The White Road n-5

by Lynn Flewelling

  Mydri’s words haunted him, and he kept them to himself, even when Seregil asked why he looked so serious that night at supper.

  Over the next few days he managed to fill his time with other things, which wasn’t that hard to do. He’d never had so many people treat him as kin. Micum’s family had been the first, but now that feeling was multiplied by dozens. He especially enjoyed the young friends he’d made, and it saddened him to wonder when—or if—he’d see them again.

  CHAPTER 13

  Making Use of the Useless

  ULAN Í SATHIL’S SPIES sent word that Seregil and the other had indeed gone to ground in Bôkthersa, and that there was a child with them, one with yellow hair and silver eyes—one never seen to eat. To kidnap them from there would be far too difficult, not to mention an unforgivable breach of honor. If caught at it, the consequences were too dire to contemplate. Having lived this long, Ulan had no intention of dying by the two bowls—not when he was so close to his goal. However, his prey had youth on their side; he could only afford to wait so long. Perhaps spring would bring them out.

  In the meantime, he fought against the disease in his lungs as best he could, and between fits amused himself by nursing Ilar back to life and winning his trust. It was too dangerous to call him by his true name, lest someone remember him. Instead he went by his slave name—Khenir. He’d borne it for so long, he seemed more at ease with it.

  It also became clear that Ilar had been genuinely devoted to his alchemist master, whom he still called “Ilban” and spoke of as if the man were still alive. He often rubbed the lighter skin at his throat, too, as if he missed the collar being there. What he felt for the others was less clear. He seemed to hate Alec, but sometimes rambled about pleasant moments spent together at the villa before their escape. And Seregil? In some twisted, angry way, he seemed to want to possess him, and spoke at times as if he had at some point. It finally came out that Seregil had been his slave for a brief time—something that Ulan had a hard time imagining.

  For the first weeks Ulan had feared that the man’s mind might remain unhinged. Ilar could not bear to be touched, would not leave his room, and kept his scars carefully hidden, unaware that his host had observed him many times through the peephole in his room. Ilar had been a proud young man, and that had worked to his detriment as a slave, as his many stripes and scars attested.

  Ulan visited him each morning and evening, listening for any new detail. Ilar had wept a great deal in the early days, and when he did talk, he went round and round in his mind, recalling scattered details of their escape and dwelling on the fact that Seregil was still alive. Ulan couldn’t tell if what Ilar felt for Seregil was love or hatred, and he began to think that Ilar himself didn’t know. Nonetheless it was clearly still a strong attachment. And who knew? That might prove useful.

  As Ilar’s body healed and gained strength, so did his mind. He grew increasingly lucid and paid more attention to his surroundings, but the fear and the longing remained. Questions about the rhekaros and their making remained unanswered.

  At last Ilar—now Khenir to the household—allowed Ulan to lead him out of his room for short walks inside the clan house. After a few days Ulan was able to draw him out into the snowy garden for some fresh air. The color had returned to Ilar’s face, and some of his beauty, as well. As long as he remained clothed, he looked like nothing more than a young man recovering from a long illness.

  With this promising turn of events, Ulan began to ask more probing questions.

  “Why was he so frustrated with the first one?” he asked one day as they sat together on the long balcony overlooking the harbor after one of Ulan’s coughing fits. “Why would he go to such lengths and then destroy it?”

  Ilar stared out at the boats for a while, pain clear in his eyes, and Ulan worried that he’d overstepped. But at last the young man sighed and said, “He was trying to distill an elixir of some sort from its blood.”

  “Yes, I know, but how was the rhekaro made?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I only assisted him when required, but he used Alec’s flesh, blood, spit, tears … Ilban combined it with other things he called ‘elements.’ Still, it wasn’t enough. He had more hope for the second one, and seemed pleased with it, even though it didn’t have wings. He hadn’t yet found how to unlock the secrets of its blood, either. But it could do little tasks around the workshop. I think he meant to keep it as a pet.”

  “And Alec—” Another cough tore at his chest and Ulan tasted blood. Ilar patted him awkwardly on the back until the fit was over. Ulan fell back in his chair, wiping his lips. “He kept Alec to make more rhekaros. What of Seregil?”

