Luck in the Shadows

20 Homecoming

Tattered clouds were scudding across the face of the moon when Seregil and Alec set out for the Cockerel.

A bitter wind off the sea clattered through the trees along Golden Helm Street. The night lanterns grated on their hooks, making the shadows dance.

Intent on savoring his first night of freedom, Seregil had turned down Nysander's offer of horses, although he did concede to letting Alec carry the pack. As the wind whipped their hair and cloaks about, he was chilled but cheerful.

Rhнminee after dark. Beyond ornate walls and down shadowed alleys lay a thousand dangers, a thousand delights. Passing beneath a lantern, he saw a glimmer of familiar eagerness in Alec's eyes; perhaps, at last, he'd chosen well?

By the time they reached the Circle of Astellus, however, Seregil was forced to admit that his body had not recovered as fully as his spirit.

"I could do with a drink," he said, stepping into the shelter of the colonnade.

The lily-shaped capitals of the marble columns supported a carved pediment and dome.

Inside the colonnade, concentric circles of marble formed a series of steps leading down to the clear water welling up from a deep cleft in the rock below.

Kneeling, they pulled off their gloves and dipped up handfuls of sweet, icy water.

"You're shivering," Alec noted with concern. "We should've ridden."

"Walking's the best thing for me." Seregil sat back on the step and wrapped his cloak around him.

"Remember this night, Alec. Drink it in and commit it to memory! Your first night on the streets of Rhнminee!"

Settling beside him, Alec looked out at the wild beauty of the night and let out a happy sigh. "It feels like the beginning of something, all right, even though we've been here a week."

He paused, and Seregil saw that he was staring toward the Street of Lights. Across the circle, the dark outline of the archway and the colorful twinkle of lights beyond shone invitingly.

"I meant to ask you about something the other day," Alec said. "I'd forgotten about it until just now."

Seregil grinned at him in the darkness.

"Regarding what lies beyond that arch, I presume?

The Street of Lights, it's called. I guess you can see why."

Alec nodded. "A man told me the name the other day. Then he made some joke when I asked what the different colors mean."

"Said if you had to ask you were too young to know?"

"Something like that. What did he mean?"

"Beyond those walls, Alec, lie the finest brothels and gambling establishments in Skala."

"Oh." There was enough light for him to see the boy's eyes widen a little as he noted the number of riders and carriages passing under the arch.

"Oh, indeed."

"But why are the lights different colors? I can't make out any pattern."

"They aren't meant for decoration. The color of the lanterns at each gate indicates the sort of pleasures the house purveys. A man wanting a woman would look for a house with a rose-colored light. If it's male company he craves, then he'd choose one showing the green lamp. It's the same for women: amber for male companionship, white for female."

"Really?" Alec stood up and walked to the far side of the fountain for a better view. When he turned back to Seregil he looked rather perplexed. "There are almost as many of the green and white ones as there are the others."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's just that—"

Alec faltered. "I mean, I've heard of such things, but I didn't think they could be so-so common. Things are a lot different here than in the north."

"Not so much as you might think," Seregil replied, heading off again in the direction of the Street of the Sheaf. "Your Dalnan priests frown on such couplings, I understand, claiming they're unproductive—"

Alec shrugged uncomfortably, falling into step beside him. "They would be that."

"That depends on what one intends to produce," Seregil remarked with a cryptic smile. "Illior instructs us to take advantage of any situation; I've always found that to be a most productive philosophy."

When Alec still looked dubious, Seregil clapped him on the shoulder in mock exasperation. "By the Four, haven't you heard the saying, "never spurn the dish untasted"? And here you haven't even had a smell of the kitchen yet! We've got to get you back there, and soon."

Alec didn't reply, but Seregil noticed him glance back over his shoulder several times before they were out of sight of the lights.

Though they kept their hoods drawn, the occasional glimpses Alec got of his companion's face showed that Seregil was delighted to be back in his own element.

At the Harvest Market. Seregil ducked briefly into a potter's shop. A moment later he was out again without explanation, leading the way into a neighborhood of modest shops and taverns crowded together along the edge of the square. Turning several corners in quick succession, they came out on a small lane marked with a fish painted some dark color.

"There it is," Seregil whispered, pointing to a large inn across the way. "We move quietly from here."

A low wall enclosed the inn's small yard and Alec saw that bronze statues of the inn's namesake, a cockerel, were set on either side of the front gate, each clutching a glowing lantern in one upraised claw.

