Stalking Darkness

eh?”
    •  •  •
    “You are a generous patron,” Commander Perris noted with amusement. “Mind if I join in? I see a familiar face or two.”
    “By all means,” Seregil said, smiling.
    Myrhini followed Seregil to the table and accepted a cup of wine. “They can do with a bit of spoiling,” she said, watching the milling throng with obvious affection. “It’ll be cold camps and long riding for us between now and spring.”
    “And then?” asked Seregil.
    Myrhini glanced at him over the rim of her cup, then sighed. “And then it will get worse. Most likely a lot worse.”
    “Will this lot be ready?”
    “As ready as green soldiers can be. These ones here are some of the best, and so is Beka. I just hope they can stay alive long enough to get seasoned. Nothing but battle experience can do that for them.”
    By midnight Alec was drunker than he’d ever been in his life and not only knew all the riders and courtesans by name, but had danced with most of them.
    He’d just staggered through a reel with a blue-eyed, tipsily amorous rider named Ariani when Corporal Kallas and his twin brother Aulos grabbed him and hoisted him onto one of the tables.
    “Lieutenant says you’re lucky,” Kallas bawled, pulling off his tabard and handing it up to Alec. “So we’re making you our mascot, young Alec my lad.”
    Alec pulled on the uniform and made the company an exaggerated bow. “I am honored!”
    “You are drunk!” someone shouted back.
    Alec considered this, then nodded solemnly. “I am that, but as the Maker teaches us, in the depths of the cup lies the back door to enlightenment—or something like that, anyway.” Snatching up a half-full bottle of wine, he waved it in their general direction. “And the drunker I get, the braver and worthier you all look to me!”
    “A visionary of the vine,” Kallas exclaimed, spreading his arms in mock reverence. “Give me your blessing, O beardless sage!”
    Alec obligingly slopped some wine on the man’s upturned face. “Long life and a hollow leg, my son.”
    Laughing and cheering, the rest of the riders crowded around for his benediction. Quite a number were missing, he noted, and so were most of the courtesans.
    He sprinkled the supplicants liberally, doing each in turn until he came to the last, Beka. Her freckled face was flushed with wine and dancing; her wild red hair had escaped her braid and floated in untidy wisps around it. She was as drunk as any of them, and as happy.
    As she grinned expectantly up at him, however, Alec felt a brief, sobering chill. His friend, his almost sister, was going off to war.
    “Come on, mascot, don’t you have any luck left for me?” she demanded.
    Grabbing up a fresh bottle, Alec upended it over her head. “Long life, and luck in the shadows and the light.”
    Beka sputtered and laughed and those around her cheered.
    “Well done, mascot,” Kallas said. “A blessing that wet’s likely to make her immortal!”
    “1 hope so,” Alec whispered, looking down at her. “I do hope so.”

13
W ATERMEAD
    “M aster Micum, there’s riders coming up the hill,” a servant shouted to him across the snowy pasture.
    Standing atop the hayrack, Micum shaded his eyes against the late afternoon sun and quickly scanned the frozen river boundary. Two horsemen were riding up from the bridge a mile below.
    He’d been leery of unannounced visitors since returning from the northlands that past autumn. Despite all Nysander’s assurances to the contrary, he still didn’t feel easy in his mind about Mardus and his gang.
    So he studied the riders with a chary eye. Seeing that they kept to the main track, and rode at an unhurried canter with weapons sheathed, he ruled out enemy or messenger. They were still too far away to make out faces, but he soon recognized the horses.
    Frowning, he pushed his way through the colts milling around the hayrack and set off for the house. More often than not, unexpected visits from Seregil meant a summons to Watcher business. Kari was three moons gone now and the sickness had passed, leaving in its wake the glowing bloom of mid term pregnancy. Nonetheless, she was older this time and he disliked the thought of leaving her.
    À farm hand met him apologetically in the courtyard. “Illia run ahead with the dogs to meet ’em soon as she made out who it was, Master Micum. I didn’t think it no harm.”
    “Not this time maybe, Ranil, but I don’t like her getting in the habit of it,” Micum