The White Road n-5

by Lynn Flewelling

  He reined in his wandering thoughts. Another affliction of age.

  The bath servants were waiting for him, and helped him disrobe and climb into the sunken black marble tub. He sank gratefully into the soothing hot salt water. It felt silky against his skin, and was redolent with the aromas of sage and lugwort. Pink autumn crocus petals floated thick on the surface. It was a twice-daily ritual now, and one that offered him ease, but only temporarily. He looked down at his body—the withered arms and legs, hollow belly, and swollen joints. And how long had it been since he’d needed a woman in his bed? None of that mattered to him, really, only the subtle changes in his mind and the not-so-subtle ones in his lungs. The rest was discomfort and dwindling time. If he did not find the rhekaro, then time would have its way with him.

  Yhakobin had promised him a healing elixir, one that would take the eagle’s talons from his chest, the hot sand from his joints, and the fog from his mind. And, he’d claimed, it might prolong life, as well. Ulan would not give up.

  He tried to piece together Ilar’s ramblings as he soaked. His spies in Plenimar had already sent word that Charis Yhakobin had disappeared and there were rumors from Benshâl that one of the Overlord’s favorites, a friend of Charis’s, was missing as well. If Ilar was sane enough to speak the truth, then the alchemist was dead, probably at Seregil’s hands—though what the “sound” had been he could not guess. The clash of battle, perhaps? But Ilar had said that it hurt him. Whatever the case, this was a major calamity. As far as Ulan knew, only Charis Yhakobin had possessed the skill to create a rhekaro. And unless he’d had an apprentice Ulan didn’t know about, the knowledge had died with him. Perhaps another alchemist could complete the process. It would take some delicate intelligence gathering to find one, though, as the Plenimaran Overlord must be searching the land just as thoroughly. After all, it had been made for him.

  Ulan stirred the sinking petals with one finger. Men like this didn’t simply go missing. And Yhakobin had no reason to run away, so Ilar’s account probably contained some element of fact.

  At least Ilar í Sontir had been properly dealt with all those years ago. Suspicions had run rampant in the wake of the young man’s disappearance; most did not connect his amorous pursuit of the khirnari’s son to the murder Seregil had committed. Most assumed that Ilar had run away out of shame over his young lover. Members of Ilar’s own clan, the Chyptaulos, were relieved—though the dishonor he’d brought upon them had left an indelible blot, since they could not punish him for the seduction to satisfy the honor of Bôkthersa. In order to avoid a blood feud, the old khirnari of the Chyptaulos had stepped down and Dendra ä Arali, who had no strong blood tie to Ilar, stepped into his place. As Ulan had hoped, with Ilar out of the way, speculation had quickly died down.

  It was very fortunate that young Seregil had known nothing of Ulan’s hand in those events—and when he’d come to Ulan as a grown man in Sarikali and put the question to him, Ulan had happily lied, resisting the urge to tell him that his betrayer was still alive. He’d had no particular plan for either Seregil or Ilar at the time, but he was not a man to give up a secret.

  Ilar had known about Seregil and his talímenios; Ulan took a certain degree of pleasure in keeping the miserable slave informed now and then, once he was broken and in the possession of Charis Yhakobin, a man Ulan knew well. He didn’t particularly like the man, but he’d been a trustworthy business partner and ransomed many slaves over the years.

  But now Ulan would care for Ilar like a son. It was thanks to the poor creature that the alchemist had learned of young Alec’s bloodline in the first place. Ulan been rather surprised when Charis had contacted him so eagerly, asking after the young half-breed. Once the man made known something of the reason, however, Ulan began to plot. All attempts to set up a kidnapping from Skala had failed; there was no one there except his own spies he could count on, and that would have been too obvious. And there was, of course, simply no way for a Plenimaran to gain access to them.

  So he’d waited, and seen his chance when word had come that the exile and his talímenios were returning to Aurënen on business for Queen Phoria. For the sake of his clan, Ulan had risked the collective honor of Virésse by facilitating the raid and capture of Alec of Kerry and, according to the alchemist’s request, Seregil as well. It was capture or kill him outright, anyway, given Seregil’s devotion to his talímenios. Under different circumstances, Ulan would have admired him for that.

  And just when the whole gamble was about to fall his way, this disaster.

  “Khirnari?”

  Ulan started slightly, not having heard Elisir come in; it wasn’t the first time he’d gotten caught up in memories when he should be concentrating on the present. The body was not the only thing that lost strength with age. “What is it?”

  “They told me downstairs you’ve made a guest of that wretch.”

  Ulan smiled. “I offered him kindness, but no formal pledge of hospitality. That can wait until I find some use for him.”

  “I see. Well, what do you want me to do now?”