The Cockerel was a prosperous, well-kept establishment, square built of stone and wood, and three stories high. The small windows on the upper levels were shuttered, but the two large windows overlooking the front court let out a welcoming flood of light through their leaded bull's-eye panes.

"Looks like a busy night," Seregil noted quietly, keeping to the shadows as he led the way into the stable that ran along the left wall of the courtyard.

A young man with a disheveled mop of coarse red hair looked up from the harness he was mending as they came in. Smiling, he raised a hand in greeting.

Seregil returned the gesture and continued on between the stalls.

"Who is that?" Alec asked, puzzled by the man's silence.

"That's Rhiri. He's deaf, mute, and absolutely loyal. Best servant I ever found." Stopping at a back stall, Seregil paused to inspect a rough-coated bay with a white snip.

"Hello, Scrub!" he said, patting the animal's shaggy flank. The horse nickered, craning his neck around to nuzzle at Seregil's chest.

"Where is it?" Seregil teased, throwing his cloak open.

Scrub sniffed at the pouches at his belt and butted at one on the right. Seregil produced the prize, an apple, and the horse munched contentedly, occasionally rubbing his head against his master's shoulder.

A restless shuffling of hooves came from the next stall.

"I haven't forgotten you, Cynril," Seregil said, pulling another apple from the pouch as he stepped around. A large black mare tossed her head and pinned him against the side of the stall as he entered.

"Get over, you nag!" Seregil wheezed, whacking her on the haunch to shift her. "She's half Aurлnfaie, but her disposition certainly doesn't give it away." Despite this, he rubbed the horse's head and nose with obvious affection.

At the back of the stable, a wide door let out into a larger yard behind the inn. A smaller wing at the back of the building housed the kitchen; bright light from an open doorway shone across the paving flags, and with it came the inviting smells and dm of a busy kitchen. To the left of this door was a second, much broader one where casks and barrels of provender were delivered, the remainder of the ground level, and the stories above, were windowless. A lean-to sheltered a well and a wood stack at the angle of the building. The courtyard walls were much higher here, and the broad gateway was stoutly barred for the night.

Slipping inside, Seregil pointed across the crowded kitchen to a stooped old woman leaning on a stick in front of the enormous hearth.

"There's Thryis. She runs the place," he said, putting his mouth close to Alec's ear.

Thryis' heavy face was deeply seamed with age and her braid was the color of iron. In spite of the heat, she wore a thick embroidered shawl over her woolen gown. The briskness of her voice belied her gnarled appearance, however. Rapping out orders over the hectic clatter from the scullery, she kept servers, cooks, and kitchen maids scurrying about under her shrill direction.

She seemed strangely familiar to Alec; after a moment's puzzled thought he realized that she must have been the model for the disguise Seregil had assumed when he booked their passage in Boersby.

"How many leeks did you put into the stew, Cilia?" she was demanding of a buxom young woman stirring a pot. "It smells weak to me. It's not too late to add another. And a pinch more salt.

"Kyour, you lazy pup, get that platter out there! Those draymen will box your ears for you if you make them wait any longer for their supper, and so will I! Has the wine gone out to the merchants in the side room?

"Cilia, has it?"

Everyone in the kitchen seemed accustomed to their mistress' sharp tongue and bustled about their duties with an air of busy contentment. Cilia, the apparent second in command, moved serenely among the servants, pausing occasionally to look into a cradle near the hearth.

Motioning for Alec to follow, Seregil made his way around the long tables without either of the busy women noticing his approach. Coming up behind Thryis, he surprised her with a quick peck on the cheek.

"By the Flame," she exclaimed, pressing her free hand to her cheek. "So here you are at last!"

"It's only been half a year," Seregil replied, smiling down on her.

"If only you'd sent word I'd have had something special for you! All we have tonight is red fire beef and lamb stew. The bread is fresh, though, and Cilia's made mince tarts. Cilia, fetch a plate of tarts for him to start with while I put together something."

"There's no need for that just yet. Both of you come into the lading room for a moment."

Catching sight of Alec, Thryis paused and looked him over with a sharp eye. "Who's this?"

"I'll explain in a moment." Taking a small lamp from the mantel, Seregil led Alec and the two women through a side door into the lading room. The broad door Alec had seen from the outside stood barred at their left. To the right, a wooden stairway led to the second floor.

