White Road

commissioned from the clan archivists, began here. Following it, and Turmay’s visions, they forged ever south and west.
    As captain of the Ebrados, Rieser had learned the Tírfaie tongue and studied their ways. He’d even spoken to a few, when the hunt for wayward ’faie had taken him to some remote village near the pass. So he was able to barter in the markets of the small towns they passed through, south of the huge lake. He got by well enough in the towns, exchanging game for vegetables and dried fruits.
    In the smaller villages, however, people hunted their own dinner and weren’t interested in any bartering, so he used some of the silver coin he carried, though he kept his gold well hidden. The small silver pieces were made like Tír money, blank and rectangular, and valued by their weight. Farther south the money changed to round coins stamped with designs, but the shopkeepers still took his silver gladly.
    It was here that he first overheard people talking of some war to the south. The countries of Skala and Plenimar were shown on his map as two large islands separated by a sea called Inside, and seemed to be waging perpetual war, judging by what he was hearing in the marketplaces.
    Beyond the lake, they entered a thick forest and followed a road leading in the right direction. Exhausted and filthy from sleeping rough, they finally gave in and stopped for the night at a lonely inn. Hopefully they wouldn’t draw too much attention to themselves. He wondered what the local folk would make of Turmay.
    The inn was built of timber, with a thatched roof. The sign hanging over the door showed what was apparently meant to be a dragon, painted a garish red.
    Ducking his head under the low doorway, Rieser entered alarge room with a broad hearth and half a dozen tables. A handful of fellow travelers were scattered around the room, eating stew and bread, and drinking from large clay cups. Everyone was talking loudly and he found it hard to understand them. He caught a few familiar words, but the accent was very different from what he’d learned.
    At the back of the room a thin, grey-haired woman stood behind a sideboard, serving up mugs of some drink—probably turab, judging by the smell and the state of inebriation of some of the patrons. A harper sat by the fire, plucking out a lively tune, while a young boy carried out food from a kitchen beyond. The room stank of sweat and smoke and ale, but he and his little band had no room to brag on that account. It had been weeks since they’d had a chance to bathe in anything more than an icy stream. He and the others stomped the snow from their boots by the door, but they didn’t attract much attention until they pushed back their hoods. The room went quiet and suddenly all eyes were upon them.
    The old woman came around the board to greet them, smiling wide. “Welcome!”
    As for the rest of it, he was fairly certain she was saying that no ’faie had passed through here for many years, and that they were to go warm themselves by the fire.
    “Thank you, old mother,” he said, bowing. “Your hospitality is much appreciated.”
    The silence was finally broken by loud laughter, apparently at what he’d said, or how he’d said it. More likely the latter, given the difference in accent.
    She gave Turmay a curious sidelong glance as she urged them toward an empty table by the hearth. Turmay’s witch marks weren’t visible now, of course, the way they were when he played his oo’lu; it was more likely his short stature, strange clothing, and the long horn he refused to be without even for a moment. He even slept with it by his side.
    The woman called out shrilly at the open door at the back. Moments later, the boy reappeared with a tray of mugs. It was turab, and a fine brew, too.
    “It’s good!” Taegil whispered in surprise.
    Turmay took a sip. “Yes. And I smell venison.”
    The food proved good, as well. The venison stew was thick and well seasoned, with chunks of carrot and onion among the meat, and the bread was sweet and hot from the oven.
    As they were eating, one of the other patrons sauntered up, thumbs hooked in his sword belt, and looked them over. “Where are you from, brothers?” he asked Hâzadriën in passable but strangely accented ’faie, though he certainly was not of that blood.
    “My friend is mute,” Rieser explained tersely. “We are from Aurënen.”
    “I don’t know your accent. Which part of Aurënen?”
    “The far south.”