  “He was given to me. If only—” Ilar broke off and would say no more. He looked thoroughly miserable.

  “I see. Well, perhaps you will see him, in time.”

  Ilar’s eyes widened. “But how?”

  “Time will tell. In the meantime, would you like to live here permanently, under my protection?”

  “Yes, Khirnari.” Ilar sank to his knees before Ulan and kissed his hand.

  “Now, now, dear boy. No need for such dramatics. We’ll bide our time, and my spies will keep an eye on things. I doubt Seregil and Alec will go anywhere before spring, if they move at all.”

  “Spring?” Ilar said, disappointed. “Will I see him then?”

  “Perhaps, and you’ll be that much stronger by then. Now, I would like to hear more about the rhekaros and how they are made. Where did your Ilban’s knowledge come from?”

  Ilar actually looked around, as if he was still afraid of being overheard. “Books,” he whispered. “He has three great thick books that he keeps in the little tent. He pored over them for years before Alec came. You told me about the boy—the Hâzadriëlfaie boy—and I told Ilban. I’ve never seen him so excited! That’s when he promised Seregil to me.”

  “Ah, I see. But the books?”

  Ilar subsided and the light went from his eyes. “In the little tent.”

  “And where is this little tent?”

  “It’s at the far end of the workroom, opposite the forge. I wasn’t allowed to look in there, but I often saw him take out the books.”

  “And did you see what was in them?”

  Ilar shifted uneasily, looking guilty now. “Sometimes I looked, when Ilban went back to the house for something. I couldn’t read the writing. Most of his books are like that. Ilban says that alchemists keep their secrets by writing in code.”

  “In code? The book he showed me was not.”

  “Then perhaps he didn’t show you the real ones. In the one I looked at, the words made no sense, but I saw a fine engraving of winged beings. Ilban was disappointed that neither of the ones he made had wings. They were larger in the drawings, too: the size of a man, at least in the pictures I saw.”

  Ulan knew that much already. He’d corresponded regularly with Charis Yhakobin, anxious for news of success that never came. No, what caught his interest and made his pulse quicken was this talk of books. Codes could be broken. And then?

  And then I could unlock the secrets of the use of a rhekaro, perhaps even make one for myself! Of course that would mean possessing young Alec, as well.

  “Do you think the books are still there?”

  “Ilban never allows anyone to touch them. I think his servant Ahmol and I are the only ones who know about them.”

  Ulan sat there for some time after Ilar went back to his room, pondering deeply. Ilar was the only one who knew what the books looked like. If they had been moved, only he could identify them. It seemed Ilar might be of use after all.

  He’d had no word from Elisir in weeks and had to assume that Seregil and Alec, and therefore the rhekaro, were still safely in Bôkthersa.

  “Patience,” he whispered as he gazed out over his beloved city and the harbor below. No, he was not ready to give up all this.

  But patience had its limits.

  Returning to his library, he settled at the desk there and
began a letter to his nephew. Alchemists were not the only ones to use code.

  CHAPTER 14

  Moonlight and Snow

  IN SKALA, the last night of Cinrin—the longest in the calendar—was celebrated with Mourning Night, when the Immortal, Sakor, died, to be reborn the next day. Here in Aurënen, it was a celebration of the first moonrise of the new year. Bôkthersa everyone gathered in rooftop colos to watch the full moon come up over the mountains.

  Bonfires were lit a few hours before sunset and people gathered around them to drink cold tea and a special sweet soup, served by the older children. Adzriel gave everyone gifts of jewelry made out of silver, many of which had been fashioned by Akaien. In addition to two torques set with polished garnets, Adzriel presented Alec with a fine cloak pin and Seregil with a small traveler’s harp inlaid with shell pearl.

  “Think of your people whenever you play it, Haba,” she told him. “And I’ll expect you to play at the dance tonight.”

