The White Road n-5 Page 5

  The unpleasant odor of the hut clung to her hair and clothes. Mounting her shaggy mare, she led the way down the trail and through the Retha’noi village, then took the steep, packed snow road beyond at a gallop, enjoying the rush of sharp, clean wind against her face.

  Turmay sat staring into the fire for some time after Belan and the khirnari had gone, running his fingers around the journey band; the balance must be kept. The length of the journey between the doors of life and death was for the Mother to decide, and those journeys—like a river—flowed in only one direction. The white child changed this. The Mother was angry.

  He regarded the oo’lu sadly. It was a fine instrument. He’d woven many healings with it, many births, as well as other, less kind magic when necessary. He’d had this one almost ten years, and waited for the time its patterns foretold.

  No witch made his own oo’lu. No, you searched for a hollow branch or sapling large enough to play well, preferably one hollowed by ants. Then you took it to the oldest witch you could find, for him to make it and sing it into being. It was the old one who had the visions and painted them into the rings of the oo’lu, and he who sang the fire song and tossed the new horn across the campfire for you to catch and mark the part of your destiny that would happen next. When the destiny of that oo’lu had been fulfilled, the instrument cracked. Then it was time for a new oo’lu, a new path. On this oo’lu, the old witch Rao, long dead now, had painted one ring that had never been painted before in Turmay’s lifetime, perhaps never before ever. This was one of the ones his handprint had spanned, together with Wanderer, Uniter, and Father of Many. Not even Rao had known what this other ring was called, or why the Mother had put it into his dreams.

  “You will know when you know,” the old witch had said with a shrug.

  So far only Father of Many had come to pass; not only his own, but the babies he played into men’s loins and women’s bellies at the moon festivals. He had not wandered nor united anyone in a way that had cracked this oo’lu, but ever since he’d dreamed the white child, he didn’t expect to carry it much longer. But the Mother had not yet shown him how to accomplish her purpose—to destroy the white child.

  Seneth arrived home to find the captain of the Ebrados riders waiting for her in the hall. Rieser í Stellen, who was also a carpenter when the Ebrados were not needed, rose from his seat by the hearth and bowed respectfully. Tall Rieser he was called, for the fact that this lean stork of a man stood half a head taller than anyone else in the clan, and favored dark clothing, which made him look even taller. He was also known as Rieser the Grim, for reasons just as obvious; he was not a joyful man. All the same, his keen grey eyes betrayed his anticipation as she handed her coat to a servant and sat down by the fire to pull off her boots.

  “What news, Khirnari?” he asked.

  “It’s time to gather your riders, my friend. I know where you must go.”

  “We can be off at dawn.”

  Seneth leaned forward to warm the chill from her hands. “Sit with me, and I will tell you the route. And you’ll have a guide, one whom I think will prove most useful. Do you know a Retha’noi named Turmay?”

  “I do. He’s an honorable man—and a powerful witch, by all accounts. But how will he guide us?”

  “He and Belan have worked out where the tayan’gil is. It is in Aurënen, in a town on the northern coast.”

  “Really?” He looked at once surprised and uncharacteristically pleased. “It will be good to see that land. I still have my grandmother’s green sen’gai.” He absently touched the blue-and-white sen’gai all Hâzadriëlfaie wore: blue for the sky, under which Hâzadriël and her people had wandered for so long, banded with white for the White Road they’d traveled, and which ran in their veins. It was time to follow that road again.

  He paused, then said, “Could it be her child who’s behind this?”

  “Or the White Road blood has appeared again in Aurënen, but I think it more likely that you are right.”

  Rieser shook his head with a grim smile. “If I am, what should I do with the ya’shel?”

  “Bring him back if possible. If not, then kill him.”

  Rieser rose and bowed with a hand to his heart. “I’m honored to ride again, Khirnari.”

  Seneth smiled up at him. “You have never failed me, Rieser í Stellen. I wish you a safe journey and a successful hunt.”

