White Road

kinsmen. Drops of her steaming blood fell on the snow, leaving a line of red spots like trail markers, leading north. Grief-stricken, Alec watched her fall in the distance, then turned to find her faceless murderers leveling their bows at him.
    The sky was overcast at dawn, and large, fluffy flakes of snow began falling as they ate their cold breakfast. It fell more thickly as they set off, capping the rocks with white and muffling the world in that eerie quiet that only snow can create.
    It got colder as they went on, though they were going downhill gradually now, and into sparse forest. Snow lay thick on the ground and crunched under their horses’ hooves as they rode slowly down a steep, winding trail only Seregil could see.
    As they rode today, Seregil told funny stories about his exploits with Alec and Micum, including how Alec’s first test as a nightrunner had been to break, unsuspecting, into Seregil’s own villa in Rhíminee.
    Alec ignored the laughter at his expense and lifted his face to the pale white sun showing dimly through the clouds. Some memories of his father didn’t hurt; fresh snow had always meant easy tracking.
    “Spotted cat,” Micum said beside him, pulling him from his reverie.
    Sure enough, the unmistakable pattern of paw pads and tick marks of the claws crossed their path in a wandering line. For the rest of the afternoon they made a game of identifying tracks in the snow to break up the monotony. They saw the spoor of rabbit and deer, great Aurënen stags, bear, and mice, along with a strange pattern Alec thought he recognized. It was a sort of hand-and footprint combination, and always appeared in great numbers, seldom far from a stand of trees. It looked like a whole family of tiny people had crawled along on all fours. Tiny people with tails.
    “Are those porie tracks?” he asked, surprised to see them this far north.
    “Red ones,” said Mydri. “They’re on their way to the lowlands.They come down to forage in the winter. The village children coax them in to eat from their hands.”
    “Not just the children,” Adzriel said with a chuckle. “I watched your grand wizard sit outside for hours with apple slices and bread crusts.”
    “Thero had them climbing up on his shoulders by spring,” Mydri added. “There aren’t many who can do that! He swears he didn’t use any magic on them, either. But it takes considerable patience and gentleness.”
    Seregil raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “I can imagine the first, but gentleness?”
    “The children loved him,” said Adzriel. “He did little magics for them, too. Mydri, remember the time he made a pastry rabbit get up and run around the table while the dishes floated around in circles?”
    Seregil looked over at Alec with a smirk. “Thero?” It was the sort of playful magic Nysander had delighted in at feasts, especially if there were children present; the very sort that a younger Thero had held in such disdain.
    Adzriel shook her head, smiling. “One time I said I looked forward to his next performance at some feast. He went a bit stiff and told me, ‘I don’t perform, I entertain.’ But you could see the twinkle in his eye.”
    It wasn’t long before Alec heard a familiar rustle and chirping in the branches overhead. Not all the pories had gone south yet, he was glad to see, just as he was glad that none of his companions considered them game. These had reddish brown fur rather than grey, like those in the south, and were the size of a large cat. Otherwise, they had the same clever little hands, golden eyes in blunt-nosed faces, and long, bushy ringed tails they used like rudders as they leapt among the branches overhead, or ventured cautiously down to snatch away bits of bread the riders held up for them.
    While they were at it, Alec spied a small black squirrel on a branch overhead. It froze for an instant, then decided it had been seen and darted away up the trunk.
    “Haba!” Alec exclaimed. It was the first one he’d seen.
    Mydri smiled. “Are you speaking to Seregil or the squirrel?”
    “The squirrel. Seregil doesn’t like being called that.”
    “Why not?”
    Alec shrugged and said nothing. The fact that Seregil could only associate it now with Ilar was no one’s business but his own.
    They were riding along through a stretch of forest the following day when Seregil suddenly reined in. “Look what I’ve got!”
    He held up his left arm, showing them the tiny fingerling dragon clinging to