White Road

thing a man wants to hear,” he replied wryly as Kheeta í Branin claimed him for an embrace. He was Seregil’s age but looked younger, even with the distinctive white streak in his dark hair showing under his sen’gai.
    “You look better this time around, except for this mess,” his friend said, roughing Seregil’s ragged hair. “Is this some new Tírfaie fashion?”
    “Plenimaran, actually,” Seregil told him with a laugh, then noticed that Alec had hung back, still holding Sebrahn, while everyone else was greeting friends and loved ones. “Alec, talí, come meet our uncle. Uncle, I present to you my talímenios, Alec í Amasa of Kerry.”
    “I’m glad to meet you, Uncle Akaien,” Alec said, setting Sebrahn on his feet and clasping hands with the older man.
    Akaien smiled as he looked Alec over. “Well, I like your braid better than my nephew’s style. Apart from the color of it, you look as ’faie as Seregil. Adzriel said you looked more Tír but I don’t see it.”
    No one but Seregil caught Alec’s slight wince; Alec was as sensitive to that well-meant observation as Seregil was to his own old nickname. Some effects of the alchemist’s purifications still lingered. Alec had looked completely ’faie when the man was done with him, and although the magic or whatever it had been had faded a bit, he still looked more Aurënfaie than he had.
    “Who is this little one?” asked Akaien.
    “This is Sebrahn.” Alec pulled back Sebrahn’s hood. Therhekaro’s hair had grown out halfway down his back since the last trimming, and he was dressed in a white tunic and trousers of ’faie cut that Yhali had given him. He was still barefoot, though, refusing all efforts to make him wear shoes.
    “Well, now.” Akaien held out his hand, showing no surprise at the color of Sebrahn’s eyes. “Greetings, little stranger.”
    Sebrahn slowly reached out and brushed his fingers against Akaien’s, and Seregil breathed a sigh of relief. Akaien was a highly respected member of the clan; if he and Adzriel accepted Sebrahn in front of the others, then perhaps this would be an easier stay than he’d expected. Indeed, others were already crowding around quietly to get a better look, as if Sebrahn were a newborn babe being presented to the clan.
    Seregil waved Micum over. “And this, Uncle, is my oldest friend in Skala, Micum Cavish.”
    He watched in amusement as the two men sized each other up. They were of a height, but where Micum was heavy-boned and ruddy, Akaien was wiry and fair-skinned, his hair long and dark brown like Seregil’s. All the same, there was a similarity about them that Seregil hadn’t really put together until now: at once highly honorable but not above stretching the laws for a good cause—or when it suited them.
    “Well met, Micum Cavish,” Akaien said in Skalan as he clasped hands with him. “Adzriel speaks warmly of you. You have my thanks for your family’s hospitality to my wayward nephew. I’ve felt easier in my mind since I heard about you. I hope he hasn’t been too much trouble.”
    “We’ve gotten into our share of scrapes over the years, but we got each other back out, too,” Micum replied in Aurënfaie.
    Säaban released Adzriel at last and greeted Micum. “Welcome, Micum Cavish.”
    “And you, sir.”
    “I hope they have a proper feast prepared,” Adzriel said with a laugh, putting an arm around Alec’s waist and pullingSeregil by the hand. “The one who was lost is with us again, and brings his talímenios and—this little one. Now, come along out of the cold!”
    The crowd parted, but many people reached out to pat Seregil on the back and shoulders as he passed, and their warm greeting loosened the knot of tension in his chest. All the same he kept close to Alec and the rhekaro, who was looking back over Alec’s shoulder now, those black pupils still a bit wider than Seregil liked to see. He was aware of Micum at his back, too, and grateful for his friend’s presence.
    Inside the gates, the gardens were buried in snow and the mossy old fountain silent for the winter, but the great double doors were open wide, spilling out firelight like a carpet for them. As he passed under the lintel carved with Aura’s crescents, he was startled to find both of his estranged sisters waiting for him by the hearth.
    Shalar, the older one, favored their father, right down to the lines of disapproval around her mouth. She wasn’t smiling, but Illina, who could have been