Authors: Lynn Flewelling
Thero arrived at sunset on the third day as Seregil sat plucking his harp by the fireside. The young wizard was dressed in ordinary riding clothes and could have easily passed as one of the traders Micum was currently drinking with. His dark, curly hair was pulled back in a black ribbon, and a few days’ worth of stubble darkened his thin cheeks. He caught sight of Seregil and pushed his way through the crowd to clap him on the shoulder. “Greetings, friend! I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”
“Not at all, friend. I have a room for us. Come. I’ll show you.”
“Hold on. You can help me first.”
Thero led the way out to the stable, where Seregil and Alec’s horses were tethered. Cynril nickered contentedly as Seregil leaned over the side of the stall to rub the tall black mare’s nose. Alec’s brown mare Patch and chestnut stallion, Windrunner, were in the next two stalls. Alec would be glad to have Patch back, preferring the scrubby brown mare to Windrunner, even if she did try to eat every bit of leather within reach, including belts and purses, not to mention tack left hanging unwisely in her stall. Seregil crossed to the other stalls and stroked his grey gelding Star’s neck. “Hello there, boy. Ready for a proper journey after all that lazing around?”
Several heavy packs lay in a heap on the clean straw of another. “I didn’t know what you wanted,” said Thero, “so your man Runcer packed a bit of everything, including this.” He handed Seregil a heavy money purse, then wrinkled his nose at the tunic Seregil had been wearing since they’d left Madlen’s house.
“The innkeeper doesn’t do laundry,” Seregil said ruefully.
Even though he’d bathed again last night, his clothes were getting rather ripe.
“Your hair has grown quite a lot since I last saw you,” Thero remarked as they hefted the bags and carried them inside.
Seregil grinned and ran his fingers back through his dark hair; it was a bit past his shoulders now and not so ragged as it had been, thanks to Alec’s careful trimmings. Between that and the daily attention to Sebrahn’s ever-growing hair, Alec could probably set up shop as a barber when they got back to Rhíminee. Assuming they did.
Micum met them and insisted on taking one of the small bags as he stumped up the two steep flights behind them.
Alec was on the bed with Sebrahn, pitching cards at the washbasin and looking very bored. He brightened up at the sight of Thero. “You made it! Any news?”
As Thero bent to set his packs down under the window, however, he caught sight of Alec’s bloodstained coat, thrown into a corner and forgotten. He looked around at the rest of them in surprise. “Who’s wounded?”
Seregil held a finger up to his lips and waited until Micum closed the door.
Thero cast a ward on it to keep out prying ears. “What happened? Who’s hurt?”
Alec pulled down the back of his shirt to show Thero his latest scar. It hardly showed, after Sebrahn’s healing. “We were ambushed and one of their archers hit me in the back, but I’m fine.”
“When did this happen?”
“A few days ago,” Seregil told him. “There were a dozen or so and they caught us by surprise.”
“Bandits?”
“I don’t think so,” said Micum. “The arrow that struck Alec was of Aurënfaie make.”
“Why wait until then to ambush you? And why would ’faie attack you, anyway?”
“We aren’t sure about any of that.”
“They wore animal masks,” Alec told him. “Ever hear of anything like that?”
Thero shook his head. “Not that I recall. Where did you get the Skalan clothing, by the way? Steal it from some poor cottager’s clothesline?”
“We spent a night at Madlen’s.”
“Ah, good. I hope you found her well?”
“Same as ever.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Thero opened one of the packs and took out a leather tobacco pouch wrapped in string. “I thought you might need this.” Grinning, he tossed it over to Micum.
Micum pulled the string loose and lifted the flap to sniff the contents. “Oh, that’s good! Many thanks, Thero. That was kind of you.”
“Nothing for me?” asked Alec.
Thero took out a small cloth drawstring bag and handed it to him. “Hundred Year Plums. I guessed you hadn’t had any for a long time.”
Alec eagerly opened the bag and offered the sweets to Seregil, who declined. They were made in Rhíminee, where a particular small, tart plum grew. Once harvested, they were pitted, stuffed with ground pepper, then packed in salt for months, until they were wizened and black, and looked as if they were a hundred years old. The combination of salt, tart, and hot wasn’t to Seregil’s taste, but Alec loved them.
Thero sat down on the bed next to Sebrahn. “So you saved Alec again, did you? You’re a useful little fellow.”
