Stalking Darkness

28

"Father, where are you?"

Gripping a handful of Valerius' magical herbs, Alec ran headlong down the bare passageway. There were no doors, no windows, just endless walls of stone as he turned corner after corner, following the splashes of dark blood on the floor and the wracking sound of his father's labored breathing. But no matter how fast he ran. Alec couldn't catch up with him.

"Father, wait," he pleaded, blinded by tears of frustration. "I found a drysian. Let me help you. Why are you running away?»

The hoarse wheezing changed as his father tried to speak, then fell deathly silent.

In the awful stillness, Alec heard a new and ominous sound, the soft tread of footsteps behind him, echoing his pace. When he stopped the sound disappeared; when he went on, they dogged him.

"Father? was he whispered, hesitating again.

The sound of footsteps continued this time, and suddenly he was mortally afraid. Over his shoulder he saw only empty passageway behind him, stretching away until another bend cut off the line of vision. And still the footsteps came on, closer and louder.

The flesh between Alec's shoulder blades tightened as he fled, expecting any moment to be grabbed from behind. The sound of pursuit grew nearer, closed in behind him.

Wresting his sword clumsily from its sheath, Alec whirled to fight. Instead of his sword, however, he found himself grasping a blunt arrow shaft.

And facing a wall of darkness.

Alec lurched up in bed and hugged his knees to his chest, shivering. His nightshirt was soaked with icy sweat and his cheeks were wet with tears. Outside, a storm had blown up. The wind made a lonely moaning in the chimney and lashed rain against the windows.

His chest hurt as if he really had been running.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he focused on the red glow of the hearth and tried to exorcise the nightmare's bitter imagery. His heart had almost slowed to normal when he heard a floorboard creak across the room.

"That's the third time this week, isn't it?"

Seregil asked, stepping into the glow of the hearth. His cloak looked sodden, and water dripped from his tangled hair.

"Damn, you startled me!" Alec gasped, hastily wiping his eyes on a corner of the blanket. "I didn't expect to see you back tonight."

It had been nearly a week since Rythel's death and none of them, not even Nysander, had been able to find evidence tying the smith to anything other than the sewer sabotage and a few indiscretions at various gambling houses. Everyone had given up by now except Seregil, who'd grown increasingly short-tempered as he pursued one false scent after another. Lately Alec had found it wiser to keep out of his way when they weren't working. He'd taken it as a hopeful sign this evening when Seregil slouched off to the Street of Lights in search of consolation; his untimely reappearance now didn't bode well.

But Alec saw nothing but genuine concern in his friend's expression as Seregil fetched cups and the decanter of Zengati brandy from the mantel shelf. Sitting down on the foot of Alec's bed, he poured out liberal doses for them both.

"Bad dreams again, eh?" he asked.

"You knew?"

"You've been thrashing in your sleep all week. Drink up. You're as pale as old ashes."

The brandy warmed Alec's belly, but his nightshirt was clammy against his back. Tugging a blanket around his shoulders, he sipped in silence and listened to the wind sobbing under the eaves.

"Want to talk about it?"

Alec stared down into the shadows in his cup. "It's just a dream I keep having."

"The same one?"

He nodded. "Four or five times this week."

"You should have said something."

"You haven't exactly been approachable lately," Alec replied quietly.

"Ah, well—" Seregil pushed his fingers back through his hair. "I never was very gracious in defeat."

"I'm sorry about the map." The thought of it had plagued Alec through the long, unhappy week. "I should have taken it when I had the chance."

"No, you did the right thing at the time," Seregil assured him. "We just seemed to have a lot of bad timing with this business. If I'd gone after Rythel sooner, or if he'd held off getting killed another half an hour, we'd have had him. There's no changing what happened, though. Now tell me about this dream."

Alec took another sip of brandy, then set the half-finished cup aside and recounted all the details he could remember.

"It doesn't sound so bad, just telling it," he said when he'd finished. "Especially that last part. But in the dream, it always feels like the worst part. Even worse than my father—"

He broke off, surprised at the tightness in his throat. He sat staring down at his hands, hoping his hair veiled his face for the moment.

After a while Seregil said gently, "You've had a lot to contend with lately, what with finding out the truth about your birth and then this. Seeing Rythel all mangled in that cell must have dredged up some unpleasant memories. Maybe this is your way of finally allowing yourself to mourn your father's death."

Alec looked up sharply. "I've mourned him."

"Perhaps, tali, but in all the time we've been together you scarcely ever mention him or weep for him."

Alec rolled the edge of blanket between his fingers, surprised at the sudden bitterness he felt. "What's the use? Crying doesn't change anything."

