Stalking Darkness

at the throat with the worn bronze brooch he always used.
    As he came forward into the light, Seregil let out a startled gasp. Even in the ruddy light of sunset, Nysander looked ghostly. His face was the color of bone and more deeply lined than ever. Worse yet, he looked shrunken in on himself, diminished, like the gnarled caricature of an old man carved in fresh ivory. Only hisbright eyes and the familiar warmth in his voice seemed to have come back to him intact.
    The surprise of their unexpected meeting left Seregil wary of illusion, however. Quelling the impulse to embrace his old friend, Seregil kept his distance and asked, “How did you find us?”
    Nysander made a sour face. “That blood charm you left with Magyana, of course. It took some managing and magic, but here I am.”
    Sheathing his sword, Seregil gave the old man a joyous hug. “I knew you’d do it, but by the Light, you look awful!”
    “As do you, dear boy,” Nysander chuckled.
    Micum hauled the boat in and ran up the shingle to join them.
    “You mean to say you were here waiting for us?” he cried, looking Nysander over in wonder. “How did you know? And why didn’t you send us a message by magic?”
    “All in good time,” the old wizard sighed, sinking down on a driftwood log and waving the illusory fire out of existence. “I must admit, I am equally relieved to see you. I feared I might have missed you after all.”
    “Do you know anything about Alec?” Seregil asked hopefully, sitting down beside him.
    “No, but you must not despair,” Nysander told him, patting his shoulder kindly. “If he were dead, I would know it. The force of the prophecy is binding us closer with every passing day.”
    Micum kicked together a pile of driftwood sticks and fished a firechip from a pouch at his belt. “Well, I haven’t had any great visions or dreams, but the more I see of this business, the more I believe it. By the Flame, Nysander, look at you. How can you have gotten here at all?”
    “Look at me, indeed,” Nysander replied rather ruefully. “One does not return from such a journey as the dyrmagnos sent me on without showing a bit of wear. But there was some value to it. While my body healed, my mind floated free among dreams and visions. I believe I know how to find the temple we seek. It is marked by a large white stone surrounded by black ones. And it is near the sea.”
    Disappointment settled in Seregil’s belly like a bad dinner. “That’s it? You’re telling me in all the hundreds of square miles around that mountain we have to find
one
rock?”
    “That’s not much to go on,” Micum noted, echoing his skepticism.
    Yet Nysander appeared perfectly complaisant. “We will find it,” he assured them. “It does not guarantee our success, but we will find it.”
    “I’ve been having dreams of my own,” Seregil told him.
    “You’ve done more than that,” Micum snorted. “Show him your chest.”
    Seregil peeled off the bandage and showed Nysander the crusted yellow scab that had formed around the scar. “It must be some kind of sign. Leiteus claimed this was the night the comet would appear.”
    “Undoubtedly,” Nysander agreed. “Whether it is an omen of good or ill remains to be seen. What was your dream?”
    Seregil picked up a knife-shaped stone and rubbed it between his hands. “I can never remember much of it, just the image of a figure with a misshapen head looking down at me through water while I drown. Isn’t there something you could do to sort of pull more of it out of me?”
    Nysander shook his head. “I must conserve both my strength and my magic. What little I have was hard-won and will be needed for what lies before us now. Even the fire I used to signal you was from a spell Magyana made for me. As for the dream, it must be some sort of preparation for the task ahead.”
    Micum ran his hands back through his thick red hair and sighed. “Do you think you could be a bit more specific?”
    Nysander nodded. “Before the attack on the Orëska I hoped I would never have to tell you. Afterward, I was unable to.
    “As Seregil has told you, there is a prophecy which names four persons, the Guardian, the Shaft, the Vanguard, and the Guide. I am the Guardian, and have been since the days of my apprenticeship with Arkoniel. What we have guarded, there below the Orëska House, was a fragment of a necromantic object called the Helm of Seriamaius.”
    “The bowl,” Seregil interjected.
    Nysander glanced at