Stalking Darkness

temple. At the first hint of dawn the following morning, the gongs would be uncovered and sounded to welcome the resurrected god as runners carried the new year’s fire to every hearth. Similar versions of the ceremony would be carried out all over Skala.
    He was halfway down the ladder when a rider clattered around a corner down the street. Recognizing Seregil’s glossy Aurënfaie mare, Alec jumped down and ran to meet them.
    Seregil reined Cynril to a walk and looked Alec over with a disapproving frown as he continued up the street. “Out in your shirtsleeves like a common laborer? What will the neighbors say?”
    “1 did remark upon it, my lord,” Runcer commented blandly as they came up.
    “I guess they’ll say I’m more likely to do a lick of honest work than my fop of a guardian,” Alec said with a laugh, too relieved to see Seregil safely home to care what anyone thought.
    Wherever Seregil had been, he’d costumed himself carefully for the role of returning lord. His mud-spattered boots and gauntlets were of the finest chestnut-brown leather, his riding mantle lined with dark fur. Beneath it he wore a velvet surcoat, and tall pheasant feathers bobbed at a jaunty angle from the jeweled cockade of his cap.
    “Ah well, we must forgive him his rough ways,” Seregil said, throwing an arm around Alec’s shoulders as they went inside. “These northern squire’s sons are badly raised—too much honest labor in their youth. How’s everything here?”
    “Come see for yourself.”
    Inside, the main hall was still swarming with servants. The carpets were being rolled back in preparation for the night’s dancing and fragrant garlands of plaited wheat and winter greenery festooned the walls. Rich aromas had been floating out from the kitchen since dawn. The feast after the ceremony would be cold, but well laid on.
    “What about the lightwands?” asked Seregil as he sat to tug off his boots.
    “They arrived from the Orëska House yesterday, my lord,” Runcer informed him, hovering close at hand. “Nysander í Azusthra and Lady Magyana ä Rhioni have confirmed that they will contribute to the evening’s entertainment again this year.”
    “Good. Any word from the Gavishes?”
    “They are expected this afternoon, my lord. I prepared the upstairs guest chambers myself.”
    “We’ll leave you to it, then. Come on, Alec, you can give me the news while I freshen up.”
    “Nysander’s invited the Cavishes to sit with him,” Alec told him as they went up the stairs to Seregil’s room, adding wistfully, “I wish we could.”
    “I know, but Kylith’s group is likely to be more informative. Besides, you need practice playing nobility.”
    Seregil’s bedchamber overlooked the garden at the back of the villa. Unlike the other rooms, it was furnished in Aurënfaie style, with walls whitewashed rather than frescoed, and the furnishings were done in pale woods and simple lines. In contrast, the cushions, carpets, and hangings around the bed were vibrant with pattern and color.
    The shutters had been opened and a fire crackled invitingly in the marble fireplace.
    “Runcer’s right, you know,” he went on, tossing his cloak over a clothes chest and going to the fire. “It’s not good for you to be seen out there in your shirtsleeves. When you’re playing a role—”
    Alec sighed. “You play it to the bone, I know, but—”
    “No excuses. It’s part of the game.” Seregil leveled a gloved forefinger at him. “You know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter at the Cockerel or half the time around here, but on a real job something like that could get you killed! When you play Sir Alec, you must
be
Sir Alec. Either live it from the heart, or stand outside yourself like a puppet master and direct every movement. You’ve seen me do it often enough.”
    Alec stared glumly out over the snow-dusted garden. “Yes, but I doubt I’ll ever be as good at it as you.”
    Seregil let out an impatient snort. “Horseshit. That’s what you said about swordplay, and look how you’ve come along. Besides, you’re a natural actor when the role doesn’t go against your stiff-necked, Dalnan yeoman’s pride. Relax! Flow with the moment.”
    Seregil suddenly grabbed him by the arm and whirled him intoan eccentric jig around the room. Alec hadn’t even heard him approach. But he recovered swiftly and took the lead.
    “But Sir Alec
is
a stiff-necked Dalnan yeoman,” he said, laughing as he clomped through the