White Road

tunic over his head.
    The reason for Ilar’s plea for privacy was immediately apparent; the scars of severe floggings covered the back of his emaciated body from neck to knees, and quite a number of them were recent enough to still be scabbed over in places. Ulan had never known Charis to treat his slaves cruelly, and certainly not Ilar, whom he’d valued above all the others, and even spoke of freeing someday. No, somethinghad happened—something to do with Ilar’s escape, no doubt.
    The brand on Ilar’s calf was missing, too, just like the one on his forearm. While that would make keeping him a bit easier, it begged the question of how the marks had disappeared.
    Perhaps some sort of obscuration spell?
he wondered, though he’d heard nothing of Seregil or the other one having any particular skill of that nature.
    If he could only find them, he’d have an answer to that.
    Ilar turned around by the tub, reaching for a sponge on the bath tray.
    Aura’s Light!
Ulan stared, deeply shocked. Charis had never mentioned that Ilar had been castrated; Ulan had always had the impression that he was a kind master. Then again, the scars that remained were old ones, and Ilar’s manner toward his master had been respectful, not fearful. No, one of Ilar’s previous, less gentle masters had done this to him some time ago.
    Ilar lowered himself unsteadily into the tub and began to cry again. Satisfied for now, Ulan let the tapestry fall back and returned to his study. His evening dose from the healer had been left for him there. The herbal potion still helped to ease the pain, but she’d had to make it much stronger of late.
    At last, the boy came with word that Ilar wanted to see him. Ulan found him in the large bed, propped up against the bolsters with the comforter pulled up under his chin, his long wet hair soaking the silk of both.
    “There now, that’s better isn’t it?” Ulan said, sitting down in the chair beside the bed. “Can you tell me how you came to be in such a state? Did Seregil í Korit do this to you?”
    Ilar shook his head vehemently. “No … he would never …” But his gaze was vague now, and his attention clearly wandered.
    “Do you bring news of the rhekaro, and the others?” Ulan knew he should let the poor man sleep, but he was too anxious for answers.
    “Rhekaro?”
    “Is it—” Ulan covered his mouth quickly with the stainedhandkerchief as another fit of coughing overtook him. This was as bad as the previous one. “Please go on,” he wheezed when it passed. “Tell me of the rhekaro,” he urged gently, trying to recapture Ilar’s attention.
    “His child …”
    Child? That was an odd way to look at it. “Did your master discover the elixir he promised me?”
    Ilar gave him a blank look. “It can heal.”
    Ah, yes! This was what Charis Yhakobin had promised in return for so much Virésse gold.
    Ilar let out an hysterical little laugh. “They aren’t supposed to speak!”
    A speaking elixir? The man was mad.
    Ilar’s eyes went vaguer still. “Ilban would have—But there was a terrible sound! It hurt … stinking in the sun … but not Seregil and Alec … so beautiful under the sky!” Ilar’s twisted smile sent a chill up Ulan’s spine. “But the bodies! Oh, the bodies and the birds!”
    “Whose bodies?”
    “Ilban … all of them … Seregil … So beautiful!”
    The way Ilar spoke of the Bôkthersan told Ulan that this wreck of a man still had strong feelings for Seregil, even after all these years. He’d guessed as much when Charis had sent word, asking that Seregil be delivered to him, as well as the boy.
    “Seregil is not dead,” Ulan told him. “He is in Gedre.”
    “Alive? Seregil is
alive?”
Something like joy momentarily lit that gaunt face. “Alive. But …” He reached out from under the comforter and pulled back the sleeve of his linen nightshirt to show Ulan the scratches, even as his eyes began to drift shut. “Beautiful.”
    That word again, so incongruous with his actions. The man’s mind was obviously as fragile as his ruined body, skipping between thoughts and memories. Ulan took his hand and felt the delicate bones through the chapped skin. “Rest now, my friend. Sleep well, and we will talk more tomorrow.”
    Ilar was asleep before Ulan reached the door.
    The khirnari made his way slowly down to his private bathchamber. Hot needles of pain shot through his arthritic knees and feet. He was an old man, with the afflictions of age as well