The crowd parted, but many people reached out to pat Seregil on the back and shoulders as he passed, and their warm greeting loosened the knot of tension in his chest. All the same he kept close to Alec and the rhekaro, who was looking back over Alec’s shoulder now, those black pupils still a bit wider than Seregil liked to see. He was aware of Micum at his back, too, and grateful for his friend’s presence.
Inside the gates, the gardens were buried in snow and the mossy old fountain silent for the winter, but the great double doors were open wide, spilling out firelight like a carpet for them. As he passed under the lintel carved with Aura’s crescents, he was startled to find both of his estranged sisters waiting for him by the hearth.
Shalar, the older one, favored their father, right down to the lines of disapproval around her mouth. She wasn’t smiling, but Illina, who could have been his twin, came forward and took his hands in hers. “Welcome home, brother.” And she kissed him on both cheeks.
Seregil hugged her close, swallowing around the new lump in his throat. “Thank you, sister.”
Shalar was somewhat warmer with Alec, taking his hand and admiring Sebrahn’s strange beauty. “What unusual eyes. But bare feet in winter?” she chided as she chafed the rhekaro’s feet between her hands. “Why, he’s like ice!”
“He doesn’t like to wear shoes. And he doesn’t feel the cold,” Alec explained, and got a look of disapproval equal to any he’d seen from Mydri.
Turning away, he saw that Akaien í Solun had his arm around Seregil now, laughing about something with Kheeta. Seregil had always been closemouthed about his past, especially in the early days. Since they’d become talímenios, he’d talked more, but not a lot. It was just his nature, and Alec had long since given up wishing he were different. Still, meeting this uncle at last, and witnessing the deep bond of affection between them, he wondered how Seregil could have put him out of his mind for so long.
After seemingly endless introductions to kin and friends, Seregil led Alec through a warren of corridors to his old room, which Mydri had assured him was still his to use. It took a moment to remember the way, but he found it at last. Setting his pack down by the door, he looked around, trying to see it through Alec’s eyes. The bed was the same, with its golden oak headboard carved with pinecones and rabbits, and neatly made up with the colorful silk counterpane, a bit faded now and sweet with the scent of lavender and cedar. The same blue pitcher and basin were on the washstand, below the mirror he’d cracked playing a forbidden game of ball here with Kheeta one rainy day.
Outgrown toys were gone from the top of the clothes chest and windowsills, but his books and scrolls were still on their shelves, and the sword rack stood under the window, holding the wooden blades he’d used, tutored by his father, Akaien, and various older cousins. They ranged from the first tiny one that had been put into his hands when he’d only just learned to walk, up to the scarred, deeply notched wooden long sword with which he’d beaten nearly every challenger. From the very beginning it had felt right and good to have a sword in his hand, and swordsmanship had become his first passion. His quick reflexes, determination, and rapidly developing skill had earned him the respect of his elders. All except for his father, of course.
Alec closed the door and hugged Seregil. “Bilairy’s Balls, we finally made it!”
Seregil laughed softly. “It’s certainly better than where we ended up last time.”
Sebrahn was already at the window, standing on tiptoe to see out past the sword rack. Seregil picked the rhekaro up so he could see the empty garden outside, and the leafless trees that cast lacy, dancing shadows across the far wall over the bed at dawn. Seregil sighed, remembering himself being held the same way, in the strong loving arms of his sisters or uncle, when he was very small. That felt like someone else’s life now, and he supposed it was. Then strong arms embraced Seregil and Sebrahn together, and Seregil knew that Alec wouldn’t let him go until he was sure of his mood. Seregil turned and kissed him. “I’m fine. Lots of good memories here. I was a happy child, believe it or not. I had good friends, and kin who loved me.”
“They still do and so do I, talí,” Alec said, looking far too serious. “This is your home.”
Seregil shook his head with a soft laugh. “Home is wherever you are, talí. This is just someplace I used to live.”
Alec’s arms tightened. “Don’t say that. I never had anyplace like this. It was just one inn or camp or tent after another, just my dad and me. You shouldn’t take any of this for granted.”
“Duly noted.” Which was why they weren’t going to be staying here long; not while they had Sebrahn with them.
When everyone was bathed and dressed in clean clothing, Seregil led them to the great hall at the center of the house, holding Sebrahn’s hand on one side and Alec’s on the other. Adzriel had made certain even the rhekaro had proper feasting clothes, and Alec had trimmed and braided Sebrahn’s hair and his own.
“With his hair like that, you can really see the resemblance between you two,” Micum noted.
“That’s why I did it,” Alec replied. “I want to see if it helps people accept Sebrahn more easily.”
The feast was laid out, and Seregil found himself in his old place at table with his sisters and Akaien. Sebrahn knelt on a cushion on the chair between him and Alec and paid no attention to the courses as they came.
But Seregil did, recognizing many childhood favorites. There was spiced pear cider; venison roast with wine sauce; and a huge galantine pie thick with lamb, chukka, currants, and bog berries. There were beets with marrow, toasted hazelnuts, chestnut pudding, and turnips mashed with carrots, all served up with fragrant brown loaves of Aunt Alira’s wheat bread and sweet butter still cold from the well room.
Ilina, who was quite taken with Sebrahn, eyed him with concern. “Why isn’t the little one eating?”
“Alec fed him a little while ago,” Seregil told her, which was true.
Just before the sweets course, Uncle Akaien looked down the table and waved to Seregil, motioning for him and Alec to join him. Micum had been given an honored place at his side.
“How does it feel to be home, nephew?” asked Akaien.
“Good, so far. It’s been so long.”
“I noticed that you weren’t carrying the sword I sent to you at Sarikali.”
Seregil gave him a rueful look. “I’m afraid I lost it—”
Akaien shook his head. “Another one!”
“It was in a good cause. It shattered while I was fighting a dra’gorgos. Not successfully, unfortunately. Alec lost his the same way. The ones we have now we stole in Plenimar.”
“I see.”
“I lost my bow, too,” Alec added. He wasn’t sure which had been the more grievous loss.
“Damn, and I wanted another match!” Kheeta said, overhearing, as he and several other young men and youths joined them.
“I’d hoped to see that Black Radly, too,” said Akaien. “Kheeta’s bragged up your prowess. But maybe we can find you another until you can replace it.”
“Actually, the khirnari at Gedre gave me a new one,” Alec told him.
“You’ll have to start your shatta collection all over again, though,” Kheeta pointed out. “It’s too bad, too. You had a lot.” Among the Aurënfaie, most of these match prizes were little figures or shapes carved from wood, bone, glazed clay beads, feathers, or coins with holes punched through, though some were made of precious stones or metals. “We’ll have a match tomorrow.”
“I’m in for that!” one of the young men exclaimed, and others joined in, crowding around to introduce themselves.
Seregil smiled, pleased to see Alec already making friends, as he always did, and so easily.
As soon as the meal was finished, the tables were carried away and musicians struck up dancing music.
Seregil felt the pull of it, but he was too tired to dance. Instead, he borrowed a harp and coaxed Alec into joining him for a few songs.