Authors: Lynn Flewelling
He looked around again as his head cleared. “Where is Sebrahn?”
The man cocked his head slightly, making him look more wolf-like. “Sebrahn?”
“The—” He searched his muddled brain for the word the man had used. “My tayan’gil.”
It was impossible to read the man’s eyes through the slotted openings, but he sounded surprisingly nonthreatening when he replied, “You named him well. Sebrahn is safe. How did you change his appearance like that?”
“I want to see him.”
Alec had judged him too soon. The man slapped him again and Alec tasted blood on his lower lip. “You are in no position to make demands, ya’shel. What magic was used?”
“Orëska.”
“Never heard of it. What name do you have?”
Alec glared at him.
The man’s thin lips curled in a way that made Alec distinctly uncomfortable as he drew a very large knife from his boot. Instead of threatening Alec, however, he went to Seregil and pressed the edge of it against the unconscious man’s cheek. “I will only ask you once more.”
“My name is Alec.”
“Alec. A Tír name.” The way the man said it sounded like an insult.
Alec was in no position to object; instead he asked, “Your sen’gai—I’ve never seen that pattern. Are you really a Hâzadriëlfaie?”
“Yes.”
“From Ravensfell?”
“Where else would we be from?”
“And you actually came looking for me?” Alec almost felt like laughing. “How in Bilairy’s name did
you find
us?”
The man just smiled that unpleasant smile.
“Now that you’ve found me—us—what are you going to do?”
“I have questions for you, but first I want you to see something.” He stepped out through the ruined doorway and
returned with several people. Alec ignored all of them except for one thin man in a red bird mask, and he only noticed him because the man was holding Sebrahn in his arms. The rhekaro clung to him like a little porie, head on his shoulder, looking perfectly at ease.
The man in the wolf mask said something to the other man, who took off his mask. He was young and unremarkable as ’faie went, except that his back seemed slightly hunched and his face showed no more expression than Sebrahn’s. The man in the wolf mask took Sebrahn from him and said something else softly as he waved a hand in front of the other’s face.
Alec stared up in amazement as the young man’s appearance changed completely. He had the same white skin and silver hair and eyes as Sebrahn. As Alec watched, he put Sebrahn down, pulled off his tunic, and unfolded—wings! Pale, leathery ones like a dragon’s; not large enough to actually fly with, maybe, but wings all the same. They extended an arm span to either side, opaque as new vellum. He stretched them as if it felt good to have them free of confinement. It probably did, too. “He’s a rhekaro!”
The man in the wolf mask was clearly amused now. “My magic is better than this Orëska’s for hiding them.”
The tall rhekaro didn’t resemble Sebrahn in his features, yet he had the same ethereal look.
Wolf face made no move to stop Sebrahn as he wiggled free and went to Alec. Kneeling beside him, brown and silver hair spread around him like a striped cloak, Sebrahn touched a cold finger to Alec’s lip, then licked the blood from it. A woman in a lynx mask placed a wooden cup of water and a small knife on the floor beside Sebrahn. He made a healing flower and pressed it to Alec’s lip. Alec’s nostrils filled with the familiar sweet smell. He ran his tongue over the healed place and waited for the others’ reactions.
The man in the wolf mask knelt beside Sebrahn and gently took his hand to let another drop fall into the cup. “I’ve never seen one this color,” he said, inspecting the new flower. “But the effect is the same. I looked at your fingers.
You feed him too much. That’s why his hair is so long. They don’t need to eat except when they’ve used their magic, or are badly injured.”
Alec thought of how depleted Sebrahn had been in Plenimar, and how it had taken days of careful feeding to bring him back to what passed for health. Clearly this man, this companion of a man-sized rhekaro, knew more than Alec did about them. “What do you want with Sebrahn? You have one of your own.”
“I’m more interested in what you want with it, ya’shel. How did you learn to create it?”
“I didn’t. It was made from me without my consent.”
“If that’s true, then why are you taking it to Plenimar?”
“We’re not.”
“I know that you are. Are you in league with the dark witches of that land?”
“That particular dark witch is dead,” said Seregil, and Alec wondered how long he’d been awake listening.
The man turned to him. “How do you know this?”
“Because I killed him.”
“Really? What proof do you have of that?”
