White Road

when a pretty young maid gently sponged the blood from his face and chest, though he wouldn’t let go of Alec’s hand.
    By the time they returned to their room, someone had cleared away the wreckage of the fight. The carpet was gone, too. Micum came in as they settled into the freshly made bed with Sebrahn safely between them.
    Seregil fell back against the pillow beside Alec with a groan.
    “Does it still hurt where Sebrahn healed you?” asked Micum.
    “A bit. His flowers work wonders, but it’s not an instant cure.”
    Micum was quiet for a moment, looking pensively at Sebrahn. “Do you think he could do something for this game leg of mine?”
    “Probably,” said Alec. Someone had left a cup of water on the righted night table. He handed it to Sebrahn. “Show him the scars, Micum.”
    Micum stripped down his leather trousers, showing him the ropy mass of scar tissue the
dyrmagnos
had made of the back of his thigh and calf.
    “Go help him, Sebrahn,” Alec coaxed. “Can you heal his leg?”
    Sebrahn slipped from the bed and squeezed blood from his cut finger into the cup. It took a lot of flowers.
    “I wonder why he didn’t try to heal him sooner?” said Seregil.
    “I don’t think he notices old wounds,” Alec replied, holding out his left palm, the one with the round shiny scar in the middle. “He’s never paid any attention to this. That first girl he healed had an infected foot, and you were covered in blood tonight. I don’t know—maybe he knows by smell. Is it working, Micum?”
    Sebrahn sat back. Micum flexed his leg, then stood up. “By the Flame, sprout, that’s a damn sight better!” The scars remained, but it was clear that Micum had more use of that leg than he had before. He picked Sebrahn up and kissed him on the nose, then put him back in bed with Alec. “Well, I’m past sleeping tonight. If you two don’t mind, I’d like to sit here for a while.”
    “You’ll get no argument from me,” Seregil said with a yawn. “I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”
    The following day Seregil and Micum went out with Riagil’s men to continue the search along the waterfront. Just after midday they found an abandoned longboat at the far end of the beach to the west of town. It was of Skalan make. Leaving the Gedre men to make inquiries in the area, Seregil and Micum walked back to the clan house, sunk in thought and frustration.
    “Well, what do you think?” Micum asked as they neared the house.
    “The boat could have drifted off from any Skalan warship or trader that’s dropped anchor here. Or it could be like the clothing—something to throw us off.”
    “I still think the assassins are from Plenimar.”
    “So do I, but how did they get here? Fly?”
    “Never mind that. Who sent them?”
    “Someone who knows about Sebrahn, obviously. The alchemist’s kin? The Overlord?”
    “The Overlord? If that’s true, my friend, you’ve really put your foot in it this time, and deep!”
    “Then let’s hope I’m wrong. Still …” He rubbed at thehealing wound on his side. “Yhakobin knew the secret of making them. What if he’s not the only one?”
    “And that person would know what Sebrahn really is.”
    Seregil walked on in silence, hands clasped behind his back. It looked like they hadn’t quite escaped, after all—which made their presence here a continuing danger.

CHAPTER 4
Visions
    I T TOOK Seneth ä Matriel Danata Hâzadriël, khirnari of the Hâzadriëlfaie people, and her escort several hours’ steep riding to reach the Retha’noi witch man’s hut, which stood in an ash grove near the edge of his mountain village. Seneth had started after an early breakfast, and now the midday sun was glinting harshly on the distant crags framing Ravensfell Pass.
    The hut was a small, round structure made from sticks and withy, and covered in stretched deerhide. There was no sign of Turmay, except for a thin plume of smoke rising from the hole in the center of the roof.
    “Stay here,” Seneth ordered the other riders. Going to the low door, she pulled the long fronts of her coat and tunic back from her trousered legs and crawled on hands and knees into the dimness of the witch’s hut. The change from light reflecting off snow left her nearly blind for an instant, except for the column of light shining through the smoke hole and the glow of the fire beneath.
    “Welcome, Khirnari,” the witch greeted her, and now she could make him out, sitting cross-legged on the