"Thryis, Cilia, this is Alec," Seregil told them when he'd closed the kitchen door.

"He'll be living upstairs now."

"Welcome to the Cockerel, Lord Alec,"

Cilia greeted him with a warm smile.

"It's just Alec," he said quickly, liking her kind face at once.

"Is that so?" Thryis said, giving him a decidedly sharp look, though Alec couldn't imagine why she should be suspicious of him.

"Alec's a friend," Seregil told her. "Everyone here will accord him the same respect that they do me, which in your case is little enough. He'll come and go as he pleases and you'll answer no questions about him to anyone. Inform Diomis and the others."

"Just as you wish, sir." Thryis gave Alec a final dubious glance. "Your rooms are just as you left them. Shall I send up wine?"

"Yes, and some cold supper." Turning back to Cilia, Seregil wrapped an arm about her waist, making her blush. "I see you've regained your maidenly shape. How's the baby?"

"Young Luthas is well. He's a sweet one, no trouble at all."

"And the business?"

Thryis pulled a long face. "A bit slack. But Festival time isn't far off. I'll have an accounting ready for you in the morning."

"Don't trouble yourself." Seregil turned to head up the stairs, then paused. "Is Ruetha around?"

"That animal!" Thryis rolled her eyes.

"Disappeared soon as you left, same as always. I even put out cream for her this time, but the ungrateful wretch never showed so much as a whisker. Now that you're back, she'll probably be in by breakfast like always."

"Thryis never changes," Seregil said with a hint of fondness, leading Alec up the back stairs.

"Whether I've been gone for two days or six months, she always tells me I should have let her know I was coming, which I never do; apologizes for the menu, which is never necessary; promises an accounting, which I never look at; and then complains about my cat."

At the second floor, the stairs turned sharply and continued up to what appeared to be an attic. A short, dimly lit corridor, broken only by a few closed doors, ran in the direction of the main building.

"That door at the end opens into the main inn." Seregil pointed down the hall. "It's kept locked at all times. This door closest to us is a storeroom, the next are the rooms of Diomis and the women. Diomis is Thryis' son and Cilia is his daughter."

"What about Cilia's husband?" Alec asked.

"No woman ever needed a husband to have a baby. There was talk of conscription last year, and Cilia simply made certain she wouldn't be eligible. She even offered me the honor, which I politely declined. Sometime later she turned up with a big belly. Thryis was a sergeant in her younger days, and none too pleased with her granddaughter, but the damage was already done, so to speak. Now come this way and pay close attention. I have a few things to show you."

The attic stairway was steep. Holding up the small lamp, Seregil went halfway up and pointed to the bare plastered wall on the left.

"Listen and watch the wall," he said softly. " Etuis miдra koriatьan cyris."

For a brief second, Alec caught the soft glow of magical symbols like those he'd seen at the Orлska House. They were gone too quickly for him to see them clearly or be certain of how many there had been, but as they vanished a narrow section of the wall swung back like a door. Seregil motioned him through, then closed the door firmly after and continued up a precariously steep set of steps ending at a blank wall. At the top of the stairs Seregil stopped and said, " Clarin, magril, nodense."

Another door appeared and Alec felt air moving against his face as they stepped into a cold, dusty room.

"Almost there," Seregil whispered. "Watch your step."

Picking their way among the crates and boxes jumbled around the floor, they reached the far wall.

"Here we are. Bфkthersa!»

A third door opened in the seemingly blank wall, revealing another dark room beyond.

"Welcome to my humble abode," Seregil said, ushering him through with a crooked grin.

Stepping in, Alec barked his shin against a stone basilisk beside the door. Reaching out to steady himself, he felt thick wall hangings beneath his hand. He could make out little in the darkness, but this place smelled of things more exotic than dust.

"Better stay put until I get some more light," Seregil advised. The little lamp bobbed this way and that as he crossed the room, revealing tantalizing glimpses of polished wood and patterned carpet. Suddenly it jogged to one side and Alec heard the sound of something heavy falling over, immediately followed by a muffled curse. The light bobbed precariously, then came to rest on a cluttered mantelpiece where its light was reflected in a hundred hues by a pile of jewels spilling from a half-open box that stood there.

Rummaging around for a moment, Seregil found a jar of fire stones and shook one out onto the wood laid ready on the hearth. Flames crackled up at once and he went around the room lighting candles and lamps.

