The growling ceased at once. A cold nose thrust briefly against his palm, then he heard the dog padding away.
It had never occurred to Alec to ask how long the charm lasted. Taking no chances, he ran for the wall. The top was studded with shards of glass and crockery set in mortar; in his haste he reached carelessly and caught his left hand on one of the jagged points, gashing the palm just above the wrist. Pain bloomed through his hand as a warm trickle oozed down into his sleeve. Hissing softly through his teeth, he slid down the far side and headed for home.
His route took him by Wheel Street and he halted a moment at the corner, holding his torn hand to his chest. It would only take a moment to duck in there, and he knew where Seregil kept bandages and salve—
The growing throb in his hand decided him.
Letting himself in the front door, he took out a lightstone and whistled softly to the dogs, making himself known. A huge white shape materialized at once. Marag padded out of the dining room, wagging a greeting as he sniffed Alec’s hand. His mate would be on patrol in the back court. Accompanied by the hound, Alec walked through the main hall to the kitchen.
The supplies he wanted were on the shelf by the door. Carrying the rags and salve pot to the table, he set his lightstone by them and examined the gash. It was jagged and sore, but no major veins or tendons seemed to be damaged.
“This must be my unlucky hand,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb over the shiny circular scar left by the cursed disk they’d stolen from Mardus. They’d both been branded by it—Seregil on his chest where it had hung, Alec on the palm of the hand as he’d grasped it during their strange struggle at the inn.
He bandaged the cut as best he could one-handed, then sat back and stroked Marag’s silky head. The thought of his own bedchamber upstairs was tempting. He was cold and tired and suddenly Blue Fish Street felt very far away. But there was always the complication of appearances; Sir Alec and Lord Seregil were not expected to arrive for several more days and it wouldn’t do to have untoward signs of occupation just yet. With a resigned shrug, he cleared away the evidence of his visit and set out through the dark, cold streets.
Within a block of Wheel Street he suddenly sensed pursuit. Stealth was difficult on the icy streets and whoever it was shadowing him was making a poor job of concealing their movements. When Alec slowed, they came on. When he increased his pace, so did they. It was too dark to see, but he could hear more than one set of feet. One of them had metal nails on the soles of his boots; in the silence of the street, Alec could hear them scraping against the cobbles.
There was no question of returning to the house. Even if he could get back past his pursuers, he couldn’t risk leading them there.
Ahead of him, a street lantern burned at the intersection of Wheel and Golden Helm. A right turn would bring him to the Astellus Circle and the Street of the Sheaf. There was a chance of meeting with a Watch patrol there, but he couldn’t be sure of it. A left turn would take him toward Silvermoon Street and the Palace.
At the corner he deliberately walked through the pool of light and swung sharply to the right. Once beyond it, he doubled quickly back toward Silvermoon. His pursuers caught the trick, however, and charged after him, their boots clattering on the paving stones.
There was nothing left to do but run. Abandoning any attempt at stealth, Alec pelted down the center of the broad boulevard, cloak flapping behind him. High garden walls presented an unbroken barrier on either side, blocking any hope of a quick sidestep. The pounding of his feet and those closing in on him echoed like the clatter of dice in a cup.
Tearing his cloak strings loose, Alec let it fall away behind him. A muffled curse rang out an instant later, and the sound of a man falling heavily.
Dashing past another lantern, he glanced back to see two swordsmen no more than twenty yards behind.
He veered into Silvermoon Street and saw the wall surrounding the palace grounds looming on his right. As he’d hoped, a watch fire burned in front of one of the postern gates. He dashed toward it, lungs bursting.
A cluster of soldiers of the Queen’s household guard were huddled around the brazier. At the sound of Alec’s approach, four came forward with swords drawn.
“Help!” gasped Alec, praying they didn’t attack as he barreled into their midst. “Footpads—chasing me—back there!”
Two men grasped him by the arms, half restraining, half supporting him as he skidded to a halt.
“Steady, lad, steady there,” said one.
“I don’t see anyone,” growled another, squinting in the direction Alec had come from.
Looking back, Alec saw no sign of his mysterious pursuers.
The first guard ran a skeptical eye over his fine coat and sword. “Footpads, eh? More likely an angry father or husband at this hour. Been up to mischief, have you?”
“No, I swear,” Alec panted. “I was coming home late from—from the Street of Lights.” The others grinned knowingly at this.
“Just the place to get your purse lightened, one way or another, eh?” the sergeant said with a chuckle. “Well, it’s late for the nighthawks to be out, but they might just lurk around for you. Do you live close by?”
“No, across the city.”
“Then you’re welcome to tuck up here with us round the fire ’till first light.”
Alec gratefully accepted a spare cloak and a pull from a water skin, then settled down with his back to the wall, the warmth of the brazier warming his face and chest. All in all, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, it wasn’t the worst end to an evening’s work.
4
HORNS OF CRYSTAL
Retak’s daughters bid Seregil a fond farewell as he and their father left to meet Timan at the council house early the next day. To Seregil’s dismay, a crowd had already assembled and many had snowshoes and poles ready.
