Exile

Traitor

Alone here in the haunted stillness of a Sarikali night, he was stripped of his defenses.

Murderer

Guest slayer

With hallucinatory clarity, he felt the hardness of a long-gone dagger's hilt clenched in his right fist, felt again for the first time the jar and give as the blade sank into the outraged Haman's—

You knew him. He had a name. His father's voice now, filled with disgust.

Dhymir i Tilmani Nazien

Guest slayer

– into Dhymir i Tilmani Nazien's chest all those nights and years and deaths ago. There was an obscene simplicity to that sensation. How was it that it took less effort, less strength, to stab the life from a person than to carve one's mark in a tavern tabletop?

With that thought came the old unanswerable question: What had made him draw steel against another when he could just as easily

have run away? With a single stroke he'd taken a life and changed the entire course of his own. One stroke.

It had been almost nine years before he killed again, this time to protect himself and the Mycenian thief who'd taught him the first rudiments of the nightrunner's trade in the dark stews and filthy streets of Keston. That killing had been fraught with no such doubts. His teacher had been pleased, said she could make a first-class snuffer of him, but even under her questionable tutelage he had never killed unless driven to it.

Later still, when he'd killed a clumsy ambusher to protect a young, recently met companion named Micum Cavish, his new friend had assumed it was Seregil's first time and made him lick a little of the blood from the blade, an old soldier's custom.

"Drink the blood of your first kill and the ghosts of that and any other can't haunt you," Micum had promised, so earnest, so well intentioned. Seregil had never had the heart to confess that it was already far too late, or that only one death had ever haunted him, one that galled enough to pay off all the others.

A glint of light ahead as he rounded a corner broke in on his thoughts. He'd been striding along without thought of direction, or so he'd imagined. A grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth when he realized that his wandering feet had taken him deep into Haman tupa.

The light came from a large, brazier, and in the compass of its flickering glow he saw the men gathered around it. They were young, and drinking. Even at a distance, he recognized a few of them from the council chamber, including several of Nazien's kin.

If he turned now, they'd never know he'd been there.

But he didn't turn, or even slow.

Take what the Lightbearer sends —

With a perverse shiver of excitement, he squared his shoulders, smoothed his hair back, and strolled on, passing close enough for the firelight to strike the side of his face. He said nothing, gave no greeting or provocation, but he could not suppress a small, giddy smile as a half dozen pairs of eyes widened, then tracked him with instant recognition and hatred. The tightness in Seregil's chest returned as he felt the burn of their gaze between his shoulder blades.

The inevitable attack was swift, but strangely quiet. There was the expected rush of feet, then hands grasped at him out of the darkness. They slung him against a wall, then threw him to the ground. Seregil raised his arms instinctively to cover his face but made no other move to protect himself. Boots and fists found him again,

striking from all directions, finding his belly and groin and the still tender arrow bruise on his shoulder. He was picked up, shoved from one man to another, pummeled, spat on, flung down, and kicked some more. The darkness in front of his eyes lit up momentarily in a burst of white sparks as a foot connected with the back of his head.

It might have gone on for minutes or hours. The pain was crude, erratic, exquisite.

Satisfying.

"Guest slayer!" they hissed as they struck. "Exile!" "Nameless!"

Strange how sweet such epithets sounded when flavored with the dry lilt of Haman, he thought, floating dreamily near unconsciousness. He'd have thanked them if he could have drawn breath to speak, but they were intent on preventing that.

Where are your knives?

The beating stopped as abruptly as it had begun, though he knew without uncurling to look around that they were still standing over him. A muttered order was given, but he couldn't make out the words over the ringing in his ears.

Then a hot, stinging stream of liquid struck him in the face. Another fell across his splayed legs and a third hit his chest.

Ah, he thought, blinking piss from his eyes. Nice touch, that.

Giving him a few last disdainful kicks, they left him, tipping over the brazier as they went as if to deny him the comfort of its warmth. They could just as easily have emptied it onto him.

Noble Haman. Merciful brothers.

A low chuckle scraped out of his chest like a twist of rusty wire. Oh, it hurt to laugh—he had a few cracked ribs to remember the night by—but once he got started he couldn't stop. The breathless gasps grew to undignified giggles, then bloomed into raw, full-throated cackles that racked fresh pain through his sides and head. The sound would probably draw the Haman back, but he was too far gone to care. Red spots swirled in front of his eyes, and he had the strangest sensation that if he didn't stop laughing soon, his unmarked face would come loose from his head like an ill-fitted mask.

Eventually the whoops lessened to hiccups and snorts, then dwindled to whimpers. He felt amazingly light, cleansed even, though his dry mouth tasted bitterly of piss. Crawling a few feet to safer ground, he sprawled on the dew-laden grass, licking moisture from the blades beneath his lips. There was just enough moisture to torment him. Giving up, he staggered to his feet.

"That's all right," he mumbled to no one in particular. "Time to go home now."

Something twisted painfully in his chest as he whispered the word again.

Home.

Seregil wasn't sure afterwards just how he got back to the guest house, but when he came to he was curled up in a back corner of the bath chamber, dawn light streaming in softly around him through the open windows. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. It hurt to have his eyes open, so he closed them.

Hurried footsteps brought him around.

"How did he get there?"

"I don't know." That was Olmis, one of the servants. "I found him when I arrived to heat the water."

"Didn't anyone see?"

"I asked the guards. No one heard anything."

Seregil cracked an eyelid and saw Alec kneeling beside him. He looked furious.

"Seregil, what happened to you?" he asked, then recoiled, nose wrinkling in disgust at the rank odor emanating from Seregil's damp clothing. "Bilairy's Guts, you stink!"

"I went for a walk." Fire erupted in Seregil's side as he spoke, turning the words to gaps.

"Last night, you mean?"

"Yes. Just had to—walk off a bad dream." The ghost of a chuckle slipped out before he could stop it. More pain.

Alec stared at him, then motioned for Olmis to help strip off the filthy clothing. Both let out startled exclamations as they opened his coat. Seregil could guess what he must look like by now.

"Who did this to you?" Alec demanded.

Seregil considered the question, then sighed. "I fell in the dark."

"Down a privy, by the smell of him," muttered Olmis, wrestling off his breeches.

Alec knew he was lying, of course. Seregil could tell by the hard set of his lover's mouth as he helped Olmis lift him into a warm bath and wash away what they could of the night's debacle.

They probably tried to be gentle with him, but Seregil hurt too much to appreciate the effort. He didn't feel light anymore. The night's euphoric spell was broken; this pain was dull, nauseating,