“Seregil, what’s wrong?”
His friend sat up abruptly, as if waking from an evil dream, and warned him off with a discreet but emphatic hand signal.
“We have heard your word, O Sakor!” said the Queen, speaking into the silence that still gripped the crowd. “We shall be prepared!”
Another roar of acclaim went up as Old Sakor was carried down the stairs of the temple to begin the long march to the waterfront in the lower city. There, accompanied by Astellus, he would set sail ostensibly for the Isle of the Dawn to be reborn and return on the morrow in the guise of a much younger priest.
The altar fire dwindled and went out and a hundred deep-throated horns sounded from the roof of the temple, signaling for every fire in the city to be extinguished.
The remaining priests joined the procession while the Queen took her place before the altar to begin the sacred vigil.
“What a remarkable performance!” said Lady Yriel with an uneasy laugh. “I think they rather overdid it this year, don’t you?”
“Most impressive,” Kylith agreed lightly as servants appeared at the door of the box with lightstones on long wands to assist their departure. “But I suspect Lord Seregil has something equally impressive planned for us at his gathering. Will you two share my coach?”
Seregil rose and bent over her hand. “Thank you, but I think we’ll wait here until the crowd thins a bit, then ride back.”
“Games in the dark, eh?” She brushed his cheek with her lips, then Alec’s. “I’ll meet you at Wheel Street.”
Seregil sat motionless for some moments after the others had departed, resting his elbows on the rail.
“What’s the ‘Eater of Death’?” asked Alec uneasily. “It sounded like a threat, or a warning.”
“I’m sure it was,” Seregil muttered, gazing down into the square. It was full dark now, and the moon and stars shed pale brilliance over the city, casting the world into sharp contrasts of silvery light and inky shadow. Lightwands bobbed here and there in the hands of those wealthy enough to afford them, and faint laughter and cries of “Praise the Flame!” echoed up to them as people jostled each other in the darkness.
Something in his friend’s face made Alec still more uneasy. “Any idea what the priest meant by it?” he asked.
Seregil pulled his hood up against the night’s chill as he rose to go. Alec couldn’t see his face as he replied, “I can’t say that I do.”
7
AN INFORMATIVE EVENING
The Wheel Street house was already full of music by the time they returned. Alec handed his dark cloak to a servant at the entrance and followed Seregil into the hall.
A number of guests were already enjoying the wine and food. Each had been presented with a brightly ribboned lightwand upon arrival and these provided a cool, shifting light as people danced or strolled about the room.
A flurry of applause greeted them as Runcer gravely announced their arrival from his station by the door.
“Welcome to my home on this dark, cold night!” Seregil called out. “For those of you who’ve not yet met my companion, allow me to present Sir Alec í Gareth of Ivywell.”
Alec made a graceful bow and quickly scanned the room for familiar faces. Kylith’s party was there, but there was no sign yet of Nysander or the Cavishes. In a far corner, however, he spotted a knot of officers in the green and white of the Queen’s Horse Guard. Klia’s friend and fellow officer, Captain Myrhini, saluted him with her lightwand from their midst and Alec waved back, wondering if Beka was with her.
He was just heading over to find out when Seregil slipped a hand under his arm and steered him off toward a group of nobles.
“Time to play the gracious hosts.”
Together, they made a circuit of the room, moving smoothly from one conversation to another, most of which centered around the omens at the ceremony.
“I thought they rather overdid the thing this year,” sniffed a young nobleman introduced as Lord Melwhit. “What doubt is there that war is coming? Preparations have been going on since summer.”
A grave, blond woman turned from a conversation with Admiral Nyreidian and greeted Seregil in Aurënfaie.
“Ysanti maril Elustri, Melessandra ä Marana,” Seregil returned warmly. “Allow me to present Sir Alec. Lady Melessandra and her uncle, Lord Torsin, are the Skalan envoys to Aurënen.”
“Ysanti bëk kir, my lady,” Alec said with a bow.
“Ysanti maril Elustri, Sir Alec,” she returned. “Lord Seregil is instructing you in his native language, I see. There are so few nowadays who speak it well.”
