Free Stalking Darkness by Lynn Flewelling Page A

concocted for Turik and Shradin the first time he’d come out of the cave. It seemed he’d spoken the truth in spite of himself.
    “Peace to you, spirit of this place,” he rasped in Dravnian. “Your sanctuary will be properly cleansed.”
    The presence gathered around him for a moment, soothing away his pain and weariness. Then it was gone.
    Shouldering the box, Seregil crawled slowly back up the tunnel. Turik and Timan were keeping watch at the opening when he stumbled out into the sunlight.
    The old man clutched Seregil’s arm wordlessly, tears of gratitude glittering in his rheumy eyes.
    “He lives! The Aurenfaie’s alive! Bring bandages,” Turik called to the others, examining Seregil’s hands with concern.
    The cry passed from mouth to mouth and soon the whole village had gathered solemnly around them.
    “Terrible sounds came out of the ground, then all was still,” Retak told Seregil. “Timan said you had driven out the bad spirit, but he didn’t know if you’d survived the ordeal. Tell us of your battle with the evil spirit!”
    Seregil groaned inwardly. Bilairy’s Balls, they want another story! Climbing to his feet, he held up the box. “I’ve captured the evil spirit that troubled you. It’s imprisoned here.”
    Round-eyed, the Dravnians regarded the battered wooden chest. Even the children did not venture to approach it. Filthy and exhausted, Seregil did his best to look like a victorious wizard as he mixed fact and fiction to best effect.
    “In the time of Timan’s ancestor, this evil thing came to your valley and invaded the spirit home, holding the true spirit prisoner and troubling those who entered the chamber. I found its secret lair and battled it there. It was a strong spirit and it fought mightily, as you can see.”
    The villagers’ eyes grew rounder as they pressed around him to see what sort of marks a spirit left on a man.
    “By my magic, and by the powers of sacred Aura and the true spirit of this place, I vanquished and captured it. Your spirit came to me, easing my wounds and asking that the sanctuary be cleansed so that your people may once again come to it in peace. There are bodies there now, victims of the evil one. You must not fear them. Take them away and burn them as is proper, so that their spirits can rest. This is no longer a place of evil.”
    The Dravnians cheered wildly as he paused to catch up with his own invention. By the time they’d settled down again, he was ready.
    “If any man comes seeking the evil one, bring them to this place and tell them how Meringil, son of Solun and Nycanthi, mage of Aurenen, captured the evil spirit and took it away forever. Remember this day and tell the story to your children so that they will remember. Let no person among your clans forget that evil was cast out from here. And now I must go.”
    The villagers surged forward, imploring him to stay.
    Unvisited maidens wept with disappointment and one of Ekrid’s daughters threw herself into his arms sobbing. Putting her gently aside, he gathered his gear and palmed the last of Nysander’s painted wands from the pouch at his belt. He snapped it behind his back and the Dravnians shrank back in fear as the translocation vortex opened behind him. Waving a last farewell, he forced a smile as he stepped backward into emptiness.
    Thero was on his way upstairs when a muffled crash halted him in his tracks. There was no doubt where the sound had come from; every door along the curved corridor—the bedchambers, the guest room—stood open except one.
    The sitting-room door, with its magical wards and protections, was always kept shut unless Nysander was inside. Nonetheless, putting his ear to the door, Thero heard a low groan inside.
    “Nysander!” he called, but his master was already hurrying down the tower stairs, robes flapping beneath his leather apron.
    “There’s someone in there,” Thero exclaimed, gaunt face flushed with excitement.
    Nysander opened the door and snapped