Nightrunners 03 - Traitor's Moon, Page 4

  They'd come a long way from that first awkward kiss Alec had given him in Plenimar, but then, the boy had always been a fast learner.

  "Those must be some good cards you're holding," said Micum, giving him a quizzical look. "Care to show us a few? It's your turn."

  Seregil played a ten pip and Micum captured it, cackling triumphantly.

  Seregil watched his old friend with a mix of sadness and affection. Micum had been about Beka's age when they first met—a tall, amiable wanderer who'd happily joined Seregil in his adventures, if not in his bed. Now silver hairs outnumbered the red in his friend's thick hair and mustache, and in the stubble on his cheeks.

  Tirfaie, we call them: the short-lived ones. He watched Beka laughing with Alec, knowing he'd watch silver streak her wild red hair, too, while his was still dark. Or would, Sakor willing, if she survived the war.

  He quickly kenneled that dark thought with the others baying somewhere in the back of his mind.

  They burned two candles to stumps before Micum threw down his cards. "Well, I guess that's enough losing for one night. All that riding's finally caught up with me."

  "I'd put you up in here, but—" Seregil began.

  Micum dismissed his apology with a knowing look. "It's a clear night and we have good tents. See you in the morning."

  Seregil watched from the doorway until Beka and Micum had disappeared among the tents, then turned to Alec, belly already tight with dread.

  Alec sat idly shuffling the cards, and the flickering light of the fire made him look older than his years. "Now?" he asked, gentle but implacable.

  Seregil sat down and rested his elbows on the table. "Of course I want to go back to Aurenen. But not this way. Nothing's been forgiven."

  "Tell me everything, Seregil. This time I want it all."

  All? Never that, tali.

  Memories surged again like a dirty spring flood bursting its banks. What to pluck out first from the debris of his broken past?

  "My father, Korit i Solun, was a very powerful man, one of the most influential members of the Iia'sidra." A dull ache gripped his heart as he pictured his father's face, so thin and stern, eyes cold as sea smoke. They hadn't been like that before his wife's death, or so Seregil had been told.

  "My clan, the Bokthersa, is one of the oldest and most highly respected. Our fai'thast lies on the western border, close to the Zengati tribal lands."

  " 'Fade as'?"

  "Fai'thast. It means 'folk lands'; 'home.' It's the territory each clan owns." Seregil spelled the word out for him, a comfortingly familiar ritual. They'd done it so often that they scarcely noticed the interruption. Only later did it strike him that of all the words he'd poured out in his native tongue over the past two years, that one had not been among them.

  "The western clans always had more dealings with the Zengati— raids out of the mountains, pirates along the coast, that sort of thing," he continued. "But the Zengati are clannish, too, and some tribes are friendlier than others. The Bokthersa and a few other clans traded with some of them over the years; my grandfather, Solun i Meringil, wanted to go further and establish a treaty between our two countries. He passed the dream on to my father, who finally convinced the Iia'sidra to meet with a Zengati delegation to discuss possibilities. The gathering took place the summer I was twenty-two; by Aurenfaie reckoning that made me younger than you are now."

  Alec nodded. There was no exact correlation between human and Aurenfaie ages. Some stages of life lasted longer than others, some less. Being only half 'faie himself, he was maturing more rapidly than an Aurenfaie would, yet he would probably live as long.

  "Many Aurenfaie were against a treaty," Seregil went on. "For time out of mind the Zengati have raided our shores—taking slaves, burning towns. Every house along the southern coast has a few battle trophies. It's a testament to the influence of our clan that my father got as far with his plan as he did.

  "The gathering took place beside a river on the western edge of our fai'thast, and at least half the clans there had come to make sure he failed. For some, it was hatred of the Zengati, but there were others, like the Viresse and Ra'basi, who disliked the prospect of western clans allying with the Zengati. Looking back now, I suppose it was a justifiable concern.

  "You recall me saying that Aurenen has no king or queen? Each clan is governed by a khirnari—"

  " 'And the khirnari of the eleven principal clans form the Iia'sidra Council, which acts as a meeting place for the making of alliances and the settling of grievances and feuds,' " Alec finished, rattling it off like a lesson.

