Traitor's Moon

Alec whispered, scanning the crowd warily.
    â€œNot here yet. Or perhaps my presence scared them off?”
    â€œNazien í Hari doesn’t strike me as someone easily frightened.”
    Dressed in a sen’gai and flowing festival robe of Silmai turquoise, Brythir í Nien leaned on the arm of a dark-eyed young woman as he welcomed Klia and her party.
    â€œYou honor our household with your presence,” he said as he gently urged a little girl in a colorful embroidered tunic forward. The child bowed and presented Klia with a pair of heavy gold and turquoise bracelets. Watching her place them on her wrists with the Gedre bracelets and Akhendi charms, Seregil wondered if such gifts didn’t eventually burden the arms. It was unlikely he’d ever find out for himself.
    â€œI’m told that you have an uncommonly fine appreciation of horses,” Brythir went on, giving Klia a knowing smile. “You ride a Silmai black, I understand?”
    â€œThe finest mount I’ve ever owned, Khirnari,” she replied. “He’s carried me through many a battle between here and Mycena.”
    â€œHow I should like to show you the great horselands of my fai’thast. Our herds cover the hills.”
    â€œIf my time here in Sarikali is productive, perhaps you shall,” Klia replied with a subtle smile.
    The old man recognized the unspoken implication. Offering her his frail arm, he gave her a mischievous wink that belied his years as he led her into the garden. “I believe tonight’s entertainment will be very much to your liking, my dear.”
    â€œI understand Nazien í Hari will be joining us,” said Klia. “Is he an ally of yours?”
    The old man patted her hand as if she were one of his granddaughters. “We are friends, he and I, and I hope to make him one of yours. This Edict has worn sorely on me over the years, much as I loved Corruth í Glamien. He was a nephew of mine, you know. No, we Silmai are travelers, sailors, the best traders in Aurénen. We don’t like being told where we may go and where we may not. How I miss lovely Rhíminee atop her high cliffs!”
    â€œYour garden makes me long for the western coast,” Seregil remarked as he and the others trailed along beside them. “I almost expect to see the green Zengati Sea shining beyond the rooftops.”
    Brythir clasped Seregil’s arm for a moment with one frail hand. “Life is long, child of Aura. Perhaps one day you will see it again.”
    Surprised, Seregil bowed to the old man before moving on into the garden.
    â€œThat’s encouraging!” Alec whispered.
    â€œOr politic,” Seregil muttered back.
    His reception was somewhat cooler among the other guests. Datsia, Bry’kha, Ptalos, Ameni, Koramia—these clans had all supported his father’s efforts with the Zengat, and thereby lost the mostthrough Seregil’s crime. He approached them with cautious civility and was greeted with the same by most, if only for the sake of Brythir’s hospitality, or perhaps their interest in Alec.
    If the weight of being a novelty was wearing on his companion, Alec gave no sign. Despite their long absence from the salons of Rhíminee, the lessons Alec had learned there still served him well. Modest, quiet, quick to smile, he moved among the guests as easily as water among stones. Trailing in his wake, Seregil watched with a mix of pride and amusement as various guests clasped Alec’s hand a moment too long, or let their gaze wander a little too freely.
    Stepping back, Seregil imagined seeing his friend, his talímenios, through their eyes: a slender, golden-haired young ya’shel utterly unconscious of his own appeal. It wasn’t just his looks that struck people, either. Alec had a gift for listening to people, a way of focusing on whomever he was conversing with that made them feel like they were the most interesting person in the room. It didn’t matter if that person was a tavern slopper or a lord, Alec had the touch.
    Pride gave way to a wave of sensual hunger, reminding him that they hadn’t done much more than fall asleep together since Gedre, and that it had been lean times for almost two weeks before that. Alec looked his way just then and smiled. Seregil hid his own grin behind the rim of a wine cup, suddenly glad of his full-skirted Skalan coat. Talímenios could be a tricky thing in public.
    The tenor of the