“And fewer still who speak it so well as you, dear lady,” added Seregil.
“It’s a pretty language, if one can manage it,” Nyreidian rumbled. “I wouldn’t dare attempt it in front of you, Lord Seregil. I’m told my pronunciation is grotesque.”
“It is!” Melessandra agreed, laughing. “Forgive our interruption, Lord Seregil, but we were just debating whether the portents at the temple tonight were genuine. Would you care to venture the Aurënfaie view?”
Alec watched with interest as Seregil struck a thoughtful pose.
“Well, to question the omens’ veracity would be tantamount to casting doubt on the Oracle itself, wouldn’t you say?”
She gave the admiral a pointed-look. “Many would not hesitate to do so.”
Seregil tactfully changed the subject. “I understand your uncle accompanied the remains of Corruth í Glamien back to Virésse?”
“Yes, and allow me to offer my sympathies for the loss of your kinsman,” said Melessandra. “It must have been a terrible shock in the midst of your own difficulties.”
“Thank you. The reports given by the Queen’s agents who found him were chilling, to say the least. Yet some good may come of it. Have you heard what the council’s reaction was in Aurënen?”
Melessandra rolled her eyes. “Complete uproar. You know the old guard still contends that Skala is accountable for the actions of the Lerans. Yet there are those among the younger members who argue more and more for an end to isolationism. Adzriel ä Illia is one of the chief proponents for reconciliation.”
“Illia?” asked Alec, pricking up his ears at the familiar name.
“Certainly,” Seregil said, giving him a level look that warned discreetly against questions. “What else would it be? Unless you’re confusing her with Adzriel ä Olien again?”
“Oh—yes. I suppose I must be,” Alec managed, wondering what blunder he’d committed this time.
“Family names are so much simpler in Mycena,” Seregil went on lightly. “Poor Alec is still struggling with all our lengthy patronymics and matronymics and lineages.”
Melessandra appeared sympathetic. “It must be overwhelming if you’re not born to it. But there’s Lord Geron and I must speak with him at once. Erísmai.”
She gave Alec a last, rather puzzled look, then strolled away accompanied by Nyreidian and the others.
“I said something wrong, didn’t I?” Alec whispered hurriedly, before some other guest descended on them.
“My fault,” Seregil replied with a slight smile. “If I’d been here this last week I’d have thought to prepare you better. Illia was my mother’s name. My eldest sister, Adzriel ä Illia, was recently made a member of the Iia’sidra.”
“Sister?”
Never, in all the time Alec had known him, had Seregil mentioned his family, or almost anything else about his past in Aurënen. Alec had come to assume that his friend was as much an orphan as himself.
“And eldest? How many do you have?”
“Four, actually. I was the only boy, and the youngest,” Seregil replied somewhat tersely.
“Little brother Seregil?” Alec smothered a grin as his entire perception of his friend subtly shifted. He could sense the old barriers going up again, however, and prudently changed the subject. “It sounds like the Skalans want Aurënen as allies again, like they were in the Great War.”
“T
hey do, but bad blood over Corruth will get in the way. Our recent discovery may make things worse rather than better, at least for now.”
“But it’s been almost three hundred years since Corruth disappeared.”
“Remember who we’re talking about, Alec. Many of the most powerful people on the Iia’sidra were his friends and contemporaries. They haven’t forgotten the reception he received from the Skalans when he married their queen, or his suspicious disappearance after her death. If Lera hadn’t had the poor sense to leave her half sister Corruthesthera alive, there might have been war between the two nations then. As for a new alliance, I’m afraid that may depend more on the Plenimarans in the end. If they join with Zengat—”
“Oh, Lord Seregil! There you are!”
A gaggle of young nobles crowded noisily around them, wreathed in expectant grins.
“We thought you’d never come home,” chided a young woman, wrapping her arm through Seregil’s. “You missed my autumn revel this year, you know.”
Seregil pressed a hand dramatically to his heart. “As I stood on a rolling deck under a full red moon that night, my thoughts were all of you. Can you forgive me?”