  For as long as the followers of Hâzadriël had lived in this valley, there had been Ebrados—the Hunters of the White Road—and for the past fifty-eight years Rieser í Stellen had been one of them. The Ebrados weren’t called upon often anymore; the generation that had settled this valley was long dead, and most of the people now didn’t look past the mountains that guarded them for anything they wanted. Occasionally a few adventurous youngsters tried to sneak out through the pass. If the guards didn’t see them, the Ebrados went to bring them back. There had been only a few serious cases in the last hundred years, and all but one successfully hunted down.

  Ireya ä Shaar had been the exception; her name was a bitter taste on the tongue of the clan. She had lain with a Tírfaie, a fact revealed at the child’s birth; no ’faie child had yellow hair and eyes the color of dusk on a winter’s night. No one knew how she’d met the man, or why she had betrayed her own people to bear a forbidden half-breed son, only that she had given him to his father to save. Her own brothers had killed her, and the Tír man had killed them. He and the child had never been found.

  Syall í Konthus had been captain then, and they’d spent the whole summer trying to track down the mysterious Tír and the baby, but to no avail. Month after month, Syall rode out, even after the khirnari called off the hunt and none of the other Ebrados would go with him, until one spring day when his horse found her way back to the clan stables riderless. The dried blood crusted on her withers and the saddle were evidence enough to guess that he might have found his quarry, after all, or some other misadventure in the outer world. Whatever the case, he never came back. Scouts went out periodically, but none had found a trace of him, or the half-breed child, who must be nearly man-grown by now, in the way of mixed bloods.

  Rane and Thiren, Syall’s eldest sons, had been elected to the Ebrados for this trip, and they were the only ones among all his riders about whom Rieser had any concerns, suspecting that theirs was a duty born of vengeance. Emotion had no place in this work.

  The rest—Nowen, Sona, Taegil, Morai, Relian, Sorengil, Kalien, Allia, and Hâzadriën—had ridden with him for years. They were among the best riders, swordsmen, and archers of the clan, chosen for their prowess and bravery. Hâzadriën was the exception, but this old friend had other skills. There wasn’t a man or woman among them about whom Rieser had the least doubt.

  The trail they were to follow this time was two decades cold, and retraced that journey five centuries ago. Rieser liked a good challenge.

  He gathered with the others in the main courtyard of the clan house the following morning. The khirnari and Turmay were already there waiting for them. The Retha’noi was dressed in thick sheepskin garments, his coat decorated with animal teeth sewn on in patterns like beads. Turmay’s horse had a ’faie saddle and one small bundle hanging from it, and he carried his oo’lu strapped across his back. Rieser had never seen any witch man without one.

  Rieser nodded to him. “It’s good to see you again, friend. So you’re to be our guide?”

  “Yes. Together we will ride your white road, and find the white child.”

  Rieser blinked in surprise. The white road was never spoken of to outsiders. Then again, Turmay was a witch—a hard person to keep secrets from, it seemed.

  Seneth gave them her blessing, and Rieser led his riders out of the courtyard and down the river road at a gallop. Turmay rode beside him, as at ease as any of them in the saddle.

  Sledges had packed the road smooth, making for an easy ride down the long slope of the valley to the mouth of the pass. There they all dismounted to drink and bathe their hands and fa
ces at the sacred spring, and touch the stony head of the dragon above it for luck. It had died long before they’d come here and turned to stone, as the old dragons did. Most of the body had crumbled away, but the huge head was perfect, down to the sharp spines on its muzzle. Even in winter it was still warm to the touch, as was the water. Hâzadriël had taken this as a sign that the valley was to be theirs—they who had the blood of the Great Dragon in their veins, their gift and their curse. That heritage was proven through the tayan’gil, made from some evil distillation of Hâzad blood, who had dragon’s wings and great powers of healing, as the dragons of their homeland were said to.

  The Retha’noi people had been here already, but they kept to the heights with their herds and witches, and welcomed the lowlanders when the Hâzad proved to them they meant no harm.

  Turmay didn’t drink, but instead sprinkled spring water on his oo’lu.

  “Why are you doing that?” asked Rane.

  Turmay rubbed his wet hand up and down the long horn. “So your moon god will help me find the white child, too. My Mother doesn’t mind if I pray to your Aura for guidance, since it is one of your kind that we seek.”

