34 INVESTIGATIONS

Seregil paced impatiently around his sister's hall, waiting for her to rise and dress. Adzriel appeared at last, looking anything but rested. Declining her offer of breakfast, he quickly outlined his intentions.

"Must it be you?" she asked. "The Iia'sidra must approve such a search, and having you involved will not sit well with most of them."

"I have to get in there. Thero will be in charge, of course, but I have to be there. By the Light, I'd have done it my own way long before now if we were anywhere else but here. If Ulan is our poisoner, he's already had too much time to do away with any evidence."

"I'll do what I can," she said at last. "There must be no soldiers, though."

"Fine. I assume the other khirnari will insist on being there?"

"Brythir i Nien, at least. Any accusations at Sarikali must be made before him. Give me time to call the assembly. An hour at the very least."

Seregil was already halfway to the door. "I'll meet you there. There's someone else I need to speak with first."

I'm getting to be a regular visitor here, he thought as he came in sight of the Nha'mahat. Dismounting at a safe distance, he crossed the

dew-laden grass, keeping an eye out for fingerlings. There were plenty about at this hour, frisking and flapping over the morning offerings in the temple porch.

"I wish to speak with Elesarit," he told the masked attendant who met him at the door.

"I am he, little brother," the old man replied, ushering him inside.

To Seregil's considerable relief, the rhui'auros bypassed the stairs to the cavern, taking him instead up to a small, sparsely furnished room. On the open terrace Seregil saw breakfast laid for two on a little table. Several fingerlings had worried a loaf of dark bread to bits across its polished surface. Laughing, the rhui'auros shooed them away and tossed the crumbs after them.

"Come, you have had nothing to eat in almost a day," he said, uncovering dishes containing Skalan cheeses and hot meats. He filled a plate and set it before Seregil.

"You were expecting me?" Seregil's belly growled appreciatively as he speared a sausage with a knife and wolfed it down. The food suddenly seemed to stick in his throat, however, as he noticed a platter of oat cakes dripping with butter and honey. Nysander had always served them at his extravagant morning meals.

"You miss him a great deal, do you not, little brother?" asked Elesarit, his own food untouched before him. He'd removed his mask, revealing a lined face both kindly and serene.

"Yes, I do," Seregil replied softly.

"Sometimes sorrow is a better guide than joy."

Nodding, Seregil took a bite of oat cake. "Did you send Nyal to me this morning?"

"He came, did he not?»

"Yes. If it hadn't been for him, we might not have figured out what was wrong with Klia, or how to help her."

The rhui'auros's brows arched dramatically. Under different circumstances, the effect would have been comical. "Someone has harmed your princess?"

"You didn't know? Then why did you send Nyal?"

The old man eyed him slyly and said nothing.

Seregil fought back his impatience. Like the Oracles of Illior, the rhui'auros were said to be possessed by the madness that came of being touched by the divine. This fellow was clearly no exception.

"Why did you send him to me?" he tried again.

"I did not send him to you."

"But you just said—" Seregil broke off, too tired to deal with subtle games and riddles. "Why am I here, then?"

"For the sake of your princess?" the man offered, seeming equally mystified.

"Very well, then. Since you were expecting me, you must have had something to say to me."

A dragon the size of a large cat crawled out from under the table and leapt into the rhui'auros's lap. He stroked its smooth back absently for a moment, then looked up at Seregil with vague, unfocused eyes.

Pinned by that strange gaze, Seregil felt an uneasy chill crawl slowly up his back. The dragon was watching him, too, and there was more intelligence in its yellow eyes than in those of the man who held it.

Elesarit suddenly thrust his clenched fist across at Seregil, who recoiled instinctively.

"You'll be needing this, little brother."

Hesitantly, Seregil held out his hand, palm up, to receive whatever the man was offering. Something smooth and cool dropped into his hand. For an instant he thought it was another of the mysterious orbs from his dreams. Instead, he found himself holding a slender vial fashioned of dark, iridescent blue glass and capped with a delicate silver stopper. It was exquisite.

"This is Plenimaran," he said, recognizing the workmanship with a thrill of anticipation, even as another part of his mind piped in, too easy.

"Is it?" Elesarit leaned over for a closer look. "He who has two hearts is twice as strong, ya'shel khi."

Only half listening to the man's nonsensical ramblings, Seregil uncapped the vial and took a cautious sniff, wishing he'd thought to ask Nyal what apaki'nhag venom smelled like. The acrid aroma was disappointingly familiar. Tipping out a drop, he rubbed it between a thumb and finger. "It's just lissik."

"Did you expect something else?"

Seregil replaced the stopper without comment. He was wasting his time here.

"A gift, little brother," Elesarit chided gently. "Take what the Lightbearer sends and be thankful. What we expect is not always what we need."

Seregil resisted the urge to sling the bottle across the room. "Unless that dragon of yours is about to bite me, I'm not certain what to be thankful for, Honored One."

Elesarit regarded him with a mix of pity and affection. "You have a most stubborn mind, dear boy."

Cold sweat broke out across Seregil's shoulders; Nysander had

said these very words to him during his last vision. Seregil glanced at the oat cakes again, then back at the rhui'auros, half hoping to catch another glimpse of his old friend.

Elesarit shook his head sadly. "Seldom have we seen one fight his gifts as you do, Seregil i Korit."

Disappointment shot through with vague guilt settled in Seregil's gut like a bad dinner. He missed Nysander terribly, missed the old wizard's quick mind and clarity. He might have kept secrets, but he never spoke in riddles.

"I'm sorry, Honored One," he managed at last. "If I do have some gift, it's never worked for me."

"Of course it does, little brother. It is from Illior."

"Then tell me what it is!"

"So many questions! Soon you must begin to ask the right ones. Smiles conceal knives."

The right questions? "Who murdered Torsin?"

"You already know." The old man gestured at the door, no longer smiling. "Go now. You have work to do!"

The dragon spread its wings and bared needle-sharp fangs at him, hissing menacingly. The unsettling sound followed Seregil as he beat a hasty retreat into the corridor. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw with alarm that the creature was in fact chasing him. A peal of laughter rang out behind him from the open doorway.

Getting down three flights of stairs with a dragon, even a small one, slithering after you was not a pleasant experience. On the second landing Seregil turned to shoo it away and the creature flew at him, snapping at his outstretched hand.

Admitting defeat, he fled. More laughter, eerily disembodied now, sounded close to his ear.

His fiesty pursuer gave up somewhere between the last stairway and the meditation chamber. He stole frequent glances over his shoulder all the same until he was outside again. Fingerlings frisked around his feet, chirping and fluttering. Picking his way gingerly past them, he hurried to his horse. It wasn't until he reached to undo the hobble that he realized he was still clutching the vial of lissik.