Timan presented a young man to him. “I am too old now to make the journey, but my grandson, Turik, knows the place. He can guide you. These others will carry your belongings and gift offerings for the spirit.”
Seregil groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was an audience, but he was too close to his objective to risk offending the village. Amid much cheering and singing, they set off for the head of the valley.
The Dravnian youths marched along easily, talking and joking as they broke trail. Seregil toiled doggedly in their wake, struggling with the thin air and a poor night’s rest. One of Retak’s sons fell in beside him, grinning.
“You had good hospitality last night, eh? My sisters were happy this morning.”
“Oh, yes,” wheezed Seregil. “I was kept very warm, thank you.”
They reached the base of the pass just after midday. Turik called a halt while an older man named Shradin went ahead to scout the snow.
Turik pointed up the pass. “The spirit home is there, but it’s difficult going from here—fissures beneath the snow and avalanches. Shradin can read the snow better than anyone in the village.”
Squatting on their snowshoes, the others watched as the guide explored the pass.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Seregil when Shradin returned.
The Dravnian shrugged. “It’s only a little dangerous today. Still, it would be better if just a few go on from here. Turik knows the way and I know the snow. The rest of them better go home.”
After some disgruntled grumbling, the others headed back to the village.
Shradin took the lead as they began their cautious ascent, Seregil and Turik following in single file. Seregil watched in silent admiration as the man probed ahead with his pole, leading them safely around deep fissures concealed just beneath the deceptively unbroken snow. Glad as he was of this, however, Seregil couldn’t help glancing nervously up at the tons of snow and ice clinging precariously to the mountainsides above.
As they neared the top of the pass, Turik took the lead.
“We are almost there,” he said at last, pausing for Seregil to catch his breath.
&n
bsp; Struggling up a last, steep face, Turik halted again and began casting around where the lip of the glacier met the rock face. After frequent sightings up at the peaks and much prodding with his pole, the young Dravnian raised his hand and waved for the others.
Hung with icicles and half drifted over with snow, the opening of the passage resembled a fanged and sullen mouth. Digging with hands and snowshoes, they soon cleared the opening and peered down the steep black tunnel that descended into the ice.
Seregil felt a strange tingling in his hands and up his back as he leaned over it; strong magic lay below.
“The first part of the way is slick,” Turik warned, pulling a sack of ashes from his bag. “We’ll need to scatter these as we go, or it’s nearly impossible to climb back out again.”
“I have to go alone from here,” Seregil told him. “My magic is strong, but I can’t be distracted worrying about the two of you. Wait for me here. If I’m not back by the time the sun touches that peak, come down for me, but not before. If your spirit kills me, give all my things to Retak and say he is to divide them as he sees fit.”
Turik’s eyes widened a bit at this, but neither he nor Shradin argued.
Seregil took off his bulky hat and tied his long hair back with a thong. Taking the small lightwand from his tool roll, he grasped the handle in his teeth and shouldered an ash bag and the cumbersome box.
“Aura’s luck be with you,” Shradin said solemnly, using the Aurënfaie name for Illior.
Let’s hope it is, Seregil thought nervously as he began his descent.
The steep tunnel was narrow and slick as glass in places. Scattering ash in front of him, he crawled down, dragging the box behind. By the time the ice gave way to a more level stone passage, he was smeared black from head to foot.
The magic permeating the place grew stronger as he went down. The uncanny tingle he’d first noticed increased swiftly. There was a low buzzing in his ears and he could feel an ache growing behind his eyes.
“Aura Elustri málrei,” he whispered, speaking the invocation to Illior aloud to test the effect. The silence absorbed his words without an echo and the tingling in his limbs continued unabated.
The tunnel ended at a tiny natural chamber scarcely larger than the passage itself. The shards of a broken bowl lay against the far wall.
The ceaseless noise in his ears made concentration difficult as Seregil began a careful search of the place. It wasn’t a steady tone, but rose and fell erratically. At times he seemed to catch a faint hint of voices beneath the rest, but put it down to imagination.
Satisfied at last that no other passages were concealed by any method he could detect, he tucked his chilled hands into his coat and hunkered down to review the few facts he possessed.
“Horns of crystal beneath horns of stone. Stone within ice within stone within ice,” the palimpsest had said.
Seregil looked around, frowning. Well, I’m certainly beneath horns of stone. And to get here I’ve gone through the ice first, and then stone.
That left stone within ice still to go, but where? Though obscure in method, the palimpsest had been quite specific in giving the necessary directions. If there was some secret way beyond this point, then logic suggested that the final clues leading to it were also concealed in that same document.
Massaging his throbbing temples, he closed his eyes and recalled the details of the palimpsest’s various inscriptions. Could he and Nysander have missed something in the rambling prophecies? Or perhaps Nysander had been wrong in his assertion that only one side of the document concealed a palimpsest.
Now there was an uncomfortable thought.
He was startled from his reverie by a blast of cold air. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying in the snow outside the tunnel entrance with Turik and Shradin kneeling over him with obvious concern. Over Shradin’s shoulder he saw that the sun was already low behind the designated peak.
“What happened?” Seregil gasped, sitting up.
