Stalking Darkness

behind them, Alec noticed the hem of a finely embroidered robe beneath the wizard’s plain mantle.
    “You caught us in the middle of a job,” Seregil told him.
    “I suspected as much, but I had no choice. Come, there is little time.”
    Nysander inscribed a faint sigil in the air over their heads, then led the way silently down a servant’s passage. They hadn’t gone far when a serving woman came around a corner ahead of them carrying an armload of linen. She looked directly at Alec as she passed, but gave no sign that she’d seen him.
    Magic?
Alec signed.
    Seregil motioned him onward with an impatient nod.
    I hope I don’t
have to find my own way out of here
, Alec thought as Nysander hurried them up stairways and through more corridors andincreasingly lavish public rooms. Climbing a final, curving stairway, they reached a closed door. Nysander took a key from his sleeve and let them into a long, dimly lit gallery.
    An ornate balustrade screened by panels of wooden fretwork ran the length of the right side of the room. Light streamed up through the openings, casting netted patterns on the ceiling overhead.
    Nysander raised a finger to his lips, then drew them to one of the panels. Putting his face close to the fretwork, Alec found himself looking down into a brightly lit audience chamber.
    He’d seen Queen Idrilain only once before, but he recognized her at once among the small knot of people gathered around a wine table at the center of the room. Phoria sat at her left with several other people in Skalan court dress. To Idrilain’s right sat a man and two women dressed in a fashion he’d never seen before.
    All three wore tunics of soft white wool accented only by the polished jewels glowing on their belts, torques, and broad silver wristbands. Two of them, the man and the younger woman, wore their long dark hair loose over their shoulders beneath elaborately wrapped head cloths. The older woman’s hair was silvery white, and on her brow was a silver circlet set with a single large ruby in a fan of blade-shaped gold leaves.
    Intrigued, Alec-turned to Seregil but found his friend pressed rigidly to the screen, his face a mask of anguish washed with stippled light.
    What’s he seeing?
Alec wondered in alarm, looking down at the strangers again. Just then, however, the younger woman turned her head his way and Alec felt his breath catch in his throat as he recognized the fine features, dark shining hair, and large, light eyes—
    Aurënfaie
.
    Still staring down, he reached for his friend’s shoulder, felt the slight trembling there before Seregil shrugged him away.
    The conference below continued for some time. At last the Queen rose and led the others out of the chamber. Seregil remained where he was for a moment, forehead resting against the screen as a single tear inched down his cheek. Wiping it quickly away, he turned to face Nysander, who’d stood silently behind them all the while.
    “Why are they here?” Seregil asked, his voice husky with emotion.
    “The Plenimaran Overlord died today,” the wizard replied. “The Aurënfaie had the news before we did and translocated a delegation here tonight. There is still no official alliance between Plenimar and Zengat, but both Aurënfaie intelligence and our own suggests that secret agreements have in fact been made.”
    “What’s that got to do with us?” Seregil’s face was stony now, the naked sorrow too thoroughly erased.
    “Nothing, as yet,” said Nysander. “I summoned you here because the lia’sidra has granted permission for you to speak with her briefly. There is a small antechamber just through that door behind you.”
    Still rigidly expressionless, Seregil stalked away into the next room.
    As soon as he was gone, Alec let out a pent-up gasp. “Illior’s Hands, Nysander—Aurënfaie!”
    “I thought you should see them, too,” Nysander said with a rather sad smile.
    “Who’s he meeting?”
    “That is for Seregil to tell you. And with any luck, before you wear a trench in this excellent carpet.”
    Seregil paced the small, well-appointed sitting room, one eye on the side door. And as he paced, he fought to maintain some semblance of inner calm. There was a looking glass on the wall and he paused in front of it, ruefully inspecting his reflection. His hair was tangled and windblown, and a week of puzzling over Rythel had left dark circles under his eyes. The old surcoat he’d thrown on that evening was frayed at the cuffs and