White Road

mute,” he told the girl, then, to her mother, “Another reason to keep him by me. He’s quite timid.”
    “Ah, I see. Just as well, I suppose. At least he has attractive eyes.”
    Much to Ilar’s relief, she then appeared to dismiss him from her mind altogether. Like any slave, he might as well be empty air unless she had some use for him.
    Ulan waited several days before broaching the subject of Ilban’s workshop. He really did have business to attend to, including a shipment of ransomed slaves Yhakobin had assembled for him. Some were still at the barns—Ulan had kindly left Ilar under guard in the carriage when they went there—while others had been sold, and so had to be tracked down all over again.
    The khirnari also dined with the family, and seemed intent on becoming their friend. He played with the children in the garden beyond the workshop, watching them play ball and helping to feed the precious fish in the fountain basin. Ulan had brought them clever Aurënfaie toys, too, and soon even Osri began to warm to him, even though the khirnari was “only a ’faie.”
    Ilar felt lightheaded the first time they walked through the archway to the courtyard that had been Ilban’s. The workshop loomed at the back of it, by the tinkling wall fountain and the herb beds. It had been one of Ilar’s tasks to gather and dry the herbs. A few green sprouts were pushing up through the compost—mints, chives, mugwort, and the nightshades and dragon tongue vines he’d worn gloves to handle. The whipping post was still there, too, with a hank of frayed rope dangling from the iron ring at the top.
    Finally, over breakfast on the fourth day, Ulan said to Ilbana, “I do miss your husband. Would you mind if I visited his workshop?”
    She looked up in surprise. “I wasn’t aware he had ever taken you there.”
    “But he spoke of it often. I’ve always been curious, and since there are no experiments to interrupt—”
    “Well, I suppose so.” She dabbed sudden tears from her eyes with her napkin. “I’ve kept everything just as it was.”
    “Most admirable. I’m sure he would want it so, my dear.”
    She gestured to Ahmol, who was in attendance that morning. “Unlock the workshop for the khirnari and show him whatever he wants to see.”
    Ilar glanced nervously at his protector, but Ulan merely smiled, apparently unconcerned that they would have a witness.
    When the meal was done, they followed the servant through the fountain court and down the stairs to the workshop. Ahmol took out the big iron key and opened the door, then stood back to allow Ulan to enter. Ilar followed on his heels, keeping his face down and hoping Ahmol didn’t look too closely at him.
    Ahmol pulled on the ropes that operated the skylights and bright morning sunshine filled the large room. The cold air was dusty and stale with the mingled scents of the dead coals on the forge, and the herbs and roots filling the simples chest and hanging from the rafters in their faded cloth bags among the dried carcasses of frogs and lizards and dragonlings.
    To Ilar’s considerable relief, the little painted pavilion still stood at the far end of the room. The flap was tied down with black ribbon, as always. If Ahmol hadn’t been there watching them, he’d have gone to it immediately. Instead, he looked around the workshop, feeling empty and sad inside. Until that last terrible night, Ilban had treated him kindly, and made him feel valued and useful as Ilar crushed bits of ore for him, or tended the cylindrical brick furnace that dominated the center of the room. The small windows near the top that had looked like glowing golden eyes when it was stoked were just black circles now.
    The tall bookcases and cabinets looked just the same, too, orderly and carefully arranged. Calipers and tongs lay forgotten on the forge; the worktables were littered with instruments, stacks of precious metals, and books left open next to stained crucibles, as if Ilban had only just stepped out for a turn in the garden. The glass distillation vessels sat gathering dust on their iron stands, the largest coated inside with the dregs of the rhekaro blood concoction Ilban had been working on when he died. The thin copper tubes sticking outof the pear-shaped retort were already going green with tarnish.
    Chains that had once bound Alec to the large anvil near the forge lay where they had last fallen, still attached to the big iron ring on its base. The leather funnel they