“We waited as long as we could,” Turik apologized. “The time came and went for you to return. When we went down, we found you in a spirit dream.”
“There’s a storm coming,” added Shradin, frowning up at the clouds. “They come on fast this time of year. We need to get back to the village while there’s still light enough to go down safely. There’s no shelter here, and nothing for a fire.”
Seregil looked around in sudden alarm. “My sword! And the box—Where are they?”
“Here, beside you. We brought them out, too,” Turik assured him. “But tell us, did you speak to the spirit? Do you know the reason for its anger?”
Still chagrined at having fallen so easily under the spell of the place, Seregil nodded slowly, buying time as he collected his thoughts.
“It’s not your spirit who is angry, but another, an evil one,” he told them. “This evil one keeps the other prisoner. It’s a very strong spirit. I must rest and prepare myself to banish it.”
Shradin looked up at the sky again. “You’ll have time, I think.”
Taking up their packs and poles, the Dravnian guides led Seregil back to the village for another night of exhausting hospitality.
As Shradin had predicted, a savage blizzard roared in through the teeth of the mountains during the night. People fought their way through the howling wind to drive their livestock up the ramps into their towers, then sealed their doors and settled down to wait out the storm.
It raged steadily for two days. One house lost its felt roof, forcing the inhabitants to flee to a neighboring tower. At another, a woman gave birth to twins. Otherwise, the time was given over to eating, storytelling, and general husbandry. The Dravnians were philosophical about such conditions; what was the use of complaining about something that happened every winter? The blizzards were even beneficial. They piled snow around the house and helped keep the drafts out.
One family in particular regarded this storm as a stroke of luck, for it kept the Aurënfaie guest in their house for two nights.
Seregil was less complaisant about the situation. Ekrid had nine children, six of them daughters. One girl was too young, another in the midst of her menses, but that still left four to contend with and he didn’t much like the competitive gleam in their eyes as they welcomed him.
To further complicate matters, the lower level had been given over to Ekrid’s herd of goats and sheep, and their bleating and odor lent little to the general atmosphere. For two days, Seregil had to choose between evading the amorous advances of the girls or trying to walk three feet without treading in shit. His success was limited on both counts and his concentration on the problem at hand suffered.
Stretched out with two of Ekrid’s daughters still twined around him the second night, Seregil stared up at the rafters and decided he’d had enough of women to last him for some time. Shifting restlessly in their musky embrace, he caught a hint of answering movement across the way where Ekrid’s sons slept. One of them had made long eyes at him the evening before— He gave the possibility a moment’s consideration, but resolved dourly that there was little to be gained in that direction. The young man smelled as strongly of goat tallow and old hides as his sisters, and lacked a front tooth besides.
Lying back, he allowed himself a moment’s longing for his own clean bed and a freshly bathed companion to share it. To his surprise, the anonymous figure swiftly transformed into Alec.
Father, brother, friend, and lover, the Oracle of Illior had told him that night in Rhíminee.
He supposed that, after a fashion, he had been father and brother to Alec, having more or less adopted him after their escape from Asengai’s dungeon. Seregil smiled wryly to himself in the darkness; it’d been the least he could do, considering that Alec was one of dozens of innocents captured and tortured by Asengai’s men during their hunt for Seregil himself.
In the months since then they’d certainly become friends, and perhaps something more than friends.
But lovers?
Sereg
il had kept this possibility resolutely at bay, telling himself the boy was too young, too Dalnan, and, above all, too valued a companion to risk losing over something as inconsequential as sex.
And yet, lying exhausted among Ekrid’s daughters, he suffered a guilty pang of arousal as he thought of Alec’s slender body, his dark blue eyes and ready smile, the rough silken texture of his hair.
Haven’t you had enough hopeless infatuations in your life? he scowled to himself. Rolling onto his belly, he turned his thoughts to the palimpsest, running through its cryptic phrases once again.
Horns of crystal beneath horns of stone. Stone within ice within stone within ice.
Damn, but there seemed little enough to be wrung out of it at this point. Slowly he repeated the phrase in its original Dravnian, then translated it into Konic, Skalan, and Aurënfaie, just for good measure.
Nothing.
Start again, he thought. You’re overlooking something. Think!
After this came the directions to the chamber. Before it were the prophetic ramblings: first the dancing animals, then the bones, and the strange words of the unscrambled cipher that unlocked the secret—
“Illior’s Eyes!”
One of the girls stirred in her sleep, running a hand down his back. He forced himself to lie still, heart pounding excitedly.
The phrase! The phrase itself.
Those alien, throat-scraping words. If they were the key to the palimpsest, then why not to the magic of the chamber itself?
Assuming he was correct, however, this raised other considerations. If the words were simply a password spell, then he could probably use them without danger to himself or anyone else. But if they worked a deeper magic, what then?
He could go back to Nysander now with what he already knew. Still, the Plenimarans might be beating a trail up the valley at this very moment and Nysander would be too drained from the first translocation spell to send him or anyone else back immediately. Unless, of course, he enlisted the aid of someone more magically reliable rather than risk mishap—Magyana perhaps, or Thero.