Stalking Darkness

fire. Alec had sorted them recently during a lesson on gem appraisal. A layer of bright rubies slid into the pack to fill the spaces between clothes and pouches, then emeralds, opals, amethyst, a handful of gold and diamond buttons they’d used for gaming stones.
    His hands were beginning to shake. A lord’s ransom spilled over the lip of the pack but he left the stones where they fell. Cinching the pack shut, he carried it to the door, then turned for a last look at the home he’d inhabited for nearly thirty years. He’d been happy here, perhaps happier than anywhere else in his life. Now all of it—the books, weapons, tapestries and statues, the shelves of accumulated relics and curiosities—all of it was nothing more than stage dressing for the mocking tableau centered around the mutilated corpses gathered at his hearth.
    Taking a large lamp from the table, Seregil whispered a quick prayer and emptied the oil over the bodies. Then he gathered every other lamp within reach, flung them against the walls, and scattered a jar of firechips over the spilled oil. Flames sprang up, quickly spreading out into sheets of hungry, purifying fire.
    Shouldering the packs and weapons, Seregil fled down the stairs, leaving the doors open behind him.
    As he hurried past Cilla’s room on his way to the kitchen stairs, however, a muffled cry brought him to a halt. Dropping everything but his sword, he dashed into the room and flung the overturned chair aside. There, tightly wrapped in thick blankets to keep him still, Luthas lay squalling in his small trundle bed.
    Cilla had heard her attackers coming. In what little time she must have had, she’d hidden her child, overturning the chair and pulling the blankets down over the edge of the bed to cover him from view.
    He must have been asleep when I was in here before
, Seregil thought, gathering up the furious child.
And if he hadn’t cried—
    As Seregil turned to go, he caught sight of himself in Cilla’s mirror. The image reflected there, white-faced, eyes black with rage, might have been his own vengeful ghost.
    Smoke poured down through the ceiling boards as he hefted the pack and weapons again and carried Luthas downstairs. In the first, thin light of dawn, the familiar back courtyard had an unreal look, like a familiar place seen in a dream just before it transforms into something sinister. The weight of pack, swords, and child pulled at him, sapping his strength.
    “Thank the Lightbearer, there you are!” a familiar voice called.
    Turning in confusion, Seregil saw Nysander’s young servant Wethis coming around the corner of the inn on a sorrel horse.
    “I saw the smoke from up the street,” Wethis told him, reining in. His clothing was torn and he had a bandage wound around one hand, Seregil noted with a fresh pang of dread. “When no one answered out front—”
    “Everyone’s dead,” Seregil told him, his voice coming out thin and strained. “What happened to you? What are you doing here?”
    “The Orëska was attacked last night,” Wethis answered, his voice cracking with emotion. “It was terrible. Nysander—They found him in the lowest vault—”
    “Is he dead?” barked Seregil.
    Wethis flinched. “I don’t know. Valerius and Hwerlu were with him when I left. They sent me after you. You have to go at once!”
    Seregil dropped his gear and thrust Luthas up at the boy. “Take him, and have the rest of this brought to the Orëska. And see that the rest of the horses get out of the stable before the whole damn place goes up.”
    Leaving the boy to fend as well as he could, Seregil dashed into the stable and bridled Cynril.
    Patch nickered at him from the next stall. Alec had taken the time last night to feed and cover her before going up, never suspecting what lay in wait.
    Mounted bareback, Seregil rode out past Wethis and away from the burning inn without a backward glance.
    The world seemed strangely muted as he galloped toward the Orëska. The streets, the pale morning sky, the sound of Cynril’s hooves—all had a vague, muffled air, as if he were observing the scene from a distance through one of Nysander’s magnifyinglenses. But somewhere behind the protective barrier of shock, the anguish was building.
    Not yet. Not yet. So much to do
.
    He pelted on through the streets, through the Orëska gate and the scented gardens, not slowing his horse until he reached the House itself. Reining in, he leapt from the saddle and took the steps two at