Traitor's Moon

explained. Some said it was the gift of Aura’s dragon to the first Eleven; others claimed that the first wandering band of ’faie to discover the city had found the Cup on its pillar already. Whatever the case, it had been here time out of mind, unmarred by centuries of use and weather, a symbol of Aura’s connection to the ’faie, and of their connection to one another.
    A connection I was cut away from like a diseased branch from a tree
, Seregil thought bitterly, focusing at last on the faces of the Iia’sidra. Nine of this Eleven had spared his life, but they had also sealed his humiliation.
    His father had been khirnari then, and ready enough to see atui served by his only son’s execution. Adzriel stood in his place now, though Seregil could not meet her eye yet. The other new member of the council was the khirnari of Goliníl, Elos í Orian. Ulan í Sathil stood nearby, dignified and staid, his lined, angular face betraying nothing.
    Beside Adzriel stood Rhaish í Arlisandin of Akhendi. His long hair was whiter than Seregil recalled, his face more deeply lined. Here was one dependable ally, at least, if not a powerful one.
    With an effort, Seregil forced himself to look back at his sister, who stood closest to the Cup. She saw him but looked quickly away.
—know that it is circumstance that prevents me, not coldness on my part
. As he stood here, outside the circle, the assurance she’d sent him could not fill the void in his chest. Fighting down the choking sensation that suddenly gripped him, he hastily looked away.
    At Klia’s signal, Seregil and the others dismounted. Unbuckling her sword belt, Klia passed it to Beka and strode into the stone circle with the assurance of a general. Seregil followed a few paces behind with Thero and Torsin.
    The magic of Sarikali was strongest here. Beside him, Seregil saw Thero’s pale eyes widen slightly as palpable waves of it enfolded them. Klia must have felt it as well, but did not hesitate or break her stride. Halting before the Iia’sidra, she spread her hands, palms up, and said in perfectly accented Aurënfaie, “I come to you in the name of great Aura the Lightbearer, revealed to us as Illior, and on behalf of my mother, Idrilain the Second of Skala.”
    Ancient Brythir í Nien of Silmai stepped forward, thin and dry asa dead willow branch. As the eldest member of the Iia’sidra, he spoke for all.
    â€œBe welcome, Klia ä Idrilain Elesthera Corruthesthera Rhíminee, Princess of Skala and descendent of Corruth í Glamien of Bôkthersa,” he replied, lifting a heavy necklace of gold and turquoise from his own neck and placing it around hers. “May the wisdom of the Lightbearer guide us in our endeavors.”
    Klia returned the gesture, giving him her girdle of golden plaques enameled with the Dragon of Illior. “May the Light shine in us.”
    Adzriel took up the Cup of Aura and filled it at the water’s edge. Graceful in her white tunic and jewels, she raised it toward the sky, then presented it first to Klia, then Lord Torsin, Thero, and finally, to Seregil.
    Seregil’s fingers brushed his sister’s as he accepted the Cup and raised it to his lips. The water was as cold and sweet on his tongue as he’d remembered. As he drank, however, his eyes met those of Nazien í Hari of Haman, grandfather of the man he’d killed. There was no welcome for him here.
    Alec sat on his horse and listened as Nyal quietly named the various khirnari; all eleven wore white clothing and sen’gai for the ceremony, making it impossible to distinguish one clan from another.
    There was one face Alec knew without being told, however. He’d met Adzriel once, just before the war, and watched with a thrill of excitement as she offered her brother the moon-shaped cup. What must they be feeling, he wondered, being so close at last, yet having to maintain such reserve?
    Others were not so careful to guard their expressions. Several people exchanged dark glances as Seregil drank; a few others smiled. Among the latter was the first truly ancient Aurënfaie Alec had seen. The old man was thin to the point of gauntness, his eyes deeply sunk beneath sagging lids, and he moved with the caution born of frailty.
    â€œThat’s Brythir í Nien of Silmai,” Nyal told him. “He is four hundred and seventy if he’s a day, an uncommon age even for us.”
    Still