Lynn Flewelling - Nightrunners 02 - Stalking Darkness

The lean ship smashed through foaming crests, pounding southwest out of Keston toward Skala. By night

she ran without lanterns; her crew, accomplished smugglers all, sailed with eyes lifted skyward to the

stars. By day they kept constant watch, though there was little chance of meeting another ship. Only a

Plenimaran captain would chance deep water sailing so late in the year and this winter there would be

none so far north. Not with a war brewing.

Ice sheathed the rigging. The sailors pulled the halyards with bleeding hands, chipped frozen water from

the drinking casks, and huddled together off watch, muttering among themselves about the two gentlemen

passengers and the grim pack of cutthroats who'd come aboard.

The second day out, the captain came above slobbering drunk. Gold was no use to dead men, he

howled over the wind; foul weather was coming, they were turning back. Smiling, the dark nobleman led

him below and that was the last anyone heard of the matter. The captain fell overboard sometime that

same night. That was the story, at least; the fact was that he was nowhere to be found the next morning

and their course remained unchanged.

The mate took over, tying himself to the wheel as they wallowed along. Blown off course, they missed

Gull Island and sailed on without respite through lashing sleet and exhaustion. On the fourth day two

more men were swept away as waves nearly swamped the ship. A mast snapped, dragging its sail like a

broken wing. Miraculously, the ship held true while the remaining crew fought to cut away the tangled

ropes.

Clinging among the frozen shrouds that night, the men muttered again, but cautiously. Their finely dressed

passengers had brought ill fortune with them; no one wanted to chance attracting their eye. The ship

plunged on as if helpful demons guided her keel.

Two days out from Cirna the gale lifted. A pale sun burst through the shredding clouds to guide the

battered vessel westward, but foul luck still dogged her. A sudden fever struck among the crew. One by

one, they sickened, throats swelling shut as black sores blossomed in the warmth of groins and armpits.

Those untouched by the illness watched in horror as the gentlemen's men-at-arms laughingly tossed the

bloated corpses overboard.

None of the passengers sickened, but by the time they sighted the towering cliffs of the Skalan Isthmus

the last of the crew could feel the weakness overtaking them.

They reached the mouth of Cirna harbor in darkness, guided by the leaping signal fires that flanked the

mouth of the Canal. Still sagging at the wheel, the dying mate watched the passengers' men strike the

sails, lower anchor, and heave the longboat over the side.

One of the gentlemen, the dark-haired one with a long scar under his eye, suddenly appeared at the

mate's elbow. He was smiling, always smiling, though it never seemed to reach his eyes. Half-delirious,

the mate staggered back, fearful of being devoured by those soulless eyes.

"You did well," the dark man said, reaching to tuck a heavy purse into the mate's pocket. "We'll see

ourselves ashore."

"There's some of us still alive, sir!" croaked the mate, looking anxiously toward the signal fires, the warm

lights of the town glimmering so close across the water. "We've got to get ashore for a healer!"

"A healer, you say?" The dark gentleman raised an eyebrow in concern. "Why, my companion here is a

healer of sorts. You had only to ask."

Looking past him, the mate saw the other man, the weedy one with the face like a rat's, at work chalking

something on the deck. As he straightened from his task the mate recognized the warning symbol for

plague.

"Come, Vargul Ashnazai, isn't there something you can do for this poor fellow?" the dark man called.

The mate shuddered as the other man glided toward him.

Not once during the voyage had he heard this man speak. When he did now the words were unintelligible

and seemed to collect in the mate's throat like stones. Gagging, he slumped to the deck. The one called

Ashnazai laid a cold hand against his cheek and the world collapsed in a blaze of black light.

Mardus stepped clear of the bile spreading out from the dead sailor's mouth. "What about the others?"

The necromancer smiled, his fingers still tingling pleasantly from the mate's death. "Dying as we speak, my

lord."

"Very good. Are the men ready?"

"Yes, my lord."

Mardus took a last satisfied look around the deck of the ravaged vessel, then climbed down to the

waiting boat.

Cloaked in Ashnazai's magic, they passed the quay and custom house without challenge. Climbing a

steep, icy street, they found rooms ready for them at the Half Moon tavern.

Mardus and Ashnazai were just settling down over a hot supper in Mardus' chamber when someone

scratched softly at the door.

Captain Tildus entered with a grizzled man named Urvay, Mardus' chief spy in Rhiminee for the past

three years. The man was invaluable, both for his skill and his discretion. Tonight he was dressed as a

gentleman merchant and looked distinguished in velvet and silver.

