Stalking Darkness

a time.
    The atrium reeked of smoke and magic. The mosaic floor was scorched and cracked, the dragon design nearly obliterated. Where the arched doors leading to the museum had been, there was now a gaping hole partially blocked by rubble.
    Afterward, Seregil could not recall how he got upstairs, or who had let him into the tower, but when he finally stopped running, he was at Nysander’s bedroom door and Valerius was blocking his way.
    “Is he alive?” Seregil panted, heart hammering in his chest.
    The drysian nodded, frowning. “Yes, for the moment at least.”
    “Then let me pass. I’ve got to talk to him!” Seregil tried to shoulder past but Valerius grabbed his arm, holding him back with considerable insistence.
    “Gently, Seregil. Gently,” he warned. “By all the medicine I know, he shouldn’t have survived such an attack. A good many others weren’t so fortunate. But all the same, he won’t let any of us ease his pain as much as we should until he’s spoken with you. Be quick and don’t tax his strength. He’s got none to spare.”
    Stepping aside, Valerius opened the door and followed Seregil in.
    Nysander lay on his side beneath a clean white sheet. His eyes were shut, his face slack. Hwerlu knelt at the end of the bed, tears streaming from his strange horse eyes as he played a song of healing. Two unfamiliar drysians, a woman and a boy, stood chanting softly nearby.
    Valerius exchanged a brief word with them and they withdrew.
    Seregil went to the bed and knelt beside Nysander. The wizard’s breathing was so shallow Seregil could scarcely hear it.
    “What happened?” he whispered, gently touching the old man’s cheek. It was as cold and moist as clay.
    “There was a great noise in the night, like thunder and battle,” Hwerlu told him, still playing as he spoke. “The sound of it woke us in our grove. As I ran to the House, I saw a dark shape rise above it, very large. It disappeared against the darkness of the sky.I ran on, and inside I found a scene of such carnage—” The centaur’s fingers faltered briefly on the harp strings. “The intruders had brought swordsmen as well as wizards. So many dead!”
    “But how?” Seregil asked in disbelief. “How did they get so many in? Illior’s Hands, this is the Orëska House!”
    “Through the front gate, and the sewers, it appears,” Valerius said behind him.
    “The sewers? But I thought that had all been taken care of after Alec and I found out about Rhythel.”
    “As it turns out, the authorities concentrated only on those routes that might lead toward the Palace. It’s also possible someone was paid to turn a blind eye here and there. Whatever the case, just after the alarm went up, another group, mostly swordsmen, burst through the garden. How they got in unnoticed is another mystery, but the main attack seems to have come up through the vaults.”
    Seregil sank his head into his hands. “All those dead gaterunners this winter. By the Four, if I’d gotten to Rythel sooner, we might have been able to stop this!”
    Nysander’s eyelids fluttered slightly.
    “Mardus,” he whispered, the word scarcely audible. “It was Mardus, I saw him, a dyrmagnos, more—”
    His voice failed, but his lips kept moving. Seregil leaned down, placing his ear close to Nysander’s lips to catch the faint words.
    “Eater of Death.” It was hardly more than a breath, but unmistakable. Nysander shuddered and closed his eyes, fighting a wave of pain. Yet he struggled on, forcing the words out breath by breath. “Where—Alec?”
    “They took him, left me this.” Seregil pulled out the dagger and held it up for Nysander to see.
    The wizard gazed at the lock of hair, then squeezed his eyes shut as another spasm wrenched through him.
    “It’s not your fault.” The words felt like ashes in Seregil’s mouth. His emotional defenses were beginning to erode, laying bare the first jagged shards of rage and grief lying just beneath the surface.
    “It has begun,” Nysander gasped out, his agitation clear. It took every ounce of will he possessed to go on shaping the words. “One place and one time—in Plenimar, beneath the pillar of the sky—The temple—temple—”
    “A temple in Plenimar. Where, Nysander? Damnation, you have to tell me where!”
    “Synodical—” Nysander murmured regretfully as blackness surged over him again.
    “What? Nysander, what does that mean?” Seregil turned to Valerius. “Isn’t there anything you can