“It was a crescent moon; I recall it perfectly. But I’ll grant you a conditional pardon if you’ll introduce me to your new friend,” she fluttered, looking boldly across at Alec, who’d been crowded to the edge of the circle.
Alec smiled his way through an onslaught of complex introductions, noting as he did so that his polite greetings were not always returned with the same grace. A number of them, in fact, were decidedly cool.
Seregil hesitated as he came to a handsome, auburn-haired dandy surrounded by an entourage of admirers. “Forgive me, sir, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure?”
The man gave an elaborate bow. “Pelion í Eirsin Heileus Quirion of Rhíminee, dear sir.”
“Not the acclaimed actor, who just played ‘Ertis’ at the Tirarie?” gasped Seregil.
The man puffed visibly. “The same, my lord. I pray you’ll forgive my intrusion, but my companions insisted.”
“On the contrary, I’m delighted! I hope you’ll let me know when you next perform. By all reports, you’re the next Kroseus.”
“I’ve been fortunate,” Pelion demurred modestly.
“And well patronized,” a man beside him announced. “Do you know that his current role was written specifically for him?”
“We knew you wouldn’t mind,” a sallow youth confided smugly to Seregil. “Poor Pelion is in love, you see, and his lady friend may turn up here tonight. It’s all very tragic and impossible. But we’ve got another treat for you. Donaeus has composed the most cunningly subtle epos in twenty-three parts. It’s a marvelous piece of art!”
Seregil turned to the poet in question, a petulant-looking giant in worn velvets. “Twenty-three parts? What a monumental undertaking.”
“It’s glorious,” a girl effused. “It’s all about the death of Arshelol and Boresthia, but done in the most original fashion. And of course, he’ll need a patron. You really must hear it.”
“Donaeus, read it for him at once!” cried the sallow one. “No one appreciates the new verse styles so well as Lord Seregil. I’m sure Sir Alec could spare him for a bit.”
The slight was not lost on Alec. There were a few suppressed titters, but he maintained his composure.
“Go on, by all means.” He smiled, locking gazes with his ostensible rival. “The significance of poetry has always eluded me. Honest ballads and sword fights are more to my taste.”
“Well then, let’s go up to the library,” said Seregil, giving Alec an amused wink as he ushered them upstairs.
Turning, Alec nearly collided with Myrhini and Beka Cavish, who’d drifted over with their uniformed comrades.
“Arrogant little turds, aren’t they?” Beka muttered, glowering after the poet’s entourage. “I run into a bit of that myself now and then.”
“What could they have against me?” Alec burst out, not knowing whether to be more amused or insulted.
“Nothing, except that you had the poor taste to be born north of the Cirna Canal.”
“There are always a few like that.” Myrhini shrugged, then skillfully snagged a tray of wine cups from a passing server. “Scattering a few teeth usually quiets ’em down. In your case though, it’s more likely just whey-blooded jealousy. There’s more than a few among that set who’d like to be in your boots.”
She paused to run an eye over him. “You’re looking fitter than last time I saw you. Klia’s at the Vigil, and sends her regards. I go on duty in a few hours, but felt honor-bound to assess the new recruit here, seeing as how she’s under my command. Rider Beka tells me you’ve crossed blades a time or two— But here’s someone else we know!”
“Valerius of Colath, Drysian of the First Order and High Priest of the Temple of Dalna at Rhíminee,” Runcer announced.
Valerius strode into the room still clad in his ceremonial robe and circlet, though he’d exchanged the ivory staff for his old wooden one.
“The blessing of Dalna be on this house and those within it,” he intoned, thumping the floor.
Alec hurried forward to greet him. “Welcome. Seregil just went upstairs to hear a poet, but he should be back soon.”
The drysian let out an inelegant snort. “That fool Donaeus, no doubt, spouting his doggerel in twenty-three fatuous farts? He must still be scratching around for a patron. He read bits of the mess at Lady Arbella’s banquet last week. Fairly took away my appetite. If he corners Seregil with the whole of it, we’re not likely to get him back before dawn.”
“Maybe Alec should go rescue him,” suggested Beka.