Urvay saluted him gravely. "I'm glad to see you safe, my lord. It's nasty sailing this time of year."

Mardus dismissed Tildus, then waved the spy to a nearby chair. "What have you to report, my friend?"

"Bad news and good, my lord. Lady Kassarie is dead."

"That Leran woman?" asked Ashnazai.

"Yes. The Queen's spies attacked her keep about a week ago. She died in the battle. Vicegerent Barien

committed suicide over the matter and there are rumors that the Princess Royal was implicated

somehow, though the Queen's taken no action against her. The rest of the faction has gone to ground or

fled."

"A pity. They might have proved useful. But what about our business?"

"That's the good news, my lord. I have new people in place with several influential nobles."

"Which ones?"

"Lord General Zymanis, for one-word is he's about to be commissioned with overseeing the lower city

fortifications. And one of my men just got himself betrothed to Lady Kora's second daughter and has the

run of the villa. But of particular interest, my lord—" Urvay paused, leaning forward a little.

"I'm in the process of establishing a contact inside the Oreska House."

Mardus raised an eyebrow. "Excellent! But how? We haven't been able to get a spy in there for years."

"Not a spy, my lord, but a turncoat. His name is Pelion i Eirsin. He's an actor, and highly thought of at the

moment."

"What's he got to do with the Oreska?" demanded Vargul Ashnazai.

"He's got a lover there," Urvay explained quickly, "a young sorceress said to be the mistress of one or

two of the older wizards as well. Her name's Ylinestra, and she's got a bit of a reputation around the city;

a fiery little catamount with an eye for handsome young men and powerful old ones. This man Pelion is

evidently part of her collection. Through him we may be able to get to her and perhaps others. She's not

a member of the Oreska herself, but she lives there and has rooms of her own."

"I hardly think we need the services of some slut to get into the place," the necromancer scoffed.

"Maybe not," Urvay interrupted, "but this slut numbers the wizard Nysander among her lovers."

"Nysander i Azusthra?" Mardus nodded approvingly. "Urvay, you've outdone yourself! But what have

you told this actor of yours?"

"To him, I am Master Gorodin, a great admirer of his work. I also understand how important patronage

is to a young actor on the rise, and to a certain playwright who's willing to create roles especially for him.

In return, my new friend Pelion passes on whatever bit of gossip he picks up around town. He likes the

deal, and knows better than to ask too many questions. As long as the gold flows, he's ours."

"Well done, Urvay. Spare no expense with him. We must infiltrate the Oreska before spring. You

understand? It is imperative."

"I do, my lord. Shall I make arrangements for you in Rhiminee?"

"No. Nothing's to be arranged in advance. I'll contact you when I need you. For now, keep an eye on

Pelion and his sorceress."

Urvay rose and bowed. "I will, my lord. Farewell."

When he was gone Mardus returned to his interrupted meal, but Vargul Ashnazai found his appetite had

fled.

The Oreska, he thought bitterly, fingering the ivory vial that hung from a chain around his thin neck. That's

where they'd gone, the thieves who'd stolen the Eye from under his very nose.

Mardus had nearly killed him that night in Wolde. Worse yet, he'd threatened to banish him from their

quest. If Mardus had entrusted him with the disks in the first place, of course, it would never have

happened, but that was a point not worth arguing. Not if he cared to live longer than his next word.

His standing with Mardus had eroded steadily ever since.

Even with the power of the Eye itself to aid him, he'd been unable to exercise sufficient power over the

fugitives to stop them. The Aurenfaie had proven infuriatingly resistant to his magicks and when he'd

finally succumbed to the dragorgos attack at the inn, the boy, that wretched boy, had outmaneuvered

them, spiriting his partner away before Mardus and his men could reach the place.

Still holding the vial between his fingers, Vargul Ashnazai pictured the precious blood-soaked slivers of

wood inside, slivers he'd gouged from the floor of the Mycenian inn where his dragorgos had overtaken

them.

The talisman he'd made with their blood was a powerful guide, so powerful that he'd almost caught them

at Keston. But then they'd slipped on ahead by sea and another's power was growing around them,

occluding his own. He'd recognized the resonance of the magic at once. Oreska magic.

And so Mardus and his men had tracked them by methods thoroughly mundane, while he, a

necromancer of the Sanctum, rode along like so much useless baggage.

