White Road

their success so far, enlisting the aid of a local clan to fell those trees. But something had changed since Rieser left; Nowen was too experienced a tracker not to know when she was being tracked herself.
    Naba had remained with them after the capture, and so had those he’d summoned. Now others were appearing on the heights. The smoke from their cooking fires rose against the sky by day, and the light of watch fires sparkled along the ridges through the night. Day and night they could hear the distant sounds of oo’lus; many oo’lus.
    What could they possibly want? The Hâzad didn’t carry more than they absolutely needed, which left little worth stealing, except for the horses, and these southern Retha’noi didn’t seem to have any use for those.
    Turmay came and went between the two camps freely and kept assuring her that they were in no danger, so long as they stayed down here by the waterfall.
    “What do they want?” Nowen asked.
    “They distrust outsiders and they want us to be gone. That’s why they helped you, so that you would go away sooner.”
    “But they accept you.”
    “I am Retha’noi.”
    Turmay went to his southern brothers each night and played the oo’lu in the great circle while the witch women danced their magic around the fires. He made love to their women under the moon to put babies with northern blood into their bellies and shared his food and his healings with all who asked. Their two peoples might have been parted formore years than they could count, but the ways of hospitality still held strong.
    The Mother spoke to them when they played and danced, repeating what she had told Turmay of the small tayan’gil and Alec Two Lives, of life and death and the immutable gate between the two.
    Retha’noi had come from many miles away, answering the oo’lus’ messages, and they came for their own reasons, as well. There were at nearly forty men now, and five of them witch men. They met around the fire and talked of the small tayan’gil and the man with two lives. Turmay listened and said little, but he taught them the song the Mother had given him.
    Two days out from Plenimar there was no sign of pursuit, but Alec and Micum still walked the deck, looking back over the
Lady’s
wake. Ulan í Sathil could probably guess where they were headed, if he chose to pursue them. But the sea was empty again today.
    Seregil was healing quickly enough to be restless, and they found him in Rieser’s cabin, chatting with Konthus while the drysian tended to the Hâzad’s wound. Rieser appeared to be tolerating both of them with an effort.
    “I don’t understand it,” Konthus was saying. “This is infected, in spite of all my efforts. It must be from the shattered bone, or some bit of arrowhead left in the wound.”
    “I’ve suffered worse,” Rieser told him. “Just do whatever you can, healer, and leave me in peace.”
    The drysian frowned but went about draining a little pus from the wound and packing it with fresh herbs and honey salve. “I’ll give the cook the makings of a posset for the pain. That’s all I can do for you, friend. And now for you, Lord Seregil.”
    After a quick look at the splinted finger and Seregil’s back, he set about unwrapping the bandages from Seregil’s ribs and probed the wound hard enough to make Seregil hiss in pain. “This is healing well.”
    “I guess I just heal more quickly,” Seregil gasped.
    “You can thank the Maker for that. If the arrow had gone any deeper, you’d not be sitting here now.” He wrapped fresh bandages tightly around Seregil’s ribs to keep the bones stable, then placed his hands on Seregil’s head and spoke a spell.
    “Thank you, brother,” Seregil said. “That’s the best I’ve felt in days.”
    “I only wish I could do as much for your friend.”
    As soon as the drysian was gone, Rieser opened his eyes and rasped, “I want to see the books.”
    Alec went to his cabin and returned with them. He kept them wrapped in a cloak during the day, and spread out on the cabin floor at night to dry them. The pages were rippled and curling at the edges, and the writing in the halves of the red journal was smeared in places beyond recognition. The other two, the ones in code, were otherwise undamaged.
    “You were right about not throwing them in the sea,” Micum remarked, trying to smooth the pages of the brown book. “Who knows whose hands they might have washed up into.”
    “I haven’t thanked you for saving