"Maybe not, but—"

"It wouldn't change the fact that I couldn't do anything for my own father but sit there watching him shrink like a burnt moth, listening to him drown in his own blood—"

He swallowed hard. "Besides, that's not even what the dream was about, really."

"No? What, then?"

Alec shook his head miserably. "I don't know, but it wasn't that."

Seregil gave him a rough pat on the shin and stood up. "What do you say we scrounge breakfast with Nysander tomorrow? He's good with dreams, and while we're there, you could talk to him and Thero about this life span business. With all the uproar over Tym and Rythel, you haven't had much time to absorb it all."

"It's been easier, not thinking about it," Alec said with a sigh. "But I guess I would like to talk to them."

In the darkness of his own bed, Seregil lay listening to Alec's breathing soften back into sleep in the next room.

"No more dreams, my friend," he whispered in Aurenfaie, and it was more than a simple well-wishing. He could almost hear the Oracle's mad whispering in the shadows, echoing over the weeks and months with increasing insistence and clarity.

The Eater of Death gives birth to monsters.

Guard you well the Guardian! Guard well the

Vanguard and the Shaft!

The shaft. An arrow shaft, like the one Alec clutched in his dreams night after night—useless, impotent, without its broadhead point could mean a thousand different things, that image, he told himself, struggling angrily against his own instant certainty that another fateful die had been irrevocably cast in a game he could not yet comprehend.

The storm blew itself back out to sea before dawn. The soaring white walls, domes, and towers of the Oreska House sparkled against a flawless morning sky ahead of them as Seregil and Alec rode toward it. Inside the sheltering walls of the grounds, the scent of new herbs and growing things enveloped them in the promise of a spring not far behind in the outside world.

Nysander and Thero had other guests breakfasting with them. The centaurs, Hwerlu and his mate Feeya, had somehow navigated the maze of stairways and corridors, not to mention doorways not designed to admit creatures the size of large draft horses. Magyana was there as well, sitting on the corner of the table with her feet propped on a chair next to Feeya.

"What a pleasant surprise," Nysander exclaimed, pushing another bench up to the impromptu breakfast spread out on a worktable. Most of the regular victuals were laid out—butter and cheese, honey, oat cakes, tea-together with a huge platter of fruit. The usual breakfast meats had evidently been banned for the occasion, in deference to the centaurs. Giving Seregil a meaningful stare from under his beetling brows, he added, "I do hope this is a social call."

"More or less," Seregil said, piling a plate with bannocks and fruit. "Alec's feeling a bit lost about living for a few extra centuries. I thought you wizards could give him some helpful guidance, since it takes your sort by surprise, too."

"So he finally told you," said Magyana, giving Alec a hug. "And high time, too."

Hwerlu let out a snort of surprise. "Not until now does he know?" He said something to Feeya in their whistling language and she shook her head.

Turning to Alec, Hwerlu smiled. "We saw it that first day you came here, but Seregil says not to tell you. Why?"

"I guess he wanted me to get used to him first," Alec said, shooting Seregil a wry look.

"I suppose that would take a long while," Thero threw in.

"Yet, as things have turned out, I now believe Seregil may have been wise to wait," said Nysander. "It is more than a sense of obligation or fear which keeps you with him, is it not, Alec?"

"Of course. But the idea that I could be sitting here three or four hundred years from now—" He stared down at his plate, shaking his head. "I can't imagine it."

"I sometimes still feel that way," said Thero.

Seregil looked at the younger wizard in surprise. In all the time he'd known him, he'd never heard Thero reveal a personal feeling.

"I'd guessed it when I was a boy," Thero continued. "But it was nonetheless overwhelming to have it confirmed when the wizards examined me. Yet, think of what we'll experience in our lifetimes—the years of learning, the discoveries."

He's almost human today, Seregil thought, studying his rival's countenance with new interest.

"I made a poor job of telling you," he admitted to Alec. "I was feeling a bit shaky that night myself, after seeing Adzriel and all, but what Thero says is true. It's what has kept me sane after I left Aurenen. Long life is a gift for those with a sense of wonder and curiosity. And I don't think you'll ever have any shortage of those qualities."

Nysander chuckled. "Indeed not. You know, Alec, that for over two centuries I have studied and learned and walked in the world, and yet I still have the satisfaction of knowing that should I live another two hundred years there shall still be new things to delight me. Magyana and I have gone out into the world more than many wizards and so, like Seregil here, we have seen many friends age and die. It would not be truthful to tell you that it is not painful, yet each of those friendships, no matter how brief, was a gift none of us would sacrifice."

"It might sound hard-hearted, but once you have survived a generation or two, it becomes easier to detach yourself from such feelings," added Magyana.