Mardus had been sanguine. They already knew where the thieves were headed, result once again of

Mardus' cold-blooded methods rather than his own. One of the river sailors captured after the

destruction of the Darter—this, at least, was Vargul's work—had screamed out with his last breath what

they'd needed to know.

To be sitting here now, no more than two days ride from the stronghold of his enemies, was maddening.

So close! he thought, closing his fist around the vial.

Mardus saw, and guessed his thoughts. "Why not scry for them again?"

Vargul Ashnazai shifted uncomfortably. "It's been the same for weeks now."

Mardus glanced over at him, much the way any man might look at another who's said something mildly

surprising. But Mardus was not just any man.

As his gaze met Ashnazai's, the necromancer felt a stab of fear. It was not madness he saw in his

companion's eyes—never that—but something worse, an obdurate purposefulness steeped with the

shadow of their god. Mardus might not have magic, but he had power.

He was touched, chosen.

Held in that remorseless gaze, Ashnazai felt the blood slow in his veins. Clasping the vial more tightly, he

placed his other hand over his eyes and summoned the image of the thieves.

For a moment he felt the reassuring pulse of his own considerable power. The inner blackness flowed

through him to the vial and beyond, using the essence of the blood to seek its source. Ever since the

thieves had reached Rhiminee, however, a veil had dropped over them.

Someone had placed a protective spell over them, and the resistance to his magic was fierce and

decisive.

This time was no different. The moment he focused his concentration on their location, he was blinded by

a searing vision of fire and huge, leathery wings. The message was clear enough: These people are under

the protection of the Oreska. You cannot touch them.

Gasping, Ashnazai let go of the vial and pressed both hands to his face.

"No change?"

Ashnazai could tell without looking up that the bastard was smiling.

"Then Urvay's actor is truly a blessing placed in our path. If these two are still under the protection of the

Oreska wizards, where better to seek them?"

"I hope you're right, my lord. When I find them, I'll crush their beating hearts in my hands!"

"Vengeance is a dangerous emotion."

Looking up, Vargul Ashnazai saw a familiar blankness pass across his companion's face, the touch of the

god.

"You should be grateful to them for leading us to the completion of our quest," Mardus continued softly,

staring into the depths of his cup. "This actor and his sorceress are the seal on that. Patience is the key

now. Be patient. Our moment will come."

Sleet-laden winds lashed in off the winter sea, racketing through the dark streets of Rhiminee like a huge,

angry child. Loose shingles and roof tiles tore free and clattered down into streets and gardens. Bare

trees swayed and clashed their branches like dead bones in the night. In the harbor below the citadel,

vessels were tossed from their moorings to founder against the mores. In upper and lower city alike, even

the brothel keepers put up their shutters early.

Two cloak-wrapped figures slipped from a shadowed courtyard in Blue Fish Street and hurried east to

Sheaf Street.

"I can't believe we're out in this to deliver a damn love token," Alec groused, shaking his wet, fair hair

from his eyes.

"We've got the Rhiminee Cat's reputation to maintain," Seregil said, shivering beside the boy. The slender

Aurenfaie envied Alec his northern-bred tolerance for the cold. "Lord Phyrien paid for the thing to be on

the girl's pillow tonight. I've been wanting a peek into her father's dispatch box anyway. Word is he's

maneuvering for the Vicegerent's post."

Seregil grinned to himself. For years, the mysterious thief known only as the Rhiminee Cat had assisted

the city's upper class in their endless intrigues; all it took to summon him was gold and a discreet note left

in the right hands. None had ever guessed that this faceless spy was virtually one of their own, or that the

arrangement was as much to his benefit as theirs.

The wind buffeted at them from all sides as they pressed on toward the Noble Quarter. Reaching the

fountain colonnade at the head of Golden Helm Street, Seregil ducked inside for a moment's shelter.

"Are you sure you're up to this? How's your back?" he asked as he stooped to drink from the spring at

the center of the colonnade.

Less than two weeks had passed since Alec had pulled Princess Klia from the fiery room below the

traitor Kassarie's keep. Valerius' malodorous drysian salves had worked their healing magic, but as

they'd dressed tonight he'd noticed that the skin across the boy's shoulders was still tender-looking in

places. Not that Alec would admit it and risk being sent back, of course.

"I'm fine," Alec insisted as expected. "It's your teeth I hear chattering, not mine." Shaking out his sodden

cloak, he tossed one long end over his shoulder. "Come on. We'll be warmer if we keep moving."

Seregil looked with sudden longing toward the entrance to the Street of Lights across the way. "We'd be

a hell of a lot warmer in there!"

