Traitor's Moon: The Nightrunner Series, Book 3

  “There’s no change.”

  “So I heard. It’s good news in its way, I guess.”

  “Have the Haman done anything interesting?”

  “Not a thing. Steb told me about Seregil’s run-in with Emiel last night. Is he all right?”

  “Oh, yes. Seems more his old self than he has for days, in fact.” Alec hesitated, then said quietly, “About Nyal—”

  “You think he has something to do with all this, don’t you?” She looked down at her clasped hands.

  “Seregil does, but so far it’s just a hunch.”

  She sighed. “I’ve asked him to come back to Skala with me.”

  Alec blinked in surprise. “What did he say?”

  “He asked me to stay. I can’t.”

  “Are you—I mean, I heard—” Alec broke off, feeling himself blushing.

  “Pregnant?” Beka favored him with a dark look. “Heard about the bounty, did you? It wasn’t an order, just an opportunity. Kipa and Ileah think they may be. It’s not the road for me.” She yawned suddenly, pressing a hand over her mouth. “You’d better get moving.”

  “And you’d better get some rest.” Alec started down, then paused a few steps below her and reached to grip her by the knee. “Just—well, be careful.”

  She gave him a sour scowl. “I’m not love blind, Alec. I just hope Seregil’s wrong.”

  “So do I.”

  33

  BACKTRACKING

  A sizable entourage awaited Alec in front of the house. Säaban and Kheeta had half a dozen kinsmen with them, all with swords and bows. Braknil and his decuria flanked them, dressed for battle.

  “Have you something of Klia’s for me?” asked Säaban, his long face graver than usual beneath his dark green sen’gai.

  Alec handed him the tunic Klia had worn to the hunt, still stained with dirt and blood. Säaban held it between his hands for a moment, then nodded. “Good. The feeling of her khi is strong. I can even sense her illness. If she touched some object that caused her harm and it is there, I should be able to sense it. It does take great concentration, however. I can’t just ride along picking things out of the air.”

  “But if I show you where she fell, you could check the immediate area, couldn’t you? Emiel may have dropped the ring or whatever it was into the stream.”

  Säaban shrugged. “It is possible.”

  Possible. Alec sighed, doubting they’d come back anything but empty-handed. “All right, then. Let’s get going.”

  • • •

  They followed the same route as before, riding hard for stretches, stopping when Alec recognized places they’d halted the previous day.

  This was the first time since his arrival that he’d had the opportunity for any extended conversation with Säaban, and it occurred to Alec as they rode that if not for the standing ban against Seregil, he and Säaban would be calling each other kin.

  The man’s quiet demeanor made him easily overlooked at banquets. Today, however, he proved to be a valuable companion, a skilled and patient tracker. He reminded Alec of Micum Cavish, and the similarity was underscored by the sword at Säaban’s side. The hilt was worn with use, the scabbard scarred and weathered.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” Alec said as they combed a site together on foot. “Killing is forbidden, and murder is rare among the ’faie, yet your sword has clearly seen some use.”

  “As has yours,” Säaban replied with a knowing look at Alec’s scabbard. “We fight Zengati raiders, mostly. The slavers grow bolder by the decade.”

  “I thought Seregil’s father made peace with them?”

  “With some, not all. They’re a tribal people, not controlled by any one ruler. Rather like the Aurënfaie, I suppose,” he added with a fleeting smile.

  “And there are bandits in the mountains, too,” said Kheeta, whose scabbard showed considerably less wear. “There’s a troublesome band of them who range north of Bôkthersa—a real mongrel pack: teth’brimash, mostly, with some Zengati and Dravnians mixed in. They steal, slave, whatever takes their fancy.” He tugged proudly at his lock of white hair. “That’s how I got this. The first time I went out to fight them, one of the faithless bastards tried to take my head off. I dodged just in time to get away with a nick, then returned the favor, but lower.”

  “We may abhor fighting, but those of us who live on the coasts and borders must train our children to the bow and sword as soon as they can hold them,” said Säaban.

  “Then it wasn’t just life in Skala that made Seregil so good?”