  Seregil chuckled; you seldom had to teach him anything twice, especially if it had to do with Aurenen. "My father was the khirnari for Bokthersa, just as my sister Adzriel is now. The khirnari of all the principal clans and many of the lesser ones came together with the Zengati. The tents covered acres, a whole town sprung up like a patch of summer mushrooms." He smiled wistfully, remembering kinder days. "Entire families came, as if it were a festival. The adults went off and growled at each other all day, but for the rest of us, it was fun."

  He rose to pour fresh wine, then stood by the hearth, swirling the untasted contents of his cup. The closer he came to the heart of the story, the harder it was to tell.

  "I don't suppose I've ever said much about my childhood?" "Not a lot," Alec allowed, and Seregil sensed the lingering resentment behind the bland words. "I know that, like me, you never knew your mother. You once let slip that you have three sisters besides Adzriel. Let's see: Shalar, Mydri, and—who's the youngest?" "Ilina."

  "Ilina, yes, and that Adzriel raised you." "Well, she did her best. I was rather wild as a boy." Alec smirked. "I'd be more surprised to hear that you weren't." "Really?" Seregil was grateful or this brief, bantering respite. "Still, it didn't much please my father. In fact, I don't remember much about me that did, except my skill at music and swordplay, and those weren't enough most days. By the time I'm speaking of, I mostly just stayed out of his way.

  "This gathering threw us back together again, and at first I did my best to behave. Then I met a young man named Ilar." Just speaking the name made his chest tighten. "Ilar i Sontir. He was a Chyptaulos, one of the eastern clans my father hoped to sway to our side. My father was delighted—at first.

  "Ilar was ..." The next part came hard. Just speaking the man's name aloud brought him back like a summoned spirit. "He was handsome, impetuous, and always had plenty of time to go hunting or swimming with my friends and me. He was nearly man grown, and we were all terribly flattered by his attention. I was his favorite from the start, and after a few weeks the two of us began to go off on our own whenever we could."

  He took a long sip from his cup and saw that his hand was trembling. For years he'd buried these memories, but with a single telling the old feelings surfaced, raw as they'd been that long ago summer.

  "I'd had a few flirtations—friends, girl cousins, and the like—but nothing like this. I suppose you could say he seduced me, though as I recall it didn't take much effort on his part."

  "You loved him."

  "No!" Seregil snapped, as memories of silken lips and callused hands against his skin taunted him. "No, not love. I was passion-blind, though. Adzriel and my friends tried to warn me about him, but by then I was so infatuated I'd have done anything for him. And in the end, I did.

  "Ironically, Ilar was the first to recognize and encourage my less noble talents. Even untrained, I had clever hands and a knack for skulking. He'd devise little challenges to test me—innocent at first, then less so. I lived for his praise." He glanced guiltily at Alec. "Rather like you and me, back when we first met. It's one of the things that made me keep you at arm's length for so long; the fear of corrupting you the way he did me."

  Alec shook his head. "It was different with us. Go on, finish this and be done with it. What happened?"

  Older than his years, Seregil thought again. "Very well, then. One of my father's most vociferous opponents was Nazien i Hari, khirn
ari of Haman clan. Ilar convinced me that certain papers in Nazien's tent would aid my father's cause, that I alone had the skill to sneak in and 'borrow' them." He grimaced, disgusted at the green fool he'd been. "So I went. Everyone else was off at some ritual that night, but one of Nazien's kinsmen came back and caught me at it. It was dark; he must not have seen that it was a boy he was drawing his dagger against. There was just enough light for me to see the flash of his blade and the angry glint in his eyes. Terrified, I drew my own and struck out. I didn't mean to kill him, but I did." He let out a bitter laugh. "I don't suppose even Ilar expected that when he sent the Haman back."

  "He wanted you to be caught?"