"It isn't that you love them any less, you just learn to respect the cycles of life. All the same, I thank Illior the two of you found each other the way you did."

"So do I," Alec replied with surprising feeling. He colored slightly, perhaps embarrassed by his own admission. "I just wish I could have talked to my father about it, about my mother. Seregil's spun out a good theory about what must have gone on between the two of them, but now I'll never know the real story."

"Perhaps not," said Nysander. "But you can honor them by respecting the life they gave you."

"Speaking of your parents, Alec, tell Nysander about that nightmare you've been having since Rythel got killed," Seregil interjected, sensing the opening he'd been hoping for.

"Indeed?" Nysander cocked an inquiring eyebrow at the boy.

"Can you describe it?" asked Magyana.

"Dreams are wondrous tools sometimes, and those that come to you more than once are almost always important."

Seregil kept a surreptitious eye on Nysander while Alec went through the details of the nightmare; he knew the old wizard too well not to see a definite spark of interest behind Nysander's facade of thoughtful attentiveness.

"And that's always the last of it, and the worst," Alec finished. Even with the morning sun streaming down through the glass dome overhead, he shifted uneasily as he described the final image.

Magyana nodded slowly. "Violent events can summon up other painful memories, I suppose. Though your father died of the wasting sickness rather than violence, it must have been a time of terrible fear and pain for you."

Alec merely nodded, but Seregil read the pain behind his stoic expression.

"Yes, and coupled with the shock of learning your true parentage, it could create such images in the mind," Nysander concurred, although the look he gave Seregil showed that he had other ideas on the matter.

"I would not worry too much about them, dear boy. I am certain they will pass in time."

"I hope so," sighed Alec. "It's getting so I hate to go to sleep."

"Nysander, do you still have that book of meditations by Reli a Noliena?" asked Seregil. "Her philosophy might be of some use to Alec just now. I seem to recall seeing it on the sitting-room bookshelves somewhere."

"I believe it is," replied Nysander. "Come along and help me look, would you?"

Nysander said nothing as they descended the tower stairs.

As soon as the sitting-room door was firmly shut behind them, however, he fixed Seregil with an expectant look.

"I assume there is some matter you wish to discuss privately?"

"Was it that obvious?"

"Really now. Reli a Noliena?" Taking his accustomed seat by the hearth, Nysander regarded Seregil wryly. "I seem to recall that you have on numerous occasions referred to her writings as utter tripe."

Seregil shrugged, running a finger along the painted band of the mural that guarded the room. "First thing that popped into my head. What do you make of this dream of Alec's, and the headless arrow shaft? I have a feeling it's tied in with" — Seregil paused, acknowledging Nysander's warning look—"with that particular matter about which I am not allowed to speak."

"It does seem a rather obvious correlation. No doubt you are thinking of the words of the Oracle?"

"The Guardian, the Vanguard, and the Shaft."

"It is certainly possible that there is a connection, although why it should suddenly surface now, I do not know. Then again, it could conceivably be nothing more than it appears. Alec is an archer. What stronger image of helplessness could there be for him than a useless arrow?"

"I've tried to tell myself that, too. We both know who this Eater of Death is; I've been touched twice by the dark power and was damn lucky both times to get away with life and sanity intact. So I want to believe that Alec isn't getting pulled into this web, but I think he is, that that's exactly what that dream means. You believe that, too, don't you?"

"And what would you have me do?" Nysander asked with a trace of bitterness. "If we are dealing with true prophecy, then whatever must happen will happen, whether we accept it or not."

"True prophecy, eh? Fate, you mean."

Seregil scowled. "So why dream? What's the use of being warned about something if you can't do anything to avoid it?"

"Avoiding something is seldom the best way to resolve it."

"Neither is sitting around with your head up your ass until the sky falls in on you!"

"Hardly, but forewarned is forearmed, is it not?"

"Forearmed against what, then?" Seregil asked with rising irritation as an all-too-familiar guarded look came over the wizard's face. "All right then, you're still guarding some dire secret, but it seems to me that the gods themselves are giving hints. If you're the Guardian, which you've admitted already, and Alec, our archer, is the Shaft, then am I the Vanguard?" He paused, mentally trying the title on for size. But the bone-deep feeling of certainty he'd had about Alec eluded him. "Vanguard, those who go before the battle, one who goes in front—No, that doesn't resonate somehow for me. Besides, the Oracle wouldn't tell me to guard myself. So why would he tell me anything at all unless—"

"Seregil, please—"

"Unless there's a fourth figure to the prophecy!"