It had been months since he'd visited any of the elegant pleasure houses. The thought of so many warm,

perfumed beds and warm, perfumed bodies made him feel even colder.

Invisible in the shadows, Alec made no reply, but Seregil heard him shifting uncomfortably. The boy's

solitary upbringing had left him uncommonly backward in certain matters, even for a Dalnan. Such

reticence was unfathomable to Seregil, though out of respect for their friendship he did his best not to

tease the boy.

The fashionable avenues of the Noble Quarter were deserted, the great houses and villas dark behind

their high garden walls. Ornate street lanterns creaked unlit on their hooks, extinguished by the storm.

The house in Three Maidens Street was a large, sprawling villa surrounded by a high courtyard wall. Alec

kept an eye out for bluecoat patrols while Seregil tossed the grapple up and secured the rope. The roar

of the storm covered any noise as they scrambled up and over. Leaving the rope in a clump of bushes,

Seregil led the way through the gardens.

After a brief search, Alec found a small shuttered window set high in a wall at the back of the house.

Climbing onto a water butt, he pried back the shutter with a knife and peered inside.

"Smells like a storeroom," he whispered.

"Go on then. I'm right behind you." Alec went in feet first and disappeared soundlessly inside.

Climbing up, Seregil sniffed the earthy scents of potatoes and apples. Squeezing through, he lowered

himself in onto what felt like sacks of onions.

He reached out, finding Alec's shoulder in the darkness, and together they felt their way to a door.

Seregil eased the latch up and peeked out into the cavernous kitchen beyond.

The coals in the hearth gave off enough of a glow to make out two servants asleep on pallets there.

Deep snores sounded from the shadows of a nearby corner. To the right was an open archway. Tapping

Alec on the arm, Seregil headed for it on tiptoe.

The arch let onto a servant's passage.

Climbing a narrow staircase, they crept down a succession of hallways in search of Lord Decian's private

study. Not finding it, they moved up to the next floor and chanced shielded lightstones.

By this dim light they saw that these nobles left their shoes outside their bedroom door for a servant to

collect and clean. Seregil nudged Alec and flipped him the sign for "lucky." The lord of the house had

only one daughter; it was a simple matter to find the footgear appropriate for a maiden of fifteen.

A pair of dainty boots stood before a door at the far end of the corridor. A stout pair of shoes next to

them warned that the young woman did not sleep alone.

Seregil stifled a grin. Alec was in for more than he'd bargained for, in more ways than one.

Alec lightly fingered the latch, found the door unbarred. The delivery was his task tonight, more training in

the ways of the Cat. This sort of job, though hardly as significant as their recent work for Nysander,

required a high level of finesse and he was anxious to prove himself.

Sliding his lightstone back into his tool roll, Alec took a deep breath and lifted the latch.

A night lamp burned on a stand beside the bed. The hangings were open and inside he could see a young

girl with heavy braids asleep on the side nearest the door, her face turned to the light. Beside her, a larger

form, her mother or nurse perhaps, stirred restlessly beneath the thick comforter.

Creeping to the side of the bed, he took out the token, a tiny scroll pushed through a man's golden ring.

Left to his own devices, he'd simply have put it on the lamp stand and been done with it, but Lord

Phyrien had been very exact in his instructions. The ring must be left on his sweetheart's pillow.

Bending over the girl, Alec placed the ring as specified. Too late he heard Seregil's sharp intake of

breath. The heavy ring immediately rolled down the curve of the pillow and struck the girl on the cheek

just beside her mouth.

Startled brown eyes flashed wide. Fortunately for Alec, she saw the ring before she could cry out. Her

look of fear changed instantly to one of mute joy as she mistook his muffled form for that of her lover.

"Oh, Phyrien, you are bold!" she breathed, stealing a quick look at the sleeping woman beside her.

Grasping Alec's hand, she drew it gently but insistently under the bedclothes.

Alec blushed furiously in the depths of his hood.

Like most Skalans, she slept nude. He didn't dare resist, however. Any kind of struggle would not only

seem suspicious, but probably shake the bed enough to awaken its other occupant.

"You're so cold!" she said with a hushed giggle, pulling his hand still lower. "Kiss me, my brave lover. I'll

warm you."

Holding his hood in place with his free hand, Alec pressed his lips hastily to hers, then motioned

warningly at the other woman. Pouting prettily, the girl released him and tucked the token away beneath

her pillow.

With his heart hammering in his ears, Alec extinguished the lamp and hurried back out into the corridor.

