Stalking Darkness

fondest memories of those days would be sitting by a snug fire on a stormy day, enjoying the sound of the rain lashing against the shutters.
    As always, life with Seregil had a charmed quality; his enthusiasm and irreverent good humor buoyed Alec along as a seemingly endless progression of lessons were placed before him. The more Alec learned, the more he found he felt like a man who’d thirsted for years unknowing, only discovering his need when it finally began to be slaked. In return, Alec tried to teach Seregil archery and, despite all evidence to the contrary, stubbornly refused to give him up as a hopeless cause.
    One stormy afternoon Seregil discovered Alec in the library, frowning pensively as he scanned the shelves.
    “Looking for something in particular?”
    “Histories,” Alec replied, fingering the spine of a thick volume. “Last night at Lord Kallien’s salon, someone was saying how this war may be as bad as the Great War. I got to wondering what that one was like. You’ve told me a bit about it, but I thought it would be interesting to do some reading on it. Do you have anything?”
    “Nothing much, but the Orëska library does,” Seregil replied, inwardly delighted at this show of scholarly initiative. Alec generally preferred more active pursuits. “We could ride over if you’d like, and see Nysander, too. It’s been days since we’ve heard from him.”
    Sleet pelted wetly down on them as they galloped through the streets of the Noble Quarter to the Orëska House. As soon as they entered the enchanted gardens surrounding it the sleet turned to warm, gentle rain.
    Turning his face up to it, Seregil wondered if any of the wizards ever got bored with the perpetual summer that surrounded the place.
    Crossing the second-floor mezzanine on their way to Nysander’s tower, Alec nudged Seregil and pointed to the walkway across the atrium.
    “Look there,” he murmured with a slight grin.
    Following his nod, Seregil saw Thero and Ylinestra walking along arm and arm. As they watched, Thero threw his head back and let out a genuine laugh.
    “Thero laughing?” Seregil whispered in amazement.
    Alec watched as the pair disappeared down a corridor. “Do you think he’s in love with her?”
    “He probably is, the poor idiot. Or maybe she’s magicked him.”
    He’d meant it as a joke on Thero, but Alec’s sudden blush made him wish he’d kept it to himself. The boy never spoke of his own apparently cataclysmic tryst with the sorceress, or betrayed any sign of jealousy when speculating on her other attachments, but he was rather brittle about the circumstances.
    Magyana answered their knock at the tower door. She had a few willow leaves caught in her silvery braid and a smudge of damp earth on her chin.
    “Hello, you two!” She exclaimed, letting them in. “I just dug some lovely orris root in the garden and brought some up toNysander, but he’s not here. Wethis says he’s off visiting Leiteus í Marineus again.”
    Seregil raised a questioning eyebrow. “The astrologer?”
    “Yes, he’s been spending quite a lot of time with him these last few weeks. Evidently there’s some sort of conjunction they’re both interested in. I’ve got a potion on the boil back at my workshop so I can’t linger, but you can come in and wait for him.”
    “No, we’ve got other business while we’re here. Maybe we’ll catch up with him later.”
    “I see.” She paused, studying his face for a moment in the most unsettling way. “You haven’t seen him lately, have you?”
    “Not for a week or more,” Alec told her. “We’ve been pretty busy.”
    There was something hovering behind the old wizard’s eyes that looked very much like concern, though she seemed to be masking it. “Is something wrong?” asked Seregil.
    Magyana sighed. “I don’t know. He just looks so worn-out all of a sudden. I haven’t seen him look this tired in decades. He won’t talk of it, of course. I wondered if he’d said anything to you?”
    “No. As Alec said, we’ve hardly seen him since the Festival except over a few quick jobs. Maybe it’s this business with Leiteus. You know how he drives himself when he’s working on something.”
    “No doubt,” she said, though without much conviction. “Do look in on him when you can, though.” She hesitated again. “You two aren’t angry with one another, are you?”
    A sudden image leapt in Seregil’s mind; the night they’d unraveled the palimpsest together,