Alec stepped forward with a soft exclamation of wonder as the room brightened. The place glowed with the rich colors of tapestries and easily rivaled Nysander's workroom in the variety and disorder of its contents. Slowly turning about, he tried to take it all in.

Shelves packed with books and racks of scrolls covered half the wall opposite the door. More books were stacked on the dining table that stood in the center of the room, and still more on the mantel. An immense carpet woven in patterns of red, blue, and gold lay between the central table and the hearth. Rush matting covered the rest of the floor.

Spaced along the wall to his right were two small windows facing out over the back court; a small writing desk stood under the right-hand one, the pigeon holes in its low back holding a neat collection of pens, inks, drawing quills, rolls of vellum and parchment, and wax tablets. The desk, along with most of the other furniture in the room, was made of a pale wood inlaid with darker bands along the edges.

The design, pleasing in its simplicity, was noticeably different from the ornate furnishings of the Orлska.

A long, scarred table beneath the second window was littered with locks, tools, stacks of books, what appeared to be a small forge, and dozens of half-assembled things that defied immediate description.

Shelves holding a bewildering assortment of objects framed the window and filled the remaining wall. More locks, more tools, rough chunks of metal and wood, and a number of devices whose uses Alec could not guess were mixed indiscriminately among masks, carvings, musical instruments of all descriptions, animal skulls, dried plants, fine pottery, glittering crystals-there was no rhyme or reason apparent in the arrangement.

A broad collar of gold and rubies caught the light from the lamp on the desk, sending ruddy spangles of light across a large lump of baked mud that might have been either a crude bowl or some sort of nest.

On the section of wall that jutted into the room to the left of the entrance hung a collection of weapons, mostly swords and knives, apparently chosen for their unusual design and ornamentation. Beyond it, near

the corner, was another door. Trunks and chests stood everywhere-along the base of walls, stacked in corners, under tables. Statues peered out from odd corners some lovely, some grotesque.

Eclectic to the point of eccentricity, the overall effect of the room was nevertheless one of warmth and cluttered, haphazard grace.

"This is like the Orлska House museum!" Alec exclaimed, shaking his head. "Where did you ever get all this?"

"Stole some of it." Seregil settled on the couch in front of the fire. "That statue by the front door came from an ancient temple Micum and I unearthed for Nysander, up in the eastern foothills of the Asheks. That one there by the bedroom door was the gift of an admirer." He pointed out a beautifully rendered mermaid of marble and green jade. The sea maiden rose from the crest of a wave that partially covered her scaled lower body, one hand across her breast, the other sweeping her heavy hair back from her face.

"The red tapestry there between the bookcases I found among the possessions of a Zengati bandit I killed after he ambushed me," Seregil continued, looking around.

"Those locks over the table? You'll get to know those well enough before I'm done with you. As for the rest—"

He gave a rather rueful smile. "Well, I'm a bit of a magpie. I just can't resist anything unusual or shiny.

Most of it's trash, really. I keep meaning to chuck most of it out. The only thing of true value is one you can take away with you in a hurry."

"At least there aren't any crawling hands." Alec glanced over at the shelves again. "Are there?"

"I'm no more fond of that sort of thing than you are, believe me."

Still gazing around, it occurred to Alec that something was wrong with the room.

"The windows!" He leaned over the desk to look out.

"I didn't see any windows from outside."

"Nysander did an obscuration on them, like with the scar on my chest," explained Seregil. "The windows are undetectable from the outside, unless you happened to climb out through one. And even then it would look like you were coming out the side of the building."

"There must be a lot of magic in the city."

"Not really. It doesn't come cheap, and the Orлska wizards won't hire out to just anyone. But you do run into it now and then, so it's always wise to be careful."

The room was beginning to warm up now. Dropping his cloak over the mermaid's upraised arm, Seregil picked up a small silver lamp and opened the room's other door. "Come in here, there's something else I need to show you."

The room was a bedchamber, though its dimensions were hard to guess, crammed as it was with wardrobes, chests, crates, and still more books. An ornate bed hung with gold and green velvet stood against the wall in the far corner.

"That's yours?" Alec asked, never having seen the like.

"Won it in a dice game." Wending his way across the room, Seregil looked around for a place to set the lamp, finally balanced it on a pile of books crowding the back of the washstand.