  Later, Alec and Micum stood in silence with Seregil and his family in the central colos of the clan house and watched the first pale glimmer of moon glow appear over the eastern peaks. He truly felt like he belonged here now; that he was really part of this clan, this family, even though they were leaving soon. Sebrahn stood between him and Seregil, holding their mittened hands and looking up at the night sky. Alec had explained the event to him, hoping he’d understand at least some of it.

  The glow over the mountains slowly brightened expanding into a gauzy nimbus so bright Alec could even make out the trees on the peaks.

  As the edge of the moon appeared over the mountain, everyone began to sing.

  Blessings of Aura descend in the moon’s glow.

  People of Aura, bathe in the light.

  Blood of the Dragon runs in our veins,

  Shed on our land in the long-ago night.

  Blessings of Aura, reborn in our sight

  Blessings of Aura, the Lightbearer’s gift .

  The verse was repeated over and over, and echoed among the peaks, doubling and trebling, almost harmonizing with the voices.

  Blood of the Dragon runs in our veins—A chill ran up Alec’s spine. He was not a dragon! The dragon had said so.

  “Alec, look,” Seregil whispered, jarring him out of his dark thoughts.

  Something dark moving against the stars.

  “Drak-kon,” said Sebrahn, his eyes like silver coins in the moonlight. Raising his arms, he sang a single clear note, the same one he’d sung to Tyrus’s great dragon. Startled looks came their way, and Alec wondered uneasily if Sebrahn was calling the dragons down from the sky.

  Little dragonlings fluttered into the colos to light on Sebrahn’s shoulders, and Alec’s, but the ones overhead remained in the sky, a huge one surrounded by countless others of all sizes.

  “Is that Tyrus’s dragon?” Alec asked, amazed and delighted. This must be the surprise Seregil had spoken of.

  “It is,” Seregil replied, smiling. “I wanted to watch this with you. And you, too, of course, Micum.”

  Micum just laughed.

  The dragons swooped and dove against the night sky, like fish playing in a stream, and the great dragon sang back to Sebrahn, his roar softened by the distance.

  Watching them, Alec’s heart swelled a little. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing, sharing a connection with something so wondrous.

  This went on until the moon was high above the peaks. Then the great beasts disappeared as quickly as they’d come.

  Adzriel turned and kissed him. “Come now, my brothers, it’s time for the dancing!”

  Everyone went home to dress for the dances and parties that followed. As Alec descended the stairs from the roof with Sebrahn in his arms, he could hear the musicians tuning up in the great hall. The sound always stirred his blood, ever since Micum’s daughters had taught him how to dance, but the feeling was mingled with sudden misgivings.

  This was the night they would finally try leaving Sebrahn alone. His misgivings grew as they reached their room.

  “Seregil, I don’t know if this is a good idea,” he began, setting Sebrahn down and pulling off his mittens.

  “Oh come on, talí,” Seregil gave him a comically imploring look. “If we were in Rhíminee tonight, we’d be drunk off our assess by now. And you can’t very well dance with me lugging Sebrahn on your back. He’ll be fine here, and it’s not so far to the hall that we can’t look in on him as often as you like. As soon as we’ve danced ourselves out a little, we’ll fetch him to the party, I promise.”

  Alec cast a worried look at Sebrahn, who was staring back just as intently from his place on the bed, as if he knew exactly what was going on. Alec had trimmed and braided the rhekaro’s hair, and dressed him in the little tunic embroidered with flowers that Kheeta’s mother had made for him. There had to be some moment when Alec allowed himself to be parted from Sebrahn; it was inevitable. But did it have to be now? All the other children in the house would be there. Sebrahn hadn’t exactly made friends with anyone. However, he did seem interested in how they played, and would mimic them now and then.

  Yet Alec didn’t need the pull of their bond to see that behind Seregil’s inveigling smile was a genuine plea. Seregil pulled him close, sighed heavily for good effect, then danced him around the room. “Please, talí? Just this one time? He couldn’t be anywhere safer.” Letting Alec go, Seregil made a show of barring the shutters, then held up the iron key that they hadn’t used since their arrival.

  Alec wavered; he hadn’t danced in months, and now he could hear a reel beginning. “Well, I guess he’d be all right for a little while. Maybe …”

  “Then it’s settled! I’ll tell you what; as soon as we meet with Micum, I’ll have him look in on him for us, too.”

