A left turn would take him toward Silvermoon Street and the Palace.
At the corner he deliberately walked through the pool of light and swung sharply to the right. Once beyond it, he doubled quickly back toward Silvermoon.
His pursuers caught the trick, however, and charged after him, their boots clattering on the paving stones.
There was nothing left to do but run. Abandoning any attempt at stealth, Alec pelted down the center of the broad boulevard, cloak flapping behind him.
High garden walls presented an unbroken barrier on either side, blocking any hope of a quick sidestep. The pounding of his feet and those closing in on him echoed like the clatter of dice in a cup.
Tearing his cloak strings loose, Alec let it fall away behind him. A muffled curse rang out an instant later, and the sound of a man falling heavily.
Dashing past another lantern, he glanced back to see two swordsmen no more than twenty yards behind.
He veered into Silvermoon Street and saw the wall surrounding the palace grounds looming on his right. As he'd hoped, a watch fire burned in front of one of the postern gates. He dashed toward it, lungs bursting.
A cluster of soldiers of the Queen's household guard were huddled around the brazier. At the sound of Alec's approach, four came forward with swords drawn.
"Help!" gasped Alec, praying they didn't attack as he barreled into their midst.
"Footpads—chasing me—back there!"
Two men grasped him by the arms, half restraining, half supporting him as he skidded to a halt. "Steady, lad, steady there," said one.
"I don't see anyone," growled another, squinting in the direction Alec had come from.
Looking back, Alec saw no sign of his mysterious pursuers.
The first guard ran a skeptical eye over his fine coat and sword. "Footpads, eh? More likely an angry father or husband at this hour. Been up to mischief, have you?"
"No, I swear," Alec panted. "I was coming home late from—from the Street of Lights." The others grinned knowingly at this.
"Just the place to get your purse lightened, one way or another, eh?" the sergeant said with a chuckle.
"Well, it's late for the nighthawks to be out, but they might just lurk around for you. Do you live close by?"
"No, across the city."
"Then you're welcome to tuck up here with us round the fire 'til first light."
Alec gratefully accepted a spare cloak and a pull from a water skin, then settled down with his back to the wall, the warmth of the brazier warming his face and chest. All in all, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, it wasn't the worst end to an evening's work.
4
Retak's daughters bid Seregil a fond farewell as he and their father left to meet Timan at the council house early the next day. To Seregil's dismay, a crowd had already assembled and many had snowshoes and poles ready.
Timan presented a young man to him. "I am too old now to make the journey, but my grandson, Turik, knows the place. He can guide you. These others will carry your belongings and gift offerings for the spirit."
Seregil groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was an audience, but he was too close to his objective to risk offending the village. Amid much cheering and singing, they set off for the head of the valley.
The Dravnian youths marched along easily, talking and joking as they broke trail. Seregil toiled doggedly in their wake, struggling with the thin air and a poor night's rest. One of Retak's sons fell in beside him, grinning.
"You had good hospitality last night, eh? My sisters were happy this morning."
"Oh, yes," wheezed Seregil. "I was kept very warm, thank you."
They reached the base of the pass just after midday.
Turik called a halt while an older man named Shradin went ahead to scout the snow.
Turik pointed up the pass. "The spirit home is there, but it's difficult going from here—fissures beneath the snow and avalanches. Shradin can read the snow better than anyone in the village."
Squatting on their snowshoes, the others watched as the guide explored the pass.
"Well, what do you think?" asked Seregil when Shradin returned.
The Dravnian shrugged. "It's only a little dangerous today. Still, it would be better if just a few go on from here. Turik knows the way and I know the snow. The rest of them better go home."
After some disgruntled grumbling, the others headed back to the village.
Shradin took the lead as they began their cautious ascent. Seregil and Turik following in single file. Seregil watched in silent admiration as the man probed ahead with his pole, leading them safely around deep fissures concealed just beneath the deceptively unbroken snow. Glad as he was of this, however, Seregil couldn't help glancing nervously up at the tons of snow and ice clinging precariously to the mountainsides above.
As they neared the top of the pass, Turik took the lead. "We are almost there," he said at last, pausing for Seregil to catch his breath.
Struggling up a last, steep face, Turik halted again and began casting around where the lip of the glacier met the rock face. After frequent sightings up at the peaks and much prodding with his pole, the young Dravnian raised his hand and waved for the others
Hung with icicles and half drifted over with snow, the opening of the passage resembled a fanged and sullen mouth. Digging with hands and snowshoes, they soon cleared the opening and peered down the steep black tunnel that descended into the ice.
Seregil felt a strange tingling in his hands and up his back as leaned over it; strong magic lay below.
"The first part of the way is slick," Turik warned, pulling a sack of ashes from his bag. "We'll need to scatter these as we go, or it's nearly impossible to climb back out again."
"I have to go alone from here," Seregil told him. "My magic is strong, but I can't be distracted worrying about the two of you. Wait for me here. If I'm not back by the time the sun touches that peak, come down for me, but not before. If your spirit kills me, give all my things to Retak and say he is to divide them as he sees fit."
Turik's eyes widened a bit at this, but neither he nor Shradin argued.
Seregil took off his bulky hat and tied his long hair back with a thong. Taking the small lightwand from his tool roll, he grasped the handle in his teeth and shouldered an ash bag and the cumbersome box.
"Aura's luck be with you," Shradin said solemnly, using the Aurenfaie name for Illior.
Let's hope it is, Seregil thought nervously as he began his descent.
The steep tunnel was narrow and slick as glass in places. Scattering ash in front of him, he crawled down, dragging the box behind. By the time the ice gave way to a more level stone passage, he was smeared black from head to foot.
The magic permeating the place grew stronger as he went down. The uncanny tingle he'd first noticed increased swiftly. There was a low buzzing in his ears and he could feel an ache growing behind his eyes.
"Aura Elustri malrei," he whispered, speaking the invocation to Illior aloud to test the effect. The silence absorbed his words without an echo and the tingling in his limbs continued unabated.
The tunnel ended at a tiny natural chamber scarcely larger than the passage itself. The shards of a broken bowl lay against the far wall.
The ceaseless noise in his ears made concentration difficult as Seregil began a careful search of the place. It wasn't a steady tone, but rose and fell erratically. At times he seemed to catch a faint hint of voices beneath the rest, but put it down to imagination.
Satisfied at last that no other passages were concealed by any method he could detect, he tucked his chilled hands into his coat and hunkered down to review the few facts he possessed.