Stalking Darkness

woman in Rhíminee and it gives you nightmares? You’re a strange creature, Alec, a very strange creature.” He grinned. “I just hope you’re not too worn out. This is the biggest celebration of the year. And we’d better get ready. The Cavishes are probably already at breakfast downstairs.”
    Alec lay in bed a moment longer after he left, trying to sort out his feelings about the previous night’s unexpected climax. He knew better than to imagine that Ylinestra considered him anything more than a virginal conquest; he doubted she’d give him a second glance the next time they met.
    At least he hoped not. Pleasurable as the physical act—or rather, acts—had been, the whole affair had left him feeling low and begrimed. Seregil’s well-intentioned ribbing had only underscored his own confusion.
    The sorceress’ scent rose from his skin as Alec threw back the covers and got up. Wrapping himself in a robe, he called for the chambermaid, asking her to prepare a bath and see to it that his bedding was changed.
    The bath helped considerably and he headed downstairs in somewhat better spirits. His one remaining qualm was that Seregil had already blabbed his exploits to Micum or Kari. But no onegave signs of being any the wiser when he joined the cheerful group around the dining table, although Seregil did raise a questioning eyebrow at his damp hair.
    Illia was too excited by the prospect of a day in the city to let anyone linger over their morning tea. As soon as the meal was finished the whole party set off for the Temple Precinct. Kari and the girls rode in a comfortable open carriage, with the men riding attendance on horseback.
    In contrast to the austerity of Mourning Night, Sakor’s Day was celebrated with wild abandon. Horns blared, ale flowed, bonfires blazed at all hours.
    Looking around as they rode, it appeared to Alec that there was a performance of some kind—animal trainers, jugglers, troops of actors performing out of skene wagons, fire dancers, and the like—on virtually every street corner. Food sellers, gamblers, whores, and pickpockets mingled with the revelers, plying their trades.
    “It’s all so loud and exciting!” exclaimed Elsbet, riding along beside him.
    “You’ll get used to it,” Alec replied.
    The girl grinned. “Oh, I look forward to that.”
    The main event of the day was the annual investing of new troops at midday. Sakor was the patron god of soldiers and the recognition of new troops was at once a martial and religious occasion.
    In the Temple Precinct, the tiers of seating had been cleared away to make room for the ranks of new soldiers formed up in front of the Sakor Temple.
    The day was a cloudless, bitter one and even Alec was glad of the heavy, fur-lined cloak he wore over his velvet surcoat. Seregil chatted idly with other nobles, introducing Alec to this one or that as the fancy took him.
    “I’ve never seen so many new recruits, have you?” Kari asked Seregil, shading her eyes with one hand as they stood together on the steps of the Temple of Illior.
    He shook his head. “No, never.”
    “Where’s Beka?” Illia demanded, bouncing excitedly on her father’s shoulder.
    “Over with those in green there.” Micum pointed out the Queen’s Horse, raising his voice to make himself heard.
    Glancing at Kari, Alec thought she looked rather sad andthoughtful. As if sensing his gaze, she looked over at him and held a hand out for his.
    By the time the last ranks had marched in, the close-packed regimental groupings looked like colored tiles in a huge mosaic. The Queen’s Horse was a block of green and white directly in front of the Temple of Sakor.
    “Look, there’s the Queen,” said Micum. “They’ll start now.”
    Looking solemn and proud despite her long vigil, Idrilain took her place between the pillars of the Sakor Temple. She wore flowing robes of state and an emerald diadem and carried the Sword of Gërilain upright on her shoulder like a scepter. The golden Aegis gleamed behind her as she stood motionless before the troops, the faint vapor of her breath visible on the cold air. The tableau was intentional; there was no doubt to whom the oath was to be given. The priests might be allowed their mysteries in the darkness, but here, in the light of day, stood the embodiment of Skalan power.
    Placing the sword point downward in front of her, Idrilain grasped the hilt in both hands and began the ritual.
    “Come you here to swear the Oath?” she