  "Oh, yes; that's what all his attentiveness had been leading to. The 'faie seldom stoop to murder, Alec, or even to outright violence. It all comes down to atui, our code of honor. Atui and clan are everything—they define the individual, the family." He shook his head sadly. "Ilar and his fellow conspirators—there were several, as it turned out—had only to manipulate me into betraying the atui of my clan to accomplish their end, which was the disruption of the negotiations. Well, they certainly got that! What followed was all very dramatic and tawdry, given my reputation and my all-too-obvious

  relationship with Ilar. I was found guilty of complicity in the plot, and of murder. Did I ever tell you what the penalty is for murder among my people?"

  "No."

  "It's an ancient custom called dwai sholo."

  "'Two bowls'?"

  "Yes. Punishment is the responsibility of the criminal's clan. The wronged clan claims teth'sag against the family of the guilty person. If that clan breaks atui and does not carry out their duty, the wronged family can declare a feud and any killing that follows is not considered murder until honor is restored.

  "Anyway, for dwai sholo, the guilty person is shut up in a tiny cell in the house of their own khirnari and every day they are offered two bowls of food. One bowl is poisoned, the other not. The condemned can choose one or refuse both, day after day. If you survive a year and a day, it's considered a sign from Aura and you're set free. Few manage it."

  "But they didn't do that to you."

  "No." —the choking heat, the darkness, the words that flayed—

  Seregil gripped the cup. "I was exiled instead."

  "What about the others?"

  "The small cell and two bowls, as far as I know. All except for Ilar. He escaped the night I was caught. And he'd accomplished his purpose. The Haman used the scandal to wreck the negotiations. Everything my family and others had worked decades to accomplish was swept aside in less than a week's time. The whole plot had hinged on duping the son of Korit i Solun into betraying the clan's honor. And you know what? "

  His voice was suddenly husky, so husky that he had to take another gulp of wine before he could finish. "The worst of it wasn't the killing or the shame, or even the exile. It was the fact that people I should have trusted had tried to warn me, but I was too vain and headstrong to listen." He looked away, unable to bear Alec's look of sympathy. "So there you have it, my shameful past. Nysander was the only other person I ever told."

  "And this happened over forty years ago?"

  "By Aurenfaie reckoning, it's still last season's news."

  "Has your father ever forgiven you?"

  "He died years ago, and no, he never forgave me. Neither did my sisters except for Adzriel—did I mention that Shalar was in love with a Haman? I doubt very many of my clan who've borne the burden of the shame I brought on our name will be in any hurry to welcome me back, either."

  Talked out, Seregil knocked back the last of his wine as images from that final day in Viresse harbor flashed unbidden through his mind: his father's furious silence, Adzriel's tears, the scathing jeers and catcalls that had propelled him up the gangplank of a foreign ship. He hadn't wept then and he didn't now, but the crushing sense of remorse was as fresh as ever.

  Alec waited quietly, hands clasped on the table in front of him. Stranded in silence by the fire, Seregil suddenly found himself aching for the reassuring touch of those strong, deft fingers.

  "So, will you go?" Alec asked again.

  "Yes." He'd known the answer since Beka had first told him of the journey. Framing the question he hadn't yet dared to ask, Seregil forced himself across the bit of floor that separated them and extended a hand to Alec. "Are you coming with me? It may not be very pleasant, being the talimenios of an exile. I don't even have a proper name there."

  Alec took his outstretched hand, squeezing it almost to the point of pain. "Remember what happened the last time you tried to go off without me?"

  Seregil's relieved laugh startled them both. "Remember? I think I've still got some of the bruises!" Tightening his own grip, he pulled Alec out of his chair and onto the bed. "Here, I'll show you."

  Seregil's sudden demand for lovemaking surprised Alec less than the wildness of what followed. Anger lurked just beneath his lover's frenzied passion, anger not meant for him, but that still left a scattering of small bruises across his skin to be discovered by tomorrow's sun.

  Alec didn't need the heightened senses of the talimenios bond to tell him that Seregil was trying to somehow burn all memory of that hated first lover from his own skin, or that it hadn't worked.

  Locked sweaty and breathless in Seregil's arms afterward, Alec listened as the other man's ragged breathing slowed to normal and for the first time felt empty and uneasy instead of sated and safe. A black gulf of silence separated them even as they lay heart against heart. It frightened him, but he didn't pull away.