  Kheeta snorted. “No, he comes from a long line of swordsmen: his father, his uncle, their father before them.”

  “That’s the way it is with our people, too,” said Sergeant Braknil, who’d been following the conversation.

  “I’ve watched you Skalans at your practices,” said Kheeta. “I would rather fight beside you than against you.”

  “We should put on a demonstration for the Iia’sidra,” Alec joked. “Maybe that would sway them to helping us.”

  “The final outcome of the vote will have little to do with Skala.” Säaban told him.

  “What about what’s happened to Klia and Torsin? I thought the harming of a guest was a great crime, especially at Sarikali,” said Alec.

  “It is a grievous offense, but it is a matter of atui, not unlike what happened when Seregil committed his unfortunate act. Bôkthersa was banned from the Iia’sidra until the matter was tried and teth’sag satisfied, just as the Haman are now.”

  “It was only out of respect for the rhui’auros that the matter was settled as it was,” said Kheeta.

  “The rhui’auros?” Alec looked at the two men in surprise.

  Säaban exchanged a look with Kheeta. “Then it is true. Seregil has not told you what happened.”

  “Not much.” Alec shifted uncomfortably. “Just that the Iia’sidra spared his life after he was questioned by a rhui’auros.”

  “It was the rhui’auros who saved Seregil from execution, not the Iia’sidra,” Säaban explained. “His guilt was clear and the Haman demanded the two bowls in spite of his youth. Korit í Solun did not contest the sentence. Before it could be carried out, however, a rhui’auros intervened, asking that Seregil be brought to Sarikali. He was in the Nha’mahat for three days. At the end, the rhui’auros themselves ordered his banishment. Seregil was transported directly to Virésse and sent to Skala.”

  “Three days?” Alec recalled how uneasy Seregil had been that night they’d gone there. “What did they do to him?”

  “No one knows exactly, but I was there when he came out afterward,” Kheeta replied, suddenly grim. “He wouldn’t look at any of us, and wouldn’t speak. The ride to Virésse took over a week, and he hardly said a word the whole way. The one time I got close enough to talk to him, he said he wished they’d just killed him.”

  “Some say the rhui’auros took part of his khi from him,” Säaban murmured.

  “I think it was Ilar who did that,” said Alec. “But you said that what’s happened here now is somehow the same?”

  “In some ways,” the older Bôkthersan replied. “As a descendant of Corruth í Glamien, Klia may be able to claim teth’sag. In the meantime, a clan under suspicion cannot vote.”

  “And if guilt is not proven?”

  Säaban spread his hands. “Then teth’sag cannot be carried out. How do you mean to proceed, if you do not find what you are looking for in the forest?”

  “I suppose we begin with anyone who had the most reason to hurt Klia. The way I see it, that brings in the Virésse first of all, since they’re the ones with the most to lose. Then there are the Khatme, who hate us because we’re Tír, outsiders.”

  Säaban considered this. “There’s sense in what you say, yet you are thinking with the mind of a Tír. This outrage was committed by an Aurënfaie. Their reasons might not be what you suppose.”

  “You’re saying I should think like an Aurënfaie?”

  “As
you are not one, I doubt that’s possible, any more than I could think like a murderer. It’s madness to kill another. How can one think like a madman unless you are mad yourself?”

  Alec smiled. “Seregil claims that Aurënfaie have no talent for murder. Where I’m from, it comes a bit easier to most—whether they’re doing it or just thinking of it.”

  They reached the clearing at midmorning and found everything as it had been the day before. The ash in the fire circles was damp and undisturbed. Flies buzzed lazily over the piles of offal left where hunters had cleaned their kill.

  Alec could still make out Klia’s footprints beside the cascading series of pools. “It was here that I found her and Emiel,” he told Säaban, showing him the spot.

  The Bôkthersan draped Klia’s tunic over one shoulder and began a tuneless humming.

  The pool Alec had found her beside yielded nothing. However, a few yards downstream Säaban halted suddenly and plunged his hand into the water, bringing up a sodden arrowhead pouch. An ivory plaque on one of the drawstrings showed the flame and crescent device of the Skalan royal house.

