The White Road (36 page)

When the carriage came to a halt, it took all his tattered will to get out. He’d never imagined being here again, walking up these white marble steps between the tall red pillars that flanked the ornate double doors of the entrance.

Servants Ilar recognized met them and escorted them into the black-and-white paved courtyard. One of them was Ahmol, who had been Ilban’s assistant. Ilar nearly fainted when the man gave him a sharp look, but Ahmol showed no sign that he recognized him.

The front courtyard looked just the same—the long fountain pool surrounded with statues, the shaded portico, and, at the far end, the archway through which lay his dead master’s workshop. Ilbana Meran and her two young children—little master Osri and his younger sister, Amela—met them there, and Ilar was introduced as a newly ransomed slave. To Ilar’s relief, she hardly spared him a glance. Master Osri stared at him for a moment, though, and Ilar’s heart turned over in his breast; the child was spoiled and spiteful, and had always treated Ilar with contempt. If
he
discovered who Ilar really was, he would surely tell.

Ilbana did not offer the khirnari her hand, and greeted him with a somewhat questioning look. As Ulan had told him,
relations had not been warm between them. “Ulan í Sathil, welcome back to my home, though I fear you will find it empty without my husband to entertain you.” Her tone was not as welcoming as her words.

“That’s quite all right,” Ulan assured her. “I am grateful for your hospitality.”

“Of course. I’ve had rooms prepared in the east wing for you and your people.”

The one with the windows overlooking the workshop yard
, Ilar thought with a shudder, wondering if the whipping post was still there.

Suddenly Ilbana turned and looked straight at him. “And this one? It’s not safe to let him walk around without you, even if he is a freedman. We had several slaves escape this past winter. You remember Khenir, I’m sure. He was one of them. The other two were new. I never knew their names, but I believe they are the ones who murdered my husband. My guards are very protective of the children and me. It wouldn’t do for this veiled one to wander about unescorted, especially at night.”

“I understand. I prefer to keep him by me in any event. He is quite invaluable as a servant, no doubt due to his training as a slave. He was only a boy when he was brought here from Virésse.” The khirnari spoke lightly, though the kidnapping and enslavement of his clan members would have been a blood feud offense on Aurënen soil.

“Why does he still wear the veil, if he’s free?” the boy demanded rudely.

“He is too frightened not to, in this land,” Ulan replied calmly, smiling as if Osri had addressed him with proper respect.

“What is your name?” little Amela lisped, staring up at him now with wide brown eyes.

Ilar’s mouth went dry and he nearly blurted it before Ulan spoke for him.

“He is called Nira, and he is a mute,” he told the girl, then, to her mother, “Another reason to keep him by me. He’s quite timid.”

“Ah, I see. Just as well, I suppose. At least he has attractive eyes.”

Much to Ilar’s relief, she then appeared to dismiss him from her mind altogether. Like any slave, he might as well be empty air unless she had some use for him.

Ulan waited several days before broaching the subject of Ilban’s workshop. He really did have business to attend to, including a shipment of ransomed slaves Yhakobin had assembled for him. Some were still at the barns—Ulan had kindly left Ilar under guard in the carriage when they went there—while others had been sold, and so had to be tracked down all over again.

The khirnari also dined with the family, and seemed intent on becoming their friend. He played with the children in the garden beyond the workshop, watching them play ball and helping to feed the precious fish in the fountain basin. Ulan had brought them clever Aurënfaie toys, too, and soon even Osri began to warm to him, even though the khirnari was “only a ’faie.”

Ilar felt lightheaded the first time they walked through the archway to the courtyard that had been Ilban’s. The workshop loomed at the back of it, by the tinkling wall fountain and the herb beds. It had been one of Ilar’s tasks to gather and dry the herbs. A few green sprouts were pushing up through the compost—mints, chives, mugwort, and the nightshades and dragon tongue vines he’d worn gloves to handle. The whipping post was still there, too, with a hank of frayed rope dangling from the iron ring at the top.

