Stalking Darkness

side of the pitching ship. Waves slapped at it as they neared the water, then rolled in over the side. Clinging on as best they could, Seregil and Micum waited until they’d cleared the
Lady
, then unfurled the triangular sail.
    The little boat yawed sharply, catching another wave over the side. Micum took the tiller and turned her into the wind whileSeregil hauled on the spar rope. As soon as they got her headed properly into the waves, he looped the spar rope over a cleat and set about bailing the craft out.
    “You’re the Guide,” Micum said, shrugging out of his sodden cloak and settling himself more comfortably at the tiller. “What do we do now?”
    Seregil gazed toward the distant shore. “Like Rhal said, get in close and coast along until we spot a landing place.”
    “There’s a lot of coast there, Seregil. We could end up miles from wherever this temple of yours is.”
    Seregil went back to his bailing. “If I am the Guide of Nysander’s prophecy, maybe I’ll know the right place when I see it.”
    The words sounded weak and half-convinced even to him, but he didn’t know what else to say. This certainly didn’t seem like the proper moment to confess that except for a few fragmentary dreams and the bleeding scar on his chest, he was painfully unaware of any feelings of divine guidance.
    As Rhal had observed, much of the coastline was ledge or cliff. The boom of the surf echoed back at them across the water and they could see the spume thrown up by the breakers. Great blocks of reddish granite shot through with bands of black basalt lay in tumbled disorder between the water and the trees above.
    As far as the eye could see the land looked desolate and uninhabited. Dark forest blanketed the hills. Higher up, the stark, stony peak of the mountain rose forbiddingly against the evening sky. The setting sun behind them cast a thick golden light over the scene, enhancing briefly the color of water, sky, and stone. Great flocks of sea ducks and geese floated on the swells just beyond the pull of the breakers. Overhead, gulls uttered their whistling calls as they circled and dove.
    “I never thought I’d be setting foot on Plenimaran soil,” Micum remarked, steering them closer in. “I’ve got to admit, it’s nice-looking country.”
    The sun sank lower. Kneeling in the bow, Seregil squinted intently at the harsh shoreline.
    “I think we may be spending the night out here,” Micum said, steering them past a rocky point.
    “You may be—Wait!”
    The forest was thick here, but he caught the distinct yellow flicker of firelight in the shadow of a cove. “Do you see that?”
    “Could be a campfire. What do you say?”
    “Let’s have a look.”
    Steering into the cove, they discovered a tiny, sheltered beach at its head. Above the tide line, a large fire crackled invitingly, illuminating the thick tangle of evergreens that edged the shingle.
    “It looks more like a signal fire,” whispered Micum, tacking just off shore. “Could be fishermen or pirates.”
    “Only one way to find out. You stay with the boat.”
    Slipping over the side into the hip-deep water, Seregil drew his sword and waded ashore.
    The beach lay at the head of a deep cleft in the surrounding ledge, making an oblique approach impossible, and the slanting evening light lit it like a stage. The shingle was made up of small, wave-polished stones that crunched and rattled under his boots as he continued up toward the fire.
    I might just as well tie a bell around my neck
, he thought uneasily, picturing archers tracking him from the ledges and swordsmen in the thickets.
    But the cove was peaceful. Standing still, he listened carefully. Over the sigh of the wind, he heard the mournful music of doves and white throats in the woods, the clacking croak of a heron stalking the shallows somewhere nearby. No one was disturbing them.
    Encouraged but wary, he crunched up the shingle to the fire. There was no sign of habitation, no packs or refuse. As he came nearer, he realized with a nasty start that the flames were giving off no heat. It was an illusion.
    A branch snapped in the forest and he crouched, bracing for ambush. A tall, spare figure stepped from the trees.
    “Here you are at last, dear boy,” a familiar voice greeted him in Skalan.
    “Nysander?” Still wary, Seregil remained where he was as the wizard pushed back his hood. Dressed for traveling, Nysander wore an old surcoat and loose breeches, and his faded cloak was held