  “It’s Klia’s, all right,” Alec said, examining it. “It must have come loose during the struggle.”

  Säaban held the pouch in one hand, concentrating. When he spoke again, his voice had a high, singsong timbre. “Yes. Her legs gave way and she fell, choking on water. Her face—her eyelids were heavy, stiff.”

  “Emiel?” Alec asked hopefully.

  Säaban shook his head. “I’m sorry, Alec. It is only Klia I feel on this.”

  They spent the next hour searching but turned up nothing but a few lost buttons and a Skalan amulet.

  Searching the edges of the main clearing, Alec looked up to see Säaban on the far side, rubbing wearily at his forehead. He’d made no complaint, but Alec guessed that even for the ’faie magic took a toll on the user.

  He slowly retraced the way Klia and Emiel had taken down to the stream, poking into clumps of dead leaves and bracken along the way. Reaching the spot where he’d overtaken them, he looked around again. The only other marks were those left by the soldiers who’d carried Klia up the slope to her horse, a steeper but more direct route than the path. Following this, he cast back and forth as he worked his way up the hillside. The ground here was covered with dead leaves and fresh new undergrowth; an easy place to lose a small item. Säaban followed, humming softly to himself as he searched in his own fashion.

  Reaching the top, Alec turned and started down again, knowing that things always looked different with a change of direction. Halfway down, his patience was rewarded with a glimpse of something in a clump of tiny pink flowers.

  Alec went down on one knee, heart suddenly beating faster. It was an Akhendi bracelet, half trampled into the soft ground. Pulling it free, he saw that it was the one he’d watched Amali make for Klia that first night in Sarikali; there was no mistaking the complicated pattern on the band. The ties had broken, but the bird-shaped charm still hung from it, coated in mud. Alec used the hem of his shirt to clean it, then let out a low whistle of triumph.

  The pale wood had gone a telltale black.

  “Ah, no wonder I missed this,” Säaban said, though he looked a bit chagrined. “The magic on it interferes with my own. Are you certain it is Klia’s?”

  “Yes, I saw it on her yesterday morning.” He touched the charm. “And this was still white. I don’t suppose you can tell anything from it?”

  “No. You’d best take it to an Akhendi.”

  For the first time that day, Alec smiled. “I know just the Akhendi for the task.”

  Kheeta’s grin mirrored his own. “Let’s hope Seregil is as lucky with his search.”

  34

  INVESTIGATIONS

  Seregil paced impatiently around his sister’s hall, waiting for her to rise and dress. Adzriel appeared at last, looking anything but rested. Declining her offer of breakfast, he quickly outlined his intentions.

  “Must it be you?” she asked. “The Iia’sidra must approve such a search, and having you involved will not sit well with most of them.”

  “I have to get in there. Thero will be in charge, of course, but I have to be there. By the Light, I’d have done it my own way long before now if we were anywhere else but here. If Ulan is our poisoner, he’s already had too much time to do away with any evidence.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” she said at last. “There must be no soldiers, though.”

  “Fine. I assume the other khirnari will insist on being there?”

  “Brythir í Nien, at least. Any accusations at Sarikali must be made before him. Give me time to call the assembly. An hour at the very least.”

  Seregil was already halfway to the door. “I’ll meet you there. There’s someone else I need to speak with first.”

  I’m getting to be a regular visitor here, he thought as he came in sight of the Nha’mahat. Dismounting at a safe distance, he crossed the dew-laden grass, keeping an eye out for fingerlings. There were plenty about at this hour, frisking and flapping over the morning offerings in the temple porch.

  “I wish to speak with Elesarit,” he told the masked attendant who met him at the door.

  “I am he, little brother,” the old man replied, ushering him inside.

  To Seregil’s considerable relief, the rhui’auros bypassed the stairs to the cavern, taking him instead up to a small, sparsely furnished room. On the open terrace Seregil saw breakfast laid for two on a little table. Several fingerlings had worried a loaf of dark bread to bits across its polished surface. Laughing, the rhui’auros shooed them away and tossed the crumbs after them.