"That's the garderobe there, by the way." He indicated a narrow door barely visible between a wardrobe and a stack of boxes, watching with amusement as Alec explored the wonder of an indoor privy. "Mind you don't drop anything down the hole; if it goes through the grate, it's straight down to the sewers below. Here, this is what I wanted to show you."

Climbing across the enormous bed, Seregil hauled up the velvet curtain and guided Alec's hand between the mattress and the wall. A small knob was hidden in the woodwork of the paneling. Alec pressed it and heard a faint click; the section of paneling in front of them swung back, letting in a puff of cold air from the darkness beyond.

"This is the back door, in case you ever need it."

Seregil climbed through the opening into another attic storeroom. "You have to know the command word to get into the bedroom from this side. It's nordsthu carifventua."

"I'll never remember all that!" Alec groaned, following.

"Oh, you'll learn," Seregil assured him, going to a door in the left wall, "or you'll spend the rest of your life sleeping in the kitchen. Damn, I've forgotten the key."

Producing a pick, he threw the lock and stepped out onto an attic landing. A wooden tray lay on a crate at the top of the stairs; on it were two bottles of wine, a plate of tarts, cheese, bread, and an enormous, long-haired cat. At their approach the cat left off gnawing at the cheese and padded over to Seregil with a loud trill.

Purring raucously, she wound about his ankles, then rose on her hind feet to thrust her head against his hand.

"So there you are!" Seregil grinned, scooping the cat up. "Alec, meet Ruetha. Ruetha, this is Alec. Don't eat him in the night, he's a friend."

Dumping the heavy creature unceremoniously into Alec's arms, Seregil picked up the tray and headed back the way they'd come. Still purring, Ruetha regarded Alec with lazy green eyes. She was a handsome creature. Her silky coat was striped with black and brown except for a white ruff and feet. One ear was deeply notched; otherwise she was immaculate.

Back in the sitting room Seregil rummaged a moment in his pack, then retrieved his cloak from the mermaid and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Alec asked in surprise.

"There's a little matter I need to look into tonight. Make yourself at home. Here's the key to the attic door. You don't know the command words yet, so if you need to leave just use the back way. Don't go out unless you absolutely have to, though. You won't be able to get back in without me. Don't even try. You could get badly hurt. I'll probably be gone most of the night, so don't wait up. Oh, damn!"

Seregil paused, frowning. "I forgot to have them send up a bed for you. Use mine for tonight, and we'll figure out something tomorrow. Good night!"

Alec stared at the door for a moment, stunned by Seregil's abrupt and unexpected departure. For weeks they'd seldom been out of each other's sight, and now this! Left so unceremoniously by himself in unfamiliar surrounding, he felt abandoned.

He wandered aimlessly through the rooms for a while, trying to interest himself in the various oddments scattered about. This pastime only made him feel more like an interloper, however. Under different circumstances, he might have gone down to the bustling warmth of the kitchen again, but Seregil's warning about the glyphs ruled out that slight solace. The thought of lying alone in Seregil's ornate bed was equally intimidating.

The same unsettled loneliness he'd experienced at the Orлska House came flooding back all at once. Blowing out the lamps and candles, he settled morosely on the couch by the hearth. With Ruetha purring contentedly on his lap, he stared into the flames and wondered yet again what he was supposed to do with himself in this incomprehensible place.

Riding through the darkened streets, Seregil was glad he'd resisted the urge to take Scrub on the trip north. He'd gone through half a dozen mounts during his travels and it would have pained him to have lost so good an animal. Scrub's gait matched his nature: solid, dependable, and easy to get along with.

And of course, thinking about Scrub was far more comfortable than acknowledging the growing gnaw of guilt in his belly. Not only over what he was about to do in the way of disobeying Nysander, either. It took several minutes of determined riding before he was ready to face the fact that seeing Alec standing there in his own private sanctuary, he'd suddenly panicked.

And fled.

It had nothing to do with Alec himself, of course. But it still wasn't a very pleasant feeling. Better to ignore it, he decided.

He made a quick circuit of several places where word might be left for the "Rhнminee Cat" that the services of a thief were required.

The first was the Black Feather, a brothel owned by an old sailor who liked gold well enough not to ask questions. A carving of a ship stood on the mantel in the front room of his establishment; if the proprietor was holding a message for the Cat, the prow would be turned to the left. Rhiri usually collected the sealed missives, but Seregil often made the rounds to see if any signals were showing.