Seregil exclaimed, striding excitedly back and forth between the hearth and the door as the myriad possibilities took shape in his mind. "Of course. Four is the sacred number of the Immortals who stand against the Eater of Death, so—"

The inner certainty was there now. No matter what answer Nysander gave, he knew instinctively that he was on the right track now. "Illior's Light, Nysander! The Oracle wouldn't have spoken to me as he did if there wasn't a reason, some role for me to play."

Nysander stared down at his clasped hands for a moment, communing with an inner voice. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, "You are the Guide, the Unseen One. I did not tell you before for two reasons."

"Those being?"

"First, because I still hoped—continue to hope, in fact—that it will not matter. And secondly, because I know nothing more than that. None of the Guardians ever has."

"What about the Vanguard?"

"Micum, most likely, since he has also been touched by these events. For the love of Illior, Seregil, do stop that pacing and sit down."

Seregil came to a halt by the bookshelves.

"What do you mean, you hope it won't matter?"

Closing his eyes, Nysander massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "Just as there have been other Guardians, so have there been other Shafts, other Guides. It is as if they always exist from generation to generation, kept in readiness in case—"

"In case what?"

"I cannot say. I confess I still cling to the hope that this terrible evil may yet be forestalled. For now, I must guard my secret as I have done. What I can tell you, seeing that you have guessed so much, is that the four figures of the prophecy have always been known to the Guardians, but what their functions are has never been revealed. But if you are the Unseen One, Seregil, if Alec is the Shaft and Micum the Vanguard, then there is nothing any friend or foe can do to alter that."

Seregil let out an exasperated growl. "In other words, all we can do is wait for this terrible Something to happen. Or not happen, in which case we spend the rest of our lives waiting because we won't know that it isn't going to happen after all?"

"That is, no doubt, one of the reasons that the Guardians keep such knowledge from the others. It serves little purpose for you to know, and will only make you uneasy. On the other hand," he paused, looking up at Seregil with a mix of concern and pity—"I suspect that my hope to pass my burden on to a new Guardian will prove a vain one. Mardus had the wooden disks; other Plenimarans came to the Asheks on your very heels, seeking the crown.

There are other objects—magical ones—some in Plenimar, others thankfully scattered to lost corners of the world. It was only by chance that my master, Arkoniel, came into possession of the palimpsest that led you to the crown. Clearly the Plenimarans are making a more deliberate effort to recover them. It bodes ill, dear boy, most ill.

"As for your dilemma" — Nysander gave him a weary smile—"may I remind you that if you were not such a intolerable meddler you would not be in this quandary."

"What about the others?"

Nysander spread his hands. "I do not forbid you to tell them what you know, but reflect a moment on what you have just said. Even knowing, there is nothing yet to be done; our fates rest on the knees of the immortals."

"And a damned uncomfortable seat that is," Seregil grumbled.

"I agree. And perhaps a dangerous one now. We must all live cautiously for a time."

"I can keep an eye on Alec, if that's the way you want it, but what about Micum?"

"I placed a number of protective spells around the three of you as soon as you came back from the north. Since then someone has tried to break through those surrounding you and Alec a few times, but—"

"What?" An icy stab of fear lanced through Seregil's chest. "You never—"

"I was not surprised by such attempts," Nysander told him calmly, "and they have failed, of course. The spells surrounding all of you are intact, making it impossible for you to be seen magically. Thus far, there have been no disturbances in the spells surrounding Micum or his family."

"Bilairy's Balls! Do you know who was doing this?"

"Unfortunately, the seekers are equally well shielded. Their magic is very strong and they know how to protect themselves."

"I don't like this. I don't like this at all," muttered Seregil. "There are more ways than magic to find someone. Hell, Rhal showed up, didn't he? Who's to say Mardus or his dogs haven't, too? Poor Alec had no idea how to cover his tracks."

"Whatever happens, you must not blame the boy," cautioned Nysander.

"Who said anything about blame?" Seregil ran his fingers back through his hair in frustration. "He did a damn fine job, given the circumstances. He saved my life. Now it's up to me to protect him. And Micum; knowing what I do, I'm honor-bound to give him any warning I can."

Seregil braced for further argument, but instead, Nysander sighed and nodded. "Very well, but only as much as is absolutely necessary."

"Fair enough. Damn, they'll be wondering where we are by now." Seregil rose to go back upstairs, but Nysander remained where he sat.

"Seregil?"

He turned back to find Nysander regarding him sadly.

"I hope, dear boy, that no matter what the coming days bring, you will believe I never foresaw this time coming during my Guardianship, or that its advent would enmesh any of you."

Seregil gave him a grudging grin. "You know, I've spent most of my life listening to legends or telling them. It should be interesting being part of one. I only hope the bards who tell it years from now will be able to end with 'And the Band of Four all lived with great honor for many years thereafter'."

