Traitor's Moon

Mardus had kidnapped Thero and Alec. From what Alec had told him afterward, they’d kept each other alive through a horrific journey, long enough for Alec to escape before the final battle on that lonely stretch of Plenimaran coast. Nysander’s death had laid their rivalry to rest, yet each remained a living reminder to the other of what had been lost.
    Seregil looked hopefully at Micum. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
    Micum studied a hangnail. “Not invited. I’m just here to convince you to go. You’ll have to make do with Beka this time out.”
    â€œI see.” Seregil pushed his dish aside. “Well, I’ll give you my answer in the morning. Now, who’s for a game of Sword and Coin? It’s no fun playing with Alec anymore. He knows all my cheats.”
    For a time Seregil was able to lose himself in the simple enjoyment of the game, the pleasure made all the more precious by the knowledge that this moment of peace was a fleeting one.
    He’d enjoyed their long respite. He often felt as if he’d stepped from his world into the one Alec had known before they’d met: a simpler life of hunting, wandering, and hard physical work. They’d found enough mischief to get into along the way to keep up their nightrunning skills, but mostly they’d done honest work.
    And made love. Seregil smiled down at his cards, thinking how many times he and Alec had lain tangled together in countless inns, by countless fires under the stars, or on the bed Micum was currently using as a seat. Or on the soft spring grass beneath the oaks down by the stream, or in the sweet hay of fall, or in the pool on the ridge, and once, floundering half-dressed in deep new snow under a reckless waxing moon that had broken their sleep for three nights running. Come to think of it, there weren’t too many spots around here where the urge hadn’t overtaken them one time or another.They’d come a long way from that first awkward kiss Alec had given him in Plenimar, but then, the boy had always been a fast learner.
    â€œThose must be some good cards you’re holding,” said Micum, giving him a quizzical look. “Care to show us a few? It’s your turn.”
    Seregil played a ten pip and Micum captured it, cackling triumphantly.
    Seregil watched his old friend with a mix of sadness and affection. Micum had been about Beka’s age when they first met—a tall, amiable wanderer who’d happily joined Seregil in his adventures, if not in his bed. Now silver hairs outnumbered the red in his friend’s thick hair and mustache, and in the stubble on his cheeks.
    Tírfaie, we call them: the short-lived ones
. He watched Beka laughing with Alec, knowing he’d watch silver streak her wild red hair, too, while his was still dark. Or would, Sakor willing, if she survived the war.
    He quickly kenneled that dark thought with the others baying somewhere in the back of his mind.
    They burned two candles to stumps before Micum threw down his cards. “Well, I guess that’s enough losing for one night. All that riding’s finally caught up with me.”
    â€œI’d put you up in here, but—” Seregil began.
    Micum dismissed his apology with a knowing look. “It’s a clear night and we have good tents. See you in the morning.”
    Seregil watched from the doorway until Beka and Micum had disappeared among the tents, then turned to Alec, belly already tight with dread.
    Alec sat idly shuffling the cards, and the flickering light of the fire made him look older than his years. “Now?” he asked, gentle but implacable.
    Seregil sat down and rested his elbows on the table. “Of course I want to go back to Aurënen. But not this way. Nothing’s been forgiven.”
    â€œTell me everything, Seregil. This time I want it all.”
    All? Never that, talí
.
    Memories surged again like a dirty spring flood bursting its banks. What to pluck out first from the debris of his broken past?
    â€œMy father, Korit í Solun, was a very powerful man, one of the most influential members of the Iia’sidra.” A dull ache gripped his heart as he pictured his father’s face, so thin and stern, eyes cold as sea smoke. They hadn’t been like that before his wife’s death, or so Seregil had been told.
    â€œMy clan, the Bôkthersa, is one of the oldest and most highly respected. Our
fai’thast
lies