Lynn Flewelling - The White Road

“No, we must wait until the ya’shel returns,” Naba replied. “And this book Turmay speaks of.”

“What do we care for books?” Orab, chieftain of the Blue Water Valley village, scoffed.

“They are powerful things, books. So Turmay says,” Naba told him. “This one tells how to make the abomination, and the ya’shel with two lives carries the blood of abomination in his veins. Turmay says to let the Retha’noi kill the ya’shel. He says that the tayan’gil can kill, but only a few. Let it kill them. Then we will strike.”

“Turmay does not want any killing,” the witch woman, Lhahana, reminded them. “They may be outsiders, but they do not wish to stay, any more than we want them to. Why spill blood on our soil unnecessarily? Do you want their ghosts to take this sacred place? Bad enough that the lowlanders use our road. They do not come that often and they do not stay. Ghosts will.”

Naba nodded. “Better to see what the Hâzad people will do. Turmay says they want the two lives dead, too. Let them take the wrath of his ghost.”

And so the talk went on, into the night.

BY THE TIME the Green Lady made anchor at Beggar’s Bridge, the flesh around Rieser’s wound had turned dangerously dark and taken on a sickly sweet odor. Alec and Seregil sat with him while the drysian changed his dressings one last time before they went ashore.

Konthus shook his head. “You should be well healed by now, with all the broths and magic I’ve poured into you.”

“You did the best you could, and I am thankful,” Rieser replied, his cheeks pale except for the red fever patches. “At least I will live long enough to return to my people.”

Konthus made a blessing over him and took his leave.

“I hope you do,” murmured Seregil, wrinkling his nose at the foul odor of the wound.

“Just get me back to Hâzadriën.”

“Or Sebrahn,” said Alec.

“No, Hâzadriën!” Rieser gasped, and there was rare alarm in his voice.

“Why are you so scared of Sebrahn?”

Rieser stared up at the cabin ceiling for a moment before answering. “Because he’s not a true tayan’gil. Please, honor my request. It could be my last.”

“Suit yourself,” Alec said.

They reached Ero Harbor in the morning, and readied to leave. The longboats were packed, and Rhal and his men were armed and ready. They took their leave on deck, shaking hands with Nettles.

“I’ll expect the ship to be still afloat when I get back,” Rhal said with a grin as he clapped the mate on the shoulder. “And provisioned. It’s hunting season again.”

“And I’ll expect you to come back safe and sound, Captain.”

I hope so, too , thought Seregil as he joined Alec and Micum in the longboat and helped lift Rieser onto a pallet spread in the bottom. He wasn’t sure giving up Sebrahn would be enough to satisfy the Ebrados, and Rieser had refused to say one way or the other.

There was nothing Rieser could do about the sailors who were coming along. He hoped Turmay could handle that many people at once, if it came to a fight.

He held on in silent misery until they were rowed in, but collapsed as soon as they were ashore. He awoke in a clean bed in a sunny room with no idea how he’d gotten there. His shoulder burned like fire, and stank so bad it was making him even sicker.

“I think it’s your Hâzad blood,” said Seregil, the only other occupant of the room at the moment. He was sprawled in an armchair beside him, bare feet propped on the edge of the mattress.

“I think you may be right,” he croaked. “These Tírfaie healers aren’t much good to me. Are there any ’faie?” He was mortified to show such weakness in front of his companions, especially the Tír. It put him at their mercy, and that was something he’d never experienced before.

“They heal me well enough,” Seregil told him. “But I’m not of your blood. Do you have healers among your people, or do you just depend on your tayan’gils?”

“Both. What the healers can’t cure, the tayan’gils can.”

“That must make you a very long-lived people.”

“No more than you, I expect. We just don’t die young as often.”

The Bôkthersan was quiet for a moment. “It’s a shame, how they have to be made. In their way, the tayan’gils are a real gift.”

“Our gift and our curse. It cut us off from your people long ago.” He paused. “My ancestors were Bôkthersans.” Why am I telling him at all? he wondered, even as he said it.

“So you said, soon after we met.”

Did I? My mind is wandering. It must be the fever talking . It was far better to tell himself that than admit that he’d come to admire Seregil and his friends—even Micum Cavish. It was hard not to, when you’d fought for your very lives together.

He was beginning to doubt he’d live long enough to die among his own people.

Alec left Seregil to tend Rieser at the inn they’d taken for the night and went to the Sea Horse with Micum to see about the horses they’d boarded there. The stable hand had kept his word, or the fee they’d paid had been high enough. Either way, Patch and the others were sound and glossier than they’d been when they left. Seregil had offered to buy Rhal’s men horses, but apart from their captain, none of them were horsemen.

Patch was glad to see Alec, and gave his belt a good nip before she nuzzled the apple from his pocket.

“There’s a small cart out in back,” Micum told him. “I don’t think Rieser will make it any other way—What are you frowning about?”

“When we first met him, he’d have killed you without a second thought. I never expected to see you two friends.”

“I wouldn’t call us friends, exactly. But he’s a brave man and a good fighter. I was glad to have him at my back when things got tight back at the cottage. What that will count for once we get him back to his people, though? I’m not going to assume too much.”

“Did Seregil tell you what I decided about Sebrahn?”

“No, but judging by that long face, you’ve decided to give him up.”

“Yes. So there’s just the matter of whether they’ll let me go. Rieser won’t give me a straight answer about that, but maybe it’s not completely up to him. It’s a good thing Rhal and the others are coming with us.”

Micum rubbed a hand over his short beard. “I’ve been wondering that myself. But I figure we’ll have better luck if we show up with their leader alive.”

Seregil had said the same.

The cart was cheaply got. Seregil put Star between the traces and saddled Cynril. The long rest aboard the Lady and the drysian’s good care had him nearly mended, and he was able to ride without much discomfort.

They made Rieser as comfortable as they could with their packs and bedrolls, but every bump and jolt took its toll. Micum drove the cart and Alec and Seregil rode beside it, watchful for trouble. With Rhal and his men strung out behind them on foot, they made a respectable-looking force.

Rieser lay very still, his sunken eyes closed most of the time. As the day wore on he spoke less and less, and the fever spots in his pale cheeks spread in angry patches.

They made camp that night beside a stream, but Rieser wouldn’t drink, not even the tinctures Konthus had sent with them to ease his pain. Seregil was sitting in the wagon with him late that night when the man woke with a start and grabbed his arm.

“Promise me—” he whispered through cracked lips.

“What?” asked Seregil, leaning down to hear.

“If I die—I had a dream. Don’t let your tayan’gil bring me back if I die.”

Seregil didn’t bother arguing with him. There was a good chance the man wouldn’t see another sunrise. “Why not?” he asked, curious.