Finally, over breakfast on the fourth day, Ulan said to Ilbana, “I do miss your husband. Would you mind if I visited his workshop?”

She looked up in surprise. “I wasn’t aware he had ever taken you there.”

“But he spoke of it often. I’ve always been curious, and since there are no experiments to interrupt—”

“Well, I suppose so.” She dabbed sudden tears from her eyes with her napkin. “I’ve kept everything just as it was.”

“Most admirable. I’m sure he would want it so, my dear.”

She gestured to Ahmol, who was in attendance that morning. “Unlock the workshop for the khirnari and show him whatever he wants to see.”

Ilar glanced nervously at his protector, but Ulan merely smiled, apparently unconcerned that they would have a witness.

When the meal was done, they followed the servant through the fountain court and down the stairs to the workshop. Ahmol took out the big iron key and opened the door, then stood back to allow Ulan to enter. Ilar followed on his heels, keeping his face down and hoping Ahmol didn’t look too closely at him.

Ahmol pulled on the ropes that operated the skylights and bright morning sunshine filled the large room. The cold air was dusty and stale with the mingled scents of the dead coals on the forge, and the herbs and roots filling the simples chest and hanging from the rafters in their faded cloth bags among the dried carcasses of frogs and lizards and dragonlings.

To Ilar’s considerable relief, the little painted pavilion still stood at the far end of the room. The flap was tied down with black ribbon, as always. If Ahmol hadn’t been there watching them, he’d have gone to it immediately. Instead, he looked around the workshop, feeling empty and sad inside. Until that last terrible night, Ilban had treated him kindly, and made him feel valued and useful as Ilar crushed bits of ore for him, or tended the cylindrical brick furnace that dominated the center of the room. The small windows near the top that had looked like glowing golden eyes when it was stoked were just black circles now.

The tall bookcases and cabinets looked just the same, too, orderly and carefully arranged. Calipers and tongs lay forgotten on the forge; the worktables were littered with instruments, stacks of precious metals, and books left open next to stained crucibles, as if Ilban had only just stepped out for a turn in the garden. The glass distillation vessels sat gathering dust on their iron stands, the largest coated inside with the dregs of the rhekaro blood concoction Ilban had been working on when he died. The thin copper tubes sticking out
of the pear-shaped retort were already going green with tarnish.

Chains that had once bound Alec to the large anvil near the forge lay where they had last fallen, still attached to the big iron ring on its base. The leather funnel they had used to force the purifying tinctures down Alec’s throat had rolled into a corner to gather dust. Ilar wondered if Ahmol or Ilbana knew of the secret tunnel hidden under the trapdoor to which the anvil was bolted. He hadn’t even told Ulan about that. Now he wondered why.

Ahmol led Ulan downstairs, past the holding room at the landing, and on to the small, dirt-floored cellar under the far end of the workshop where the rhekaros had been made. The flat metal cage hung from the ceiling joists, and the hole in the earth that the last rhekaro had been birthed from had not been filled in. It was damp here, and smelled faintly of blood and metal.

Under the watchful eye of the servant, Ulan looked his fill, then thanked the man and left.

That night at supper he spoke enthusiastically of what he’d seen, in particular praising Ilban’s library.

“If it would not be asking too much, dear lady, might I go there and read tonight? There are so many fascinating titles, and I must soon leave you.”

She hesitated, then nodded graciously. “I ask only that you put them back exactly as they were when you are done.”

“But of course!”

After that it was a simple enough matter to request the key and a pot of tea. Ahmol escorted them, as before, but took his leave when he was finished lighting the lamps. They’d worn cloaks against the chill, since Ilbana had asked that they not build a fire.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Ulan went to the pavilion. “Come, now. You must open it for me. My knees are too painful to bend that much today.”