As he approached, a group of drunken men came boiling out roaring heartfelt farewells to their weary paramours. Through the open doorway Seregil saw that the little vessel on the mantel faced to the right. Other signals at a Heron Street tavern and a respectable inn near the Queen's Park were equally disappointing.

The wind gusted down the street, whipping his hood back to comb icy fingers through his hair.

No use putting it off any longer, he thought. Nudging Scrub into an unhurried amble, he headed for the

Temple Precinct.

Planning for the long term had never been one of his strengths and he knew it. Certainly he had a talent for gathering facts and implementing tactics; it was his bread and butter, after all. But living by inspiration, seizing the moment for good or bad as it came-that had always been his way in the end.

And what had it brought him this time?

The mysterious mark on his chest. And Alec.

Another twinge of guilt. Nysander's parting words had not been lost on him. What had possessed him to take on the boy? Alec was talented, gifted even, a delight to teach. But he'd found that out after the fact, hadn't he? The orphaned boy's need? His vulnerability? His innate skill?

His pretty face?

Straying again too near truths he didn't particularly wish to deal with, Seregil put an end to that line of thought as effortlessly as another man might snuff out a candle.

That left the scar. In the cool light of reason he didn't doubt Nysander's justification in not telling him more, although that did precious little to assuage his frustration. He'd regretted each bitter word as he'd spoken it; worse yet, the effort had been fruitless.

Oh well, there's always more than one way to pick a lock. He fingered the little roll of parchment he'd smuggled out of the Orлska House in his pack.

At the precinct, he made his way on foot between the minor temples and shrines that surrounded the heart of the district. Passing the healing grove of Dalna's temple, he came out into the huge central square. The city was quiet at this hour; chimes rang softly in the breeze somewhere in the Dalnan grove and a dove called mournfully. From across the square came the soft tinkle of water from the Astellus Temple. In the distance to his left, broad bars of firelight were visible between the black columns of the Temple of Sakor.

The paving stones of the square formed patterns of squares within squares that in turn formed a greater pattern symbolizing the eternal unity and balance of the Sacred Four. Never mind that gangs of young initiates from the various temples frequently punctuated their religious disputes with burst knuckles and cracked heads. Never mind that priests occasionally lined their own purses with gold from temple treasuries, or that the small temples of the lesser deities and foreign mystery cults had been multiplying around the edges of the precinct and around the city over the past few decades. The sacred square with its four temples still formed the heart of every Skalan city and town; even the humblest villages allotted a small square of ground to four simple shrines. Reverence for the Four, in all their complex unity, had for centuries given Skala internal harmony and power.

Crossing to Illior's white domed temple, Seregil strode up the broad stairs. In the portico he paused to remove his boots. Even at this late hour, a dozen other pairs were arranged neatly along the wall.

A girl stifled a yawn in the sleeve of her flowing white robe as she handed him a silver temple mask. Out of habit, he accepted it in such a way that her hand turned palm upward. The circular dragon emblem tattooed there was still only the black outline of the novice. Twelve colors, as well as lines of silver and gold, would be added to that design, marking each of the tests she would have to pass over the coming years in her quest for priesthood. Carry the Light," she said, fighting back another yawn.

"There is no darkness," Seregil returned.

Fastening on the mask, he walked into the Circle of Contemplation.

Alabaster pillars ringed the room, and between them braziers sent up the sweet, narcotic smoke of dreaming herbs. Only small amounts were burned here-just enough to free the mind for meditation.

Anyone desiring prophetic dreams or spirit journeys spent several days in fasting and purification before entering the small chambers beyond the pillars. Seregil occasionally employed such methods, but recent experience had left him leery of dreams of any sort. In fact, he couldn't recall dreaming at all since waking in the Orлska House.

Other suppliants sat cross-legged on the black marble floor of the central court, anonymous behind the serene silver masks. Others lay on their backs, meditating on the various symbols painted on the dome overhead: the Mage, the Fertile Queen, the Dragon, the Cloud Eye, the Moon Bow.

Leaning over the nearest brazier, Seregil bathed his face in the smoke, then seated himself to wait for an acolyte to notice him. The floor was polished to mirror smoothness and, looking down, his gaze came to rest on the reflected image of the Cloud Eye— magic, secrets, hidden forces, roads to madness. Accepting the symbol, he meditated on it through half-lidded eyes.

