White Road

the failing daylight. Alec held Sebrahn tightly by the hand as the rhekaro tried to stop and pick them up. A few fluttered up to land on his shoulders.
    Focused as he was on Sebrahn and not treading on any of the little creatures, he didn’t notice the man who’d come out on the porch until he called out to them.
    “Who comes to my house?” He held a lantern in one hand and a long sword in the other. A dragon the size of a cat crouched on his shoulder, its tail wrapped around the arm holding the lantern.
    “Seregil í Korit,” Seregil told him. “Is that any way to welcome an old friend, Tyrus?”
    “Korit’s boy?” Tyrus lowered his sword. “And you’ve brought friends.”
    “May we come in? It was a long ride.”
    “Of course. Take care of your horses and come up for supper.” He started back into the cabin, but paused long enough to add, “Remember, boy, if you hear anything stirring in the shadows down there, or a hiss, back away slowly and come get me.”
    With these less-than-encouraging words, he disappeared inside.
    They managed to get the horses settled and fed without incident. There were two others there—a white and a bay—and they nickered quietly to the newcomers.
    Climbing back up to the porch, they stepped inside and found a table laid for supper and their host stirring a pot on the fire in the hearth.
    The flowing hair beneath his faded green sen’gai was grey as iron. His eyes were a lighter shade, like Seregil’s. Somehow Alec had half expected them to be gold, like a dragon’s. Tyrus’s hands were covered in lissik-stained dragon bite marks, some large enough to encompass his wrist. There were more on his neck, and a few small ones on his face.
    “It’s been a long time since you visited me, Seregil í Korit,” Tyrus said, straightening up.
    “Too long. I’ve missed you and your friend.”
    “He’ll be glad to see you. And who have you brought me this time?” Tyrus asked, nodding at Alec.
    “My talímenios, Alec í Amasa—”
    “A talímenios at your age?” Tyrus shook his head, then looked Alec up and down. “And a ya’shel. Golden hair and blue eyes, but I see the ’faie in you, and that little bite on your ear shows a dragon’s favor. Welcome, cousin.”
    “Thank you,” Alec replied.
    “And this is my friend Micum Cavish, a good and honorable man, accepted by the clan,” Seregil told him.
    “A Tír?” Tyrus’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Not a Plenimaran, I hope?”
    Micum grinned. “No, sir, I’m a northlander by birth and a Skalan by choice.”
    “Ah. That’s all right, then.”
    Tyrus squatted down to look at Sebrahn, who only had eyes for the dragon on the man’s shoulder. “Who’s this little one?”
    “This is Sebrahn,” answered Alec.
    “Silver eyes and yellow hair? Odd for one called ‘moonlight.’ What is he?”
    “That’s what we’d like to speak to your friend about, if we may,” Seregil explained.
    “Of course! But sit down and eat something first. You’ve had a long, cold ride.”
    Alec looked around curiously as he took his place. The long room was furnished in typical Bôkthersan style, with graceful furniture fashioned from light woods, and colorful hangings and carpets, and appeared to serve many purposes. The broad stone fireplace doubled as the kitchen; several pots were steaming on hooks and iron stands. The dining table was long enough to accommodate a dozen people. That was odd, thought Alec, for a hermit. Beyond it there were a few comfortable-looking chairs, and walls lined with books and scrolls. Broad glazed windows looked out over the valley below. Outside, the last of the daylight was fading.
    The grouse and hard bread were tasty. There was no wine or turab, just mugs of cold springwater. Alec glanced around as he ate, expecting more dragons, but aside from the one that had fluttered from Tyrus’s shoulder up to a perch in the rafters, there weren’t any in sight.
    When they were done with the meal, they moved to the chairs at the other end of the room.
    “When are we—” Alec began, but Seregil caught his eye and shook his head slightly; apparently there was some sort of custom to this.
    Tyrus lit lamps and closed the shutters, then took a long clay pipe and tobacco bag from a shelf. “Do any of you smoke?”
    “I do, on occasion,” said Seregil, although Alec had never seen him take more than a few puffs from Micum’s pipe.
    “As do I, sir,” said Micum, producing his worn old pipe.
    This seemed