Setting the kettle on the hook, Magyana turned and studied his face; they’d known each other too long and too well for her not to read the import of his silence.
“Oh, my dear,” she whispered, a hand stealing to her throat. “Oh, no!”
Seregil’s strength returned quickly over the next few days and, as Valerius had predicted, he soon grew restless. On the fourth day he’d had enough of bed rest.
“Valerius said another day at least!” Alec admonished, frowning down at him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“I won’t tell him if you don’t. Bilairy’s Balls, I’m sore all over from lying around so long!”
As soon as he stood up, however, the floor seemed to shift under him. Drenched in a sudden cold sweat, he swayed heavily against Alec.
“There now, you see? It is too soon.” Alec helped him back onto the bed. “Maker’s Mercy, there’s nothing left of you. I can feel your ribs.”
“I thought I heard voices,” Valerius rumbled, striding in to glower at the two of them. “Are you going to stay in bed as I ordered, or be tied there?”
“The former, I think,” Seregil replied contritely. Pressing a hand dramatically over his eyes, he sank back against the pillow. “I’m sure you know best.”
“I certainly do. Not that it’s ever made the slightest damn bit of difference to you!”
Still scowling, he lifted the dressing and went about cleaning the wound. “There, this shouldn’t give you any more trouble.”
Looking down as his chest, Seregil saw the scar for the first time and felt his stomach lurch. The last of the scabs had fallen away and the ridged imprint of the coin’s design was visible in the shiny pink circle of new skin.
“What is that doing there?” he demanded, fingering the area around the scar.
Valerius threw up his hands. “You’ll have to ask Nysander. I was all for having it off that first night, but he said to leave it. It should fade in time. I’m off for Mycena today, so you’re in Alec’s care now. Try not to drive yourself into a relapse if that’s possible, which I doubt. You won’t die, but you’ll land your ass back in bed for another week if you don’t take care. Maker’s Mercy be with you both.”
Stumping out, he slammed the door after him.
“See? He was angry with you,” said Alec, obviously glad not to have been the focus of his displeasure.
“Angry?” Seregil took a last worried look at the mark and pulled the shirt lacings closed again. “He wasn’t angry. When Valerius gets angry the furniture catches fire, or walls fall down, things like that. There’s no mistaking it when he’s upset.”
“Well, he wasn’t exactly happy with you, either.”
“He seldom is.” Shifting against the pillows, he settled with one hand behind his head. “Even the other drysians consider him an irascible old bugger. Still, we find one another useful on occasion. How’s your hand?”
“Better.”
“Let me see.” He inspected the circle of tender skin on Alec’s palm; it was smooth and featureless except for the small square in the center. “Has Nysander said much about any of this?”
“Only that the disk was something called a telesm.”
“Well, that’s obvious!” Seregil snorted. “I want more of an answer than that. Fetch him for me, will you?”
Alec found Nysander at his high desk in the workroom. “Seregil was wondering if you could come down,” he told the wizard.
“Certainly.” Nysander laid his quill aside. “I was expecting Thero in a moment. Could you wait and tell him where I am?”
It wasn’t until the old man had disappeared downstairs that it occurred to Alec to wonder why Nysander hadn’t just sent a message by magic.
Minutes passed, and there was still no sign of Thero. Impatient to get back to Seregil, Alec wandered restlessly around the room. The stairs leading up to the little gallery beneath the tower dome soon caught his eye and, climbing up, he looked out through a thick, leaded pane.
With a startled gasp, he caught at the ledge in front of him; the dome bowed out beyond the stonework, affording a view of the ground hundreds of feet directly below. He’d never been this far off the ground and the sensation was not particularly pleasant. Concentrating on the solid floor beneath his boots, he made himself look out over the city. Streets fanned out like spokes from circular plazas, or intersected to form ordered squares and commons. From this height he could also see past the citadel wall to the outer harbor, where boats bobbed at anchor in the shelter of the moles. On the landward side, open country quickly gave way to rolling foothills and jagged, snowcapped mountains beyond.
