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came in early spring that he was in disgrace,
dismissed from his post with the household guard, though no one
seemed to know why.
    It was raining as Nysander as set off for the
palace, and the bleak color of the sky reminded him of the
Seregil’s eyes the day they’d met. At the palace the wizard was
directed to the family wing, though to the end of it furthest from
the royal quarters. A young page led him through several passages
to the archway that led to the south garden.
    “He’s out there, my lord,” the page told him.
“I tried to make him come in, but he won’t.”
    The rain was coming down even harder now, and
he could just make out someone wrapped in a dark mantle hunched on
one of the marble benches. Nysander dismissed the page, then pulled
up the hood of his cloak and walked out to join the young man.
    Seregil ignored Nysander until the wizard sat
down beside him and said in Aurënfaie, “Hello again, young
Seregil.”
    “Who—” Seregil turned to look at him with
what appeared to be annoyance, but his expression changed to one of
respect when he realized to whom he was speaking. His face was
thinner than Nysander remembered and his mantle was soaked through.
Nysander couldn’t tell if it was rain on his cheeks, or tears.
“Hello, Lord Nysander.”
     

     
    Nysander was impressed. He’d seen Seregil at
banquets, and now and then with Prince Korathan, but they’d spoken
only once and briefly.
    He cast a shelter spell to keep off the rain.
“This is not a very pleasant place you’ve chosen. But perhaps it
suits your mood?”
    “I suppose it does, my lord.”
    “I take it you are not very happy here in
Rhíminee.”
    Seregil shrugged.
    “You are wasted here at the palace, you know.
What post do you hold now?”
    “None, thanks to that bitch Phoria!” Seregil
replied bitterly.
    “That’s no way to refer to the Princess
Royal, especially here,” Nysander cautioned. This one had spirit,
at least.
    “What will they do? Cut off my head? Lock me
in their Red Tower? That’s fine with me. Anything would be better
than staying another day in this miserable place!”
    Nysander suppressed a smile at the childish
outburst. “I see. Well, then perhaps you would like to come have
tea with me at the Orëska House. Look, you can just see the towers
from here, above those roofs. The one on the right is mine. Really
now, I think you are in need of some dry clothes, too. In fact,
given how you are shivering, I think we should get you inside at
once.”
    Seregil let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t
have a horse.”
    “You do not need one, dear boy. I am a
wizard, after all.”
     

    He made a cage with his fingers and summoned
the translocation spell. It began with a tiny speck of darkness,
but as he opened his hands and spread his arms, it expanded to a
black, spinning disk large enough for a man to step through, which
was its purpose.
    “What is that?” Seregil exclaimed, leaning
closer to see.
    “A quicker way back to my rooms.” Nysander
held out his hand. “You should hang onto me this first time.”
    He was surprised at how readily Seregil did
so. The magic clearly interested him. The lack of fear was also
encouraging.
    “Stand close to me and step in. It is just
like going through a doorway.”
    Holding onto Nysander’s sleeve, Seregil
stepped into the darkness with him.
    It truly was like simply walking into another
room—Nysander’s casting room in this case—but as he emerged he
found Seregil on his hands and knees, vomiting violently on the
polished stone floor. Nysander was glad he hadn’t taken them to his
sitting room; he’d have ruined the carpet.
    “What—what did—do to—me?” Seregil demanded
between heaves. Nothing was coming up now, but he was still
retching.
    “Nothing, I assure you!” Nysander said,
cleaning up the mess with a spell. He’d never seen anyone react
this way before.
    Seregil got to his feet with Nysander’s help
and staggered out into the main work