying through the streets of the Noble Quarter.

But Seregil soon took the lead, heading into poorer courtyards and alleyways. He was still limping slightly, but seemed not to feel it as he strode silently along. Along the way they passed Lazarda's Black Feather brothel. The door stood open and, glancing at Alec saw that the carved ship on the mantelpiece was facing west, signaling that a message had been left there for the Rhiminee Cat. If Seregil saw this, he ignored it and they wandered on like ghosts through the familiar shadows of their city.

A slender moon stood high over the rooftops before Seregil finally broke his silence. Stopping suddenly in a weed-choked courtyard, he turned to Alec as if they were in mid conversation.

"He thinks he might die, you know?" he said, his face half-lost in shadow. The part Alec could see was a mask of misery.

"Micum? I don't think he will," Alec replied, adding without much conviction, "Valerius wouldn't have made us leave if he thought he would."

"I don't think I could stand to lose him, too,"

Seregil said, betraying more emotion than he'd shown in days. But before Alec could respond he was off again, heading west.

They'd gone several blocks in silence before Alec realized where it was that they'd been headed all along.

One scorched brass cockerel remained to guard the courtyard gate, its upraised claw empty. Beyond the low wall lay nothing but a gaping foundation hole choked with charred timbers. Everything had burned-the inn, the stables, the wooden gate of the back court.

The stink of rain-soaked ashes hung rank on the air.

"O Illior!" Alec whispered in stunned dismay. "I knew it was gone, but still—"

Seregil looked equally bereft. "It was just starting to burn when I left. Cilia was only two years old when I bought it."

Alec shuddered, hating Vargul Ashnazai all the more for giving him such memories of her and the others.

"Do you think their ghosts are here?"

Seregil kicked at a bit of cracked stone. "If they did linger, you gave them peace the moment you strangled that bastard."

"What about Luthas?"

"I suppose the drysians at the temple will foster him out or make a priest of him—"

Seregil broke off as a small form bounded up out of the cellar hole with a loud, familiar trill.

Purring frantically, Ruetha went back and forth between them, twining herself around their ankles and arching to have her ears scratched.

They stared down at the cat for a moment in mutual amazement, then Seregil scooped her up with shaking hands. She butted him under the chin with her head.

"By all the gods! Thryis used to complain about the way she'd disappear until I came back."

Burying his fingers in the sooty fur of her ruff, he muttered huskily, "Well, old girl, you'd better come with us this time. We're not coming back."

"Not ever." Alec rested a hand on Seregil's shoulder as he reached to stroke Ruetha. "Not ever."

When they returned to Wheel Street a few hours later, Seregil and Alec found Valerius just finishing a hearty late supper in the dining room.

"Cheer up, you two. Micum will be fine," the drysian told them, brushing crumbs from his beard.

"What about his leg?" asked Seregil.

"Go see for yourself."

Elsbet was at her father's side, holding his hand as he slept. Weariness made her look older than her fifteen years; with her smooth dark hair bound back in a thick braid over the shoulder of her simple blue gown, she was the image of Kari as Seregil had first known her.

"He's going to be all right," she whispered.

The room smelled of healing herbs and fresh air.

Bending over Micum, Seregil saw with relief the faint flush of healthy color that tinged the sleeping man's cheeks. Fresh blood had soaked through the lines wrapped around his thigh, but the leg was still intact.

"Valerius says he'll be able to ride again in time," she told them. "I've already arranged for a carriage to take him home tomorrow. Mother's been so worried!"

"We'll come out with you," Seregil replied, wondering what sort of reception he'd have from her mother.