Shadows Return

scant shelter of a ruined cottage they’d come across.
    “At least water won’t be a problem today,” Seregil joked through chattering teeth.
    When they moved on that night, they were still hungry and filthy, but little rills flowed in the formerly dry gullies, enough to keep the water skin filled.
    Since healing the girl, Sebrahn had returned to his usual silent, passive state, showing no interest in diverging from each night’s chosen march. Hungry most of the time himself, Alec fed him several times a day, and the rhekaro seemed content with the extra feedings. He nestled close to Alec when he slept, but he always did that, anyway.
    Looking into those pale eyes as he washed Sebrahn’s face or cut his hair, however, Alec was convinced that he saw more intelligence there each day. The way the rhekaro sensed the sick girl and insisted on finding her was proof enough of that. And Seregil had begun to soften towards him, too, much to Alec’s relief.
             
    The only signs of habitation they saw over the next two nights were a few herders’ huts. They stopped just long enough to take what little food they could steal, careful not to show themselves to the householders.
    The subject of getting rid of either Ilar or Sebrahn had died somewhere along the road. Seregil had to admit that he’d had the easier choice. At first he’d made an effort to refer to the rhekaro as “him” and “Sebrahn” for Alec’s sake. Since that night at the goatherd’s cottage, he couldn’t help but begin to think of him as a real being. Silent and strange as he was, Sebrahn had somehow known of the girl’s distress and acted to help her. The sight of him drinking Alec’s blood, and the touch of his cold little fingers were still a little unnerving, though.
    Alec and Ilar also seemed to have established a truce of sorts, enough at least they could sleep next to each other without a fight, but that was about as far as it went. Seregil had never seen Alec hold a grudge like this; he’d always been the more forgiving one, and it made Seregil wonder if there was something Alec hadn’t told him about his time with Ilar in the alchemist’s house.
    Less clear were Seregil’s feelings toward Ilar. He still had every reason to hate the man, and years of a bitterly nursed grudge on top of that, yet whenever he looked at Ilar, all he could see were the scars and the beaten look in his eyes. This wasn’t the man he remembered.
    Days ago, when they’d first had to huddle together while Alec was on watch, Ilar had been quiet and nervous. But as the days went on, he began to talk of Aurënen and the past, like he had when Seregil had been playing the dutiful slave. Now he asked for news of people he remembered, and recalled friends they’d shared. Grudgingly at first, Seregil found himself having real conversations with Ilar. If it had been anyone but Ilar, it would have been rather pleasant. The fact that Alec had nothing good to say to the man during their marches, but could sleep next to him in the daylight, made Seregil wonder if he was softening toward Ilar, too. When he tried to broach the subject in a rare moment of privacy, however, Alec just stared at him.
    “I use him for warmth, like a campfire. Nothing else.” He gave Seregil an oddly appraising look. “What about you?”
    “The same,” Seregil replied, but in the back of his mind, a little doubt niggled. Alec saw through him in an instant. “I can’t explain it, talí. I don’t want him. I don’t
like
him! I just can’t seem to hate him anymore. As soon as we get away from Plenimar we’ll send him on his way, I promise.”
    “Just like that?”
    “Yes. Just like that.”
    Alec let it drop, but only after giving Seregil a skeptical look that cut him to the heart.
             
    By the time the first hint of dawn showed that morning, Alec could tell by the scent on the breeze that they were finally nearing the ocean. He waited until the sky brightened along the horizon, then pointed off to the southwest. “There it is. The Strait!”
    Between the still-dark land and the golden lip of the horizon, a dark strip of ocean curved into the hazy distance. Beyond that, out of sight, lay Aurënen, and safety.
    “I don’t believe it!” whispered Ilar. “We might actually make it.”
    Seregil gave him a crooked grin. “Two nights. Three at most. I hope you have a good stomach for sailing, my friend.”
    Friend?
Alec’s own grin died—not for all