Stalking Darkness

Nysander stood unmoved, waiting.
    “Nysander, why?” Seregil rasped. The skin around the brand onhis chest crawled and tingled, the sensation growing as it crept down his right arm. Sparks flickered over the quillons of his sword and along the shining blade.
    But Seregil was aware of nothing except the sorrowful determination he read in Nysander’s eyes.
    Nysander—oldest friend, wisest teacher, second father.
    Some sane part of Seregil’s mind screamed for him to throw the sword away into the sea, but he couldn’t move or look away.
    “Nysander, I can’t!” he pleaded, echoing the forgotten words of his dreams.
    “You must.” Nysander’s voice was already thin and strained. “I have accepted this burden freely. ‘First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in the darkness. Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen One, goes forth. And at the last shall be again the Guardian, whose portion is bitter, as bitter as gall.’
    “You must strike now, dear boy. Too much blood has been spilled and I cannot hold back its power for long. If you fail, I shall become their
Vatharna
, the anathema of my life’s work. Strike now, I beg you. There is no other way, and never has been.”
    Seregil’s body felt weightless as he climbed up the broken rock, sword naked in his hand.
    Lock away grief
, a voice whispered deep in his heart.
Lock away horror and fear and outrage and pity—
    I understand. Oh, yes!
    The Eyes of the Helm rolled to focus on him as he took his place in front of Nysander; this was a blow that could not be struck from behind. Hideous moans split the air around them, blending with the cries from mortal throats nearby as he raised his arm to strike. Some part of him recognized Alec’s voice among the others but he did not turn.
    Nysander staggered, sank to his knees, arms extended on either side. Orbs of light burned in the hollow of each palm, illuminating the symbols that still showed on his skin.
    —to protect your soul—
    The orbs flared and began to fade as the Helm blazed brighter. Even then Seregil might have hesitated if Nysander hadn’t raised his head and looked up at him with eyes that glowed already with the same horrible light as the Helm. Something broke inside Seregil at the sight of those alien eyes staring up at him from that familiar, beloved face.
    Raising his sword in both hands, he brought it down with all his strength.
    The symbols Nysander had painted on the blade flashed out like lightning as it cleaved through iron, horn, and gold, shattering the great Helm of Seriamaius into a thousand ragged fragments that dissolved into shreds of shadow in the milky light of the returning sun.
    A sudden wind filled with a thousand tortured voices roared down out of nowhere, smashing the waves against the rocks. Flinging the twisted, blackened sword away, Seregil fell to his knees and lifted Nysander’s ruined head onto his lap, cradling the dead man in his arms. Another wave crashed in against the ledges, foaming around his knees, tugging at the dead man’s legs.
    You knew
, Seregil thought as he gazed down into Nysander’s face, plain and kind again in death.
    You knew
.
    All along you knew
.
    youknewyouknewyouknewyouknew—
    “You knew!” he screamed against the raging wind, blind to the friends gathered in horrified realization around him.
    Bowed over Nysander’s limp body, Seregil waited for the next wave to drag them both from the rocks and down into the trackless depths beyond.

51
Farewells
    S eregil watched the smoke from Nysander’s pyre rise against the brilliant red and gold of the sunset and wondered why he couldn’t weep.
    Alec was crying softly beside him and Micum, too, as he lay supported by Beka, one broad hand over his eyes. Thero stood a little apart, tears streaming down his pale cheeks as the flames crackled up through the carefully stacked tinder and driftwood.
    Seregil longed to join them. His grief was a dry, sharp-edged stone lodged in his chest; he could scarcely draw breath around it.
    Rhal’s sailors and Beka’s soldiers stood in respectful silence on the opposite side of the pyre. Patrolling loyally off the coast, Rhal had seen the fire at the camp and taken it as a signal. Braving the crashing surf, he’d come ashore with twenty of his men in time to help Beka’s raiders clear out the last of the Plenimarans. As word spread of Mardus’ death, however, most of the remaining soldiers simply