The White Road (19 page)

Akaien gave him a grin much like Seregil’s. “I know that.”

When the tools were finished, Seregil turned tailor, sewing the canvas rolls with thin pockets to carry the tools in a small, compact bundle.

Alone in their room, Seregil rolled and tied one set and tossed it to Alec. “Now we’re ready for anything.”

The following afternoon Mydri sent word that she wanted to speak with Alec—alone.

She had a small house of her own on the south side of the clan compound. With Sebrahn at his side, Alec knocked softly at her door.

She apparently had no use for servants, for she opened it herself. “Don’t stand there gawking on the mat. Come in,” she ordered brusquely, although she was smiling.

The front room was given over to cots for the sick, bundles of herbs, and other accoutrements of her art. She led him through to a pleasant room overlooking the valley. He caught a glimpse of a tidy kitchen through an open door and smelled something sweet baking there.

“May I look at the wounds you received in Plenimar?” she asked.

Alec pulled down the neck of his tunic, showing her the faint scars on his chest and throat where the slave takers’ arrows had struck.

She ran her fingers over them, feeling carefully through his skin to the vessels and throat beyond. “You have no trouble swallowing or talking?”

“No.”

“Weakness in your limbs?”

“No, I’m fine, really!”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“So, what do—”

“Not so fast, little brother. This is a civilized house. Tea first.” Leaving him, she went to the kitchen.

Alec sat down in a rocking chair. Sebrahn went to the window overlooking a snowy herb garden and gazed out. Mydri returned a few moments later with a tray loaded with a steaming pot, mugs, a cream pitcher, and a plate of round spice cookies, still warm from the oven.

She set the tray on a little table between his rocker and a sagging armchair and poured for them both, adding cream
without asking. Alec sipped his tea and was glad of the slaking; she brewed it even stronger than her brother did.

She popped a cookie in her mouth. “Go on,” she urged when Alec shyly kept to his tea. “They’re not poison.”

Alec took one, wondering why he was always so nervous around the women. The cookie was delicious, laced with anise and honey, and he took a second more eagerly.

“That’s better. Now, I want to talk to you about Sebrahn, and I want you to listen closely.”

“Of course, older sister.” He still felt awkward using the title, but knew it pleased her.

“I use magic in my healing,” she told him, running a finger over the lines under her right eye. “But I also rely on my simples and tinctures, and a hot knife when necessary. It’s a skill, healing, not a trick.”

“Sebrahn’s healings aren’t a trick.”

“Of course not. But you must understand that they are nothing but magic, and sometimes magic doesn’t last. Why do you think I keep checking your wounds, and Seregil’s?”

That had never occurred to him. He thought of the first person Sebrahn had healed, revealing his power. What if that girl’s leg had gotten worse again, after they left? What if the gash high up on the inside of Seregil’s thigh opened up? And what about his own wounds? “So do you understand now, Alec Two Lives?”

“You think the healing will wear off, and I’ll drop dead?”

“We don’t know that it won’t.”

She set her cup back on the tray, then reached into a basket beside her and took out some knitting—a half-finished mitten like the green-and-white pair she’d given him, but blue this time. She set to work, wooden needles clicking swiftly. How could she just sit there and calmly knit after that?

“I think you’re wrong,” he managed at last.

“And why is that?”

“If his magic doesn’t last, then why would the alchemist go to such trouble to make one? Yhakobin didn’t know Sebrahn could kill, but he knew their bodies and blood could be used to make some elixir. And maybe he knew Sebrahn had the power to give life, as well.”

“And wouldn’t that be worth any risk to recover Sebrahn and you? And all the more reason to think that whoever is left in Plenimar who knows the secret of his existence will not let you go so easily.”

“That’s not going to happen again,” he vowed, meeting her gaze without wavering this time. “I’ll die first. And this time for good.”

She looked up from her knitting. “Don’t say that lightly, little brother, in case one of your gods is listening.”

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.

Making Use of the Useless

U
LAN Í
S
ATHIL’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.

Moonlight and Snow