Seregil struggled to sit up against the wall, hampered by his bound hands and feet. He was pale and had a familiar sickly look to him; whatever magic had been used on them wasn’t agreeing with him at all. Even so, he still managed to look a little cocky as he said, “We have the tayan’gil. You can see who he was made from just by looking at him, can’t you? He was made in Plenimar and we escaped with him.”
“Then why would you go back?”
“So we can keep any more tayan’gils from being made.”
“That’s a good tale.”
“I swear by Aura, it’s the truth. But I am rather curious as to why
you
have one.”
“That’s no concern of yours, Aurënfaie.” With that, the man and the one in the fox mask went outside, leaving Sebrahn with them, and the woman in the lynx mask to guard them. Alec caught a glimpse of other masked figures moving around outside as Sebrahn nestled in beside him and rested his head on Alec’s shoulder. Their guard had grey in her hair, too.
“I’m glad you’re alive!” Alec whispered to Seregil.
Seregil laughed softly. “So am I, talí.”
“And Micum?”
“He’s breathing.”
“What happened?”
“Damned if I know,” said Seregil, bracing his elbow against Micum’s hip to sit up a little more. “Can’t say I like the flavor of their magic.”
Micum grunted and sat up. “So far I don’t put much stock in Hâzadriëlfaie hospitality, either,” he said in Skalan, glancing over at their guard. “They could do with some lessons from their southern cousins.”
“So you heard?”
“About the dark witches? Yes. He must mean alchemists. And where do you suppose he got his rhekaro? Do ’faie have alchemists?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Maybe that’s why they want Sebrahn, if they can’t make them for themselves.”
“That’s enough,” the woman growled in that thick ’faie. “Speak in our language or don’t speak at all.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to their captors moving around outside. A large fire was burning, and the smells of cooking and tea drifted in with the smoke. Someone was speaking loudly and angrily now, something about revenge.
At last the woman went out, taking the torch with her, and a much smaller man with a wild mop of curly black hair came in to stare at them. Enough light came in through the doorway to see that he wore a jacket stitched with animal teeth and held an ornate staff over one shoulder. Alec had never seen anyone like him.
Half obscured by shadows now, Seregil spoke to him in a language Alec had never heard him use before.
The man shook his head and said in passable ’faie, “I do not understand you. That is not my language.”
“You’re not Dravnian?” Seregil sounded surprised.
The little man hunkered down just out of arm’s reach. “I do not know ‘Dravnian.’ Who are they?”
“They’re a people from my land who look very much like you.”
“Do they have oo’lu?” The man held out his staff, and Alec saw that it was actually hollow.
“No,” Seregil replied.
The man laughed. “Then I am certainly not a Dravnian!”
“Who are your people, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I am Turmay, witch man of the Retha’noi of the far valley.”
“Retha’noi? You live in the mountains?”
“Where else would a Retha’noi live?” Turmay replied with a shrug.
“Here in Skala, in these mountains?”
Turmay shook his head and pointed out the door. “No, many, many days that way, to the north.” With that he turned his attention to Alec.
Alec held his breath at the rank smell of him as the little man grasped him by the chin and turned Alec’s face this way and that, looking intently at him. He made a thoughtful noise deep in his throat, then moved away and set one end of the hollow, painted staff to his lips. Alec saw the beeswax mouthpiece and realized that it must be some sort of musical instrument even before he began to play—if you could call it that.
The witch settled his mouth inside the wax ring, puffed out his cheeks, and proceeded to make a series of noises that were nothing like music, but exactly like what they’d heard in the pass. It throbbed and buzzed and squealed. The sound of it made Alec lightheaded, and his eyes fluttered shut. Images began to dance behind his closed lids: hanging facedown in that cage in the cellar of Yhakobin’s workshop with his blood dripping into the dirt below; Ilar’s face; the flight from the slave takers; the moment he faced down the archers who’d killed him …
The witch abruptly stopped playing and looked at him for a long time. Finally he nodded as if satisfied about something and went outside.
“That’s what we heard that night, up in the pass, wasn’t it?” Micum whispered in Skalan.
“I think you’re right. How are you, Alec?” asked Seregil, looking him over with concern. Even being on the edge of this latest magic had made him a little queasy.
“Fine.” Alec paused, blinking. “I think he read my mind, though.”