"As do I, dear boy. As do I. Make some excuse for me, would you? I would like to sit here for a while."

Silence closed in around Nysander after Seregil had gone. With his hands resting on his knees before him, he allowed himself to go limp in the chair, listening to the sound of his breathing and his heart until he was aware of nothing else. Then, slowly, he opened himself to the invisible currents of foreseeing, using the faces of his three chosen comrades to call in the energies he sought. Grey images stirred sluggishly before his mind's eye, the tangled flux of Shall/Might/Should.How to pluck crumbs of truth from a future as yet unfixed-

The hands of Tikarie Megraesh, the icon of his dreams and visions, opened before him. Voices came faintly through the murk, shouting, raging, weeping. He could hear the clash of weapons, men shouting.

Then, harsh as a blow, came the vision of a black disk surrounded by a thin white nimbus of fire. It seemed to glare at him like an accusing eye.

A familiar perfume wafted out to Seregil as he neared the workroom door. Opening it, he found Ylinestra sitting next to Magyana. A quick glance revealed an interesting tableau around the breakfast table. As usual, Ylinestra looked intentionally stunning as she chatted with Magyana, with her shining black hair braided loosely over one shoulder of her loose-flowing gown.

Magyana appeared to be a willing conversationalist, but Seregil thought he detected faint lines of distaste around her eyes. Feeya was not so subtle. She'd moved to the other end of the table and stood eyeing the sorceress with evident dislike.

Thero seemed torn between embarrassment and lust.

Alec stood at what might be considered a safe distance from his former seducer, carrying on some earnest conversation with Hwerlu.

All eyes turned Seregil's way as he entered.

"Ah, here they are," said Magyana. "But where is Nysander?"

"Oh, he got distracted by something down in his study," Seregil replied.

"How unfortunate," sighed Ylinestra. "I was hoping I could lure him out to the gardens for a while."

"You know how he is. He's likely to be a while."

"I'll tell him you were looking for him," Thero offered a trifle stiffly. "In the meantime, perhaps

I—"

"Ah well, another time," Ylinestra said breezily, gliding to the door.

When she was gone Feeya whistled something to Hwerlu, who laughed. "She says the smell of the woman makes her belly hurt," he translated.

"Mine, as well," Magyana agreed with a mischievous smile. "Although I daresay most men find the scent alluring enough. She must be missing Nysander. That's the third time this week she's come looking for him. Isn't that right, Thero?"

"I don't keep track," the young wizard said with a shrug. "If you'll all excuse me, I've got work of my own I'd better get started on."

Alec chuckled as he and Seregil set off for the Cockerel again. "I'll bet you a sester he waits until everyone else clears out, then goes after her."

"That's a loser's bet," Seregil said with a crooked grin. "I've never seen it fail; when a cold fish like Thero finally does fall in love, it makes a total fool of him."

"You know, I think you're too hard on him."

"Is that so?"

Alec shrugged. "I didn't care much for him at first, either, but now he doesn't seem so bad. He helped save our lives during that raid on Kassarie's keep, and he was useful during that whole business with Rythel, too. Since then, he's been almost friendly. Nysander may be right about him, after all. As arrogant and cold as he can seem, underneath I don't think he's so bad."

Seregil gave Alec a skeptical grin.

"You've a charitable nature. We've got more important things to worry about than Thero right now, though. I'll explain it once we get home."

They both rode with hoods pulled forward, but Alec guessed even without seeing his friend's face that something of note had come up during Seregil's separate conversation with Nysander.

"What is it?" he asked, unable to guess from

Seregil's guarded tone whether the matter was likely to be a job or a problem.

Seregil shook his head. "Not here."

They spoke little the rest of the way back to the inn, but Alec noted that the route they took to approach it was more cautiously circuitous than usual.

Thryis hailed them as they passed the kitchen door.

"I didn't hear you go out," she said, sharpening knives by the fireside. "Rhiri brought in a message for you last night, but it wasn't sent for the Rhiminee Cat. It's there on the mantelpiece behind the salt box."

Seregil found it, a coarse square of paper tied with greasy twine and sealed with candle drippings.

"Anything else?" asked Seregil, bending down to tickle Luthas, who sat playing with a wooden spoon at his great-grandmother's feet.

"No, nothing."

"How many are there in the inn today?"

"I think this wind's blown all our customers away," the old woman grumbled, testing the edge of a cleaver against her thumbnail. "There were those six draymen in the big room, but they left first thing this morning. All we've got left now is a horse trader and his son in the room at the front and a cloth merchant in for the spring trade. I've never seen it so slack this time of year. I sent Cilia and Diomis out to see what's what down at the market."

