Lynn Flewelling - Nightrunners 03 - Traitor's Moon

traitor's moonA Bantam Spectra Book / July 1999

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Dedication

For our folks, Thelma and Win White and Frances Flewelling, for their continuing love and support. I

prom-ise I'll write you that serious novel one of these days! Thanks for liking these so much.

Acknowledgments

Sincerest thanks to all the folks who continue to keep me sane, fed, and free of crumbs. Believe me, it's

a full-time job.

First and foremost, my husband and best buddy, Dr. Doug, past whom no chapter goes unmaimed. And

he cooks! The Dynamic Duo—editor Anne Lesley Groell and agent Lucienne Diver—and to the good

folks at Bantam Spectra and the Spectrum Literary Agency, who keepthem sane, fed, and free of

crumbs. The Usual Suspects—Darby Crouss, Laurie Hallman, Julie Friez, and Scott Burgess, and my

family. Assorted new readers, Michele De France and NextWavers Devon Monk, James Hartley,

Charlene Brusso, and Jason Tanner. Finally, kudos to our local swordsmith (and how many of you can

say that?), Adam Williams, for his technical advice and general kibitzing, and to Gary Ruddell, for giving

form to my inner visions.

Thank you all for your support, expertise, and in-flight feedback.

Additional gratitude for the Eagles reuniting just long enough to record theirHell Freezes Over CD. It

got me through some weary days and nights, when "You can check out anytime you like, but you can

never leave" pretty much summed things up. But I got over it.

AFew Remarks from the Author

Ever since the first Nightrunner book came out back in '96, people have been asking if I'm writing a

trilogy. It's an understandable as-sumption, given the genre, so I thought I'd seize this opportunity, here in

the third book, to lay that question to rest once and for all.

This is not a trilogy.

And the first person who asks if it's a pentology gets a sterling sil-ver fountain pen straight through the

heart.

Okay, I wouldn't really do that. I love that pen.

I have nothing against trilogies, it just isn't what I've set out to do here. The Nightrunner series is exactly

that: a series of interrelated tales about the lives and adventures of some characters I have a lot of fun

with. There will be more books, as inspiration strikes.

So, do you need to read the opening duology,Luck in the Shad-ows andStalking Darkness, to

understand this book?

Probably not.

Then again, I have two kids to put through college.

Yes, you absolutely need to read the first two books. So do all your friends and relatives.

Traitor's Moon

1

Dark Hopes

The sleet-laden wind buffeted Magyana, whipping wet strands free from the wiz-ard's thick white braid

as she trudged across the churned ground of the battle-field. In the distance, the tents of her queen's

sprawling encampment billowed and creaked along the riverbank, black specters on a dun plain. In the

makeshift corrals, the horses huddled together, their backs to the wind. The unlucky soldiers on sentry

duty did the same, their green tabards the only spots of color against this grim palette.

Magyana pulled her sodden cloak more closely around her. Never in all her three hun-dred and three

years had she felt the cold so keenly. Perhaps faith had kept her warm be-fore, she reflected sadly, faith

in the comfort-able rhythms of her life, and faith in Nysander, the wizard who'd been a part of her soul

for two centuries. This damnable war had robbed her of both, and more. Nearly a third of the Oreska

House wizards were dead, centuries of life and learning snatched away. Queen Idrilain's sec-ond consort

and two younger sons had fallen in battle, together with dozens of nobles and countless common

soldiers—sent by blade or disease down to Bilairy's gate.

Magyana's grief was mingled with resent-ment at the disruption of her orderly life. She was a wanderer,

a scholar, a gatherer of wonders and tales. Only reluctantly had she taken Nysander's place at the aging

queen's side.

My poor Nysander.She wiped a wind-smeared tear from her cheek.You would have relished all this,

seen it as a great game to be won.

So here she was, winter-locked in the wilds of southern Mycena, a nation once more bathed in the

blood of two bellicose neighbors. Plenimar stretched greedy talons westward toward Skala's borders

and north to the fertile freeholdings along the Gold Road. This harsh second winter had slowed the

fighting, but as the days now slowly lengthened toward spring, the queen's spies brought daily re-ports of

the unthinkable; their Mycenian allies were considering surrender.

And no wonder,Magyana thought, reaching the outskirts of the camp at last. It had been just five days

since the last battle. These ravaged fields where farmers had once cut sheaves of grain were sown now

with a crueler crop: shredded banners, broken buckles, arrow heads overlooked by scavenging camp

followers, and the oc-casional pitiful scrap of human remains, frozen too hard for even the ravens to peck

out. It would yield a bitter spring harvest with the thaw, one she doubted any of them would be here to

witness, now that things had gone so horribly wrong.