As he turned to go down the steps again, a blue message sphere suddenly winked into existence in front of him and Nysander’s voice said, “Alec, join us in Seregil’s room, please.”
He found Seregil and Nysander in the midst of a heated discussion when he arrived. Nysander was calm, if solemn, but there was a decidedly stubborn set to Seregil’s jaw.
“Are you certain you want him involved?” the wizard was saying.
“Come on, Nysander! He’s already involved up to the eyebrows, whether he knows it or not,” Seregil retorted. “Besides, you wouldn’t have let him stay here if you didn’t already trust him.”
“Those are two separate issues,” Nysander replied, giving Seregil a meaningful look. When the younger man maintained adamant silence, the wizard nodded gravely. “Very well. But the final decision is his to make.” He looked up at Alec for the first time. “Would you become a Watcher, Alec?”
A twinge of excitement shot through Alec. “Does that mean you both can tell me more of what’s going on?” he asked, guessing the import of this strange exchange.
“Certainly.”
“Then yes, I will.”
Seregil gave him a wink as Nysander took out his small ivory dagger and waved Alec to a chair. When he was seated, Nysander set the knife spinning end for end in the air mere inches from Alec’s eyes.
Alec’s mouth went dry as he listened to the angry buzz the blade made as it flickered in front of him; he could feel the breeze of it against his face.
“Alec of Kerry,” Nysander intoned solemnly. “A Watcher must observe carefully, report truthfully, and keep the secrets that must be kept. Do you swear by your heart and eyes and by the Four to do these things?”
“Yes,” Alec answered quickly, steeling himself not to lean away from the spinning knife.
“Good!” The knife fell out of the air into Nysander’s hand.
“That’s it?” Alec exclaimed, falling back in his chair.
“You answered truthfully,” the wizard told him. “Had you lied, the result would have been rather more dramatic.”
“And considerably messier,” Seregil added with a relieved grin.
“Considerably,” said Nysander. “And now, what have you to report, Seregil?”
Seregil settled his shoulders more comfortably against the pillows. “When I left Rhíminee at the end of Rhythin, I took ship to Nanta and spent two days listening around the docks. Rumor had it that there were an unusual number of ships being refitted at Plenimaran ports, Karia in particular. This confirmed what we’d already heard from Korbin.
“Moving north, I poked around Boersby, learning that a delegation of Plenimaran merchants had stopped there a month earlier to discuss overland trade routes. A contingent of fifty armed riders had continued inland in the direction of the Fishless Sea.”
“To what end?” asked Nysander. “There is little in those barren hills but a few nomadic tribes.”
Seregil shrugged. “There were all sorts of speculations. Apparently local men were hired on as guides and haven’t been heard of since. If the mounted column did come south again, they came by a different route. Thinking they might have followed the Brilith River down toward the Woldesoke, I decided to check in with a friend at Ballton. There’d been no sightings in that area, but she said that similar parties had been seen to the east. The word is that
the lords of the various mountain demesnes are being visited, but nobody’s certain of their purpose. It boded ill for Plenimar to be so far north, so I decided to work my way along the mountains and see what these riders had been up to. If they went as far as Kerry, there wouldn’t be much doubt that they were casting a greedy eye at the Gold Road again.
“I was right, but quickly learned that the Plenimarans had left their new friends with a healthy distrust of strangers. Even as a bard, I had one or two difficulties before Asengai finally caught me. Not everyone was taken in, though. Lord Warkill and his sons gave them the air. Lord Nostor seems to have been noncommittal. My old friend Geriss had just died, and his widow, a Mycenian by birth, would have nothing to do with the envoys.”
“Lady Brytha? I knew her as a girl,” remarked Nysander. “Her holding is very isolated, as I recall.”