  “You call it a child. Why?”

  Turmay shrugged. “Because it’s small like a child.”

  “You can tell what it is, even without the wings?”

  “The Mother knows and she tells me.”

  This was very strange. The last tayan’gil they had hunted down had been tall and winged, like all the others.

  The younger riders talked excitedly among themselves as they began the long ascent. This hunt, their first, would lead them far beyond the world they knew, perhaps all the way back to Aurënen. Rieser himself felt a thrill of excitement at the thought of seeing that lost homeland, even if their purpose in going there was a grim one.

  Rieser glanced over at Hâzadriën, riding to his left as always. The glamour was a good one; he looked as normal as the others and would be safe while it held. “Ready for the hunt, old friend?”

  It was habit, of course. Hâzadriën never answered or smiled, or showed any emotion for that matter. He just twitched his shoulders, settling pale, leathery wings more comfortably under his loose tunic. The glamour hid the rest.

  CHAPTER 5

  Luck and Deep Water

  THE DAY of their departure from Gedre, dark rumpled clouds hung low on the horizon and the cold wind promised rain and swift sailing. The wind whipped their cloaks around their legs and pulled at their hoods as Alec and the others said their farewells to the khirnari. It had been a week since the assassins’ attempt, and there had been no trouble since.

  “Thank you for the chances you’ve taken, harboring us here,” Seregil said, pressing a hand to his heart. “And for the care and friendship you’ve extended to my talímenios. If ever you need our help, we’ll be here like the wind.”

  “If you can manage not to get yourselves killed in the meantime,” Riagil said.

  Holding a closely bundled Sebrahn by the hand, Alec managed a grin. “We have so far.” The khirnari seemed happier today; Alec suspected Riagil was glad to see the back of them. “And thank you again for this,” he added with genuine gratitude. Riagil had given him a bow and quiver when he learned that Alec’s famous Black Radly had been lost to the slavers. It was a flat bow made of lemonwood from southern Aurënen and backed with vellum. It was as fine a one as he’d ever handled, well balanced and as light as it was strong. The limbs pulled evenly and true, with nearly the same weight as the Radly.

  With the last of the farewells said and gifts given, they boarded the ship and soon got under way. The salt-laden breeze caressed Alec’s face and pulled little tendrils from his braid as he stood at the prow with Seregil, Sebrahn between them, savoring the familiar tug of excitement as the clustered white houses and then the harbor slid away into the mist behind them. The start of any journey filled him with anticipation, and this time he was going to Bôkthersa.

  Seregil covered Alec’s gloved hand with his own and leaned close. “Deep thoughts for deep water?”

  “Not really. I’m just excited to finally be—”

  “Don’t say it!” Seregil exclaimed, grey eyes going comically wide. “You’ll jinx us.”

  Alec grinned. “Well, I hope Astellus will smile on this voyage. How’s that?”

  “I wouldn’t tempt fate.”

  “You don’t believe in fate.”

  Seregil stared out at the flock of red-winged terns winging along beside them. “Maybe I’m changing my mind about that. I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened in Plenimar.”

  “It’s over, talí,” Alec murmured, raising Seregil’s hand and kissing the back of it—a bold move for the reticent northerner, here on deck where anyone could see.

  “Not the enslavement and humiliation, Alec; how we got there in the first place. A man I knew nearly five decades ago, the man who changed the entire course of my life—and there Ilar was in Yhakobin’s house, at the center of the web that caught us!” He plucked one of Sebrahn’s long hairs from Alec’s shoulder. “And the bastard has changed my life again, hasn’t he?” He let the wind take the strand. “And yours.”

  “I’ve been thinking about Ilar a lot, too. The first time you ever told me about him, you swore you’d kill him on sight, but in the end you took pity on him instead.”

  Seregil rested his elbows on the rail and heaved a weary sigh. “Are you still jealous? Do you think I was weak for saving him?”

  “Weak? No, you were merciful. I know I was angry at the time, talí, but looking back, I’m glad.”

