White Road

dear fellow, there’s nothing to fear. No one will dare touch me in this city, or trouble anyone wearing the sen’gai of my clan—at least not in daylight. You are a freedman under my protection here.”
    His words were little comfort as they set off into the city in a hired carriage. An armed escort rode behind them, led by a hard-eyed captain named Urien. Even wearing the colors of Virésse, Ulan practiced caution, not trusting the Plenimarans, despite the trade agreement that allowed him and his ships to come into Plenimaran harbors.
    “I have a small but very secure house down that way,”Ulan told him, pointing down a street that ran along the harbor’s edge. “I daresay we shall end up there shortly. I doubt the good lady will tolerate our presence for long.”
    At the slave market, an auction was in progress on the very platform where Ilar had once been sold, and it was being overseen by the same lean, hatchet-faced dealer who’d sold him. Everywhere he looked, he saw misery and the dealers in flesh.
    Ulan took his hand again and murmured, “Never again, my friend.”
    Ilar had some respite from fear when they left the city, but terror began anew as they finally neared the outskirts of Yhakobin’s estate. By the time they drove down the tree-lined lane and through the gates, he was trembling uncontrollably and blinking back tears. If
Ilbana
recognized him, even Ulan would not be able to save him.
    “Calm yourself,” Ulan said sternly.
    When the carriage came to a halt, it took all his tattered will to get out. He’d never imagined being here again, walking up these white marble steps between the tall red pillars that flanked the ornate double doors of the entrance.
    Servants Ilar recognized met them and escorted them into the black-and-white paved courtyard. One of them was Ahmol, who had been Ilban’s assistant. Ilar nearly fainted when the man gave him a sharp look, but Ahmol showed no sign that he recognized him.
    The front courtyard looked just the same—the long fountain pool surrounded with statues, the shaded portico, and, at the far end, the archway through which lay his dead master’s workshop. Ilbana Meran and her two young children—little master Osri and his younger sister, Amela—met them there, and Ilar was introduced as a newly ransomed slave. To Ilar’s relief, she hardly spared him a glance. Master Osri stared at him for a moment, though, and Ilar’s heart turned over in his breast; the child was spoiled and spiteful, and had always treated Ilar with contempt. If
he
discovered who Ilar really was, he would surely tell.
    Ilbana did not offer the khirnari her hand, and greeted him with a somewhat questioning look. As Ulan had told him,relations had not been warm between them. “Ulan í Sathil, welcome back to my home, though I fear you will find it empty without my husband to entertain you.” Her tone was not as welcoming as her words.
    “That’s quite all right,” Ulan assured her. “I am grateful for your hospitality.”
    “Of course. I’ve had rooms prepared in the east wing for you and your people.”
    The one with the windows overlooking the workshop yard
, Ilar thought with a shudder, wondering if the whipping post was still there.
    Suddenly Ilbana turned and looked straight at him. “And this one? It’s not safe to let him walk around without you, even if he is a freedman. We had several slaves escape this past winter. You remember Khenir, I’m sure. He was one of them. The other two were new. I never knew their names, but I believe they are the ones who murdered my husband. My guards are very protective of the children and me. It wouldn’t do for this veiled one to wander about unescorted, especially at night.”
    “I understand. I prefer to keep him by me in any event. He is quite invaluable as a servant, no doubt due to his training as a slave. He was only a boy when he was brought here from Virésse.” The khirnari spoke lightly, though the kidnapping and enslavement of his clan members would have been a blood feud offense on Aurënen soil.
    “Why does he still wear the veil, if he’s free?” the boy demanded rudely.
    “He is too frightened not to, in this land,” Ulan replied calmly, smiling as if Osri had addressed him with proper respect.
    “What is your name?” little Amela lisped, staring up at him now with wide brown eyes.
    Ilar’s mouth went dry and he nearly blurted it before Ulan spoke for him.
    “He is called Nira, and he is a