  “Keep watching. Use every resource. They’ve left Gedre. I want to know where they go and if they have a child with them. If they’re dead, I want proof.”

  “Yes. But, Uncle, if I may? Why is this child so important?”

  “Nephew, have I ever given you cause to doubt my judgment?”

  “No, of course not. I was simply curious.”

  “I understand. However, I must rely completely on your trust in me, and your best discretion. Now, where do you think they’ll go from Gedre?”

  “Bôkthersa, or perhaps back to Rhíminee? According to my Skalan spies, there’s no love lost between him and the current queen, so it’s more likely he’ll go to ground among his own.”

  “I cannot afford to take any chances. Rally your spies in Skala, as well. Capture them if they are in Skala, but simply send word if you find them in Bôkthersa. We can’t risk making Adzriel ä Illia our enemy. Seregil may be teth’brimash, but his sister will never consider him so.”

  “As you wish, Uncle.”

  Ulan waited until his nephew was gone, then had the servants help him out of the water. His body moved more easily now; the bath had eased his swollen joints, allowing him to sleep tonight, but the pain would be waiting for him in the morning.

  Ilar was sitting up in bed when Ulan entered and took his seat the following morning. Ilar looked no better today, still haunted and gaunt, eyes wild and filled with distrust, but he seemed a bit more lucid.

  “Good morning, my dear fellow. And how are you today?”

  Ilar glanced nervously around the room. “Am I really in Aurënen?”

  “You are indeed. If you’re feeling up to it, can you tell me more of what happened in Plenimar?”

  Ilar closed his eyes as if he was in pain. “It was Seregil. He escaped somehow—and he saved me. People died—Ilban was going to sell me, flogged me—”

  Ulan waited patiently, trying to piece together what he was hearing. Clearly Ilar’s memories from that time were still painful and disjointed.

  “Seregil came back—not for me … I don’t know why. Alec hates me, but he—And Ilban … He’s dead.”

  “How did they kill your ilban?” Even free, Ilar still called Yhakobin “master.” Some of the slaves Ulan had ransomed back from Yhakobin never lost the habit; their very souls were crushed. Many of them killed themselves soon after their return. Only the ones who hadn’t been in captivity more than a few months ever really recovered. “What about the rhekaro?” Ulan prompted.

  “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 rh
ekaro 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.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bôkthersa

  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.

  Alec lay awake for some time, looking up at the night sky. The stars looked as big as half-sester pieces up here, so bright they cast shadows among the boulders. That, and the crackle of the smoky fire, made him think of his father again, and the winters they’d spent trapping in the Ironheart Mountains. When he fell asleep, he dreamed of his father—a tall, taciturn figure striding confidently on his long snow-shoes, the varnished rawhide webbing leaving a pattern like serpent skin for Alec to follow. In the dream his father never turned around, but Alec knew him by the ragged blond hair sticking out under his fur hat. Sometimes they’d gone on like that in silence for hours—or all day, if the traps were empty. Then the vision he’d had of his parents and his mother’s death crept into the dream, and he saw his father through his mother’s eyes—a handsome
young hunter whose dark blue eyes were filled with anguish. In this dream, his mother turned into a dragon and flew away, only to be brought down by the arrows of her own kinsmen. Drops of her steaming blood fell on the snow, leaving a line of red spots like trail markers, leading north. Grief-stricken, Alec watched her fall in the distance, then turned to find her faceless murderers leveling their bows at him.

  The sky was overcast at dawn, and large, fluffy flakes of snow began falling as they ate their cold breakfast. It fell more thickly as they set off, capping the rocks with white and muffling the world in that eerie quiet that only snow can create.

  It got colder as they went on, though they were going downhill gradually now, and into sparse forest. Snow lay thick on the ground and crunched under their horses’ hooves as they rode slowly down a steep, winding trail only Seregil could see.

  As they rode today, Seregil told funny stories about his exploits with Alec and Micum, including how Alec’s first test as a nightrunner had been to break, unsuspecting, into Seregil’s own villa in Rhíminee.

  Alec ignored the laughter at his expense and lifted his face to the pale white sun showing dimly through the clouds. Some memories of his father didn’t hurt; fresh snow had always meant easy tracking.

  “Spotted cat,” Micum said beside him, pulling him from his reverie.

  Sure enough, the unmistakable pattern of paw pads and tick marks of the claws crossed their path in a wandering line. For the rest of the afternoon they made a game of identifying tracks in the snow to break up the monotony. They saw the spoor of rabbit and deer, great Aurënen stags, bear, and mice, along with a strange pattern Alec thought he recognized. It was a sort of hand-and footprint combination, and always appeared in great numbers, seldom far from a stand of trees. It looked like a whole family of tiny people had crawled along on all fours. Tiny people with tails.