White Road

over his shoulder and took stock of the arrows left in the quiver as he rode. “Less than a score now.”
    “Well lost, though,” said Alec. “I didn’t much fancy getting hung from the nearest tree, or having my guts torn out back in the city.”
    “But there’s some more people who’ve had sight of us,” Seregil pointed out, not happy about that. As escapes went, this one was a mess. “We’ve got to get off the highroad. We might as well wear signs on our backs, otherwise.”
    They left the road and continued cross-country toward the sea, riding more carefully for the horses’ sakes and eating the cheese and dry sausage Micum had thought to bring with him last night, knowing the rest might not have a chance to go back for their packs.
    The sun was well up when they struck a track that ran close along the shoreline.
    “This must be the other end of the fork we saw when we came in,” said Micum.
    “A way less traveled by the look of it,” said Seregil. “What do you say?”
    They took it, and found themselves on a winding track that followed the crenellated coastline. They passed one small fishing hamlet and a few lonely houses, but soon the dry, open countryside was deserted, sloping ever down to the rugged sea ledges where the glass-green waves came crashing in with great gouts of white spume. Gulls cried overhead and ospreys soared above, while sea ducks bobbed out beyond the breakers. Tiny yellow and white flowers blossomed along the ledges, and clumps of sea lavender, clingingto what soil there was. The air was sweet with their perfume yet left the taste of salt on Alec’s lips. But for the lack of forests, it was hauntingly similar to the stretch of Plenimaran coastline where Duke Mardus had brought Alec.
    As they spelled their horses at a freshet by the roadside at midday, Alec noticed that Micum dismounted a bit awkwardly and stood clutching the horse’s mane a moment. Alec had noticed signs of his leg paining him when they’d stopped earlier, too. Riding without a saddle or stirrups put a strain on anyone’s legs. When Micum led his horse to drink, he was limping noticeably, but he didn’t say anything, so neither did anyone else.
    Rieser walked over to Seregil and held out his hand. “I want to see the books.” Seregil unshouldered the bag and undid the strings. Three large leather-bound books slid out. Seregil, Micum, and Alec each took one. Seregil’s shirt hung awry and Alec saw an angry red line where the string had rubbed Seregil’s skin raw during their ride.
    The slimmest of them was bound in worn brown leather and stamped with faded gold. It was written in Plenimaran, but Seregil and Micum could make it out. Seregil paged through it to a picture of what looked like a winged naked being, sexless like Sebrahn. “It talks of various elixirs you can make with different sorts of blood, including rhekaro, but I don’t see any recipes.”
    “That’s probably in this one,” said Alec, holding up the largest, bound in red leather, with a whole page filled with drawings of winged rhekaros. “This is the book I saw.”
    Rieser leaned over Alec’s shoulder and traced a line of text with one grimy finger, not quite touching the page. “So this holds the means of the making?”
    “So does this one,” Micum said, holding up the third, to show them another engraving of a rhekaro. “Where were they? How did you find them?”
    Seregil looked up at him and sighed. “Ilar. Again.”
    “Him?” Alec felt a sinking feeling in his belly. “How did he turn up here?”
    “I don’t know. He’s under Ulan’s protection now, but he betrayed him to help me.”
    “Why would he do that?” asked Rieser. He might know nothing of Ilar, but betraying a khirnari was a serious matter.
    Seregil and Alec both ignored the question.
    Instead, Alec raised a skeptical eyebrow. “He told you, and then just let you go?”
    “I told him he could come with me. He told me where the books were. I knocked him out and left him to explain himself to Ulan.”
    “He’ll just lie his way out of it.”
    “Probably. But he’s not our problem now.”
    Alec turned his book to show them elaborate engravings of alchemical equipment in various arrangements—flasks, athanors, crucibles, and the like. “I recognize some of these. I saw them being used in Yhakobin’s workshop.”
    “It will be useful to someone,” said Seregil.
    “No, it will not!” Rieser snapped. “I am taking those back to my people,