“No, leave him. Serves him right for encouraging that pack of pedantic buffoons. What knavery have you two been up to these days? Learning swordplay, I hear, Alec?” The drysian lowered his voice to a confidential rumble. “You’ll need it, considering the company you’ve fallen into.”
“And look at you!” he exclaimed, glowering at Beka. “Running off to join regiments instead of getting married like a good Dalnan girl? This young fellow here is about your age, isn’t he?”
“Leave off, you,” Myrhini cried, laughing as Beka shifted uncomfortably. “She’s the best rider I’ve had this year and I don’t want to lose her to the hearth.”
“Valerius!” Seregil called as he came down the stairs, apparently having escaped from the poets on his own. “Did you get Old Sakor safely launched?”
Valerius chuckled. “There’s considerable chop on the harbor tonight. Poor old Morantiel was as green as a squash before they left the mooring, but I suspect he’ll survive.”
“I thought he sounded rather unsteady during the prophecy,” Seregil remarked casually, signaling for a wine server.
“After all these years of shamming, I imagine it was a bit of a shock when something mystical actually occurred.”
“Then you believe it was genuine?”
Valerius raised a bristling eyebrow. “You know as well as I do it was. I don’t know what that ‘Eater of Death’ business was all about, but I didn’t like the feel of those ravens.”
At the door, Runcer stepped forward again and announced, “Nysander í Azusthra Hypirius Meksandor Illandi, High Thaumaturgist of the Third Orëska, with the Lady Magyana ä Rhioni Methistabel Tinuva Ylani, High Thaumaturgist of the Third Orëska. And Sir Micum Cavish of Watermead, with Dame Kari and daughters Elsbet and Illia.”
Nysander and Magyana, normally the least ostentatious wizards of the Orëska, had put on the rich ceremonial robes befitting their status in honor of the occasion. Behind them, the Cavishes were as splendidly rigged out as any lord in the room. Illia clung to her mother’s hand, squirming with excitement in her new dress. Elsbet looked poised and solemn in burgundy velvet.
“Didn’t you invite Thero?” Alec whispered teasingly to Seregil.
“I always invite Thero! But watch. We’re in for a treat.”
At his signal, the musician
s stilled their instruments. The other guests stepped back as Nysander escorted Magyana to the center of the room. With a slight nod to their host, he waved a hand about in a swift, careless gesture and the painted walls sprang to life.
The high chamber was frescoed from floor to ceiling to imitate a forest glade. The branches of life-size oaks hung with flowering vines extended across the vaulted ceiling overhead. Between their grey trunks distant vistas of mountain and sea were visible. Even the stone gallery at the back of the room, where the musicians softly played, was carved and latticed to resemble a leafy bower.
At Nysander’s command, golden light from some unseen sun glowed across the scene. A soft breeze stirred around the room, carrying with it the scent of flowers and warm earth overlaid with a hint of the distant painted sea. The painted trees stirred in the breeze, dappling shadows across the floor. Painted birds left their places and fluttered through the branches, filling the air with song.
A murmur of delight greeted the display, but the wizards were not finished. Magyana drew a crystal wand from her sleeve and wove the tip of it in the air, conjuring a perfect sphere of iridescent light the size of a pomegranate.
“Come, my lord.” She smiled, motioning to Seregil. “As host, the honor belongs to you.”
“An honor which I in turn bestow on Sir Alec on this, his first Mourning Night with us.”
Amid a flurry of applause, Alec followed Magyana’s whispered instructions and reached out a finger as if to burst a child’s soap bubble.
At his touch the sphere burst in a brilliant scintilla of light. Seconds later the thud of hooves against turf sounded near the gallery as a herd of white deer materialized in the painted forest and galloped once around the room before settling to graze near the dining-room archway. Rainbow-winged serpents swooped up from a painted cavern, singing with beautiful voices. Winged sprites and willow branch maidens peeped shyly from tree trunks.
Laughing and clapping delightedly, the guests spun around to take in the spectacle. Illia pulled loose from Kari and ran to Beka, leaping into her sister’s arms.
“It’s magic, Beka! Real wizard magic! And you’ve got your uniform. You’re a horse guard!”