"They weren't there," Seregil replied, pulling the lacings shut again. Again his fingers brushed the rough tissue of the scar, which had somehow reappeared. The feel of it made his skin crawl.
"Now there's a surprise," Micum said glumly.
"Did you learn much from the others?"
"We had the same story from both households," said Nysander. "The footman Marsin and Barien's maid Callia had been lovers for some time. Their fellow servants assume they have run off together."
Micum raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Bit too coincidental for my taste. What about the wife?"
"Even less helpful," said Seregil. "Lady Althia's a silly, harmless girl, still content after a year's marriage to be her husband's poppet. All she knows of his business is that it keeps her in jewels, gowns, and horses."
"Then we're right back where we started!" groaned Alec. "Marsin, Teukros, and that girl were our only connection, and now we can't find any of them."
"We should check the charnel houses next," said Seregil. "If any of them were murdered in the city, the Scavengers may have found them by now. Alec, Micum, and I will have to handle that since we're the only ones who know what they look like. And speaking of corpses, what's going to happen to Barien?"
Nysander gave a troubled sigh. "According to the law, he will be flayed, disemboweled, and hung on Traitor's Hill, then cast into the city pit."
Micum shook his head. "To end up like that after all the good he's done over the years. It's him I have to thank for Watermead; he suggested it to the Queen."
"At least he's already dead," Seregil said with a shudder, all too aware that he'd faced a similar fate only a few days ago without such benefit.
At the moment, however, he had a more pressing concern. "Before we all go our separate ways, Nysander, I'd like a private word."
Leading the way to the library across the corridor, Seregil closed the door carefully, then tugged open his shirt to show Nysander his chest. The circular brand left by Mardus' wooden disk stood out a sinister reddish-pink against his fair skin.
"The transference magicks must have disrupted the obscuration," said Nysander. "Though I have never known such a thing to happen before."
"There's more to it than that and you know it," Seregil said going to a small mirror on the wall for a better look. The patterns in the scar tissue were more distinct than ever.
"Could Thero have something to do with this?" he demanded. "That dream I had—"
"Certainly not!" Nysander retorted, reaching to touch the tiny ridges of stiffened flesh. "He would certainly have noticed it when he bathed, and told me of it. It must have happened as I performed the restoration. I shall have to cover it again."
Seregil caught Nysander's wrist and held it.
"What is this mark?" he said, searching the old wizard's face. "What does it mean that you want so badly to keep it hidden?"
Nysander made no move to free himself. "Have you recalled anything else of that nightmare? The one with the headless horse?"
"Not really. Only being in Thero's body and seeing the eye in my chest. And flying. For the love of Illior, Nysander, are you going to tell me what this really is or not?"
Nysander looked away, saying nothing.
Releasing him, Seregil strode angrily toward the door. "So, I'm going to go the rest of my life with this burned into my skin and you're not going to tell me a damn thing!"
"Dear boy, you would do better to pray that you never find out."
"That's never been any prayer of mine and you know it!"
Seregil spat back. For an instant anger made him reckless. "As it happens, I know more about it than you might think. I'd have told you already if it wasn't for—"
The words died on his lips. Nysander had gone ashen, his face a mask of anger. At his swift incantation, the room went dim and Seregil knew from past experience that Nysander had sealed the room against intrusions of any kind.
"By your honor as a Watcher, you will tell me everything," Nysander ordered and the barely suppressed fury in his voice struck like a blow.
"It was the night Alec and I left the Orлska," Seregil told him, his mouth suddenly dry. "Later that night I went to the Temple of Illior."
"Alone?"
"Of course."
"What did you do there?"
Seregil's skin prickled coldly; he could almost see the black waves of anger radiating out from Nysander. The room went darker still, as if the lamps were dying. Steeling himself, he went on.
"I'd made a drawing of this." Seregil pointed to the scar. "Before you obscured it that first time I used a mirror and sketched as much detail of the design as I could make out. At the temple I showed it to Orphyria. Nysander, what's wrong?"
Nysander had gone greyer still. Staggering to a chair, he sank his head in his hands. "By the Light," he groaned, "I should have guessed. After all I said—»
"You told me nothing!" Seregil shot back, still angry in spite of his fear. "Even after I almost died, after Micum brought word of the massacre in the Fens village, you told us nothing! What else was I to do?"
"You headstrong fool!" Nysander glared up at him.
"I suppose you might have heeded my order. My warning! Tell me the rest. What did Orphyria say?"
"She couldn't make anything of it, so she sent me down to the Oracle. During the ritual, he handled the drawing I'd made. He spoke of an eater of death."
Nysander suddenly grasped Seregil's wrist, pulling the younger man to his knees in front of him and
staring intently into his eyes. "He said that to you? What else? Do you remember his exact words?"
"He said "death," and repeated it. Then "Death, and life in death. The eater of death gives birth to monsters. Guard well the Guardian. Guard well the Vanguard and the Shaft."
"Those were his exact words?" cried Nysander, squeezing Seregil's arm painfully in his excitement. The anger was gone now, replaced by something that looked very much like hope.
"I'd stake my life on it."
"Did he explain what he meant by these words? The Guardian? The Shaft? The Vanguard?"
"No, but I remember thinking that he must be referring to specific people—especially the Guardian."
Releasing Seregil, Nysander sat back with a harsh laugh. "Indeed he was. Is there anything else, anything at all? Think carefully, Seregil. Omit nothing!"
Seregil rubbed his bruised wrist as he concentrated. "In the course of the divination he picked up a harp peg and sang a tune I'd composed as a child. He kept that. Then there was a bit of Alec's fletching—he spoke of Alec as being a child of earth and light and said that he was my child now, that I was to be father, brother, friend, and lover to him."
He paused, but the wizard simply motioned for him to continue.
"Then came the eater of death business, and finally he looked me right in the eye, handed me back the scroll, and said, "Obey Nysander. Burn this and make no more."
"Sound advice indeed. And did you heed it?"
"Yes."
"That is a wonder. Have you spoken of this to anyone else? Alec? Micum? You must tell me the truth, Seregil!"
"No one. I told no one. I'll swear an oath on it if you like."
"No, dear boy, I believe you." A little color had returned to the old wizard's cheeks. "Listen to me, I implore you. This is not a game. You have no idea the precipice you have danced along, and I am still bound not to tell you— No, no interruptions!
"I want no oaths from you now, but a promise made on your honor—on your love for me if nothing else—that you will be patient and allow me to proceed as I must. I swear the wizard's oath to you, by my Hands, Heart, and Voice, there is no doubt now that I shall reveal everything to you one day. You have my word. Can you abide by that for now?"