Instead of the expected flow of thought, however, he suddenly experienced a dizzying sense of vertigo. The smooth black floor turned to bottomless void beneath him. The illusion was so strong that he pressed his palms to the floor on either side of him and focused on the nearest pillar to clear his head. Soft footsteps approached from behind.

"What do you seek in Illior?" the masked figure asked. His palm, exposed in greeting, showed the green, yellow, and blue detailing of a Third Chamber initiate.

"To make a thank offering," Seregil replied, rising to present a heavy purse. "And to seek knowledge in the Golden Chamber."

The acolyte accepted the purse and led him out through the pillars to an audience room at the back of the temple. With a ritual gesture, he bade Seregil be seated on the small bench in the center of the room, then withdrew.

A carved chair stood on a raised dais at the front of the room. Behind the dais an exquisite tapestry hung suspended between two great pillars, the Columns of Enlightenment and Madness. Worked in the twelve ritual colors, it depicted the Fertile Queen driving her chariot through the clouds of a night sky.

Presently a corner of the tapestry was pulled back and a robed figure stepped into the room.

Despite the golden mask covering her features, Seregil recognized the mass of grey hair tumbling over the thin shoulders; this was Orphyria a Malani, oldest of the high priests and maternal great-aunt to Queen Idrilain.

Regarding him impassively through her mask, the priestess sat down and raised one frail hand to display the completed emblem on her palm.

"Lend me your light, Blessed One," Seregil said, bowing his head.

"What would you ask of me, Seeker?"

"Knowledge pertaining to this." Drawing the little parchment roll from his pouch, he passed it to her.

On it he'd drawn, to the best of his ability, the symbol from the wooden disk. It was not complete, he knew; from the first time he'd seen the thing it had been impossible to reproduce or even memorize. But perhaps it would be enough.

Orphyria unrolled it on her knee, gazed at it briefly, then handed it back. "A sigla, obviously, but what it obscures I cannot tell.

Can you tell me something of it?"

"That's not possible," Seregil replied. He had stretched his oath to Nysander far enough for now.

"Then perhaps the Oracle?"

"Thank you, Blessed One." Rising from the bench, he bowed deeply and headed back to the central chamber of the temple.

Orphyria did not rise until the Seeker had gone. It became more of an effort each day, it seemed. Soon she would have to swallow her pride and allow some young acolyte to assist her. Reflecting sourly on the price of a wise old age, she stumbled as she pulled back the tapestry and barked her knee painfully against the Pillar of Madness.

Seregil had always suspected that the stairs leading down to Illioran Oracle's chamber had been designed to test the fortitude of the Seekers who had to descend it. Wedge-shaped steps scarcely wide enough to accommodate a man's foot spiraled tightly down into blackness below. The steps nearest the top were made of marble, but these soon gave way to speckled granite as the shaft descended into the bedrock beneath the city.

Grasping a ritual lightstone in one hand, Seregil pressed the other firmly against the curved wall of the stairwell as he made his way down in reverent silence. At the bottom a narrow corridor led off into darkness. No light burned there, and it was required that the Seeker leave the lightstone in the basket at the base of the stairs before proceeding. Before he relinquished it, however, Seregil sat down on the bottom step to arrange the necessary items for the Oracle.

Custom dictated that items for divination by the Illioran Oracle must be presented as part of a collection. The Oracle would separate the item of import without being told which it was.

Fishing through various pockets and pouches, Seregil found a harp peg, a bit of Alec's fletching, a ball of waxed twine, a bent pick he'd meant to leave on the worktable, and a small amulet. That should be enough of a challenge, he decided.

Flattening the little scroll on his knee, he scrutinized it again with another twinge of guilt.

Working surreptitiously with ink and mirror, he'd made this copy of the strange design on his chest before Nysander placed the obscuration spell on it. He knew it was not exactly right, but it would have to

do.

Nysander's magic had left his skin unblemished to eye or touch.

With his collection in hand, he dropped the lightstone into the basket beside him and continued on down the chilly corridor.

Of all the many forms of darkness, that found underground—with no faint ray of star or distant lamp to relieve it—had always seemed to him the most complete. The blackness seemed to flow around him in tangible waves. His eyes instinctively strained for sight, aching and creating dancing sparks of false light.

Underfoot, a woolen runner deadened the whisper of his cold, bare feet. The sound of his own breathing inside the mask was loud in his ears.

