Seregil looked over at Alec with a smirk. “Thero?” It was the sort of playful magic Nysander had delighted in at feasts, especially if there were children present; the very sort that a younger Thero had held in such disdain.
Adzriel shook her head, smiling. “One time I said I looked forward to his next performance at some feast. He went a bit stiff and told me, ‘I don’t perform, I entertain.’ But you could see the twinkle in his eye.”
It wasn’t long before Alec heard a familiar rustle and chirping in the branches overhead. Not all the pories had gone south yet, he was glad to see, just as he was glad that none of his companions considered them game. These had reddish brown fur rather than grey, like those in the south, and were the size of a large cat. Otherwise, they had the same clever little hands, golden eyes in blunt-nosed faces, and long, bushy ringed tails they used like rudders as they leapt among the branches overhead, or ventured cautiously down to snatch away bits of bread the riders held up for them.
While they were at it, Alec spied a small black squirrel on a branch overhead. It froze for an instant, then decided it had been seen and darted away up the trunk.
“Haba!” Alec exclaimed. It was the first one he’d seen.
Mydri smiled. “Are you speaking to Seregil or the squirrel?”
“The squirrel. Seregil doesn’t like being called that.”
“Why not?”
Alec shrugged and said nothing. The fact that Seregil could only associate it now with Ilar was no one’s business but his own.
They were riding along through a stretch of forest the following day when Seregil suddenly reined in. “Look what I’ve got!”
He held up his left arm, showing them the tiny fingerling dragon clinging to the sleeve of his coat. It scuttled up to his shoulder, switching its tail and fluttering its tiny brown wings.
“First dragon! Little brother’s the luck bringer,” said Adzriel, leaning over to touch her brother with mock reverence. According to custom, Seregil was the luck bringer until they reached their destination.
Sebrahn leaned out from Alec’s saddle to see it.
Seregil held out his arm so the rhekaro could have a better look. The fingerling immediately took flight to land on Sebrahn’s knee.
Sebrahn pointed to the little creature and looked up at Alec. “Drak-kon?”
Seregil sidled up to Adzriel and asked something in a low voice. Adzriel looked at Sebrahn for a moment, then shook her head.
Sebrahn touched the dragon’s spiny head with one finger as two more fingerlings fluttered down to his shoulders, tangling their tiny talons in his hair. A fourth and fifth joined them.
“Sit still,” Alec warned, but suddenly all five dragons took flight like flock of ducks on a lake.
Sebrahn held out his hand as if to stop them. “Drak-kon!”
“Maybe he’s the luck bringer,” said Micum, shaking his head.
“I’ve never seen them do that before,” said Adzriel. She gave Alec a meaningful look.
“They probably want some of his hair for their nests.” Several of them had flown off with long blond strands clutched in their claws.
She nodded as she watched the rhekaro hold out his hand for another little dragon to land on. “Maybe he really is one of their own.”
The fingerlings became a common sight as they went on, scuttling through the snow and up trees, darting across the road and startling the horses, and crawling into the warmth of bedrolls that night. Since it was taboo to kill a dragon in anything but outright self-defense, everyone was careful not to slap at any sudden itches or step on a fingerling on the way to take a piss.
Sebrahn showed a surprisingly childlike interest in the little creatures, squatting down to watch them scuttle around, even picking one up.
“Sebrahn, no!” Seregil said quietly, so as not to startle rhekaro or dragon.
But the dragon just perched on the back of Sebrahn’s right hand with its tail wrapped around the rhekaro’s thin wrist.
“If it bites him, do we put lissik on it?” Alec wondered.
But as before, the fingerling flew away without nipping Sebrahn. The rhekaro followed it with his eyes as it fluttered into the trees.
CHAPTER 8
Following the Oo’lu’s Song
TURMAY PLAYED his oo’lu every night. It could set wet wood on fire, charm rabbits from their holes into his snares, and who knew what else? All Rieser cared about were the nightly visions of their quarry, but by the time Rieser and his Ebrados reached the great lake called Black Water, the answer was always the same—south—and vague enough to make the captain wonder how they would find them in a whole region—especially one in which they were almost certain to be recognized as outsiders.
They avoided the little Tírfaie hamlets they passed, but weren’t above stealing from sheepfolds and root cellars, and finding oats for the horses in unattended barns. They took shelter where they could, in deserted byres or cottages when they could find them, but more often in hastily made branch huts. Hâzadriën was very skilled at their construction, and Turmay knew a song to keep out the snow and wind.
As the weeks drew out, Rieser was proud of his riders, especially Thiren and Rane, the youngest. So far they hadn’t complained or shirked, though they and the others were a good deal leaner than they had been when they left the valley.
As ’faie, they stood out in this part of the world, and drew curious looks from the Tír they met when deep snow forced them onto the highroad. It was best to keep their hoods up and their mouths shut, and they did just that, though the two brothers couldn’t help looking at the women.
The glamour hiding Hâzadriën’s true features was holding well; he appeared to have dark hair and ordinary blue eyes, rather than his true silver. Silent, ancient, and bone-pale, he was neither male nor female, but since he had no breasts, it had been the custom from Hâzadriël’s day to call him “he” and “him.” Clothed, and cloaked in the khirnari’s magic, there was nothing remarkable about him.
The land around the lake called Black Water was more heavily settled, and avoiding the Tír was no longer an option. The deerskin map, which Seneth had commissioned from the clan archivists, began here. Following it, and Turmay’s visions, they forged ever south and west.
As captain of the Ebrados, Rieser had learned the Tírfaie tongue and studied their ways. He’d even spoken to a few, when the hunt for wayward ’faie had taken him to some remote village near the pass. So he was able to barter in the markets of the small towns they passed through, south of the huge lake. He got by well enough in the towns, exchanging game for vegetables and dried fruits.
In the smaller villages, however, people hunted their own dinner and weren’t interested in any bartering, so he used some of the silver coin he carried, though he kept his gold well hidden. The small silver pieces were made like Tír money, blank and rectangular, and valued by their weight. Farther south the money changed to round coins stamped with designs, but the shopkeepers still took his silver gladly.
It was here that he first overheard people talking of some war to the south. The countries of Skala and Plenimar were shown on his map as two large islands separated by a sea called Inside, and seemed to be waging perpetual war, judging by what he was hearing in the marketplaces.
Beyond the lake, they entered a thick forest and followed a road leading in the right direction. Exhausted and filthy from sleeping rough, they finally gave in and stopped for the night at a lonely inn. Hopefully they wouldn’t draw too much attention to themselves. He wondered what the local folk would make of Turmay.
The inn was built of timber, with a thatched roof. The sign hanging over the door showed what was apparently meant to be a dragon, painted a garish red.
Ducking his head under the low doorway, Rieser entered a large room with a broad hearth and half a dozen tables. A handful of fellow travelers were scattered around the room, eating stew and bread, and drinking from large clay cups. Everyone was talking loudly and he found it hard to understand them. He caught a few familiar words, but the accent was very different from what he’d learned.