Suddenly Luthas startled them all with an angry squall.

"By the Flame, he's been restless all morning," Thryis sighed. "Must be another tooth coming."

"I'll get him." Alec scooped up the child, bouncing him gently in his arms, but the child howled on. "You're wanting your mother, aren't you, dear one?"

Thryis smiled, offering him his spoon. But Luthas knocked it away and cried louder, squirming like an eel.

"Find me that rag of his," Alec called to Seregil over the uproar.

Rummaging in the nearby cradle, Seregil found a colorful kerchief with a knot tied in the middle and held that within reach. Luthas grabbed it and stuffed the knot in his mouth, chewing at it with a decidedly disgruntled air. After a moment he relaxed drowsily against Alec's shoulder.

"You're quite the nursemaid these days," whispered Seregil.

"Oh, they're great friends, these two," Thryis said fondly.

Alec was just attempting to lay the child in his cradle when Rhiri stamped in, slamming the door behind him.

Luthas jerked awake, crying ferociously.

The mute ostler gave Alec an apologetic nod, then pulled a small scroll tube from his jerkin and handed it to Seregil.

"Come on!" groaned Seregil, motioning for Alec to follow.

Back in their disordered sitting room again, Seregil flopped down on the couch and opened the scroll tube, which contained a jeweled ring and the usual request for the Cat's services. Setting these aside with an impatient sniff, he cut the string on the folded paper and smoothed it out on his knee.

"Well now, here's a bit of good news," he exclaimed happily. "Listen to this. "In Rhiminee Harbor, awaiting your pleasure. Ask for Welken at the Griffin." It's signed "Master Rhal, captain of the Green Lady," and dated yesterday."

"Yesterday? We'd better get down there."

"Another hour won't matter." His smile faded as he waved Alec to a chair. "We've got something else to deal with first."

Alec sat down, studying Seregil's face uneasily; he didn't look happy. "First, you have to swear secrecy under your oath as a Watcher," Seregil began with uncharacteristic gravity.

A thrill of anticipation went through Alec as he nodded. "I swear. What's going on?"

"Those dreams of yours, with the headless arrow shaft? They meant something to Nysander. To me, too, really, the moment you told me about it last night, but I had to have Nysander hear it to be certain."

"Of what?" Alec asked uneasily.

"There's so much to tell you, it's hard to know where to begin." Seregil studied his clasped hands for a moment. "That first night we came here, I went out again."

"To the Temple of Illior."

"That's right, but I never told you why I went there, did I?"

"No, never."

"I went hoping the Oracle could tell me something about that wooden disk we brought back from Wolde."

Seregil touched a hand to his breast where the hidden brand lay.

Alec stared at him in disbelief. "Does Nysander know?"

"He does now, but that's not the point. The Oracle didn't tell me anything specific about the disk, but he did say something that I know now was a piece of a prophecy. He spoke of the Eater of Death—"

"Just like in the journal we found, and at the Mourning Night ceremony."

"Yes, and then he told me I was to guard three people he called the Guardian, the Vanguard, and the Shaft. And there's a fourth, the Unseen One or Guide. That's me, it seems, and Nysander's the Guardian. After hearing about your dream, we think you might be—"

"The Shaft," Alec said softly, remembering the headless arrow and the feeling of helplessness he always felt at the sight of it.

"Apparently Nysander has had some presentiment that Micum is the Vanguard."

"But the Eater of Death is Seriamaius." He saw Seregil flinch as he said the name aloud. "This Shaft and Guardian business, it's connected somehow. Oh, wait a minute—"

Alec's belly twisted into a queasy knot. "That disk, that damned wooden disk that made you so sick and crazy. That's what you went to the Oracle to ask about, so it must have something to do with the prophecy."

"It does," said Seregil. "But what, I don't know. Nysander won't say, except that the disk is part of something bigger, something the Plenimarans are willing to go to any lengths to get. When I went away just before the Festival of Sakor, it was to get another object before the Plenimarans did, a sort of crown. It had the same sort of evil magic about it, only worse." His face darkened as some memory surfaced. "Much worse, and much more dangerous. But I got it."

"There were other disks just like the one we stole," Alec recalled, his mind racing. "Maybe they had to be all together to have their full effect."

"That's right. Which means if we'd been greedy and taken them all, you and I probably wouldn't have made it as far as Boersby. I've wanted to tell you all this before, but Nysander swore me to silence. I wouldn't be telling you now, except that you seem to be part of it, too."

"Of what?" demanded Alec. "What does the Shaft do? If Nysander has the disk and the crown, then the Plenimarans aren't going to get them and whatever they're part of can't happen, right?"

