Stalking Darkness

cradle.
    The infant lay on his back, arms flung over his head. Seregil ran a fingertip lightly over one tiny fist, marveling at the fragility of the silken skin. Gherin stirred, sucking contentedly in his sleep.
    In twenty years you’ll
be the young man your father was when I met him
, Seregil told him silently, touching the infant’s fuzzy red hair.
What would it be like to see you then?
    Seregil pushed the thought away and stole hurriedly away. He wouldn’t be back, not in twenty years, not ever. He owed them all that much.
    Leaving Alec was even harder than he’d feared. Against all better judgment, he went back to the open doorway of the room they’d shared so chastely, knowing full well that if Alec so much as opened an eye, he was lost.
    Alec lay curled on his side now, blond hair tumbled over the pillow. A dull ache gripped Sergil’s heart; all the nights he’d beenlulled by that soft breathing, all the things that might have been, seemed to come together at once in a tight knot at the base of his throat.
    If only Nysander hadn’t—
    Seregil placed a thick roll of parchments on the doorsill: the letter, too painful to be anything but brief; documents making Alec of Ivywell heir to all Lord Seregil’s holdings in the city; the lists of names and secrets and money holders. It was all there, carefully set down. When Alec sorted them out he’d discover that even minus what Seregil had deeded to Micum and a few others, he would be one of the wealthiest young men in Skala.
    Good-bye
, talí.
    The stars were dying as he led Cynril down the road below Watermead. When he judged he was far enough away to ride without waking the house, he swung up into the saddle and nudged the horse into a brisk trot. It was a little easier now, riding along at first light, the air already warm and redolent with the scent of the wild roses blooming in the meadow.
    A flight of wild geese rose from the river. He could almost see Alec on the bank below, trying to coax Patch out of the stream with a scrap of leather. The boy had been all innocence and good intentions then; why had he worked so hard to sully that?
    He rode up onto the bridge and reined Gynril to a halt. Mist was rising from the stream’s surface, coiling up to turn gold with the first touch of dawn. It looked, Seregil thought, like some magical pathway leading up to unexplored realms. Pulling the poniard from his boot, he tested the well-honed edge, then looked up the shining stream again.
    It was as good a direction as any.
    Something brushed Alec’s hand and he opened one eye, expecting to see Illia or one of the dogs.
    Nysander was standing beside the bed.
    “Go after him,” Nysander whispered, his voice faint as if it came from a great distance.
    Alec lurched up, his heart pounding. Nysander had disappeared, if he’d ever been there at all. Worse yet, Seregil was gone. Alec slid his hand over the sheets where Seregil had slept. They were cold.
    Whether dream or vision, the urgency of Nysander’s warning grew stronger by the second.
    Just like that other night, riding back to the inn—
    Scrambling out of bed, Alec hauled on breeches and a shirt and headed for the door. His bare foot struck something as he crossed the threshold. It was a thick roll of parchments bound with plain string. Untying it, he quickly scanned the familiar flowing script covering the first page.
    “Alec
talí,
Remember me kindly and try—”
    “Damn!” Pages scattered in all directions as Alec ran for the stables.
    Too much to hope that Seregil had gone on foot; Cynril was missing from her stall. Mounted bareback on Patch, Alec searched for and quickly found Cynril’s tracks, the distinctive print of the slightly splayed right hind hoof plain in the dust of the road outside the courtyard gate.
    Kicking Patch into a gallop, he rode down the hill and across the bridge, reining in where the two roads met to see which way Seregil had gone.
    But there was no sign of Cynril here. Cursing softly to himself, Alec dismounted for a closer search, then walked back onto the bridge and scanned the hillside, looking for telltale lines across the dewy meadow. Nothing there either, or on the hill trail. He was about to ride back for Micum when a patch of freshly turned gravel on the stream bank above the bridge caught his eye.
    You went up the streambed, you sneaky bastard!
Alec thought with grudging admiration. The bridge was too low to ride under and there were no other signs downstream.