“We’ll do well not to underestimate this witch. He’s probably the one who knocked us off our horses, and put us to sleep, too.”
“I remember hearing a strange noise,” said Micum.
“Yes. They must have gotten close to us, for him to do that.” Seregil gave them a wry grin. “If they weren’t probably going to try and kill us, I’d have to admire them. However …”
He held up his right hand, showing them it was free. He’d worked it loose before the man in the wolf mask had come in, then kept it in his lap, feigning sleep. He hadn’t even had to dislocate his thumb this time, a fact he was very thankful for. He’d done it often enough over the years that the joint ached in cold weather, as it did now. Instead he’d simply folded his hand in on itself enough to work it out of the bonds.
“Now we start playing by our rules.”
Rieser stood by the fire with Naba, waiting patiently for Turmay as they sipped their tea. A whole pan of it sat hot by the fire, sending up a sweet aroma. They’d run out weeks ago, but their captives had several pouches of it in their packs. It was good, too, strong on the tongue. A bit of milk would have been nice, but he wasn’t complaining. One of the captives carried tobacco and a pipe, which Allia and Taegil were presently attempting to smoke. The stuff smelled vile, and they already looked a bit green.
“Stop that!” he ordered. “It’s a filthy Tír vice. Have some tea.”
Allia tossed the pipe away down the hill, and the pouch after it, then went to join the others, who were examining their captives’ weapons and the rest of the contents of their packs. Judging by their clothing and boots, these were men of substance, even the Tír. And the man’s sword had seen
much use, Rieser acknowledged grudgingly. The other two swords were new, finely made by some expert smith but with little sign of use.
The Tírfaie is probably their protector
, he thought with a sneer.
Rane was still pacing angrily, saying nothing to anyone since his outburst. He would have to wait to avenge his brother until Rieser was satisfied he’d gotten all the information from these strangers that he could.
Naba had found them a good site for the night; a few of the stone huts of this deserted village still offered some shelter. Naba’s people had once lived close to the trail; it had been theirs. Then the Skalan Tír came, and at some point the Retha’noi people had moved farther up into the mountains to avoid them.
Turmay came out of the ruined hut at last.
“What is it? Did you learn something from them?”
“The boy,” Turmay said slowly. “I sensed something strange about him, and now I know. He died, and now he is alive again.” He turned and said something to Naba, who took up his own oo’lu and went in to the captives.
“How is that possible?” asked Rieser as Naba began to play.
“It should not be. The Mother gives life and the Mother takes it away,” Turmay said, rubbing a hand over his oo’lu. “It must be the tayan’gil’s doing.”
Naba emerged a moment later, looking perplexed as he spoke with Turmay.
“My brother says the same,” Turmay told Rieser. “This is a great evil!”
“Are you saying their tayan’gil somehow restored him to life?” asked Nowen in disbelief.
“I don’t know how, but that is what we saw in this Alec.”
“The small tayan’gil can take life. Why not the reverse?” said Rieser.
“Is the boy an unnatural creature now?” asked Sorengil, making a sign against evil.
The witch nodded as he dipped up a cup of tea. “He is alive when he should be dead.”
“So this little tayan’gil kills and gives life,” Rieser murmured, astonished. “Thank you. I’ll deal with them.”
When he reached the darkened hut, however, he found it empty except for three hanks of rope lying where his captives had been.
“They’ve gotten loose!” he snarled, striding back out to the others. “Find them. Now!”
Whoever had tied Seregil up had been either considerate or careless enough not to tie his hands too tightly. He’d almost gotten caught undoing his other hand when the second witch came in and played his horn at them, but fortunately the man had been focused on Alec, rather than the two of them sitting across the hut in the shadows. As soon as the witch was gone, Seregil had gone back to work on the ropes.
Once he had both hands loose, it was a simple matter to get himself and the others untied. Alec picked up Sebrahn as Seregil carefully peered over a low place in the broken wall at the back of the hut.
Just as he’d expected, there was a masked guard posted there. The man’s sword was in its scabbard and he was chaffing his arms against the cold. Seregil bent down and felt along the ground inside the wall until he found a couple of palm-sized stones. He was a better shot with a rock than with a bow; Alec often joked about making him throw arrows rather than shoot them. Even in the dark, he hit the guard in the head on the first try. The man dropped without a cry.