"I guess that's the idea. But why would you be having these dreams now, if that's all there is to it, eh?"

"Do you think Mardus could still be after us? Bilairy's Balls. Seregil, if Rhal could find us, then why not him?"

Seregil shrugged. "It's not impossible. He didn't strike me as the sort who gives up easily. But why hasn't he shown up yet? It's been months now, and if he had any idea that we have the crown as well, then he or somebody like him will be certain to come after it sooner or later. There's something else, too. You remember Micum's description of the ritual sacrifice he found up in the Fens?"

"All those bodies cut open," Alec said with a small shudder.

"I found the same sort of thing with the crown. All the bodies were ancient there, but the mutilations were the same, breastbone split, ribs pulled back like wings. Now Nysander claims that all this may come to nothing, that there have always been Guardians and Shafts and so forth chosen just in case. But he didn't sound all that confident. That's why I'm telling you this, and why we've got to warn Micum. I want you to ride out there tomorrow and tell him just what I've told you."

"What about you?"

Seregil smiled darkly. "There are a few old mates of Tym's I'd like to have a chat with. If Plenimarans are getting into Rhiminee, then someone has got to know about it."

"They covered their tracks pretty well with that business in the sewers," Alec reminded him.

"Except for Rythel. There's almost always a Rythel in any plot. When you get to Watermead, what I've told you is for Micum's ears alone. Do whatever you can to get him alone but try not to raise suspicion. Kari usually knows when something's up. And ask him about his dreams while you're at it, although I expect he'll scoff.

"It's a lot to take in, I know. Like I said, Nysander claims this may all come to nothing, but I don't think he really believes it. I know I don't."

Half-realized images whirled through Alec's mind, too chaotic to grasp. Yet bits and pieces seemed to stand forth from the general maelstrom, like branches in an eddy. "So Nysander has at least two pieces of whatever this thing is: the disk and the crown. But there must be something else, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if he's been the Guardian all these years, then what's he guarding?"

Seregil's eyes widened in surprised realization.

"That's a good question. But somehow I doubt we'll ever know."

Resuming their roles of Lord Seregil and Sir Alec for the day, they emerged from the Wheel Street villa at midday and rode down to the lower city to inspect a certain privateering vessel anchored just beyond the quays. They found Rhal's man still waiting at the Griffin. A day and night spent in a tavern notwithstanding, he was still sober enough to row them out to the ship.

"That's 'er," he said proudly, nodding over one shoulder as he rowed them toward a sleek, twin-masted raider. The Green Lady sported fighting platforms fore and aft. Even to Alec's untutored eye there was no mistaking her prime purpose.

"Bilairy's Balls, what's that supposed to be?" Seregil asked as they crossed beneath her prow. Fitted under the bowsprit was the painted statue of a woman.

"Figurehead," Welken replied. "Lots of the new ships has 'em. Said to bring luck. Captain Rhal got the best carver in Iolos to do our lady there; she's even got a real golden ring on her finger with a great red stone winking in it.

Captain says her round belly'll bring us a full hold."

Dark hair streamed over the woman's shoulders and the carved skirts of her emerald-green gown flowed back from a rounded, pregnant belly. One outstretched hand pointed ahead; the other lay modestly over her heart.

Alec broke into a broad grin as he squinted up at the painted wooden face; it was not fine work, but the resemblance to Seregil was obvious to anyone who'd seen him playing a Mycenian gentlewoman aboard the Darter.

Still staring up, Seregil swore pungently under his breath.

Alec stifled a snort of laughter and asked innocently, "Does she have a name?"

"Oh, aye. Captain calls her Lady Gwethelyn."

"It suits her," Alec observed, still fighting to keep a straight face.

"Charming," muttered Seregil.

Climbing a rope ladder, they found Rhal waiting for them on deck. After a brief tour, he ushered them belowdecks to his aft cabin. Though by no means luxurious, it was a far cry from the cramped quarters he'd entertained them in aboard the Darter.

"I hope that figurehead of yours brings you luck," Seregil remarked dryly, taking a chair.

"Aye, and I don't doubt we'll be needing it soon," Rhal said, pouring wine for them. "The weather is settling out early this year. With the old Overlord dead, there isn't much to hold the Plenimarans back now. Of course, his son Estmar isn't Overlord yet. According to Plenimaran custom, there's a month of official mourning before he can be crowned. That should give us another few weeks."

Seregil shook his head, frowning. "I wouldn't count on it. There have been rumors of Plenimaran scouts sighted as far west as the Folcwine River."

This had come as troubling news, Alec reflected.

The swift— moving units of the Queen's Horse Guard were scouting there, too, but there'd been no word from Beka in weeks.

