White Road

over it. “I take it this doesn’t have any magic clinging to it, either?”
    “No, it’s just a transformation spell, like Sebrahn’s hair. I altered your skin. I’ll change it back when you’re done with it.”
    “Did it hurt?” asked Alec.
    “Yes, it did.” Seregil gave him a crooked grin as he pulled off his left boot. “But it was still much nicer than the way the slavers do it. I need one on the back of my left calf, as well.”
    Thero invoked the spell again and laid a hand on the back of Seregil’s calf. The fleeting pain took hold and the mark appeared. Thero made the brands on Alec’s arm and leg, then turned to Sebrahn. “What about him?”
    “Why not let him be my son?” Micum suggested. “He won’t be much use as a slave.”
    Alec shook his head. “Sooner or later we might end up having to stay in someone’s slave quarters, away from you and Sebrahn. And you know what happened last time we tried that.”
    “What happened?” asked Thero.
    Seregil described Sebrahn’s “tantrum” and its aftereffects. “It will be hard enough to keep him from seeing every Plenimaran as an enemy.”
    “Are you certain that a necromancer won’t sense him?” asked Alec.
    “Certain? No, but we don’t have much choice at this point. Thero, will you try that spell on Sebrahn?”
    Thero approached the rhekaro again with obvious trepidation.
    Alec pulled Sebrahn into his lap and held the rhekaro’s right arm out to the wizard. “This will hurt a little, but it’s all right.”
    “Hurrrrrt.”
    “Go ahead, Thero.”
    The wizard carefully laid his hand on Sebrahn’s arm, and to everyone’s relief the spell took effect without incident. The faded-looking brand stood out against his brown skin. Thero placed the last one on his leg, and it was over.
    “I suppose you’ll need slave collars, as well.”
    “We’ll just have to find a blacksmith who won’t ask any questions,” said Micum. “I know a man over in Riverton who could do the job, and he’s only three days from here. It’s a bit out of our way, but he’s got the craft and the sense to keep his mouth shut if anyone comes asking.”
    “I don’t like it,” said Seregil. “What more obvious crumb could we leave in our trail than having someone make Plenimaran slave collars all the way over here?” He turned to Thero again. “Nysander was pretty handy with metal. Do you know any of that magic?”
    “He did teach me some, as one type of the transformations. I only mastered it on gold, silver, and iron, though.”
    Seregil weighed his purse in one hand. “Not enough gold or silver, and Micum probably doesn’t look rich enough to have slaves of that quality.”
    “Rather you don’t look like you’re good enough quality,” Micum shot back with a grin.
    “Indeed,” Thero said with a dry smile. “As for the collars, if I’m to work metal, I’ll need some rest first. You lot are very demanding!”
    Seregil chuckled at that, then disappeared downstairs, returning a few minutes later with a pair of kitchen shears. With a resigned sigh, he cut Alec’s braid off just below the nape of his neck, then trimmed up the ragged ends. “It’s shorter than mine now. But you’re right, it would have gotten you noticed.” He paused and yawned. “You three get some sleep. I’ll take the first watch. I have some thinking to do.”
    He wrapped himself in his cloak and made his way downstairs to the mostly deserted taproom. Sitting by the hearth nursing an ale, he waited until the servants and the few lingering rum pots had gone to bed, then pulled a chair over to the west-facing window. Snow was falling again, and clouds covered the moon, making it too dark to see much. He kept watch, anyway, as his thoughts turned again to the strange masked riders and that arrowhead.
    I hope we did kill you, you bastards, whoever you are!

CHAPTER 19
Useful Magic
    T HERO WOKE at dawn to find the others already awake. A sooty fire poker and a rusty crowbar lay on the bed beside him.
    Seregil was sitting near the window with his bare feet propped on the sill and his fingers laced around a steaming mug, looking pleased with himself. “These were the best I could find, unless you can work with a sack of horseshoe nails.”
    “I could do with some tea first,” Thero grumbled, sitting up and combing his fingers back through his disheveled curls.
    Micum handed him a mug and Thero gratefully inhaled the steam, which smelled of a passable quality leaf.