Poor Ulan
, thought Ilar as he pulled the black ribbons loose and threw back the flap. The villa did not have the elaborate bathing chamber that Ulan enjoyed at home, and the old man had missed his daily soaks.

Inside he found a few leather pouches, a golden cup he’d seen Ilban use a few times for special concoctions, and a large brass-bound casket.

“This must hold the books,” he said, dragging it out. He tried the lid, but it was locked.

Ulan bent and touched a fingertip to the brass faceplate of the large lock, and Ilar heard the click of the tumblers falling. Ulan smiled as he opened the lid and had Ilar lift out the three large tomes it held.

“Now, are these the one you saw?”

“Yes. This one with the red leather cover is the one he used most often.” Ilar opened it and they saw that it was indeed written with normal letters, but arranged in such as fashion as to be total gibberish without the key to the code.

Ilar carried the books over to the chair under the lamp, and Ulan sat and paged through the red one to the picture of the rhekaro. In fact, there were several in what appeared to be a chapter devoted to their making. Other sections were illustrated with other creatures and objects, and intricate designs that Ilar could make no sense of.

“Well done, my dear fellow,” Ulan exclaimed softly. “And now, for the others.” He opened the slimmest of the three and nodded. “Ah yes. This is the one he showed me, when I last was here. It must be the least important, as it is written in plain Plenimaran. It speaks of the powers of the elixirs to be made from the rhekaro’s essences, but no doubt it does not say how they are made. All the same, it should be most useful.”

The last book appeared to be a journal. It, too, was written in code, but the script was haphazard and strayed across the pages at odd angles in places, interspersed with drawings of equipment and more of the incomprehensible designs.

“Now what?” Ilar looked nervously toward the door. What if Ahmol returned? Or Ilbana herself?

“We shall spend some hours here, enjoying the library while we wait for the house to settle,” Ulan explained. “Then we shall hide these books beneath our cloaks and hope the guards do not decide to search us. Tomorrow we will take our leave and retire for a few days in my house by the sea.”

“But what about Seregil?”

Ulan smiled. “I’m sure he can find me there.” He patted the books. “And these shall be the bait for our trap.”

“And then?”

“He was your prize once before. He will be again. Now, why don’t you pour us some tea before it gets cold?”

Heart ablaze with hope, Ilar did not notice the old man regarding him with a mix of pity and disgust.

Mixed Emotions

T
HE SUMPTUOUSLY DECORATED
ship’s cabin was the best accommodation Alec had seen since they’d left Bôkthersa. Seregil, who had a taste for luxuries of any sort, sprawled across the bed at all hours like a big contented cat, and for the first time in a very long time it was just the two of them at night. No Sebrahn. No Rieser, who looked vaguely uncomfortable whenever they so much as clasped hands. Seregil was like a man dying of thirst, and Alec was the spring. After the tension of the past weeks, lovemaking was as much relief as pleasure for both of them.

On their second morning at sea, Rhal took one look at them over breakfast and burst out laughing, as did Nettles, who was eating with them in the captain’s cabin. Alec had been amused to see that this one was decorated even more garishly than their own, but he wasn’t amused now, sensing that the laughter was at his expense.

Seregil looked up from the runny grey porridge Tarmin had served up. “What’s funny?”

“Look in the mirror, both of you,” Rhal told him. “You’ve got matching love bruises on your necks.”

“And you’ve been so quiet, too,” said Micum. “We could hardly hear you in the forecastle.”

Alec’s face went hot to the roots of his hair as he pulled up the collar of his coat. That just made the others laugh harder, of course, all of them except Rieser, who kept his attention on his breakfast, expression carefully neutral. Seregil was clearly controlling himself with an effort; he couldn’t care
less what anyone thought, but he also knew how Alec hated it when things like this happened. Not that Alec was ashamed of their relationship—far from it—but his father had been a modest man, and their lonely wandering life had left Alec ill at ease in personal matters around other people. He kept hoping he’d at least grow out of blushing, but so far he hadn’t been that lucky.