The Plenimarans had surprised them just before dawn. Throwing on her armor, Idrilain had rushed to

rally her troops before Magyana could reach her. One side of the queen's corselet had been left

un-buckled, and during the ensuing battle a Plenimaran arrow found the gap, piercing Idrilain's left lung.

She survived the extraction, but the wound quickly festered. Plenimaran archers dipped their

arrow-heads in their own excrement before a battle.

Since then, a host of drysian healers had exerted their combined skills to keep her alive while the wound

putrefied and fevers melted the flesh from her bones. It was agony, watching Idrilain fight this silent battle,

but she refused to order her own release.

"Not yet. Not as things are," she'd groaned, clutching Magyana's hand as she panted and shook and laid

her plans.

Reaching the queen's great pavilion, Magyana sent up a silent prayer.O Illior, Sakor, Astellus, and

Dalna, now is the hour! Give our queen strength enough to see our ruse through.

A guard lifted the flap for her, and she stepped into the stifling heat beyond.

Huge tapestries suspended from the ridgepoles overhead en-closed the audience chamber, already

crowded with officers and wizards gathered by the queen's summons. Magyana took her place to the left

of the empty throne, then nodded to Thero, her protege and coconspirator, who stood nearby. He

bowed, his calm, aesthetic face betraying nothing.

The tapestries behind the chair parted, and Idrilain entered lean-ing on the arm of her eldest son, Prince

Korathan, and followed by her three daughters. All but plump Aralain were in uniform.

Idrilain took her seat and her heir, Phoria, placed the ancient Sword of Gherilain unsheathed across her

mother's knees. Bold in war, wise in peace, Idrilain had wielded the ancient blade with honor for more

than four decades. Now, unbeknownst to all but her closest advisers, she was too weak to lift it unaided.

Her thick grey hair fell smoothly over her shoulders beneath her golden circlet, hiding her thin neck. Soft

leather gauntlets covered withered hands. Her wasted body was muffled in robes to hide the extent of her

decline. The drysian's infusions blunted the pain enough not to tax her exhausted heart, but there were

limits to even their powers. It took Thero's magic to limn the semblance of flesh and color in the queen's

cheeks and lend false power to her voice. Only her pale blue eyes were unchanged, sharply alert as an

osprey's.

The effect was flawless. The pity of it was that such deception must be practiced on Idrilain's own

children.

The queen's two consorts had given her three children each, the two triads as different as the men who'd

fathered them. The elder three—Princess Phoria, her twin Korathan, and their sister Aralain, were tall,

fair, and solemn.

Klia, the youngest and sole survivor of the second three, had the same handsome features, chestnut hair,

and ready wit as the father and two brothers for whom she still wore a black baldric. Of these six, it had

always been the eldest and youngest girls whom the Oreska wizards watched most closely.

Skilled and fearless in battle, Phoria had risen through the ranks of the Queen's Horse Guard to High

Commander of the Skalan Cav-alry. Nearing fifty now, she was as renowned in military circles for her

tactical innovations as she was at court for her blunt speech and ill-starred barrenness. While her merits

as a warrior might have been sufficient for the crown in her great-grandmother's day, times had changed

and Magyana was not the only one to fear that Phoria lacked the vision to rule a nation touched by the

intricacies of the wider world.

Just before his death Nysander had also hinted to Magyana of a breach between heir and queen, but

was forestalled by some oath from revealing more.

"We are the oldest of the Oreska wizards now, my love. No one knows better than we how

precariously the common good balances on the edge of Gherilain's Sword," he'd warned. "Keep close to

the throne, and to all those who might one day sit upon it."

Magyana turned her attention back to Klia and felt a familiar surge of fondness. At twenty-five, she not

only commanded a full squadron of Queen's Horse, but had demonstrated a talent for diplo-macy, as

well. It was no secret that a good many Skalans wished she was the firstborn.

Idrilain raised her hand and the assembly fell silent. "We will lose this war," she began, her voice a husky

wheeze.

Magyana silently guided a stream of her own life force into the woman's ravaged body. The connection

brought a backwash of pain, threading her veins with the dull crush of Idrilain's suffering and ex-haustion.

Magyana forced herself to breathe slowly, letting her mind rise above it and retain its focus. Across the

room, Thero was doing the same.

"We will lose this war without Aurenen," Idrilain continued, sounding stronger. "We need the Aurenfaie's

strength, and their wizards to turn the tide of Plenimaran necromancy. And if Mycena falls, we will need

Aurenfaie trade, as well: horses, weapons, food."

