Magyana was still in the armchair by Nysander's bedside where she'd spent the night, one hand still on his brow.
Seeing her like that, Micum could almost feel her willing her own energy into her old love, trying to heal and sustain him with her own life force.
To Micum, Nysander looked worse than ever. His face was a dull, chalky grey, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets beneath the unruly white brows. His breathing scarcely lifted the sheet covering him but Micum could hear it, rasping faintly as dry leaves across stone.
The sight of him must have struck Seregil hard as well. He read a hint of despair in Seregil's face as he approached Nysander, and knew it was born of the conflict between Seregil's great love for Nysander and his desperate need to learn whatever he could to save Alec.
Seregil paused long enough to cleanse his hands at the washstand, then knelt beside the bed and took Nysander's hand between his own. Micum moved around behind Magyana's chair in time to see Nysander's eyes slowly open.
"I found your map," Seregil told him, not wasting any precious time.
"Yes," Nysander mouthed, nodding slightly against the pillow. "Good."
"The Pillar of the Sky, Yothgash-horagh. It's Mount Kythes, isn't it?"
Again, a slight nod.
"This temple you spoke of, it's on the mountain?"
"No," Nysander told them.
"Beneath it, underground?"
No response.
Seregil watched the wounded man's face for any movement, then asked as calmly as he could manage, "At the foot of it?"
Nysander's throat worked painfully as he struggled to speak. Seregil bent close, but after a few desperate efforts, the wizard's eyes closed.
Seregil rested his forehead against his clenched fists for a moment. Micum couldn't see Magyana's face from where he stood, but her hand was trembling as she reached to clasp Seregil's shoulder. "He's gone deep within himself again. I know how desperately you need to speak with him, but he's just too weak."
"Could you make anything out of that last bit?" Micum asked, refusing to give up hope.
Still kneeling by the bed, Seregil shook his head doubtfully. "He was trying to tell me something. It sounded like "late us" or "lead us," but it was so faint I can't be certain."
Magyana leaned forward, gripping his shoulder more forcefully this time as she turned him to face her.
"Leiteus? Could it have been the name Leiteus?"
Seregil looked up at her in surprise.
"Yes! Yes, it could have been. And I've heard that name somewhere—"
Magyana clasped her hands together over her heart.
"Leiteus i Marineus is an astrologer, and a friend of Nysander's! They've been consulting with each other about some comet for over a year now."
Seregil jumped to his feet and began searching the floor around Nysander's hearth. At last he bent and pulled a book from beneath an armchair.
"I noticed this lying open by his. chair yesterday," he said, handing it to her.
She opened it and Micum saw that it was full of tables and strange symbols.
"Yes," she said, "this is one of Leiteus' books."
"Have you ever heard the word "synodical'?" Seregil asked her with growing excitement.
"I believe it refers to the movements of the stars and planets."
Micum looked to Magyana in surprise. "You mean Nysander really was trying to send us to this astrologer fellow?"
"So it would seem."
"One place and one time." That's what he said yesterday," Seregil reminded them. "A synodical event, like the advent of this comet. It must have some bearing on whatever Mardus is up to."
He bent to lay a hand against Nysander's pale cheek. "I don't know if you can hear any of this," he said softly, "but if you can, I'm going to Leiteus. Do you understand, Nysander? I'm going to speak with Leiteus."
Nysander gave no sign of consciousness. Seregil sadly stroked a lock of grizzled grey hair back from the old man's brow. "That's all right. I'm the Guide. You just leave it to me for now."
Outside the Oreska walls an early spring wind had blown up, clearing the sky and whipping corner whirlwinds out of the dead year's dust and leaves.
Galloping north out of the Harvest Gate, they left the highroad for a smaller one that wound along the sea cliffs.
The astrologer's modest walled villa sat perched on a headland overlooking the sea. Above it, gulls wheeled gracefully against the morning sky.
The courtyard gate was shut tight, but a servant soon answered Micum's relentless knock.
"My master is not accustomed to receiving visitors at this early hour," the man informed them stiffly, eyeing Seregil's unkempt appearance and ill-fitting coat with undisguised skepticism.
"We're here on a matter of the utmost interest to your master," Seregil replied, affecting his most arrogant tone. "Tell him that Lord Seregil i Korit Solun Meringil Bokthersa and Sir Micum of Cavish, Knight of Watermead, require his attendance at once in a matter pertaining to his friend Nysander, High Thaumaturgist of the Oreska House."
Duly intimidated by the onslaught of titles, the man relented enough to escort them to a small sitting room overlooking the sea, while he went to speak with his master.
"Prophecies and astrologers," Micum grumbled, pacing around the tiny room. "Alec's carried off by crazy butchering bastards and we're weaving sails out of smoke!"
"It's more solid than that. I can feel it." Seregil sat down on a bench under the window and rested one elbow on the sill as he gazed out.
Having a thread to follow, even as tenuous a one as this, appeared to have restored the inner calm Seregil needed to function. After all the horror of the previous day, however, Micum wondered if he wasn't just a bit too calm.
And what if this astrologer doesn't have all the answers?
"How did Kari take you going off like this?"
Micum shrugged. "She's nearly four months gone with child, Beka's off in the middle of a war, and I charge off again with you. I swore to her I'd be there when her time comes."
Still looking out the window, Seregil said quietly, "You don't have to come, you know. Prophecy or not, the decision is yours."
"Don't talk like an idiot. Of course I'm coming," Micum retorted gruffly.
"I've made my choice and I'll stick by it," he went on, sitting down next to Seregil.
"Though I'll admit I don't like it. Nysander talks of a band of four and here we sit, knocked down to two before we even begin."
"We're still four, Micum."
Micum stared down at the mosaic under his feet for a moment, then laid a hand on Seregil's thin shoulder. "I know what Valerius said yesterday. I want to believe it as much as you, but—"
"No!" Seregil glared at Micum. "Until I hold his body in my hands, Alec is alive, do you hear?"
Micum understood the anguish behind Seregil's anger all too well. If Alec was alive, Seregil would fight through fire and death to save him. If Alec was dead, then he'd do the same to track down his killers. Either road, he blamed himself.
"You know I love the boy as much as you do," he said gently, "but it won't do him a damn bit of good for us to let that cloud our thinking. If we're going to come up with any sort of plan we have to at least take into consideration that he might be dead. If this «Shaft» person of yours is really meant to be an archer, then we'd better—"
Seregil stared out the window, his mouth set in a stubborn line. "No."
They were interrupted by the arrival of a short, well-fed man in an enormous dressing gown.
"I beg pardon, gentlemen," he apologized, yawning as he ushered them into a spacious consultation room. "As you've no doubt surmised, the nature of my studies requires that I work at night. I'm seldom awake at this hour. I've sent for strong tea, so perhaps you would—"