He smiled ruefully. "I should have guessed it sooner, I suppose, but I had been putting your survival down to your magical dysfunction. This may well have been an ameliorating factor."

Seregil, hoping to get a little sleep stretched out beside Alec. "I'd call that left-handed luck, but I guess I'll take it—I just hope it works for us tomorrow."

Nysander took up his brush again. "As do I, dear boy." I take any kind I can.

49

Alec slept on through the night while Nysander and the others listened to the Plenimarans at work preparing the temple site. They also heard the chanting, and later the screams and moans that drifted to them on the wind from the encampment. Micum wanted to investigate, but the wizard forbade it.

"We know well enough what they are doing. The dyrmagnos is more dangerous than ever during such ceremonies. If not for the protective magic I have placed around us, she would have sensed us already. We are safe enough for now, but we must wait for morning before we move. You should rest while you can. I fear there will be little opportunity to do so tomorrow."

Scratching a circle around the base of the pine, he seated himself against the opposite side of the trunk and closed his eyes.

Alec woke just before sunrise the next morning and was surprised at how rested he felt. He had a few scrapes and aches from the previous day's journey, but he scarcely noticed them.

Seregil was asleep close beside him, one arm under his head, the other stretched out toward Alec.

His face was wind-burned and there were pine needles tangled in his long dark hair, but that only seemed to enhance his strange beauty.

I kissed him! Alec thought in a sudden agony of embarrassment. In the midst of all the horror they had faced, and all they'd face today, he had kissed Seregil.

His teacher. His friend. His—what? Worse yet, if Nysander hadn't been sitting a few feet away, he might have been tempted to do it again.

I can't think about that now, he groaned inwardly, cheeks flaming. It wasn't that he regretted it. He just didn't know yet what it meant, or what he wanted it to mean.

Sitting up, he saw that Micum had gone out already.

Nysander was sitting on the other side of the tree and didn't stir or look around when Alec went over to the pile of packs. He found a spare set of breeches and some low boots in Seregil's, then turned his attention to his bow.

Stringing it, he ran careful fingers up and down the braided string, looking for any frays or weak spots. After so many weeks of disuse, it needed waxing.

There was a tack pouch in his quiver, but he didn't see it with the rest of the gear. Looking around, he spied it lying on the ground next to Nysander. In with his red-fletched arrows were four newly fletched with white swan feathers. Taking up the quiver, he touched one of the crisp white vanes and felt a sharp tingle of magic against his finger. He jerked his hand away, then gingerly pulled the arrow from the quiver for a closer look. The shaft was covered from point to nock with tiny, intricate symbols painted in blue ink.

"No spell can improve on the skill of your hand and eye," Nysander murmured, eyes still closed, "but those four arrows carry magic that will pierce the skin of the dyrmagnos. She must be your first target once the Helm is complete. See no one else, aim for nothing else until one of these has struck her. Even my magic cannot kill her, but it will weaken her while we attack. Strike her in the heart if you can manage it."

"You can depend on it," Alec replied stonily.

The boy who'd wavered taking first aim at a man was long gone. He touched the nock, imagining the feel of it on the string just before he let it fly.

I still hope I see her face when it hits her.

Seregil sat up and brushed pine needles from his hair. "Any sound from our neighbors?"

"Not for some time now," Nysander told him, opening his eyes and stretching. "Micum went out a short while ago to check their camp."

Seregil peered out through the pine boughs. "I think I'd like a look at the temple again before too many people are stirring. What do you say, Alec. Fancy a walk before breakfast?"

They kept a sharp eye out for sentries as they made their way down to the north side of the cove.

"So that's what those holes were for," Seregil muttered, looking across to the temple site through the underbrush.

Sturdy wooden posts had been set upright in the mysterious holes surrounding the dry basin at the head of the ledges. A few men were still at work clearing debris from the area.

"There are plenty of good vantage points up on those rocks, but I bet they'll have men up there," Alec whispered.

"We'll manage something. Beshar will most likely be up there, behind those posts. Look for a place that will give you the best shot at her."

"Don't worry, I'll hit the bitch." Seregil glanced at Alec in surprise and saw a hardness in his expression that had never been there before.

Soon more men began to wander up from the camp.

Hurrying back to the pine, they found Micum there ahead of them. He held a finger to his lips as they entered, then pointed to Nysander kneeling in the center of a dancing circle of white sparks. Inside the circle he'd scraped back the pine needles and scratched a complex pattern of symbols into the packed earth beneath.

Eyes half-lidded, Nysander was calmly weaving shining figures in the air. He had stripped to his breeches and covered his arms, chest, and face with designs drawn in blue ink. A horizontal band of black paint across his eyes gave him an uncharacteristically barbaric appearance. In front of him, Alec's bow and quiver lay amid a clutter of bowls, wands, and parchments.

Alec and Seregil hesitated at the edge of the light circle, but Nysander motioned for them all to enter. Once inside, they smelled the scent of magic mingling with the aroma of the pine like the faint, rich odor left behind in a cupboard where spices had once been stored.

"The eclipse will begin soon," said Nysander, taking up a brush and a bowl of black paint. "This band across your eyes will ward off the blinding effects of it, even at the full. Unless the Plenimarans take similar precautions, it may work to our advantage."

Nysander painted a heavy band across each of their faces, then set the bowl aside. "Now, if you would hand me your weapons."

Using several colors of pigment, Nysander painted a few small sigils on each blade. He took the longest over Seregil's sword, covering it from hilt to tip with a line of tiny figures that flickered and disappeared as soon as they were completed.

"What's all this?" Micum asked.

"Just some necessary magicking. The dyrmagnos is not the only one with protective magic. Kneel with me here, close together, and hold out your hands."

Gathering them in a small circle, Nysander painted their palms with concentric circles of black, red, brown, and blue, then instructed them to press their raised palms to those of the person on either side of them. Seregil was on the wizard's right, Alec to his left, with Micum closing the chain.

The moment the circle of hands was complete they were enveloped in a sudden sensation of tingling warmth that raised the hairs on their arms and made their eyes water. A collective shudder ran through them as the feeling swelled and faded away.

Nysander was the first to lower his hands. "It is done."

The paint was gone. In its place each of them bore a complex pattern of red and gold on each palm.

"The great sigla of Aura," Seregil murmured, touching his left palm.

"What is it, some kind of protection?" asked Alec.

"It will not keep you from being wounded. It is to protect your soul," Nysander explained. "If any of us are killed today, the Eater of Death will not have us. The design will fade from sight in time, but the protection is permanent."