"We've done well enough without the 'faie," Phoria retorted. "Plenimar hasn't managed to push us back

from the Folcwine, for all their necromancers and abominations."

"But they will!" Idrilain croaked. An attendant offered her a gob-let but she waved it away; no one must

see the tremor in her hands. "Even if we manage to defeat them, we shall need the Aurenfaie af-ter the

war. We need their blood mingled with our own again."

She gestured imperiously for Magyana to continue.

"The power of wizardry came to our people by the mingling of our two races, human and Aurenfaie,"

Magyana began, reminding those who needed reminding of their own history. "It was the Au-renfaie who

taught our first wizards the ways of Oreska magic." She turned to the Royal Kin. "You yourselves still

carry the memory of that blood, the legacy of Idrilain the First and her Aurenfaie consort, Corruth i

Glamien. Since his murder and the closing of Aurenen's borders against us three centuries ago, few

Aurenfaie have come to Skala and so their legacy dwindles among us. Fewer wizard-born children are

presented at the Oreska House each year, and the abili-ties of the young ones are often limited. Because

wizards cannot procreate, there is no remedy save a renewed commerce between our two lands.

"The Plenimaran's attack on the Oreska House cut down some of our best young wizards before the

war had truly started. The fight-ing since has thinned our ranks still further. There are empty beds in the

Oreska's apprentice hall now, and for the first time since the founding of the Third Oreska in Rhiminee,

two of the House's tow-ers stand empty."

"Wizardry is one of the foundations of Skalan power," Idrilain rasped. "We had no idea, before this war

began, how strong necro-mancy had grown in Plenimar. If wizardry is lost to us when they are so clearly

gaining strength, then in a few generations Skalawill be lost!"

She paused, and Magyana again felt Thero's magic joining her own as she willed more strength into the

queen's failing frame.

"Lord Torsin and I have been negotiating with the Aurenfaie for over a year," Idrilain went on. "He is

there now, at Viresse, and sends word that the Iia'sidra has at last agreed to admit a small delegation to

settle the matter."

Idrilain gestured at Klia. "You will go as my representative, daughter. You must secure their support.

We will discuss the details later."

Klia looked grave as she bowed her acceptance, but Magyana de-tected a flash of joy in her blue eyes.

Satisfied, the wizard quickly skimmed the minds of the others. Princess Aralain glowed with re-lief,

anxious only to return to her own safe hearth. The rest were an-other matter.

Phoria's expression gave nothing away, but the jealousy that gripped her left the bitter taste of bile at the

back of Magyana's throat.

Korathan was less subtle. "Klia?" he growled. "You'd send the youngest of us to a people who live four

centuries? They'll laugh in her face! I, at least—"

"I do not doubt your abilities, my son," Idrilain assured him, cut-ting short his protest. "But I need you

here to assume Phoria's com-mand." She paused again, turning to her eldest daughter. "As you,

Phoria, must step into mine for a time. My healers are too slow with their cures. You are War

Commander until I recover."

She grasped the Sword of Gherilain in both hands. On cue, Thero levitated the heavy blade, allowing

Idrilain to pass it to her daughter.

Though Magyana had orchestrated this moment, she felt a chill of premonition. The sword had passed

from mother to daughter since the days of Gherilain, the first of the long line of warrior queens, but only

upon the mother's death.

"And Regent?" asked Korathan, rather too quickly for Magyana's taste.

Or for his mother's, it seemed. Idrilain glared at him. "I need no Regent."

Magyana saw a muscle jump in Korathan's jaw as he gave her a silent bow.

Are you so anxious for your sister's honor, or to see her on the throne?wondered Magyana, brushing the

surface of his mind a sec-ond time. The Afran Oracle might prevent male heirs from ascend-ing the

throne, but it had never prevented one from ruling from behind it.

"I must speak privately with Klia," said Idrilain, dismissing the others.

Night had fallen and Magyana retreated into the shadows between two nearby tents, waiting for the rest

of the assembly to disperse. Somewhere above the blanketing clouds, a full moon rode the sky; she

could feel its uneasy pull as an ache behind her eyes.

When the way was clear, she slipped into Idrilain's tent again to find Klia bent anxiously over her

mother, who lay slumped back in her chair, fighting for breath.

"Help her!" Klia begged.

"Thero, fetch the drysian," Magyana called softly.

The younger wizard emerged from behind an arras at the back of the tent, accompanied by the healer

Akaris. The drysian held a steaming cup ready in one hand, his worn staff in the other.

