Luck in the Shadows

maggots erupted out of the bread, tumbling through the boy's fingers onto the table.
    Seregil averted his eyes with a grimace. "No, and I think it might be better if you took your meals elsewhere until this is over.
    They commenced the writing lesson later that morning.
    Seregil's battered leather pack yielded up several small rolls of parchment, quills, and a pot of ink. Crowded together over the small table, Alec watched Seregil draw the letters.
    "Now you try," he said, handing Alec the quill.
    "Copy each letter underneath mine and I'll tell you its sound."
    Alec knew as little about handling a quill as he did about swordplay, so they paused for a brief lesson in penmanship. He was soon inked to the wrists, but Seregil saw progress being made and held his tongue. After he'd mastered the characters, Seregil took the quill and swiftly spelled out their names, then the words for bow, sword, ship, and horse. His script flowed graceful and elegant next to Alec's smudgy scrawls.
    Alec watched all this with growing interest. "That word there; that means me?"
    "It means anyone named Alec."
    "And this is "bow." It's as if these little marks have power. I look at them and the things they stand for
    just pop into my head, like magic. That one there doesn't look anything like a bow, yet now that I know the sounds of the letters, I can't look at it without seeing a bow in my head."
    "Try this." Seregil wrote out "Alec's Black Radly bow" and read it aloud, pointing to each word in turn.
    Alec followed along, grinning. "Now I picture my own bow. Is it magic?"
    "Not in the sense you mean. Ordinary words simply preserve ideas. Still, you have to be careful. Words can lie, or be misunderstood. Words don't have magic, but they have power."
    "Well, the mayor of Wolde wrote a letter to the mayor of Boersby and it said something like "Aren Windover and his apprentice stole my money. Capture them and I'll reward you." Because the mayor of Boersby knows the mayor of Wolde, he reads and believes. Did we steal the money?"
    "No, we just went through those rooms and you—"
    "Yes, yes," Seregil snapped, cutting him short. "But the point is that a few words on a piece of paper were all it took to convince the mayor of Boersby that we did!"
    Seregil stopped suddenly, realizing he was practically shouting. Alec shrank back, looking as if he expected a blow. Seregil pressed his palms down on his knees and took a deep breath.
    The headache was back from wherever it had been lurking, and with the pain came an extraordinary surge of anger.
    "I'm not feeling very well, Alec. Why don't you go above for awhile?" It was an effort to speak calmly.
    Jaw set in a stubborn line, Alec strode out without a word.
    Sinking his head into his hands, Seregil wrestled with the sudden, inexplicable surge of conflicting emotions. He wanted to go after him, try to explain and apologize, but what was he going to say?
    Sorry, Alec, but for just a moment there I really wanted to throttle you?
    "Damn!" He stalked around the confines of the tiny cabin. The pain in his head swelled to a blinding ache. Beneath the pain, a vague urge began to resolve itself into an almost sensual feeling of need.
    It flowed through him, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a terrible, vulpine smile, filling every fiber of him with the desire to lash out. He wanted to grasp. He wanted to strike. He wanted to rend and tear—
    He wanted—
    And then, in a final searing flash, it was gone, taking the worst of the headache with it. When his vision cleared he found himself grasping the hilt of the penknife they'd been using. Somehow he'd driven it into the tabletop with such force that the little blade had snapped in two.
    He didn't even remember picking it up.
    The room seemed to spin slowly around him as he stood looking down at the broken knife.
    "Illior help me," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm going mad!"
    Hurt and confused, Alec paced the deck.
    Until last night Seregil had treated him with nothing but kindness and good humor; if not always communicative, he'd certainly been evenhanded and generous.
    Now out of the blue, this coldness.
    The shock of the morning's events gradually faded, allowing worry to replace his anger. This was what Seregil had been trying to warn him of last night, he realized. Of course, he had only Seregil's word that this was some new aberration; what if he'd been crazy all along?
    And yet he couldn't forget his conversation with Micum Cavish back in Boersby. Alec