"Seregil, I—" he began in a whisper, but his companion cut the apology short, grabbing him by the arm

and hustling him off the way they'd come.

Damn, damn, damn!

Alec berated himself. A simple little delivery job and I cock it up.

Braced every moment for an outcry, they hurried down to the kitchen and weaseled back out the

storeroom window. Outside, Seregil was still implacably silent. Climbing over the wall, he set off at a run.

Alec followed, grimly convinced he was in disgrace.

Three streets from the villa, Seregil suddenly stopped and hauled him into an alleyway, then bent over,

hands on knees, as if to catch his breath.

Braced for a scathing lecture, it took Alec a moment to realize that Seregil was laughing.

"Bilairy's Balls, Alec!" he burst out. "I'd give a hundred sesters to have seen the look on your face when

that ring rolled away. And when she tried to pull you into bed—" He sagged against the alley wall,

shaking with laughter.

"But it was so stupid," Alec groaned. "I should have seen it would slide off."

Seregil wiped his eyes, grinning. "Maybe so, but these things happen. I don't know how many times I've

pulled a blunder like that. It's the recovery that counts and you did just fine. "Learn and live," I always

say."

Relieved, Alec fell into step beside him as they headed for home. Before they'd gone another block,

however, Seregil let out another snort of laughter. Leaning heavily on Alec's shoulder, he moaned in a

lilting falsetto, "Kiss me, my brave lover. I'll warm you up!" then staggered away, cackling into the wind.

Perhaps, Alec thought in exasperation, he hadn't heard the last of the matter after all.

Back at Cockerel Inn, they nicked a late snack from Thryis' pantry and crept up the hidden staircase on

the second floor. Warding glyphs glowed briefly as Seregil whispered the passwords.

At the top of the stairs, they crossed the chilly attic storeroom to their own door.

The cluttered sitting room was still warm from the evening fire. Tossing his wet cloak over the mermaid

statue by the door, Alec shucked off soaked clothing as he crossed to his bed in the corner by the hearth.

Seregil watched with a faint smile. The boy's considerable and, to his way of thinking, unnatural degree of

modesty had lessened somewhat over the months of their acquaintance, but Alec still turned away as he

stripped off his leather breeches and pulled on a long shirt. At sixteen he was very like Seregil in build:

slim, lean, and fair-skinned. Seregil quickly busied himself sorting a pile of correspondence on the table

as the boy turned around again.

"We don't have anything in particular planned for tomorrow, do we?" Alec asked, taking a bite from one

of the meat pies they'd purloined.

"Nothing pressing," said Seregil, yawning hugely as he went to his chamber door. "And I don't intend to

be up before noon. Good night."

With the aid of a lightstone, he navigated past the stacks of books and boxes and other oddments to the

broad, velvet-hung bed that dominated the back of the tiny room. Peeling off his wet garments, he

slipped between the immaculate sheets with a groan of contentment. Ruetha appeared from some

cluttered corner and leapt up with a throaty trill, demanding to be let under the covers.

It had been a busy year overall, he thought, stroking the cat absently. Especially the past few months. Just

realizing how long it had been since he'd visited the Street of Lights underscored the general disruption of

his life.

Oh well. Winter's here. There'll always be work enough to keep us occupied, but plenty of leisure too for

the pleasures of the town. All in all, I'd say we earned a bit of a respite.

Imagining quiet, snowy months stretching out before them, Seregil drifted contentedly off to sleep—only

to lurch up sometime soon after from a nightmare of plummeting into darkness, Alec's terrified cry ringing

in his ears as they fell down, down, past the walls of Kassarie's keep into the gorge below.

Opening his eyes with a gasp, Seregil was at once relieved and annoyed to find himself slumped naked in

one of Nysander's sitting-room armchairs.

There was no need to ask how he'd gotten there; the green nausea of a translocation spell cramped his

belly. Pushing his long, dark hair back from his face, he scowled wretchedly up at the wizard.

"Forgive me for bringing you here so abruptly, dear boy," said Nysander, handing him a robe and a

steaming mug of tea.

"I assume there's a good reason for this," Seregil muttered, knowing very well that there must be for

Nysander to subject him to magic so soon after the shape-changing incident.

"But of course. I tried to bring you earlier, but you two were busy burgling someone." Pouring himself a

mug of tea, Nysander settled into his usual chair on the other side of the hearth. "I just looked in for a

moment. were you successful?"

"More or less."

