Stalking Darkness

dried seaweed, and other debris, but both of the mysterious crevices in the rock ran through it.
    “Here’s your temple,” Seregil announced.
    “I think you may be correct,” Nysander said, looking around in amazement.
    “It’s above the normal tide line now, but from the looks of the debris, the highest tides reach it. It’s a sort of natural basin.”
    “It must have been used by the people who left the writing we found carved there,” Nysander speculated. “I wonder what the holes represent?”
    “So the eclipse and the high tide that fills this thing will happen at the same time,” observed Micum, helping Seregil cover the holes as they had found them.
    “The highest point of the tide will lag some minutes behind the completion of the eclipse,” the wizard replied. “Which means Mardus will have only a few moments in which to complete whatever ritual he plans before the sun returns. It is generally believed that the more rare the conjunction, the more powerful its effect. With the added factor of the comet, I should say this conjunction will be an extraordinarily potent and dangerous one. That it is so focused on a specific locale makes it all the more so.”
    “By the Flame!” Micum muttered. “And the three of us are supposed to take on that, with however many Plenimarans thrown in?”
    “Four,” Seregil amended darkly, shooting Nysander a pointed look. “When the time comes, there are supposed to be
four
of us.”

45
V ENGEANCE
    T ime passed like a slow nightmare for Alec. By day the cart bumped and jolted over the rough coastal track the column followed. His mounted escort ignored him for the most part, talking among themselves in their own language. With only Thero for company, Alec spent the daylight hours dozing and watching the mountainous countryside go by.
    And dreading nightfall.
    At night the bear cart was stationed somewhat apart from the camp. Alec quickly learned to fear the moment when his guards faded away into the shadows; this was the signal for Vargûl Ashnazai’s festival of nightmares to begin. Later, when the final horror was over and Alec had been reduced to terrified fury, the guards would reappear and whatever was left of the night would pass in relative peace.
    The second night Diomis and his mother materialized in the cage, heads clutched beneath their arms as they cursed and accused him. Alec knew they were only illusions, but their accusations stabbed at enough of his own doubts to bring real pain. Turning his back on them, he stuffed his fingers in his ears and tried to ignore the prodding and buffeting of their cold, ghostly hands. It was pointless to fight back—they had no more substance than air.Curling tighter in his misery, he waited for Ashnazai to tire of the game.
    When it was over, Alec lay listening to the small sounds of the night—an owl’s hunting call, the distant nickering of horses, the low murmur of the guards, who’d come back as soon as Ashnazai had gone.
    Where did they go? he wondered, letting his mind wander where it would.
    A better question: why do they go?
    His eyes widened as he stared up into the night sky. Every time Ashnazai had tormented him, on the ship and now, he did it without witnesses. This seemed to verify something Alec already suspected. Vargûl Ashnazai did not want anyone, especially Mardus, to know what he was up to.
    The following night there was no sign of Ashnazai. Huddled close to Thero’s sleeping form, Alec stared out into the shadows, bracing for whatever new horror was to come.
    The moon rose. The stars wheeled slowly past the branches, but nothing disturbed the surrounding stillness. A sweet spring breeze swept through the boughs, carrying to him the scents of resin, damp mosses, and tender green herbs sprouting from the forest loam. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself walking through those wooded hills with his bow as he had with his father. In spite of his fear, he drifted off and dreamed of hunting and forest trails and freedom.
    He was awakened by someone whispering his name. A dark figure stood next to the cart, beckoning him to the bars.
    Alec crouched warily. “What do you want?”
    “Alec, it’s me,” the man replied softly. He pushed his hood back and the moonlight struck his face.
    “Seregil!” Alec managed a choked whisper. Scrambling over, he thrust his hand out to his friend. Seregil clasped it and pressed it to his lips. He was real, solid, warm. Alec clung to him, heedless of the