  “Well …”

  Seregil sensed his weakening resolve and grinned. “Good.”

  Alec sat down with Sebrahn and tried to explain. “Seregil and I are going out.” He pointed to the door, then the bed. “And you stay here, understand? Right here.”

  It was difficult to tell what Sebrahn thought of that. Alec found one of the little dolls Mydri had given him in Gedre, as if that would keep him company.

  “Come on, Alec. Listen—they’ve started without us. The musicians are already playing,” Seregil urged gently, slipping a hand under his arm.

  Alec glanced back over his shoulder as they went out. Sebrahn sat in the middle of the bed, holding the doll upside down in one hand.

  As soon as they were in the corridor Alec locked the door. More music floated down from the hall, enticing him.

  Maybe this is a good thing. Just get it over with.

  He’d just turned the key when a piercing shriek split the air.

  “Bilairy’s Balls!” Seregil yelped, clapping his hands over his ears.

  Then came a loud thud from inside the room as Sebrahn threw himself against the door, shrieking again at a pitch that made the hair on Alec’s arms stand up and his heart pound.

  “For hell’s sake, open the door!”

  “I’m trying!” The sound was like a knife grating against bone. Alec’s hands were shaking so badly that he had to use both to get the key back into the lock. When he finally got the door open Sebrahn flew at him, wrapping his arms and legs around him with shocking strength and still shrieking. Seregil dragged them both back into the bedchamber, then wrested the key from Alec’s clenched fingers and locked the door from the inside.

  “Stop!” Alec shouted, shaking Sebrahn. The painful shriek tapered off, but Sebrahn didn’t loosen his grip.

  “It’s all right,” Alec whispered, hugging Sebrahn tight. “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Scare him?” Seregil gasped, running a shaky hand back through his hair. “Bilairy’s Balls, Alec!”

  “He didn’t know what he was doing!”

  “Even worse—” Seregil broke off suddenly, staring at Sebrahn. “Don’t move, Alec,” he whispered. “You’re bleeding.”

&
nbsp; “What?”

  “Your nose is bleeding, and Sebrahn’s eyes are completely black. Tell him not to hurt me.”

  “He wouldn’t—” Alec could taste blood on his lips now, and remembered how Sebrahn had hissed at Seregil in Gedre. He got a hand under the rhekaro’s chin and raised his face. Sure enough, Sebrahn’s pupils were dilated like a cat’s in the dark, with only a thin rim of silver showing around them. “It’s all right now,” he soothed, not really believing that as he stroked Sebrahn’s hair. “If you hurt anyone, I’ll be sad. Do you understand? You will make me very sad. Tell me if you understand, Sebrahn.”

  Bit by bit, Sebrahn loosened his painful grip and slid down to the floor. His eyes weren’t quite so black now, but more than Alec liked.

  He knelt and took Sebrahn by the shoulders, heart hammering against his ribs now as the shock of it all rolled over him. What if—? “Don’t ever do that again!”

  Sebrahn reached out and touched Alec’s upper lip. His finger came away bloody. He licked at it with his little grey tongue and reached out for more.

  Seregil’s hand closed over Alec’s shoulder and pulled him back. “No, Sebrahn! That’s bad. Making Alec bleed is very, very bad.”

  The rhekaro’s gaze flickered between the two of them, as if he was trying to make sense of all this. “Baaaad.”

  Alec nodded. “Bad. You hurt me. You could have hurt Seregil, too, and our friends. Never do that again!”

  “Bad,” Sebrahn whispered again. He clenched both fists against his chest and sank into a squat at Alec’s feet. His braid had come loose somehow, and his hair cascaded around his face and shoulders.

  “Sebrahn?” Alec knelt down by him.

  From behind that curtain of hair a tear fell to the floor, spattering on the polished wood, and then another. One mingled with a stray drop of Alec’s blood and formed a tiny white blossom.

  “He’s crying,” Alec whispered, amazed. He reached out to Sebrahn, but Seregil pulled him back again.