  "What became of Ilar? Was he ever found?" he whispered at last.

  "I don't know."

  Alec touched Seregil's cheek, expecting to find tears. It was dry. "Once, just after we met, Micum told me that you never forgive betrayal," he said softly. "Later, Nysander told me the same. They both believed it was because of what happened to you in Aurenen. It was him, wasn't it? Ilar?"

  Seregil took Alec's hand and pressed the palm to his lips, then moved it to his bare chest, letting him feel the quick, heavy beat of his heart. When he spoke at last, his voice was thin with grief.

  "To give someone your love and trust—I hate him for that! For robbing me of innocence too early. Spoiled and silly and willful as I was, I'd never had to hate anyone before. But it taught me things, too: what love and trust and honor really are, and that you can never take them for granted."

  "I suppose if we ever met I'd have to thank him for that, at least—" Alec murmured, then froze as Seregil's hand suddenly tightened around his.

  "You wouldn't have time, tali, before I cut his throat."

  4

  New Journeys

  Seregil found Beka alone by the corral the next morning. "When does this expedition of yours leave for Aurenen?" "Soon." She turned and gave him an appraising look. Damn, she looked like her father. "Does that mean you're coming?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank the Flame! We're to meet Commander Klia in a little fishing town below the Cirna Canal, by the fifteenth of the month."

  "What route is she taking to Aurenen?"

  "I don't know. The less information she gives out ahead of time, the less there'll be for Plenimaran spies to pick up."

  "Very wise."

  "If we push, we can be in Ardinlee in three days. How soon can you be ready?"

  "Mmmm, I don't know." He looked around the place as if taking stock of some vast holding. "Is a couple of hours soon enough?"

  "If that's the best you can do."

  Watching her stride briskly off toward the tents, he decided she had a good deal of her mother in her, too.

  Alec slipped his black-handled dagger into his boot and settled his sword belt more comfortably against his left hip. "Don't forget this." Seregil took their tool

  rolls from a high shelf and tossed Alec's over to him. "With any luck, we'll be needing them."

  Alec unrolled the black leather case and checked the slender implements stored in its stitc
hed pockets: lock picks, wires, limewood shims, and a small lightstone mounted on a knurled wooden handle. Seregil had made everything; these weren't the sort of tools you found in the marketplace.

  Satisfied, Alec slipped it inside his coat, where it lay against his ribs with a comfortably familiar weight. That left only his bow, some clothes, a bedroll, and a few personal effects to pack. He'd never had much in the way of belongings; as Seregil was fond of saying, the only things of real value were those you could take away with you in a hurry. That suited Alec and made packing a simple matter.

  Seregil had finished with his own gear and was looking rather wistfully around the room. "This was a good place."

  Coming up behind him, Alec wrapped an arm around his waist and rested his chin on Seregil's shoulder. "A very good place," he agreed. "But if it hadn't been this moving us on, there would have been something else."

  "I suppose so. Still, we're spoiled with privacy," Seregil said, pressing back against him with a lewd grin. "Just wait until we're trapped aboard some ship, cheek by jowl with Beka's soldiers. You'll wish we were back here and so will I."

  "Hey in there, are you ready yet?" Beka demanded, appearing suddenly in the doorway. Seeing them together, however, she halted uncertainly.

  Alec jumped back, too, blushing.

  "Yes, we're ready, Captain," Seregil told her, adding under his breath, "What did I tell you?"

  "Good." Beka covered her own embarrassment brusquely. "What about all this?" She gestured around the little room. Except for their clothes and gear, the cabin looked much as it had last night. The fire was banked, and clean dishes lay drying on a shelf by the window.

  Seregil shrugged and headed for the door. "It'll be of use to someone."

  "He's still not wearing a sword?" Beka asked Alec when Seregil was gone.

  "Not since Nysander's death."

  She nodded sadly. "It's a shame, a great swordsman like that."

  "There's no point in arguing with him," Alec said, and Beka guessed from his tone that this was a battle he'd lost with Seregil more than once.