  “Come, you have had nothing to eat in almost a day,” he said, uncovering dishes containing Skalan cheeses and hot meats. He filled a plate and set it before Seregil.

  “You were expecting me?” Seregil’s belly growled appreciatively as he speared a sausage with a knife and wolfed it down. The food suddenly seemed to stick in his throat, however, as he noticed a platter of oat cakes dripping with butter and honey. Nysander had always served them at his extravagant morning meals.

  “You miss him a great deal, do you not, little brother?” asked Elesarit, his own food untouched before him. He’d removed his mask, revealing a lined face both kindly and serene.

  “Yes, I do,” Seregil replied softly.

  “Sometimes sorrow is a better guide than joy.”

  Nodding, Seregil took a bite of oat cake. “Did you send Nyal to me this morning?”

  “He came, did he not?”

  “Yes. If it hadn’t been for him, we might not have figured out what was wrong with Klia, or how to help her.”

  The rhui’auros’s brows arched dramatically. Under different circumstances, the effect would have been comical. “Someone has harmed your princess?”

  “You didn’t know? Then why did you send Nyal?”

  The old man eyed him slyly and said nothing.

  Seregil fought back his impatience. Like the Oracles of Illior, the rhui’auros were said to be possessed by the madness that came of being touched by the divine. This fellow was clearly no exception.

  “Why did you send him to me?” he tried again.

  “I did not send him to you.”

  “But you just said—” Seregil broke off, too tired to deal with subtle games and riddles. “Why am I here, then?”

  “For the sake of your princess?” the man offered, seeming equally mystified.

  “Very well, then. Since you were expecting me, you must have had something to say to me.”

  A dragon the size of a large cat crawled out from under the table and leapt into the rhui’auros’s lap. He stroked its smooth back absently for a moment, then looked up at Seregil with vague, unfocused eyes.

  Pinned by that strange gaze, Seregil felt an uneasy chill crawl slowly up his back. The dragon was watching him, too, and there was more intelligence in its yellow eyes than in those of the man who held it.

  Elesarit suddenly thrust his clenched f
ist across at Seregil, who recoiled instinctively.

  “You’ll be needing this, little brother.”

  Hesitantly, Seregil held out his hand, palm up, to receive whatever the man was offering. Something smooth and cool dropped into his hand. For an instant he thought it was another of the mysterious orbs from his dreams. Instead, he found himself holding a slender vial fashioned of dark, iridescent blue glass and capped with a delicate silver stopper. It was exquisite.

  “This is Plenimaran,” he said, recognizing the workmanship with a thrill of anticipation, even as another part of his mind piped in, too easy.

  “Is it?” Elesarit leaned over for a closer look. “He who has two hearts is twice as strong, ya’shel khi.”

  Only half listening to the man’s nonsensical ramblings, Seregil uncapped the vial and took a cautious sniff, wishing he’d thought to ask Nyal what apaki’nhag venom smelled like. The acrid aroma was disappointingly familiar. Tipping out a drop, he rubbed it between a thumb and finger. “It’s just lissik.”

  “Did you expect something else?”

  Seregil replaced the stopper without comment. He was wasting his time here.

  “A gift, little brother,” Elesarit chided gently. “Take what the Lightbearer sends and be thankful. What we expect is not always what we need.”

  Seregil resisted the urge to sling the bottle across the room. “Unless that dragon of yours is about to bite me, I’m not certain what to be thankful for, Honored One.”

  Elesarit regarded him with a mix of pity and affection. “You have a most stubborn mind, dear boy.”

  Cold sweat broke out across Seregil’s shoulders; Nysander had said these very words to him during his last vision. Seregil glanced at the oat cakes again, then back at the rhui’auros, half hoping to catch another glimpse of his old friend.

  Elesarit shook his head sadly. “Seldom have we seen one fight his gifts as you do, Seregil í Korit.”

  Disappointment shot through with vague guilt settled in Seregil’s gut like a bad dinner. He missed Nysander terribly, missed the old wizard’s quick mind and clarity. He might have kept secrets, but he never spoke in riddles.