Lynn Flewelling - The White Road

My love is wrapped in a cloak of flowing green

and wears the moon for a crown .

And all around has chains of flowing silver .

Her mirrors reflect the sky .

O, to roam your flowing cloak of green

under the light of the ever-crowning moon .

Will I ever drink of your chains of flowing silver

and drift once more across your mirrors of the sky?

When he was done, Alec saw Adzriel and Mydri both dabbing at their eyes.

ULAN Í SATHIL, khirnari of Virésse, was at work in his study when his kinsman Elisir í Makili came in and closed the door softly. He was still in his salt-stained cloak and boots, and his red and blue sen’gai was a bit awry.

“Ah, you’re back,” Ulan said, laying his pen aside by the crumpled handkerchief on the desk, and extending a hand. “I fear I sent you on a fool’s errand. Your quarry turned up in Gedre a week ago.” No one needed to know that he’d sent another pack of well-paid Plenimaran assassins after them there—an unsuccessful venture, as it turned out.

“That’s good news, Uncle! I thought I’d failed you,” the younger man told him. “I did bring you someone, though. Thanks to Soran í Brithel and his long-sighted magic, I found Ilar í Sontir of the Chyptaulos clan out in the wilderness east of Riga. He was half dead and he’s quite mad. He cowered in the cabin the entire voyage and wouldn’t let anyone near him, but I got enough out of him to think that he knows something of the disappearance of Yhakobin.”

“Excellent, nephew! Bring him to me at once.” Ulan would much rather have had the rhekaro, but this was better than nothing.

Elisir returned with a slight, hunched man bundled up tight in a ragged wool cloak. The hood was pulled down almost to his chin. He stopped just inside the door, trembling violently. Ulan could smell his unwashed odor and hear his labored breathing. The khirnari rose slowly, trying as always to ignore the pain in his joints and chest, and went to him. Ilar’s hands were wrapped in the folds of the cloak so tightly, Ulan could count his knuckles through the cloth.

He took Ilar gently by the elbow and led him to a chair. “Welcome, Ilar í Sontir. Come and warm yourself. Elisir, has he eaten anything?”

“A little bread and gruel during the crossing. The cook judged that’s all he could hold down in his condition, and he had trouble with that. The skutter boy was kept busy, cleaning up after him.”

“Go down and ask Moriea for some water and broth.” Ulan gave the trembling man a kindly look. Ilar’s hood had fallen back a little, revealing a chapped red nose and chin, and the way Ilar was biting his lower lip. “You’ll feel better once you’re settled here. I assure you, you are quite safe, my dear fellow.”

One thin, shaking hand emerged from the cloak, and Ilar pushed his hood back enough for Ulan to see his eyes and the dark circles under them. The neck of the cloak wasn’t tied. Ulan could make out the white ring of skin on his throat where a metal collar had rubbed for so many years.

Ulan remembered him well from that summer gathering years ago, and had seen him often in recent years, while visiting Yhakobin. The change in him was shocking. There was most certainly the glaze of madness in those shadowed eyes, and some recent hardship had taken its toll. Yet in spite of that, some of his beauty survived.

Ulan went to the sideboard and half filled a cup with water from the ewer, then mixed a little brandy into it. When he tried to give it to him, however, Ilar eyed it with obvious fear, and asked in a quavering voice, “Don’t I get two?”

“Two? Why?”

“Dwai sholo . It’s always two! It’s not fair!” Under Aurënfaie law, the ultimate punishment was to be imprisoned in a small room and given two bowls of food or drink a day, one poisoned and one not. If the prisoner chose well and survived a year and a day, he was set free. Not many lasted that long.

“This isn’t poisoned, my dear fellow. You have nothing to fear here. You never did any wrong to Virésse and you are welcome, as I told you. Please, try to drink a little. It will calm you.”

Ilar’s hood fell back as he clasped the cup in both hands. His dark hair was full of dust and sticks and lay lank against his scalp. He took a cautious sip, then a long gulp. Water ran from the corner of his mouth to darken the filthy tunic he had on under the cloak. That appeared to be his only garment, aside from a pair of shoes that were coming apart at the seams. When he was done he gave Ulan the cup and curled more deeply into the armchair.

“I never expected to see you on these shores again,” Ulan told him as they waited for the broth.

“I had nowhere to go,” Ilar replied dully, rubbing at his throat where the collar had been. “They left me. I think … Ilar who ran away all those years ago is dead.”

“Life changes us all, dear boy. And yours has been very difficult.”

Elisir came in with the broth on a tray and set it down on a small table by Ilar’s chair. “She sent this up tepid, Uncle, so he wouldn’t burn himself.”

“Give her my thanks, Nephew. You should go see to your crew. I’ll take care of him now. You did well.”

The brandy water was doing its work; Ilar’s hands were a bit steadier as he lifted the bowl to his lips and drank.

“Slowly now,” Ulan told him with a smile. “I don’t want you spoiling my fine carpet.”

He watched Ilar finish the broth, and when it appeared that he wasn’t going to be sick, he poured him a little more diluted brandy and put the cup in his hands. “Are you warm enough? You’re still shivering.”

“Warm … no, I’ll never be warm. The stars were so cold …” A tear spilled down one dirty cheek, leaving behind a trail. “I was lost … alone. All alone …” He grew more agitated. “They’d see the mark! And the collar … And my brand! The slave takers …”

“You’re safe from them here, my poor friend. We will take care of you from now on. No one else needs to know you’re here.” He leaned forward and took Ilar’s hand. “I think you’ve suffered quite enough for your crimes.”

The empty cup tumbled to the carpet as Ilar covered his face, sobbing hoarsely. It was a calculated risk to take the man in, but Ulan doubted anyone would recognize this wretched creature as the dashing young man who’d disappeared so long ago.

“I was alone,” Ilar whimpered. His mind was badly unhinged, but this was different from the fear and despair shown by most rescued slaves.

Ulan leaned forward to squeeze the weeping man’s shoulder. “You just need rest and good food. And a bath, of course. Shall we go now?”

Ilar recoiled in terror, as if Ulan’s touch had burned him. “No! I can’t. No one can see … Please, don’t let anyone see !”

“Very well. I’ll have a tub brought to your room, and some proper clothing. You can wash yourself and dress without anyone seeing you. Come now, there’s a guest chamber just down the hall, and quite near my own room, should you need me.”

Ulan rose and took Ilar’s hand to help him up. Cloak and sleeve fell back from the thin arm, and Ulan saw four long, scabbed scratches on the underside of the forearm, but no brand. Ulan had seen Yhakobin’s mark on his arm many times. There would be another on the back of Ilar’s left calf, as well. Or should be. But the skin of his forearm was unblemished above the scratches.

Ilar managed to stay on his feet as Ulan helped him to the guest chamber, and waited with him until the tub was prepared. The servants brought soap and healing oils and scented the water properly when the bath was ready.