Lynn Flewelling - The White Road

Seregil grimaced. “Missed my lung, but I think I have some cracked ribs.” He held up his right hand, showing them his swollen middle finger. “This hurts like hell, too.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to heal up, my friend,” Micum said, patting his foot. “We’re bound for home now, and well earned.”

Presently a young man in a brown robe hurried in, the bronze serpent lemniscate of his profession swinging against his chest on its chain. “Lord Seregil, I’m honored—”

“Rieser first,” said Micum. “He’s hurt worse than Lord Seregil.”

“Are you sure, my lord?”

“Go!” Seregil gritted out.

“I’ll go sit with him,” said Micum. He limped away after the healer, leaving the door open behind him.

Alec wrapped blankets around both of them and sat down on the edge of the bed. “How are you doing?” he asked, smoothing Seregil’s wet, tangled hair back from his face.

Seregil grimaced, but it was mostly a smile. “Been better. Been worse. What happened to Rieser?”

“Shot in the chest. He saved our lives back there, not to mention the books. I have to admit, I thought he really had run off.”

“So did I.” Seregil closed his eyes, shivering. “It’s a good thing for us he didn’t. I wouldn’t want to go back to the Ebrados without him.”

“No. You’re chilled.” Alec got the rest of Seregil’s wet things off him and got him under the covers, then found dry clothing for himself among the things they’d left on board.

Seregil was dozing when Micum and the healer returned.

“How is Rieser?” asked Alec as Konthus set to work looking Seregil over.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” the young drysian replied. “The arrow struck under the left collarbone and went through to break his shoulder blade. It’s a painful wound, and will be a slow one to heal.”

“Konthus had to cut out the arrowhead, but Rieser never made a sound,” Micum told them.

The arrow in Seregil’s side had lodged between two ribs, breaking one but not penetrating to the lung. Seregil gritted his teeth as the drysian worked the arrowhead free and packed the wound with herbs and salved linen. When he was finished, he had Alec help Seregil onto his stomach and deftly sewed up the gash across his back with linen thread. He bandaged both wounds, then splinted the broken finger and said several healing spells over Seregil.

“That’s all I can do for now,” he said, washing his hands in the basin and going to the door.

“Thank you,” Seregil murmured, relaxing as the magic took hold.

“Send one of your friends for me if you need help with the pain. Maker’s mercy on you.”

“Rieser wouldn’t let the fellow magic him,” Micum said when he was gone. “Wouldn’t say why, but I suppose it was too Tír for his liking.”

“No doubt.” Seregil pulled weakly at the collar still around his neck. “This off. Now.”

Micum drew his knife and carefully slid it under the edge of the collar at the flanges. Holding the collar steady, he sawed through the lead rivet and pulled the collar open far enough to slip it from Seregil’s neck.

“A free man at last!” Seregil said with a hoarse laugh.

The metal had chafed a bit, Alec saw, leaving a band of reddened skin on Seregil’s neck. It made him think of Ilar, who’d worn a collar so long the skin under it was worn white. They’d left him there in Plenimar without a collar, or any slave marks, but his scars would surely give him away.

You know what they’ll do to me!

Alec knew. “Maybe we should have gone back for him,” he muttered aloud.

“Ilar, you mean?” Seregil asked. “It would have been suicide. Why didn’t he stay with Ulan? Or ride out after us?” He closed his eyes again, but not before Alec caught a fleeting look of regret. “I thought he’d be safe with Ulan.”

“Perhaps he still will be,” said Micum, but he sounded less than convinced.

RIESER had left Nowen in charge. It should have been easy duty, watching Sebrahn and looking out for anyone traveling this way.

The last of the Tír magic had worn off; Sebrahn was as pale as Hâzadriën, with the same silver-white hair, neatly cut and braided now. She’d shaken her head over the ignorance of the ya’shel, to feed him every day. He was a beautiful little thing, but for the lack of wings, and seemingly devoted to Hâzadriën, as the older tayan’gil was to him. The two were inseparable. It was not uncommon for tayan’gils to flock together, but this one called Sebrahn was almost childlike in his manner. He climbed into Hâzadriën’s lap whenever he sat down, and curled up next to him with his head in Hâzadriën’s lap at night, saying “Sleeping,” in his strange raspy voice. If anyone tried to make him leave the tayan’gil’s side, he said, very distinctly, “No.” It sent a shiver up Nowen’s back every time he spoke.

Tayan’gils were—apart. Or they should be. Back home she seldom saw them, and when she did they were little more than a curiosity unless a healing was needed. The Hâzadriëlfaie valued them deeply for that ability, knowing the price. Every one of the creatures had been born of suffering and servitude, and no Hâzad liked being reminded of that. The fact that Sebrahn acted more like a real living being only made this more obvious.

But she had other, more troubling concerns right now.

“Did you see any of them?” she asked Rane and Sona, who’d just come back from a hunting expedition.

“Yes, and there are more today.”

Day by day, the answer was the same. Nowen had never had any bad experience with the Retha’noi; they kept mostly to their peaks, and when they did descend to trade and barter, they were usually friendly and bothered no one. Turmay and Naba had been instrumental in their success so far, enlisting the aid of a local clan to fell those trees. But something had changed since Rieser left; Nowen was too experienced a tracker not to know when she was being tracked herself.

Naba had remained with them after the capture, and so had those he’d summoned. Now others were appearing on the heights. The smoke from their cooking fires rose against the sky by day, and the light of watch fires sparkled along the ridges through the night. Day and night they could hear the distant sounds of oo’lus; many oo’lus.

What could they possibly want? The Hâzad didn’t carry more than they absolutely needed, which left little worth stealing, except for the horses, and these southern Retha’noi didn’t seem to have any use for those.

Turmay came and went between the two camps freely and kept assuring her that they were in no danger, so long as they stayed down here by the waterfall.

“What do they want?” Nowen asked.

“They distrust outsiders and they want us to be gone. That’s why they helped you, so that you would go away sooner.”

“But they accept you.”

“I am Retha’noi.”

Turmay went to his southern brothers each night and played the oo’lu in the great circle while the witch women danced their magic around the fires. He made love to their women under the moon to put babies with northern blood into their bellies and shared his food and his healings with all who asked. Their two peoples might have been parted for more years than they could count, but the ways of hospitality still held strong.

The Mother spoke to them when they played and danced, repeating what she had told Turmay of the small tayan’gil and Alec Two Lives, of life and death and the immutable gate between the two.

Retha’noi had come from many miles away, answering the oo’lus’ messages, and they came for their own reasons, as well. There were at nearly forty men now, and five of them witch men. They met around the fire and talked of the small tayan’gil and the man with two lives. Turmay listened and said little, but he taught them the song the Mother had given him.