“It’s a large one, though, and well populated. I spoke to her in private and warned her to be cautious. She has four sons, two of them grown, who seem reliable enough. If worse comes to worst, they’ll be able to hold out or flee.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that. I have had word already that some advances were made in Kerry, but that they were politely refused.”
Seregil laughed darkly. “If by polite you mean no bloodshed. The miners have been content with their situation for hundreds of years and are a hard lot to move. Still, if the mountain lords can be swayed against them, Kerry could be lost.”
“And who is leading these Plenimarans? What is their method?”
“Crafty, as usual. It seems that nobody spoke to the same emissary, which means there were either several groups going among the various holdings, or they switched off leaders each time. I have the names, but I doubt they’ll amount to much. As for their method, it was the old wishing mirror game.”
“The what?” Alec interjected, completely lost by now.
Seregil grinned. “You’ve never heard the story of the wishing mirror?” You look into it to see your heart’s desire. The Plenimarans send a spy or two in advance to sound out the situation, then the grand commander rides in with a great show of soldiers and a saddlebag full of empty promises based on the reports of his spies. Formio, for instance, was informed that the Overlord of Plenimar wishes to arrange a marriage for some distant niece, while old Warkill, whose lands sit at the headwaters of the Silverwind, was promised aid to take the lands clear to the edge of the Woldesoke. Mind you, our friend Mardus is down in Wolde soon after, promising to defend the mayor from just such an incursion.
“I also had the good fortune to be captured by a gang of bandits east of Derila. Their leader happened to be fond of bards, so they decided to keep me on rather than slit my throat. They were a sloppy bunch and I managed to get away when I wanted to, but not before I learned that they’d been foolish enough to attack a party of Plenimarans only two weeks earlier. Instead of obliterating them, as the marines generally would if only for the practice, these blackguards enlisted the bandits to their cause, binding them with oaths, wine, and gold. They even went so far as to offer a bounty for any other freebooters they could bring in.”
“What a pack of mongrels they are leashing together up there!” Nysander exclaimed, none too pleased. “They will turn every little faction against its neighbor and let them cut each other to pieces.”
“Then march in to sweep up the spoils,” added Seregil. “After Alec and I got free of Asengai, we met with Erisa and Micum in Wolde. She’d been along the coast as far as Syr and her news was much the same, including the foray toward the Fishless Sea. She’s equally mystified. According to her, Mardus stopped for a week at Sark Island on his way up the Ösk to Blackwater Lake. I’ve never been there, but Micum says there’s nothing but the ruins of an ancient trading colony. Hardly the thing to occupy someone like Mardus for a week.”
“And Micum?”
“His news was the strangest of all. He’d been up around Ravensfell and reported a company of marines in full battle dress riding into the pass. Unless they’re out to conquer whatever’s left of the Hâzadriëlfaie, I can’t imagine what they think they’ll find except mountains and ice.”
Seregil paused, but Nysander simply motioned for him to continue. “That brings us to the mayor’s banquet. Alec says he told you about our doings there, but there are a few details I’d better fill in.”
“Pertaining to the maps, I assume,” said Nysander.
“Yes. I found one in Mardus’ campaign chest, quite ordinary, not hidden. Points on it had been marked at Wolde, Kerry, Sandir Point, Syr, and each of the mountain demesnes.”
“Rather tidy, that,” Nysander remarked.
“But even better, another map locked safely away in his dispatch box was marked with points at Sark Island, another somewhere north of Ravensfell, and one in the Blackwater Fens. The last one was circled. What do you make of that?”
“Most intriguing,” Nysander mused, stroking his beard.
“Micum went back to the Fens after Boersby. He meant to head down here when he’d finished.”
“How long ago did you last see him?”
“He left us at Boersby; let’s see.” Seregil thought for a moment, then shook his head impatiently. “Damn! I’m still muddled. Alec, how long has it been?”
Alec counted back. “Just over two weeks now.”
“He should be with us soon, then,” said Nysander, but something in his expression must have caught Seregil’s eye.