"Get some of this into her," Akaris instructed, giving the cup to Thero, then touched the silver lemniscate

symbol of Dalna hanging at his throat. He placed his hand on the queen's drooping head and a pale glow

engulfed both of them for a few seconds. She went limp, but her breathing had eased.

Thero and Klia carried her to the cot at the back of the tent and tucked heated stones in among the

blankets.

Idrilain opened her eyes and looked wearily up at the others. Thero offered the cup again, but after a

few sips she turned her head away. "This must be settled quickly," she whispered.

"You have my word, Mother, but maybe Kor's right," Klia said, kneeling beside her. "I'll look like a

child to the Aurenfaie."

"You'll soon teach them otherwise. Korathan was the only other choice, but he'd frighten them to death."

"I understand. I just don't know what I can do that Lord Torsin hasn't tried already. He knows the 'faie

better than anyone in Skala."

"Not quite everyone," Idrilain murmured. "But Seregil would never go—not with Korathan—"

"Seregil?" Klia looked up at Magyana, alarmed. "Her mind's wandering! He's still under ban of exile. He

can't go back."

"Yes, he can—at least for the duration of your visit," Magyana told her. "The Iia'sidra has agreed to his

temporary return as your adviser. If he will go."

"You haven't asked him?"

"It's been nearly a year since he and Alec were last heard from," said Thero.

Magyana laid a hand on Klia's shoulder. "Fortunately, we know someone who can find them. Don't you

think that red-haired captain of yours would welcome a journey back to Skala?"

"Beka Cavish?" Klia smiled slightly, understanding. "I believe she would."

Korathan and Aralain had accompanied Phoria back to her tent, where she sat silently over her wine,

waiting for word from her spy.

Korathan paced restlessly, chewing on some thought he was not yet ready to share. Aralain huddled in a

fur robe beside the brazier, nervously clasping and unclasping her soft, ineffectual hands.

Since childhood Phoria had despised Aralain's timidity and re-liance on others. She'd have ignored her

completely if Aralain had not been the only one who'd managed to produce an heir to the throne. Her

eldest, Elani, was now a tractable girl of thirteen.

"I don't understand why you're so opposed to this plan of Mother's," Aralain said at last, arching her

brows in that annoying way she had when she wanted to be taken seriously.

"Because it will fail," Phoria snapped. "The Aurenfaie insulted our honor with their Edict of Separation.

Now we're giving them another opportunity, and at the worst possible time. When we most need to

appear strong, we're seen running for help from those least

likely to give it. Their refusal will almost certainly cost us Mycena."

"But the necromancers—?"

Phoria gave a derisive snort. "I haven't met the necromancer yet that good Skalan steel can't deal with.

We've grown too dependent on wizards. These past few years Mother's been ruled more and more by

them—first Nysander, and now Magyana. Mark my words, this fool's gamble is her doing!"

Phoria was nearly shouting by the time she'd finished and was pleased to see Aralain properly cowed.

Kor had stopped pacing, too, and was watching her warily. Womb mates they might be, but she never

let him forget who held the power. Satisfied, she forced a thin smile and went back to her wine. A few

minutes later, a soft scratch-ing came at the tent flap.

"Come!" she called.

Captain Traneus stepped inside and saluted. The man was only twenty-four, considerably younger than

most of her personal staff, but he'd proven remarkably close-mouthed, loyal, and eager for

preferment—a most useful combination—and she'd groomed him as a second set of eyes and ears. In

turn, he had amassed a useful cadre of informants.

"I kept watch as you ordered, General," he reported. "Magyana returned to the queen's tent under cover

of darkness. I also heard the voices of two men inside: Thero and the drysian."

"Could you hear what was said?"

"Some of it, General. I fear the queen's health is worse than we've been led to believe. And Commander

Klia is having doubts as to whether she is equal to the task the queen has set for her." He paused, shifting

uncomfortably under Phoria's probing gaze.

"Was there something more?" she demanded curtly.

Traneus fixed his gaze somewhere on the tent wall behind her. "It was difficult to make out the queen's

voice, General, yet from what I was able to hear, Idrilain believes the commander is the only one of her

children capable of carrying out the mission."

Phoria's fingers clenched momentarily on the arms of her chair, but she schooled herself to patience.

Much as the words rankled, she knew they would only strengthen her position with the others.

Korathan's face had darkened. Aralain was studying her fingernails.

"The queen plans to send Lord Seregil with Klia," Traneus added. "Apparently Magyana knows where

to find him and that young man of his."

"Mother's pet Aurenfaie brought back to heel, eh?" Phoria sneered.

