Stalking Darkness

scattered into the hills to fend for themselves.
    Afterwards, Beka and Rhal had marshaled their people together, clearing away the dead and all trace of the ceremony. When the site was cleansed, they stacked a funeral pyre on the ledges below the basin, then stood aside asSeregil and Thero placed Nysander on the bed of oil-soaked kindling and sweet herbs.
    Standing here now, watching unflinchingly as the flames blackened Nysander’s skin and clothing, Seregil forced himself to recall the old wizard kneeling calmly among his paints and symbols, speaking words of encouragement.
    But still the tears would not come.
    Stars appeared overhead in the darkening sky and with them the comet, robbed now of its dread significance. The pyre began to settle in on itself and Nysander’s corpse sank out of sight in a whirling cloud of sparks. Several of Rhal’s men came forward and added more wood and oil, stoking the blaze until the heat of it pressed the onlookers back into the surrounding shadows.
    With the solemnity of the funeral circle broken, people began to drift away. The fire would burn long into the night, reducing skin, bone, and wood alike to a fine ash for the tide and winds to scatter.
    Turning, Seregil limped slowly up to the white stone and sat there waiting for some release.
    None came; the emptiness he’d been plunged into from the moment he’d accepted Nysander’s final charge still enveloped him, leaving him isolated, deadened inside. He could see Alec and the others gathered around Micum, a knot of shared comfort against the oncoming night.
    He should be with them, he knew, but somehow he couldn’t move. Sinking his head into his hands, he remained where he was, alone in the shadows where Nysander had stood awaiting his moment just hours before.
    Some time later, he heard the sound of someone climbing up the rocks toward him. Looking up, he was surprised to see that it was Thero.
    Worn and battered, dressed in borrowed clothes, he bore little resemblance to the prim young wizard Seregil had sparred with for so many years. Thero stared down at the pyre below for a moment before speaking.
    “I wasted too many years being jealous of you,” he said at last, still not looking at Seregil. “It hurt him, and I’d take it back if I could.”
    Seregil nodded slowly, sensing that there was more to be said between them but not knowing how to begin. Instead, he asked, “Will Micum be all right?”
    “I think I’ve stopped most of the poison,” Thero replied, sounding relieved to speak of practical things. “Still, even if he doesn’t lose the leg, I doubt it will ever be much use to him.”
    “He’s lucky to be alive at all. And the dyrmagnos?”
    “She’s finished. Alec saw to that.”
    “Good.”
    Another uncomfortable pause raveled out and Thero turned to leave.
    “Thank you,” Seregil managed, his voice thin and strained. “For helping Alec and all.”
    With a curt nod, Thero moved off through the shadows along the road.
    Micum saw Thero leave.
    “You go up to him,” he croaked, looking up at Alec with fever-bright eyes.
    “He’s right,” Beka said, raising a cup of drugged wine to her father’s lips. “It’s not proper, him being alone now.”
    “I know. I’ve been thinking that all afternoon,” Alec whispered miserably. “But I don’t know what to do for him, what to say. We all loved Nysander, but not like he did. And then he had to be the one to—”
    Reaching out, Micum closed a hot, dry hand over Alec’s. “His heart is broken, Alec. Follow your own.”
    Alec let out a heavy sigh and nodded. Climbing the rocks, he walked over to where Seregil still sat on the rock, face lost in shadow.
    “It’s turning cold. I thought you might need this,” Alec said, taking off his cloak and draping it over his friend’s shoulders. Seregil mumbled a thank you, but didn’t move.
    Feeling desperately awkward, Alec rested a hand on Seregil’s shoulder, then slid an arm around him. He’d half expected Seregil to shrug it off, or finally weep, but not the black waves of emptiness he felt, leaning there beside him. Something intrinsic in Seregil had fled or died; it was like touching a statue, a scarecrow.
    A fresh trickle of tears inched down Alec’s cheeks, but he didn’t move, just stayed there, hoping Seregil would draw some comfort from his nearness. His tongue felt like a dead thing in his mouth. Words were dead leaves lodged in his throat. What was there to say?
    A breeze