Stalking Darkness

of the sheet were filled with half-completed sketches and designs—Illior’s crescent, a perfectly drawn eye, circles, spirals, arrows, the profile of a handsome young man. In the lower left corner was a quick but unmistakable sketch of Alec scowling comically over his books, which Seregil must have drawn from his reflection in the windowpane.
    As he set the sheet aside, a familiar binding caught his eye among the books stacked on the workbench next to the desk. It was the Aurënfaie journal case they’d discovered in the Orëska library. He’d assumed Seregil had returned it with the others; he certainly hadn’t said anything more about it, or about their discovery of the reference to the mysterious “Eater of Death.”
    Opening it, Alec gently turned the fragile pages over. Though he couldn’t read them, they all looked just as he remembered them.
    He replaced the case as he’d found it, and for the first time wondered if Seregil’s restlessness lately was due to something more than just bad weather and boredom. Come to think of it, he’d been restless at Watermead, as well. Those nights they’d shared the guest chamber bed, his friend had often tossed and muttered in his sleep. He hadn’t done that before. What secrets was he wrestling with?
    “Or maybe he’s just pining for his green-eyed mistress?” Alec speculated aloud, scanning the parchment again with an amused chuckle. Ruetha appeared to have no opinion on the matter, however, and he found himself pacing as he rehearsed various nonchalant comments he could use to broach the subject when Seregil returned.
    Whenever that turned out to be.
    Lost in the quiet of the murky afternoon, he went back to his book and read until the light failed. When he got up for a fresh candle, he saw that the rain had stopped. Beyond the courtyard wall, the street lanterns glowed enticingly through the mist.
    Suddenly the room seemed close and stale. There was really no reason he shouldn’t go out. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Throwing on a surcoat and cloak, he headed downstairs.
    The door between the kitchen and lading room was open. Through it he could see Cilla serenely nursing Luthas in the middle of the dinnertime bustle, sorting through a basket of apples with her free hand as she did so. The baby sucked greedily, tugging at the lacings of her open bodice. Her exposed breast throbbed gently with the rhythm of his demand.
    Alec’s experience with Ylinestra had considerably altered his reaction to such sights. He colored guiltily when she looked up and caught him hovering in the doorway.
    “I thought you’d gone out already,” she said.
    “Ah—no. I was just, that is—It’s stopped raining, you see, and I’m just going out for a walk.” He gestured vaguely toward the door behind him.
    “Could you hold the baby a minute before you go?” she asked, pulling Luthas off the nipple and holding him up. “My arm’ll break if I don’t shift over.”
    Taking the child, Alec held him while Cilla moved her baskets and uncovered her other breast. It was swollen with milk; a thin stream jetted from the nipple as she moved. Alec was close enough to see the pearly drops that fell across the deep red skins of the apples. He looked away, feeling a little dizzy. Luthas let out a sleepy burp and nuzzled at the front of Alec’s cloak.
    “The way he eats, you’d think I’d not have a drop to spare, but just look at me!” Cilla exclaimed merrily, taking the child back and putting him to breast on the other side. “Maker’s Mercy, I’ve got more milk than Grandmother’s goat.”
    Unable to think of a suitable reply to this, Alec nodded a hasty farewell and turned to go.
    “Hey, Alec. Take this for your troubles,” she said, tossing him an apple.
    Feeling wetness beneath his fingers, he tucked it into a pocket and retreated to the back courtyard.
    There, with the fog cool on his face, he allowed himself a moment’s guilty pleasure replaying the scene in his mind. Cilla had never treated him as anything but a friend and until just now it had never occurred to him to think otherwise of her. Of course, the fact that she was at least six years older than he made it unlikely that her opinion would change.
    Settling his sword belt against his hip, he pulled his hood well up and set off through the back gate with no particular destination in mind. The fog carried the smell of smoke and the sea. He tossed a corner of his cloak over one shoulder, enjoying