The others drew up and Seregil straightened, his face betraying nothing but a strained composure.
Too composed, it seemed to Kari as she hurried to the carriage door. But then all her thoughts turned to Micum.
Haggard as he was, he greeted her with a rakish grin as she flew into his outstretched arms.
"I may be home for good this time, love," he said ruefully, patting his bandaged leg propped before him on the carriage seat.
"Make me no idle promises, you wandering scoundrel!" Kari gasped, wiping away tears of relief. "Where's Alec?"
She leaned out the window and took his hand as he sat his horse. "Are you well, love?"
"Me? Hardly a scratch," Alec assured her, though he looked as drawn and careworn as the others.
Kari held his hand a moment longer, seeing what Beka had seen; he was no longer the boy he'd been when he first came to Watermead. Whatever had happened to him through these past weeks, it had stripped the innocence from him, and who knew what else besides?
The household hounds leapt around the carriage and horses as they entered the courtyard. A loud answering hiss issued from somewhere near Kari's feet. She looked down to find a pair of green eyes shining out at her from a crack in a wicker hamper.
"What in the world—?"
"Seregil's cat," Micum told her. "I bet there'll be some slashed snouts among the dogs before she's through. Poor creature, she's the last survivor of the inn."
Kari smiled to herself, but held her peace until Alec and Seregil had helped Micum into the main hall. When he was settled comfortably in front of the fire, she drew Elsbet aside, then whispered to Illia. The little girl disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a plump, curly-headed baby in her arms.
"Father, look what Valerius brought us. Isn't he pretty?"
Alec was the first to react. Jumping to his feet again, he lifted the child from Illia's uncertain grip and held him up, looking him over with a mix of wonder and joy.
"Cilia's baby?" Micum asked.
Kari took his hand. "Valerius brought him to me a few days after you left and asked if I'd foster the child. I knew Cilia would want him here, rather than raised by strangers who knew nothing of his people. I didn't think you'd mind."
"Of course not," replied Micum, watching in bemusement as Luthas tugged at Alec's hair, crowing with delighted recognition. "But with the new one coming, do you think you're up to it?"
"Up to raising the orphaned child of a friend? I should think so!" Kari scoffed. "With the older girls gone, I've got far too much time on my hands. And Illia adores him."
She looked up at Seregil, standing alone by the hearth. "When he's old enough, I'll tell him how you saved his life," she added.
"It might be better if he didn't know," Seregil replied, watching Alec and Illia fussing over the child.
"I'll leave it to you, then," Kari said, catching another glimpse of the desperate unhappiness she'd sensed in him on the road.
Lying close to Micum that night, she listened in silence as he slowly explained the manner of Nysander's sacrifice and death.
"No wonder Seregil's so lost," she whispered, stroking her husband's strong, freckled arm. "How could Nysander have demanded such a thing of him?"
"I don't completely understand it all myself," Micum admitted sadly. "But I do believe Nysander was right in thinking that no one but Seregil would have the heart to strike him down when the time came. I couldn't have done it, and I don't think Alec could have, either."
"We forget sometimes how cruel the gods can be!" Kari said bitterly. "To turn love to murder like that."
"You'd have to have been there," Micum said, staring up into the shadows cast by the fire on the hearth. "If you could have seen Nysander's face—It wasn't murder. It was an act of mercy, and love."
During the weeks that followed mixed reports came of the war; for the time being the Plenimaran army was held back in eastern Mycena, but their black ships ruled the seas, raiding the eastern coast of Skala as far north as Cirna, though they hadn't yet won control of the Canal.
Except for the absence of the young men who'd gone off to war, life at Watermead continued on largely unchanged. Gorathin followed Nythin, and then Shemin, bringing with it the lushness of high summer.
Gentle morning rains nourished the fields and strong spring lambs and colts bounded after their dams in the meadows.
Kari flourished with the land and her great belly swayed proudly before her as she went briskly about her daily work and the welcome tasks of summer. But she continued to worry about Seregil, though the only outward sign of trouble was his unusual quietness.
She knew Micum and Alec felt the same concern, yet none of them could see a way to help him.
He sought no solace from any of them, to be sure, but kept himself busy around the estate. Micum had made it clear that he and Alec were welcome to live at Watermead for as long as they wished, and Seregil seemed content to do so. From Alec, Kari learned that he'd sworn never to set foot in Rhiminee again.
If he'd been morose or self-pitying, she might have tried to cajole him out of it, but he wasn't. When asked, he would tell tales and play the harp. He worked with the horses, helped build a new stable, and spent his evenings devising clever devices to help Micum cope with his crippled leg, including a specially designed stirrup that let him ride again. Of late he'd even been able to bring himself to hold Luthas again, but left to himself he sank again into that inner stillness.
Alec, who'd endured the most abuse of any of them, was the quickest to recover. Farm labor agreed with him and he quickly grew brown and cheerful again. Kari saw him watching Seregil, however, trying to gauge the inner turmoil that underlay his friend's long silences and distant eyes.
At night they shared the bed in the guest chamber, but Kari could tell that no comfort was being found there either.
One morning in mid-Shemin Kari awoke just before dawn, too uncomfortable to sleep. No matter how she turned, her back ached. Not wanting to wake Micum, she threw a shawl on over her shift, checked Luthas, who lay asleep in the cradle by their bed, then went off to the kitchen to make tea.
To her surprise, the kettle was on the hook over the fire already. A moment later Alec came in carrying a basket of pears from the tree in the backyard.
"You're up early," he said, offering her the fruit.
"It's this wretched child." She frowned comically, kneading her lower back. "He kicks his mother and puts his knees and elbows in all the wrong places. What woke you so early?"
"Seregil was tossing around in his sleep again. I thought maybe I'd go hunting."
"Sit with me a moment, won't you? It's so peaceful this time of the day." Kari sat on the hearth bench to warm her back while Alec made the tea.
"Seregil isn't getting any better, is he?"
"You and Micum both see it, too, don't you?" he said wearily, pulling up a stool beside her. He held out one tanned, callused hand. "He hasn't once told me to wear gloves. He was always after me about it. Before."
He looked up at her and Kari saw the depth of unhappiness in his young face. "Now he goes out at night or sits up writing. He hardly sleeps at all."
"Writing what?"
Alec shrugged. "He won't talk about it. I even thought of stealing a look at his papers, but he's got them hidden somewhere. It's like he's fading inside, Kari, leaving us behind without going away. And I keep thinking about something he told me once, about when he was exiled from Aurenen."
He spoke of that to you? thought Kari. Even Micum knew almost nothing of that part of Seregil's life.
"Another boy was sent away with him then, but he threw himself off the ship and drowned," Alec went on. "Seregil says most Aurenfaie exiles end up suicides because sooner or later they fall into despair living among the Tirfaie. He said it hadn't happened to him. But the way things are now, I think maybe it has."