  Seregil raised a skeptical brow. “So you’re not jealous anymore?”

  It was Alec’s turn to stare out across the waves. “That pathetic eunuch? What is there to be jealous of?”

  “As I recall, you weren’t so philosophical at the time.”

  “Not when I caught him trying to kiss you down there by that stream. And he betrayed me, too, just like he did you, after making me trust him all that time in Yhakobin’s house.”

  “But before you knew the truth? What did you think of him when you still thought he was ‘Khenir’?”

  Alec looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he had liked the man. But only because Ilar had been kind to him—a seeming friend in a friendless place. “He was still lying,” he said, stubbornly shaking off the thought. “So what do you think? Is he alive?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe he died with Yhakobin and the others when Sebrahn sang. He couldn’t have gotten that far away.”

  Seregil looked down at Sebrahn thoughtfully. “Maybe. We still don’t know what Sebrahn’s range is. Either way, I doubt we’ll be seeing Ilar again. Let it go, talí.”

  Alec turned and looked landward. The mist was thinning, and he could make out a line of jagged, snowcapped peaks. The Ashek range followed the northern curve of Aurënen, embracing the deep blue Osiat like a giant’s necklace. Bôkthersa lay deep in the mountains to the west, a fai’thast of green valleys and sweet water. The sen’gais Adzriel and Mydri wore were that same green, the long tails of them fluttering in the wind.

  “How many tries does this make?” Micum asked as he joined them at the rail.

  “This makes three,” said Alec.

  Micum grinned. “Three’s a lucky number. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make an offering. A coin over the right shoulder for Astellus should do the trick.”

  Alec fished a sester coin from his purse and held it a moment on his open palm, letting the sunlight catch the finely stamped design. A crescent moon with five rays cradled a flame: moon and fire; Ilior and Sakor, the patrons of Skala and the royal family. The first time he’d seen one of these was soon after he and Seregil had met, and Seregil had taught him some sleight of hand. He smiled to himself as he rolled it expertly across the backs of his fingers, then palmed it and shot it up his sleeve.

  Micum chuckled. “No wonder you are such a terror at the gaming tab
les.”

  Alec cast the coin over his shoulder into the water.

  Seregil produced a small owl feather from his purse and let the wind take it. “Luck in the shadows.”

  “And in the Light,” Alec murmured.

  The Old Sailor was on their side this time. They sailed through a few small squalls and were pelted with sudden hail, but the wind remained at their back. Alec loved the storms, the wind, the pitching of the ship. It was exciting. But even on clear days, the Osiat was rough and they had to put in near shore each night. Alec, Micum, and Seregil sang for the crew as the ship rode at anchor, and listened to the others tell tall tales and old sorrows.

  They passed the time at cards and dice and bakshi, too, and the money washed back and forth between the travelers and the sailors. Seregil was particularly lucky, and narrowly avoided a fistfight one night when a crewman accused him of cheating, which—for once—he wasn’t.

  In the quiet of their cabin another night, Seregil’s thoughts turned to home and he spoke of old friends there, including his childhood friend, Kheeta í Branin.

  Alec had met Kheeta in Sarikali and liked him well enough, once he got past wondering if Seregil and he had been more than friends. Seregil referred to Kheeta as “cousin,” but that was common within a clan, especially among social equals; it seemed everyone was addressed as “cousin,” “aunt,” “uncle,” “brother,” or “sister.” It was hard sometimes to figure out if it was to be taken literally or not.

  Seregil chuckled warmly. “I wonder what my uncle Akaien will make of you?”

  “I hope he approves.” Alec was only half joking. Akaien was one of the few family members Seregil had ever mentioned in their early days together. This uncle, a swordsmith by trade, had also been a smuggler. Under Aurënen’s Edict of Separation, Virésse had been the only legal port for trade with the Three Lands. However, that hadn’t stopped clandestine trade, and Akaien had brought his young nephew along. Seregil had told him stories of sailing out under a dark traitor’s moon to meet and trade with Skalan ships. The fondness in his voice made Alec think that this Akaien í Solun must be a very different sort than his brother, Seregil’s father.