Stalking Darkness

there. Piles of scrap wood and tangled shreds of colored canvas were all that appeared to be left of the booths and stalls he’d ridden past that same morning. Despite the lateness of the hour, soldiers were at work everywhere, setting up ballistas and hauling off refuse. From now on, it appeared, merchants would have to carry on their business under the open sky or from the backs of carts.
    Steering Patch through the chaos of the market square, Alec rode on into the maze of side streets beyond to Blue Fish Street. Light still showed around the front shutters, although in the excitement Rhiri had let the lanterns hanging at the Cockerel’s front gate go out.
    Thryis will be after him for that
, Alec thought, riding around to the back courtyard.
    He stopped at the stable long enough to unsaddle Patch and throw a rug over her steaming back. Leaving her with water and feed, he let himself through the lading-room door and hurried up the back stairway. With all the uproar around town, perhaps Seregil would overlook the fact that Alec had ignored his admonition to spend the night at Watermead.
    He knew the way upstairs well enough not to bother with a light. On the second floor he gave the corridor a cursory glance, then headed up the hidden stairs to their rooms. The keying words for the glyphs had become habit to him by now, and he spoke them with absent haste as he went up. In his eagerness to find Seregil, he failed to notice that the warding symbols did not make their usual brief appearance as he passed.
    No final dream or vision prepared him.
    Nysander was dozing over an astrological compendium by his bedroom fire when the magical warning jolted him to his feet; the Orëska defenses had been breached. The alarm was followed by a storm of message spheres, swarming like bees through the House as every wizard in the place called out for information.
    Or in fear.
    Invaders in the atrium!
Golaria’s voice rang out in a red flash.A dying cry from Ermintal’s young apprentice stabbed at Nysander’s mind like a shard of glass, and then that of Ermintal himself—
The vaults!
—cut short by another burst of blackness.
    Through the onslaught of voices Nysander called out to Thero. There was no response.
    Steeling himself for the battle he’d hoped never to fight, Nysander cast a translocation and stepped through the aperture into the corridor of the lowest vault just beyond the secret chamber. Shadowy figures waited for him there. He took a step toward them and stumbled. Looking down, he saw what was left of Ermintal and his apprentice, recognizing them by the shredded remains of their robes. Other bodies lay heaped beyond them.
    “Welcome, old man.” It was the voice from Nysander’s visions. Magic crackled and he barely managed to throw up a defense before it struck him in a roar of flame. The corpses sizzled and smoked as it passed.
    Regaining his balance, Nysander retaliated with lightning, but the smaller of the two invaders merely lifted a hand and brushed it aside to explode against the wall. By its light, Nysander saw it was a dyrmagnos. Beside it stood a figure so cloaked in a shifting veil of shadows that Nysander could not be certain at first if it was human or supernatural.
    “Greetings, old man,” the dyrmagnos hissed. “How weary you must be after your long vigil.”
    Not Tikárie Megraesh, but a woman, Nysander thought as he took a step toward her. She was a tiny, wizened husk of a creature, blackened with years, desiccated by the evil that animated her. This was the ultimate achievement of the necromancer—the embodiment of life in death wearing the sumptuous robes of a queen.
    Raising gnarled hands, she held up two human hearts and squeezed them until blood oozed out in long clots, spattering to the floor around her feet.
    “The feast has begun, Guardian,” the figure beside her said, and Nysander again recognized the voice of the golden-skinned demon of his visions. But it was an illusion. Through the veils of darkness, he saw a man—Mardus—speaking with the voice of the Eater of Death.
    Just behind them, several other robed figures came into view. Nysander could smell the stench of necromancy coming fromthem and with it something heartbreakingly familiar—the unmistakable sweetness of Ylinestra’s special perfume.
    “After all these years of anticipation, you have no reply?” the dyrmagnos sneered.
    “There has never been any reply for you but this.” Raising his hands, Nysander