To make matters worse, late winter was the dreariest season in Rhiminee despite the lengthening days. The icy rains brought thicker fog in off the sea, and a grey dampness seemed to get into everything. Alec found himself sleeping well past dawn, and then nodding off over whatever he was doing in the evening with the sound of the rain lulling him like a heartbeat. Seregil, on the other hand, became increasingly restless.
Returning from a visit with Nysander one dank afternoon near the end of Dostin, Alec found Seregil working at the writing desk. The parchment in front of him was half-covered with musical notations, but he appeared to have lost interest in the project. Chin on hand, he was staring glumly out at the fog slinking by like a jilted lover.
"Did you check with Rhiri on your way up?" he asked without turning his head.
"Nothing new," Alec replied, unwrapping the books the wizard had lent him.
"Damn. And I've already checked everywhere else. If people keep behaving themselves like this we'll be out of a job."
"How about a game of bakshi?" Alec offered. "I could use some practice on those cheats you showed me yesterday."
"Maybe later. I don't seem to be in the mood." With an apologetic shrug, Seregil returned to his composition.
Suit yourself, thought Alec. Clearing a space on the room's central table, he settled down to study the compendium of rare beasts Nysander had given him. The text was somewhat beyond his ability, but he stubbornly puzzled it out, relying on the illustrations for clues when the gist of a passage eluded him. With cold mists swirling against the windowpanes, a fire crackling on the hearth, and a cup of tea at his elbow, it was not an unpleasant way to occupy an afternoon.
It did require considerable concentration, however, which quickly proved difficult as Seregil abandoned the desk and began wandering around the room. First he toyed with an unusual lock he'd picked up somewhere, grinding noisily away at the wards with a succession of picks. A few moments later he tossed it onto a shelf with the others and disappeared into his chamber, where Alec could hear him rummaging through the chests and trunks piled there and muttering aloud, either to himself or the ever faithful Ruetha.
Presently he reappeared with an armload of scrolls. Kicking the scattered cushions into a pile in front of the fire, he settled himself to read. But this pursuit was equally short-lived.
After a brief perusal involving considerable rustling of parchments and muttered asides, each document was relegated in rapid succession into the fire or onto a dusty pile beneath the couch. With this task completed, he lay back among the cushions and began to whistle softly between his teeth, keeping time to his tune by tapping the toe of one boot against the ash shovel.
Not even Nysander's excellent bestiary could withstand such distraction. Realizing he'd just read the same sentence for the third time, Alec carefully closed the book.
"We could do some shooting in the back court," he suggested, trying not to let his exasperation show.
Seregil looked up in surprise. "Oh, sorry. Am I disturbing you?"
"Well—"
He stood up again with a sigh. "I'm not fit to be around today, I'm afraid. I'll get out of your way." With this he returned to his room, emerging a few moments later wearing his best cloak.
He'd changed his rumpled tunic for a proper surcoat and breeches, too, Alec saw.
"Where are you off to?"
"I think I'll just walk awhile, get some air," Seregil said, avoiding eye contact as he hurried to the door.
"Wait a minute, and I'll go with you."
"No, no, you go on with your reading," Seregil insisted hurriedly. "And tell Thryis not to wait supper for me. I could be late."
The door closed after him and Alec found himself in sole possession of their rooms.
"Well, at least he didn't take his pack this time," he grumbled to Ruetha, who'd stationed herself on a stack of books beside him. Tucking herself into a neat loaf, the cat merely blinked at him.
Alec opened his book again, but found he couldn't concentrate at all now.
Giving up, he made another pot of tea and looked into Seregil's bedroom while it steeped; no clue was immediately apparent in that chaotic jumble.
What's he up to, dashing off like that?
Except for that one mysterious journey, Seregil had included him in every job since the Festival. But he hadn't acted like he was going out on a job just now.
The parchment was still on the desk. Bending over it, Alec saw that it was the beginnings of a song. The words were badly smudged in places, and whole lines had been struck through or scribbled over. What remained read:
Shelter awhile this poor tattered heart.
Cool my brow with your kiss.
Tell me, my love, you will lie with me only.
Lie to me all night like this.
Sweet is the night, but bitter the waking
When the sun harries me home.
Others there'll be, who drink at your fountain
While I toss cold and alone.
Yellow as gold, the hair on your pillow,
Green as cold emeralds, your eyes.
Dear as the moon, the cost of your favors,
Below this half a dozen lines had been struck out with what appeared to be increasing frustration.
The margins of the sheet were filled with half-completed sketches and designs-Illior's crescent, a perfectly drawn eye, circles, spirals, arrows, the profile of a handsome young man. In the lower left coiner was a quick but unmistakable sketch of Alec scowling comically over his books, which Seregil must have drawn from his reflection in the windowpane.
As he set the sheet aside, a familiar binding caught his eye among the books stacked on the workbench next to the desk. It was the Aurenfaie journal case they'd discovered in the Oreska library. He'd assumed Seregil had returned it with the others; he certainly hadn't said anything more about it, or about their discovery of the reference to the mysterious "Eater of Death."
Opening it, Alec gently turned the fragile pages over. Though he couldn't read them, they all looked just as he remembered them.
He replaced the case as he'd found it, and for the first time wondered if Seregil's restlessness lately was due to something more than just bad weather and boredom.
Come to think of it, he'd been restless at Watermead, as well. Those nights they'd shared the guest chamber bed, his friend had often tossed and muttered in his sleep. He hadn't done that before.
What secrets was he wrestling with?
"Or maybe he's just pining for his green-eyed mistress?" Alec speculated aloud, scanning the parchment again with an amused chuckle.
Ruetha appeared to have no opinion on the matter, however, and he found himself pacing as he rehearsed various nonchalant comments he could use to broach the subject when Seregil returned.
Whenever that turned out to be.
Lost in the quiet of the murky afternoon, he went back to his book and read until the light failed. When he got up for a fresh candle, he saw that the rain had stopped. Beyond the courtyard wall, the street lanterns glowed enticingly through the mist.
Suddenly the room seemed close and stale. There was really no reason he shouldn't go out. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? Throwing on a surcoat and cloak, he headed downstairs.
The door between the kitchen and lading room was open.
Through it he could see Cilia serenely nursing Luthas in the middle of the dinnertime bustle, sorting through a basket of apples with her free hand as she did so. The baby sucked greedily, tugging at the lacings of her open bodice. Her exposed breast throbbed gently with the rhythm of his demand.
Alec's experience with Ylinestra had considerably altered his reaction to such sights. He colored guiltily when she looked up and caught him hovering in the doorway.