At last, a pale glow appeared ahead of him and he walked forward into the low chamber of the Oracle.

The light came from large lightstones, which gave off no crackle or hiss. Only the voice of the seer would break the profound silence here.

Crouched on a pallet, legs drawn up beneath his stained robe, the Oracle stared blankly before him.

He was a young man, husky, bearded, and quite insane, but blessed with that special strain of madness that brings bursts of insight and prophecy.

Nearby, two robed attendants sat on benches against the wall, their featureless silver masks framed by the white cowls drawn over their heads.

At Seregil's approach, the Oracle rose to his knees and began to sway from side to side, a peculiar gleam coming into his muddy eyes.

"Approach, Seeker," he commanded in a high, hoarse voice.

Kneeling before him, Seregil cast his handful of objects on the floor. The Oracle bent eagerly, muttering to himself as he sorted through them.

After a moment he tossed the pick away with a contemptuous grunt. The amulet was served in the same manner, and then the twine. Taking up the peg, he held it to his ear as if listening, then hummed a few bars of a song Seregil had composed as a child and long since forgotten. Smiling to himself, the Oracle tucked this under the edge of his pallet.

Finally he picked up the parchment scrap and the fletching, holding them in each hand as if to weigh one against the other. Twirling the bit of feather between thumb and forefinger, he stared at it closely and then handed it back, folding Seregil's fingers tightly around it with his own.

"A child of earth and light," the Oracle whispered. "Earth and light!"

"Whose child?"

The seer's mouth broadened into a sly grin. "Yours now!" he replied, tapping Seregil sharply on the chest with his finger. "Father, brother, friend, and lover!

Father, brother, friend, and lover!"

The mad rhyme rang off the walls as the Oracle rocked with childish delight, chanting it over and over to himself. Then, as quickly as he had started he ceased, and his broad face grew still again. Holding the parchment between his palms, he stiffened like an epileptic. The silence closed around them, holding unbroken for a matter of minutes.

"Death." It was hardly a whisper, but the Oracle repeated it, more loudly this time. There was no mistaking it. "Death! Death, and life in death. The eater of death gives birth to monsters. Guard you well the Guardian! Guard well the Vanguard and the Shaft!"

Eyes momentarily sane, the Oracle handed it back to Seregil. "Burn this and make no more," he warned darkly, crushing it against Seregil's palm. "Obey Nysander!"

The mystical intelligence drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving the Oracle as blank as an idiot child. Creeping back to his pallet, he retrieved the harp peg from under the blanket. The sound of his contented humming followed Seregil far down the dark corridor.

As he rode back to the Cockerel, Seregil wondered dourly if he was any further ahead than before. The Oracle's mention of Alec had taken him aback, although the messages seemed clear enough, particularly the reference to earth and light. As for the little rhyme, «father» and «brother» must have been meant figuratively, for such a blood relationship was clearly impossible. But "friend," certainly.

That left lover. Seregil shifted irritably in the saddle; evidently oracles were not infallible.

Shrugging the matter off, he turned his thoughts to the troubling gibberish elicited by the drawing. How was he to heed what was so obviously a warning unless he knew what the "eater of death" was, much less guard who or whatever the Guardian, Shaft, and Vanguard were?

Under normal circumstances, Nysander would be his first recourse for advice, but that was out of the question now. Cursing in frustration, he let himself in through the kitchen at the Cockerel and went upstairs.

One lamp still burned on the mantel, but the fire had gone out. The room was frigid.

"Damn, damn, damn!" he muttered, crossing to the hearth to lay on more wood. As the flames sprang up, he discovered Alec asleep on the narrow couch behind him.

He lay curled up in a tight ball, one arm bent beneath his head, the other hanging down to the floor and pale with cold. Ruetha had tucked herself up against his belly, tail folded around her nose.

What's he doing out here?

Seregil frowned down at the two of them, irked to think that Alec would be too bashful to take advantage of a proper bed. As he bent to spread his cloak over the boy, he was surprised to see the traces of dried tears on Alec's cheek.

Something to do with his father? he wondered, mystified and somewhat distressed at the thought of Alec crying.

Retiring to his own chamber, he undressed in the dark and slipped gratefully between the fresh sheets.

But sleep didn't come with its usual ease. Lying there in the darkness, Seregil rubbed absently at the hidden scar and reflected that, on the whole, his life seemed to be in greater disarray than usual.