“But a conspicuous one,” said Seregil. “Your transformation is wearing off.”
“So I see,” said Thero, taking in Sebrahn’s piebald appearance.
Seregil turned Sebrahn’s face to the light, then pushed up his sleeves, showing the wizard the patches of blotchy white showing through the tan skin. There was more silver than blond in his hair now, too.
Thero passed his hands over Sebrahn’s hair and shoulders. “It’s as if it’s worn off, like paint. I’m afraid all I can do is reset the spell and hope it lasts as long as the previous one. So, what will you do now? I assume you’re still going to avoid Rhíminee?”
Seregil exchanged a look with Alec, then said, “We’re going to Plenimar.”
Thero stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t be serious. Why?”
“We have reason to believe that Yhakobin had books on how the rhekaros are made. If we can get those, it will not only tell us more about Sebrahn and how to handle him, but also keep any more from being made.” It had sounded better when they’d come up with the plan.
“I don’t suppose I can talk sense into any of you?”
“No,” said Alec.
“Well then, how do you mean to go about it?”
“I know a good man with a good ship, who happens to be at my beck and call.”
Alec grinned. “Captain Rhal. I hope he still has that sighting charm nailed to the mast.”
“He does,” the wizard told him. “I dined with him a month ago, aboard the
Lady
, and he had me make certain the magic was still in place on it.”
“So tell me, Thero, where is that ship of mine?” asked Seregil.
Micum and Alec shared an amused look. Seregil knew it was at his expense.
Thero climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged in the middle of it. “Give me a moment.” He closed his eyes and pressed his palms together, pointing away from him. After only a moment he opened his eyes. “He’s in Nanta harbor.”
“Damn,” muttered Seregil. “It will take him a month or more to get here, this time of year.”
“Indeed.” Thero paused a moment. “There is another route you could take, though it’s not an easy one. Do you know of Tamír’s Road?”
“I know the queen’s name, but I didn’t know she had her own road.”
“It goes through the central mountains of Skala from near Rhíminee to Ero,” the wizard explained. “It’s said to be the route Tamír the Great and her army took to outflank her usurper cousin for their final battle. Rhíminee was built on that same battlefield.”
“And it still exists?” asked Micum.
“It’s actually more of a trail than a road,” Thero explained. “The mouth of it is hidden, but I can show you. I’ve been down it with Magyana.”
“And it comes out at Ero?” asked Alec. “I thought that city was destroyed back in ancient times.”
“The city was,” Seregil told him. “All that remains of it are some ruins up on a hill, and bits of the city wall. There’s still a little village down at the harbor, though, called Beggar’s Bridge. I’ve been there a time or two. Rhal can meet us there.”
“Is the trail even passable this time of year?” asked Alec.
“It should be. The passes aren’t that high,” Thero explained.
“I’ve heard that some strange folk live up in the mountains,” said Micum.
“Yes, though you’re not likely to see any along the road. They avoid travelers.”
“How long will it take us, do you think?” asked Micum.
Thero thought a moment. “Ten days—maybe two weeks to Beggar’s Bridge, if the weather doesn’t slow you down.”
“All right then. Tamír’s Road it is!” said Seregil. “Send word to Rhal to meet us there.”
Thero cast a message spell and a little point of light sprang to life in front of him. “Captain Rhal, Lord Seregil sends word that’s it’s time to honor your bargain again. Please be at Ero Harbor by the first day of Klesin.” He looked up at Seregil. “Anything to add?”
“Wait for us there and have someone we know keep watch for us at Sea Horse Tavern.”
Thero nodded and sent the light speeding off to the east. It disappeared through the window and was gone. “That gets you to Plenimar, but how can you take Sebrahn there? You three might be able to blend in, but he won’t.”
Seregil nodded. “I haven’t worked that out yet. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Not that I can think of. And what about you, Alec?” the wizard asked, reaching out to tug the end of Alec’s braid. “This hair of yours is like a beacon.”
“Do it.”
“Red or brown?”
“What? Oh—brown.”
Seregil gave Thero a strand of his hair and Thero performed the transformation spell, leaving Alec’s the same dark brown, then did the same to Sebrahn’s and used the pouch of brown powder to restore the color of his skin. “There. It makes you both look almost full ’faie. I only hope it holds long enough this time for you to do what you need to do.”