Nysander appeared in no hurry to elucidate, but it was obvious he'd been working on something. His

short grey beard was smudged with ink near his mouth, and he wore one of the threadbare old robes he

favored for his frequent all-night work sessions. Surrounded by the room's magnificent collection of

books and oddities, he looked like some down-at-the-heels scholar who'd wandered in by mistake.

"Alec is looking better, I noticed," Nysander remarked.

"He's healing. It's his hair I'm concerned about. I've got to get him presentable in time for the Festival of

Sakor."

"Be thankful he came away no worse off then he did. From what Klia and Micum told me, he's lucky to

be alive at all. Ah, and before I forget, I have something for the two of you from Klia and the Queen." He

handed Seregil two velvet pouches. "A public acknowledgment is impossible, of course, but they wished

to express their gratitude nonetheless. That green one there is yours."

Seregil had received such rewards before. Expecting another trinket or bit of jewelry, he opened the little

bag. What he found inside reduced him to stunned silence.

It was a ring, a very familiar ring. The great, smooth ruby glowed like wine in its heavy setting of

Aurenfaie silver when he held it closer to the fire.

"Illior's Light, Nysander, this is one of the rings I took from Corruth i Glamien's corpse," he gasped,

finding his voice at last.

Nysander leaned forward and clasped his hand. "He was your kinsman and Idrilain's, Seregil. She

thought it a fitting reward for solving the mystery of his disappearance. She hopes you shall wear it with

honor among your own people one day."

"Give her my thanks." Seregil tucked it reverently away in its bag. "But you didn't magick me out of bed

just for this?"

Nysander sat back with a chuckle. "No. I have a task which may be of interest to you. However, there

are conditions to be set forth before I explain. Agree to abide by them or I shall send you back now with

all memory of this meeting expunged."

Seregil blinked in surprise. "It must be some job. Why didn't you bring Alec?"

"I shall come to that presently. I can say nothing until you agree to the conditions."

"Fine. I agree. What are they?"

"First, you may ask no question unbidden."

"Why not?"

"Starting now."

"Oh, all right. What else?"

"Second, you must work in absolute secrecy. No one is to know of this, particularly not Alec or Micum.

Will you give me your oath on it?"

Seregil regarded him in silence for a moment; keeping secrets from Alec was no easy business these

days. Still, how could something so shrouded in mystery fail to be interesting? "All right. You have my

word."

"Your oath," Nysander insisted somberly.

Shaking his head, Seregil held out his left hand, palm up, before him. "Asurit betuth dos Aura Elustri

kamar sosui Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa. And by my honor as a Watcher, I swear also.

Is that sufficient?"

"You know I would never impose such conditions on you without good reason," the wizard chided.

"Still, it seems to be happening quite a lot these days," Seregil retorted sourly. "Now can I ask

questions?"

"I will answer what I can."

"Why is it so crucial for Alec and Micum not to know?"

"Because if you let slip the slightest detail of what I am about to tell you, I shall have to kill all of you."

Though spoken calmly, Nysander's words jolted him like a kick in the throat; he'd known the wizard too

long to mistake his absolute sincerity. For an instant, Seregil felt as if he were looking into the face of a

stranger. Then suddenly, everything fell into place as neatly as a three-tumbler lock. He sat forward,

slopping hot tea over his knees in his excitement.

"It's to do with this, isn't it?" he exclaimed, tapping his chest. There, beneath Nysander's obscuring magic,

lay the branded imprint of the wooden disk he'd stolen from Duke Mardus at Wolde—the same strange,

deceptively crude disk that had nearly taken his life. "You went white the night I told you about showing a

drawing of it to the Illioran Oracle. I thought you were going to fall over."

"Perhaps now you understand my distress," Nysander replied grimly.

They'd never spoken of that conversation, but the dread Seregil had felt then returned now in full force.

"Bilairy's Balls! You'd have done it, too."

Nysander sighed heavily. "I would never have forgiven myself, I assure you, but I would also have been

furious with you for forcing me into such an act. Do you recall what I said to you then?"

"To pray I never found out what that disk really is?"

"Precisely. And to undertake this task, you must continue to accept that as my answer on the subject."

Seregil slouched glumly in his chair. "Same old answer, eh? And what if I say no to all this? That if you

don't tell me the whole story I want no part of it?"

Nysander shrugged. "Then as I said before, I shall remove all memory of this conversation from your

mind and send you home. There are certainly others who could aid me."

"Like Thero, I suppose?" Seregil snapped before he could stop himself.

Lynn Flewelling - Nightrunners 02 - Stalking Darkness

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