Traitor's Moon

close, and for an instant Alec scarcely recognized him. The Ra’basi’s handsome face was suffused with an anger Alec had never seen in him before. When he spoke again, his voice was almost too low to hear. Alec could make out only the words “hurt you.”
    Amali raised her tear-stained face and clasped his hands beseechingly. “No! No, you must never think such a thing! He’s in such distress at times I hardly know him. Word came that another village near the Khatme border has been abandoned. It’s as if Akhendi is dying, too!”
    Nyal murmured something and she shook her head again. “He cannot. The people would not hear of it. He won’t abandon them!”
    Nyal pulled away and walked off a few steps, clearly agitated. “Then what is it you want of me?”
    â€œI don’t know!” She reached out to him. “Only—I needed to know you are still my friend, someone I can open my heart to. I’m so alone there!”
    â€œIt’s where you chose to be,” Nyal retorted bitterly, then relented as she dissolved into tears again.
    â€œI am your friend, your dear friend,” he assured her, gathering her close and rocking her gently. “You can always come to me, talía. Always. Just give me this much: Do you ever regret your decision? Even just a little?”
    â€œYou mustn’t ask me that,” she sobbed, clinging to him. “Never, never, never! Rhaish is my life. If only I could make him well.”
    Amali could not see the despair that filled Nyal’s eyes at her words, but Alec could. Ashamed of his eavesdropping, he waited until the pair had gone, then set off for home.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Seregil and the others had left for the Iia’sidra by the time Alec arrived. He checked at their room, in case Seregil had left any lastminute instructions, but found nothing. On his way down to the kitchen for breakfast, however, he found himself pausing outside Torsin’s door, his heart beating just a little too fast. It seemed to be his day for opportunities; the door was ajar again.
    The envoy’s strange behavior the previous night was too much to ignore, given Seregil’s concerns about the man’s loyalties. And this—the open door was just too tempting to pass unexplored.
    With a last guilty glance around and a quick prayer to Illior, he slipped inside and closed the door.
    Torsin’s room was a large one, with an alcove at the far side. A desk stood beneath a window there, dispatch box, writing materials, and a few sealed parchments arranged neatly on its polished top. The room was furnished with the usual accoutrements: gauze-hung bed, a washstand, clothes chests, all made in the simple Aurënfaie style—pale woods and clean, sweeping lines accented with darker inlay.
    Feeling guiltier by the moment, he worked quickly, examining the desk and its contents, the clothes chests, and the walls behind the hangings, but found nothing of note. Everything was meticulous, orderly.
    Picking up a daybook from a stand by the bed, he found a terse but detailed record of each day’s developments written in Torsin’s precise script. The first entry was dated three months earlier. As he moved to put it back it fell open to more recent entries, one dating a week or so before Klia’s arrival in Gedre. The handwriting was still recognizable, but the letters were not as clearly formed, and words occasionally strayed from the careful lines or were marred by blots and smudges.
    That’s his illness doing that
. Alec paged back through the book, trying to gauge how long Torsin had been failing, but was interrupted by the sound of brisk footsteps from the corridor.
    Aurënfaie beds were low-slung affairs, yet he managed to wedge himself out of sight under it without too much trouble. It wasn’t until he was hidden that he realized he was still clutching the book.
    The latch lifted and he held his breath, watching from beneath the edge of the coverlet as the door swung open and a pair of boot-clad feet—a woman’s, by the size—strode across the room to the desk. It was Mercalle; he recognized her limp. He heard the small squeak of the dispatch box’s lid and the unmistakable rustle of parchments.
    Turning his head, he looked out under the other side of the bed and could see the bottom of a dispatch pouch hanging against her thigh.
    Seems I’m the only spy here,