Alec held up his braid. “Changing the color may not be enough. I think it’s time to cut it.”
“I’m afraid so,” Seregil said with a pained look. “I’ll ask the innkeeper for a pair of shears.”
Thero shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m helping you. It’s pure madness.”
“There’s no help for it. Aside from Ravensfell—where we would most assuredly be killed—where else are we going to find out how to manage Sebrahn?” asked Seregil. “I assumed you’d be the most interested in such knowledge.”
“I assume you know where to look once you get there?”
“Well, I know what it looks like,” Alec told him. “Yhakobin had all sorts of books lying around in a workshop.”
Thero shook his head. “And you’re assuming that the one you want is still there, with its owner dead?”
“If it isn’t, then we’ll find out who took it,” Seregil said with a shrug, though the more he tried to convince the wizard, the worse it all sounded, even to him.
“Assuming we don’t all get killed,” Thero noted dryly.
Seregil arched an eyebrow at that. “Who said anything about ‘we’? You’re not going.”
“And who are you to tell me that?”
Micum laughed at that.
“It’s going to be dangerous enough for ’faie to go in with a magical creature like no other in tow,” Seregil explained as patiently as he could. “Your wizard blood and magic as strong as yours is? They would make you shine like a torch
to any necromancer we encounter. Maybe alchemists and Plenimaran wizards, too. You’d be more liability than help.”
“Liability?” Thero looked like he was about to launch into a lengthy retort, but he stopped instead and nodded. “That’s probably true. But I’ll take you as far as the beginning of the road and show you where it is.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you about the rest of it, Thero,” Seregil told him. “I never doubt your skills, or your bravery.”
Thero raised a dubious eyebrow. “Thank you.”
“Now, about that slave mark?” said Micum.
“Slave mark?”
“The slavers branded us on the arm and leg. Every slave bears the marks,” Seregil explained.
Alec took out a small bit of parchment and showed Thero the design he’d created. “Yhakobin’s mark was round, but I saw some square ones like this, too. This is the size.”
“And I’m to be their new master.” Micum said, grinning at Seregil. “I’m rather looking forward to it, too.”
Thero sat down by the room’s single lamp and held the design to the light. “Yes, I think I can do that in a way that won’t leave any traces of the spell. Who wants to go first?”
Seregil pulled his right sleeve back. “Right here, on the underside of the forearm.”
Thero pressed his hands together under his chin, chanting softly, and Seregil felt the air around them begin to crackle and warm. He clenched his teeth against the sudden pain as Thero closed his right hand over Seregil’s arm and gripped it tightly. The pain only lasted a moment, but it felt like a hot iron had been pressed to his skin again.
When Thero took his hand away, the others leaned in to see the square outline of the slave mark just where the old one had been. It was slightly raised and had a faded look, pale against Seregil’s fair skin.
“Will that do?”
“It’s perfect!” Seregil smiled as he ran a thumb over it. “I take it this doesn’t have any magic clinging to it, either?”
“No, it’s just a transformation spell, like Sebrahn’s hair. I altered your skin. I’ll change it back when you’re done with it.”
“Did it hurt?” asked Alec.
“Yes, it did.” Seregil gave him a crooked grin as he pulled off his left boot. “But it was still much nicer than the way the slavers do it. I need one on the back of my left calf, as well.”
Thero invoked the spell again and laid a hand on the back of Seregil’s calf. The fleeting pain took hold and the mark appeared. Thero made the brands on Alec’s arm and leg, then turned to Sebrahn. “What about him?”
“Why not let him be my son?” Micum suggested. “He won’t be much use as a slave.”
Alec shook his head. “Sooner or later we might end up having to stay in someone’s slave quarters, away from you and Sebrahn. And you know what happened last time we tried that.”
“What happened?” asked Thero.
Seregil described Sebrahn’s “tantrum” and its aftereffects. “It will be hard enough to keep him from seeing every Plenimaran as an enemy.”
“Are you certain that a necromancer won’t sense him?” asked Alec.
“Certain? No, but we don’t have much choice at this point. Thero, will you try that spell on Sebrahn?”
Thero approached the rhekaro again with obvious trepidation.
Alec pulled Sebrahn into his lap and held the rhekaro’s right arm out to the wizard. “This will hurt a little, but it’s all right.”