“What is it, Nysander?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Is that all you have to report?”
“No. I believe those highwaymen who attacked us below Stook were Plenimaran agents. When we searched the bodies they just didn’t have the right look to them. They had new weapons and clothing, all local, little money or possessions. It was as if they’d simply ridden into the Folcwine Forest and set up shop the day before. The whole situation didn’t smell right.”
“I have had occasion in the past to trust your intuition.”
“There’d been a sudden rash of attacks on the caravans around Wolde just before the Plenimaran envoys showed up there,” added Alec.
Seregil nodded wryly. “Taken with everything else, it seems rather too much of a coincidence that these cutthroats should appear out of nowhere just in time to be run off by the able marines.”
“I see,” mused Nysander. “Then you believe that Plenimar is providing a reason for the northern towns to seek an alliance?”
“I do.”
“Anything else?”
“Just this.” Seregil pulled the neck of this nightshirt open and cocked his chin at the scar.
Nysander went to the window and gazed out. “I fear I must beg your forbearance regarding that. This matter is not to be spoken of to anyone, at any time.”
There was no mistaking the finality in his voice. Seregil’s brows drew together ominously over his grey eyes. “I just slept away the last two weeks because of this. Not to mention the madness that went before, or the nightmares and visions and the urge to kill just about every person I came within ten feet of, including Alec!”
“You must be patient.”
“What is there to be patient about?” Seregil retorted. “I want to know who did this to me! Do you know or not?”
Nysander sighed as he sat down in the embrasure of the window. “I should say that you did it to yourself, really. You took it upon yourself to steal the thing in the first place, and then to hang it about your neck. Not that I am chiding you, of course. I know that you took it on my behalf. Nevertheless, I—”
“Don’t go changing the subject. That’s my trick!” Seregil interrupted hotly. “This is me you’re talking to, not some provincial message carrier. What’s going on?”
Caught in the line of confrontation, Alec looked anxiously from one to the other. Seregil’s lips were compressed into a thin, stubborn line, his eyes larger than ever in his haggard face as he glared up at the wizard. But Nysander met his friend’s smoldering gaze calmly.
“Seregil í Korit Solun Meringil Bôkthersa,” he said quietly, rolling the syllables as if they were a spell. “This is a matter which goes beyond any personal vengeance on your part. The mark you bear is a magical sigla, the meaning of which I am bound by the most dire oaths not to reveal.”
“Then why didn’t you let Valerius take it off?”
Nysander spread his hands resignedly. “You understand better than most the power of prescience. It felt unwise at the time to do so. Now that you are stronger, however, I shall cast an occultation over it.”
“But it will still be there,” said Seregil uneasily. “I—I had strange dreams after Alec pulled the thing off, different than the nightmares before.”
Nysander rose to his feet in alarm. “By the Light, why did you not mention this before!”
“I’m sorry. I only just now remembered, parts of them, anyway.”
Nysander sat down on the edge of the bed. “You must tell me what you can, then. By your oath as a Watcher—”
“Yes, yes, I know!” snapped Seregil, rubbing at his eyelids in frustration. “Remembering—it’s like trying to grasp a handful of eels. One second I remember a piece of something, then it just goes.”
“Nysander, he looks ill!” Alec whispered. The color had fled from Seregil’s thin cheeks and a sheen of sweat stood out on his forehead.
“I was terribly sick by the time we reached the crossroads inn,” Seregil continued hoarsely. “Alec, you had no idea—Everything had become so unreal. It was like being trapped in a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from. I don’t know where in Mycena we were by then. The black creature had been dogging us since the day before. Alec couldn’t see it, even when it touched him in the cart, and that scared me worse than anything I’ve ever encountered. Alec’s told you how I attacked him that night, I know, but that’s not how it seemed to me at the time, not at all! The thing was attacking me, or rather letting me attack it and sidestepping me. Alec must have come in during all that and I was too crazed to realize. Gods, I could just as easily have killed him—”