Lynn Flewelling - Luck in the Shadows

Klia was lying next to him, her beautiful, heart-shaped face streaked red and black and half her braid singed away.

"You saved my life!" she croaked, reaching for his hand; the back of her own was a welter of angry blisters where oil had splashed.

"While the rest of us had our heads up our arses," Myrhini glowered, wiping a sleeve across her eyes as she knelt by Klia.

Alec shook his head, half dazed. "That smell—It was familiar but I couldn't remember what it was."

"Sulfur oil, I think" said Myhini.

The skin on Alec's back and neck suddenly began to hurt and he grimaced.

"Give me this!" Seregil tugged Alec's borrowed tabard off over his head. The back of the garment was burned through in places. "You were on fire, you know! And some of your hair is gone in the back."

Alec raised a hand to the back of his head; it felt rough and his palm came away black.

"Just when we'd gotten you looking presentable, too," Seregil complained, his voice not quite steady. "Bilairy's Cods, you smell like a scorched dog!"

The sun was just climbing above the eastern treetops as Seregil, Alec, and Micum set off for the city with Nysander. Thero had stayed behind to assist in the search for the lost documents and weapons.

"I thought we'd finally run through our luck that time," Seregil admitted, riding along between Nysander and Alec.

"You damn near did!" sputtered Micum.

"Nysander didn't even know you'd gone down here until I showed up."

"And when I realized that you were in danger, I could do nothing at such a distance," added Nysander. "I was not certain if you were dead or alive until after we arrived, and even then I could not fix my attention on you with any accuracy until they had you cornered on the roof. By that point it was too late for any but the most desperate measures."

"It was a lovely bit of work, though," Seregil maintained, unabashed. "You haven't turned me into a bird

in years. And never an owl!"

Alec was equally excited. "It was wonderful, at least once I got used to it. But I don't understand why my mind stayed so clear. That time you turned me into a stag I got all confused."

"This was a different sort of metamorphosis," explained Nysander. "The intrinsic nature spell summons an innate magic from the person it is cast upon, and often affects the subject's mind, as in your case. Changing you to an owl was a metastatic spell. Though it demanded far more of my powers, especially at such a distance, it altered only your outward form, leaving your mind unaffected. My greatest concern was whether you would master your wings in time."

"He's a fast learner," said Seregil, resisting the impulse to clap Alec on the shoulder. He could tell from the way the boy sat his horse that his burns were giving him more pain than he was admitting.

"What you didn't learn is who the Lerans were planning to replace Idrilain with," Micum pointed out. "With everything destroyed back there, we'll never track down the others."

"That's not entirely true," said Seregil, tapping his temple. "I got a look at some of those papers before she burned everything. There're a few nobles we can go to for answers. It'll be a start."

Nysander nodded. "I will set some Watchers to it as soon as we get back. I think you three have had enough excitement for now."

"I suppose so," Seregil agreed, stealing another concerned look at Alec riding stiffly beside him.

The day grew brighter as they rode on. They reached a crossroads in sight of the city walls and, bidding them all farewell, Micum turned his horse for home.

"You know where to find me if you need me," he called, kicking his stallion into a gallop.

"I assume you will be at the Cockerel now?" Nysander asked, reining in while Seregil and Alec pulled up their hoods.

Seregil nodded. "Lord Seregil and Sir Alec will be back in town in time for the Sakor Festival. You'll keep our names out of the inquest over this business, won't you?"

"I believe I can. The Queen values the Watchers enough to respect our methods. I must ask you to stop at my tower before you return home, however. There is one last matter to be seen to."

Catching a questioning glance from Alec, Seregil raised a gloved hand to his chest.

Alec flexed his left hand thoughtfully, looking down at the smooth circle of healed flesh on his own palm.

At the Orлska House, Nysander insisted on breakfast before anything else. Having fortified himself, he led them into the small casting room and closed the door. Instructing Seregil to remove his shirt, the wizard inspected the troublesome scar closely.

"This ought to have stayed covered," muttered Nysander.

"This isn't the first time it's reappeared," Seregil reminded him, staring nervously up at the ceiling while the wizard gently pressed and prodded. A sudden thought occured to him and he reached for Nysander's wrist. "But it didn't when you changed me into old Dakus."

Nysander shook his head. "That was a lesser transformation. I simply altered your existing appearance."

"You mean I could end up looking like that someday?"

"Do be quiet, Seregil! I must concentrate."

Pressing his hand over the scar, Nysander closed his eyes and waited for any impressions to form. Little came: the streak of a falling star; a flash of the mysterious blue; the faint roar of ocean; the hint of an unfamiliar profile. Then nothing.

"Well?" demanded Seregil.

"Just bits and pieces." Nysander massaged the bridge of his nose wearily. "Fragments of memories, perhaps, but nothing to suggest any residual power in these marks. It is most curious. How is your hand, Alec?"

"Nothing's changed," Alec replied, holding it up for him to see.

"Most curious indeed," mused Nysander, unruly eyebrows beetling. "The problem must lie in the markings of Seregil's scar."

Seregil studied them in a hand mirror. "The side of the wooden disk that burned Alec was smooth, no carving at all. But these of mine are getting clearer instead of fainter. Don't you sense any magic at all around it?"

"None," Nysander answered. "So it must somehow be the configuration of the characters themselves, whatever they are."

Seregil looked up. "And you truly don't know what they are?"

"I recognize the sigla, as I have said. What lies beneath it is as much a mystery to me as to you. You have my word on that."

"Then we're right back where we began," Alec exclaimed in exasperation.

"Perhaps not," Nysander said softly, touching Seregil's scar a last time, then casting another obscuration over it. "It reappeared after Seregil changed bodies with Thero, and again when he changed back from the owl form. There must be some significance to that, though I do not yet know what it means."

"It means I'm going to spend the rest of my life trotting back to you to get it covered up again," grumbled Seregil, pulling on his shirt. "I bet Valerius could get it off."

"You must not do that. Not yet, at least. To destroy it before we understand it could prove most unwise. Bear with it awhile longer, dear boy. Perhaps we may yet solve its riddle. In the meantime, it appears to be doing you no harm."

"It's done enough of that already!" Seregil scowled. "Take care, Nysander. We'll be close by if you want us."

Nysander retired to his sitting room after they'd gone. Sinking wearily into an armchair, he rested his head against its back and summoned up the impressions he'd gotten from the scar—the star, the sea sounds, the flash of blue, the hint of a face—

His head ached. He'd had no rest since the raid and he was exhausted—too exhausted to delve further into the matter. A quick nap here in his chair was called for, he decided. Later, after making the proper preparations, he would meditate further on the matter.