"Well, whatever happens, the Lady and her crew are ready," Rhal assured them stoutly. "She sailed easy as a swan coming up from Macar and as you saw, we're fitted out with grapples, catapults, and fire baskets. When we set off raiding I'll have twenty archers among my crew and ten more hired on special."

"Impressive. When do you sail?" Rhal stroked his dark beard. "Soon as we get the Queen's Mark."

"The only thing that separates privateers from pirates," Seregil interjected for Alec's benefit.

"That, and the percentage of the take appropriated for the royal treasury," Rhal added. "I figure we'll do coasting trade until the war breaks out in earnest; goods loads, transporting soldiers, that sort of thing. The crew needs a proper sea run.

Word is there's already plenty of activity down around the Inner Sea and the Strait, lots of fat Plenimaran merchant ships carrying supplies and gold up toward Nanta. And of course, I stand ready to honor our bargain, though I don't see how you'll find me if you need me."

"We thought of that," Alec said, flipping him a silver medallion. "It's magicked. Just hang it up in here somewhere and a wizard friend of ours can sight off it wherever you are."

Rhal studied the emblem of Illior stamped into the face of the disk. "This has a lucky feel to it, too, and we can use all of that we can get."

"Then the best of it to you," said Seregil, rising to go.

"I hope your ship's belly is as full as your figurehead's before long."

Rhal scratched his head sheepishly. "Oh, you noticed that, did you? She was a fine-looking woman, that Gwethelyn. Thinking back to that night I caught you out, I don't know if I was more angry or disappointed. But in the end I'd say meeting you brought me luck, so there she is. The Green Lady's a fine ship and she'll do us all proud."

Since they were already dressed for the part, Alec and Seregil put in a suppertime appearance at Wheel Street, then slipped back to the Cockerel after dark. Once there, Seregil went straight to his room and rummaged out his tattered beggar's rags.

"Are you going out tonight?" asked Alec, leaning in the doorway as Seregil changed clothes.

"There are some thieves and nightrunners I want to speak with. I'm not likely to find them in daylight. I probably won't be back before you go, so get some rest and leave early. Before I go, though, let's hear what you're going to tell Micum. Things happened pretty fast today. I want to be sure you've got everything straight."

Alec recited as best he could what Seregil had told him about the prophecy and dreams. Seregil made one or two corrections, then nodded approval.

"Just right. I don't know what Micum will make of all this but

least he'll know what's in the wind."

Clapping on his old felt hat, he stepped past Alec and began dusting himself with ashes from the hearth.

"I'll come back as soon as I've talked to him," said Alec, "I could be back by nightfall."

"There's no need. Stay the night and come back in daylight."

Alec opened his mouth to protest further, but Seregil forestalled him with an upraised hand. "I

mean it, Alec. If we are in danger, then the more care we take the better. I don't want you getting caught out in some lonely place after dark."

Still slouching unhappily in the doorway, Alec frowned down at his boots. The truth was, he suddenly didn't like the thought of leaving Seregil alone here, either, though he knew better than to say so.

Seregil seemed to guess his thoughts just the same.

Adjusting a greasy patch over one eye, he came over and grasped Alec by the shoulders. "I'll be all right. And I'm not shutting you out of anything, either."

Despite the patch, tangled hair, and ridiculous old hat that partially obscured his friend's features, Alec heard the warm earnestness in his voice clearly enough.

"I know," he sighed. "You missed a spot."

Reaching over, Alec smeared ashes over a bit of clean skin just under Seregil's right cheekbone. His friend's one visible eye widened noticeably.

Strange feelings stirred again, and Alec felt himself blush.

Seregil held his gaze a moment, then cleared his throat gruffly. "Thanks. We don't want any telltale signs of cleanliness giving me away, do we? I'll take a run through the stable dung heap before I go, just to make sure I've got the right odor about me. Take care."

"You, too." Alec felt another twinge of unease as Seregil headed out the door. "Luck in the shadows, Seregil," he called after him.

Seregil looked back with a crooked grin. "And to you."

Left to himself, Alec set about packing the small bundle for his journey. But he soon found himself repeatedly packing and unpacking the same few items as his thoughts wandered over the harried events of the day, and his strange unease over Seregil's departure.

That night Alec's nightmare returned, but this time there was more to it.

In the end, when he turned to look for his pursuer, blocks of stone slid out of the wall beside him, tumbling to the floor with a hollow crash. Gripping the headless arrow, he forced himself to go to the opening in the wall and look through. He could see nothing but darkness beyond, but he could hear a new sound, one that was at once as ordinary and as inexplicably terrifying as the sight of the simple arrow shaft.

It was the booming grumble of the sea battering a rocky shore.