Lynn Flewelling - The White Road

“Stole it, stole me.”

“Who did? Seregil?”

But Ilar did not seem to hear him. “I showed the way. I did!” he cried angrily. “We walked for days and days.” He subsided as quickly as he’d angered, and his gaze began to wander, taking on that vague, glassy look tinged with panic. “It rained so hard! There was no …”

Ulan quelled an impatient sigh. “The rhekaro, Ilar. What does the rhekaro look like?”

Ilar shuddered. “The moon. A bone … No, the moon. Alec called him that …”

“And the wings?”

Ilar shook his head.

This was not good news. Yhakobin had been concerned about the first rhekaro he’d made and its lack of wings. It had apparently been useless, and he’d destroyed it. “Tell me more.”

“It eats Alec’s blood,” Ilar whispered. “And the magic flowers—” He shuddered again as he held out his arm, the one where the brand should have been. “It … Sebrahn! He hurt me!”

“Sebrahn? Is that his name?” It was the Aurënfaie word for “moonlight.” “The rhekaro, Ilar. Tell me more of it.”

Ilar closed his eyes, as if remembering was an effort. “Silver eyes.”

“He certainly fits his name,” Ulan said with a smile. “Now, can you tell me how your ilban and his men died?”

“I don’t know. I ran away and only heard the noise.”

“What noise?”

Ilar shook his head. “I don’t know. It was a terrible sound.” He went silent, and Ulan could tell that he’d lost the thread again. “There are always slave takers. Always, and I didn’t have my brand. And they stole my collar, too. I had to wait, then I went back to see.” He paused, eyes brimming with sudden tears. “Like they’d fallen asleep … Just—lying there … Except Ilban. I suppose it must have been Seregil. He—” Ilar paused and wiped his eyes. “Did you really say last night that Seregil is alive, or did I dream that? It’s so hard to tell.”

“Yes. He and Alec are safe. Why did you think they were dead?”

“Everyone was dead …”

Had Seregil and Alec managed to kill Ulan and all of his men? It seemed so, and that they must have been badly wounded. Yet Ilar kept insisting that they looked “beautiful.”

Ilar wrapped his arms around his chest and rocked miserably. “The birds! I should have known. I should have stayed.”

“And what about Sebrahn? What happened to the rhekaro?”

But Ilar just picked at the scabs on his arm, whispering, “I should have stayed. I should have stayed, I should have—”

“Calm yourself, Ilar. They are still alive, so you might meet them again someday.”

That got his attention. “Would they come here?”

“Perhaps.” Not willingly, of course. “We’ll speak more when you are stronger.”

Ulan left him to rest and made his way out to the balcony overlooking the harbor. Already the heat of the morning bath was fading away, and the pain creeping back. A cough shook him and he sank into a chair, handkerchief pressed to his mouth.

If all went well, that would cease to be a problem.

THE BÔKTHERSAN FAI’THAST encompassed a broad swath of mountains and foothills in the western spur of the Ashek range, and forests that swept from the heights right down to the sea. It was two weeks’ ride to the Bôkthersan capital, but Alec looked forward to it—in part because it was his new homeland since he’d been accepted into the clan by bond, and partly for knowing that Seregil and his uncle had ridden these roads and mountain trails together years before.

They’d seen no signs of habitation since they’d left Half Moon Cove, and their only road was a succession of twisting game trails. It was just the sort of place to meet up with bandits. Adzriel assured them that there was no cause for worry, but she had brought an escort of twenty men from the ship.

Seregil’s exile song had truly captured the beauty of this land. There were sweet cold springs along the way, and tumbling cascades that glittered in the sunlight. The forest was a mix of tall evergreens, oaks, beeches, and trees Alec didn’t recognize. The few remaining leaves still clinging to branch tips—gold and yellow, and fiery orange and red—stood out against the dark firs and clear blue sky.

Seregil was their guide. They slept rough in clearings, singing and drinking around the fire as the moon rose overhead. During the day there was little to do but talk and hunt. And if their escort was anything to go by, the Bôkthersans were a friendly, easygoing people, though most of them remained a bit leery of Sebrahn.

Smuggler’s Pass was a narrow track between two towering stone faces, barely two horses wide in places.

“What did you smuggle through here anyway? Snakes and candles?” Micum grumbled, sweating in his heavy coat and hauling on his horse’s reins to get her through one of the narrower spots. Sebrahn was perched on the saddle, holding on to the pommel with both hands as Alec had taught him. Given his nature, the rhekaro would cling there until Alec told him otherwise.

“Leather goods, swords, and horses, mostly,” Seregil replied, walking just ahead of him.

“What happened if you were caught?”

“This is our fai’thast. No one has authority here but the khirnari, and my father turned a blind eye. We did have to watch out for other clans near the coast—and pirates.”

They emerged at last onto a high plateau strewn with boulders and scattered, wind-twisted pines. If there was a trail, it was covered with snow, but Seregil knew the way, using boulders of different shapes as way markers. The peaks in the distance were stark against the cloudy sky, and the only life they saw here were the flocks of small ravens, which circled them now and then, calling out in their croaking voices.

It was much colder now, and the wind cut through their clothing. Their skin chapped and Mydri handed around a vial of beeswax and goat fat salve to keep their lips from splitting and bleeding when they smiled or yawned too widely. Alec kept Sebrahn bundled under his own cloak; the rhekaro might not feel the cold, but it was possible that he could freeze.

They made camp that night in a circle of huge boulders Seregil referred to jokingly as the Sky Inn. As they carried their gear in from the horses, Alec saw that there were names, short messages, and crescents of Aura scratched all over the face of the rocks, from the snow line to as high as a man could reach. Seregil showed him his own name there, and Akaien’s, etched close together. From the difference in height, Seregil had been a child when these marks were made. Alec added his name near Akaien’s and had Seregil put his there, too.

Alec went around reading more, and saw dates that went back centuries. Suddenly his toe caught on something and he went sprawling, arms sinking up to the elbows in snow, filling his mittens.

“Ah, I see you’ve found the woodpile!” said Seregil.

While Alec and Micum dug out the pile of twisted pine branches and small logs, some of the others dug down through the snow at the center of the circle and uncovered a large stone fire pit. The haunches of venison they’d brought on one of the packhorses were frozen solid, so they shaved off thin slices with their knives and either cooked them over the fire on a stick or, like Alec, just ate them raw. They passed around the dwindling bags of hazelnuts and dried apples, and boiled snow for water, since the last of the tea had been used up. As always, Alec found a moment away from the others to feed Sebrahn and trim his hair.

Even in their heavy clothing, the cold sapped strength away. They bedded down early around the fire on cloaks spread across packed snow, and everyone shared blankets with someone.