"Don't be hateful," Aralain murmured. "He was always kind to us. If Mother didn't mind that he left when

the war began, why should you? It's not as if he'd have been any use as a soldier."

"And good riddance!" Phoria muttered. "The man was a sensual-ist and a fop. He clung to rich young

nobles like a tick to a dog's back. How much of your gold did he help spend, Kor?" He shrugged. "He

was an amusing fellow, in his own peculiar way. I imagine he'll do well enough as an interpreter."

"Keep a close eye on my mother and her visitors, Captain," Pho-ria ordered.

Saluting, Traneus disappeared back into the night.

"Seregil?" Korathan mused. "I wonder what Lord Torsin thinks of that? He's more of your opinion, as I

recall."

"I can't imagine Seregil's people will be in any hurry to welcome him back, either," Phoria agreed,

dismissing the matter. "Now, as for this mission of Klia's, we'll want an observer of our own among the

company."

"Your man Traneus?" suggested Aralain with her usual lack of imagination.

Phoria spared her a withering glance. "Or perhaps we should be-gin with someone Klia trusts, someone

she'll speak openly around."

"And someone in a position to send dispatches," Korathan added.

"Who, then?" asked Aralain.

Phoria arched a knowing eyebrow. "Oh, I have one or two people in mind."

2

An Unexpected Summons

Beka Cavish paced the ship's foredeck, scanning the western horizon for the first dark line marking

Skala's northeast terri-tories. It had been a week since they'd rid-den out from Idrilain's camp; it might be

another before they rejoined Klia for the voy-age south and she didn't take well to inactivity. She plucked

absently at the new gorget hanging at the throat of her green regimental tunic. The captain's brass seemed

to sit more heavily against her chest than the plain steel crescent of lieutenant. She'd been perfectly

content leading her turma and they'd made a name for themselves as raiders behind the enemy's lines:

Urgazhi, "wolf demons"—be-stowed on them by the enemy during the early days of the war. They wore

the epithet as a badge of honor, but it had been dearly bought. Of the thirty riders under her command

today, only half had come through those days and knew the truth behind the silly ballads sung across

Skala and Mycena, knew where the fallen bodies of their comrades lay along the Plenimaran frontier.

The turma was at full strength now for the first time in months, thanks to this mission. Never mind that

some of the newer recruits had only just lost their milk teeth, as Sergeant Braknil liked to say. Perhaps,

Sakor willing, they could be taught a thing or two before they all found themselves back in battle.

Less than a month before, Urgazhi Turma had been slogging through frozen Mycenian swamps, and

even that was better than some fighting they'd seen.

Fighting across windswept sea ledges, the waves red with blood about their feet.

Beka leaned on the rail, watching a school of dolphins leaping ahead of the prow. The closer she came

to seeing Seregil and Alec again, the more the memories of their last parting after the defeat of Duke

Mardus rose to haunt her.

That brief battle had cost her father the use of his leg, Nysander his life, and Seregil his sanity for a time.

Months later she'd had a letter from her father, saying that Seregil and Alec had quit Rhiminee for good.

Now that she knew the reason, she wasn't so sure ar-riving with a decuria of riders was the best way to

coax them home.

She gripped the rail, willing those thoughts away. She had work to do, work that for at least a little while

was sending her back to those she loved best.

Two Gulls was barely large enough to merit the title of village. One poor inn, a ramshackle temple, and a

dicer's throw of shacks clus-tered around a little dent of a harbor. Micum Cavish had spent a life-time

passing through such places, wandering on his own or on Watcher business with Seregil.

These past few years he'd stuck close to home, nursing his bad leg and watching his children grow. He'd

enjoyed it, too, much to his wife's delight, but this journey had reminded him just how much he missed the

open road. It was good to find out that he still knew in-stinctively where to show gold and where to

guard his purse.

Five days earlier a mud-spattered messenger had ridden into the courtyard at Watermead, bearing news

that the queen required his service and that of Seregil and Alec. It fell to him to talk his friends out of their

self-imposed exile. The best news, however, had been that his eldest girl, Beka, was alive, whole, and on

her way home from the war to act as his escort.

Within the hour, he was on the road with a sword at his side and pack on his back, heading for a village

he'd never heard of until that day.

Just like old times.

Sitting here now on a bench in front of the nameless inn, hat brim

pulled down over his eyes, he considered the task ahead. Alec would listen to reason, but a whole troop

of soldiers wouldn't be enough if Seregil dug his heels in.

Lynn Flewelling - Nightrunners 03 - Traitor's Moon

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